Musical memories

My friends called me up and said do you want go down to this farm for a few days, I hear they’ll be playing music. I said “Far out, I can dig it” So we got our gear and packed up our Bug and drove through the NY through-way to see what the fuss was all about, the roads were jam packed, my friend stated that the roads were closed “Isn’t that far out?” he quipped.

 

But we were determined so we sat in traffic for hours until we were close to the farm, we could hear the music from miles away, helicopters in the sky, bringing our rock and roll heroes, as we walked toward the festival, the rains fell from the sky furiously but we trudged on, getting rained was worth to be it to be with all these beautiful people with flowers in their hair and a dazed looked in their eyes, the days of innocence and revolution.

 

We passed by a Volkswagen bus with the words ” Even God loves America” plastered on the side. A nun smiled at me and gave me the peace sign, I returned the favor, I was with my people.

 

The farm was a sea of people, laying on the ground, totally gone, full of mud and listening to music in a daze. A black man with a red bandana was on the stage making his guitar scream, his eyes closed; lost in a world of guitar notes, I recognized it and said to my buddy ” That’s the star-spangled banner” And all he could reply with was “yeah!” as he closed in eyes and soaked in the music

 

As the man churned out another guitar solo, people slowly left the festival, a shame since we just got there. I looked around all I saw was garbage, used tents, beer cans, abandoned cars, food everywhere but in that mess was beauty, a beauty I can imagine if I just close my eyes.

 

But sadly, I wasn’t there, I couldn’t of been, I was 13 years too late but that was me in a past life, easy rider living, hitching a ride to anywhere to but here, living with the flower children and being free to be me completely.

I miss my friend

I miss my friend John. We never actually met but I feel like I knew him, he seemed like a smart man, witty; full of sarcasm wit; with his snide remarks and those not smart enough to understand sarcasm.

 

I appreciate his beautiful creativity and how he always pushed the boundaries of art unapologetically He was outspoken, a little broken but aren’t we all. I understand his anger, anger at a system that touts conformity and punishes anyone who is different the rebellious who stand out, someone who was tired of pigheaded politicians and just wanted some truth, just like I do, someone who thought peace and love wasn’t a novel concept and that war was never the answer, war is over if you want it.

 

The irony is that such a man who was about love and peace died from gun wounds created by a violent culture in a violent city from a sick deranged man who America raised, it makes me sad.

 

But what I most miss is John’s music and am angry that was taken away from all us by gun violence. All I know is that I miss my friend John.

Ghosts of the past continue to haunt me, I feel the searing fire of their rejection, the loud rumbling of their laughter at my expense, their mockery lingers on in the recesses of my mind, the mere thought incenses me and fills me with shame and a punctured soul, yearning for acceptance but receiving none.

 

Those faces are long gone but the feelings remain, every new person I meet. I wonder, is that how they think of me? A punchline? The idea someone could accept me for who I am is unfathomable, so my defenses kick in. I judge before I get judged, this way they can’t hurt me, I won’t let it happen. Warped perception based on fallacies.

 

This constant worry I’ve come to realize is never based on the truth of the present but the pain of the past. Yeah, they did me wrong but that’s not today, not everyone is like that, some people actually care and I have to recognize that and accept that. The anxiety isn’t unfounded but it’s certainly not relative to everything situation today, I’m realizing this.

 

I gain peace of mind, enough to allow myself to accept friendship and love, something that’s been lacking for so long, something so vital, like vitamins for the soul. Learning, growing is what life is all about. A calmness over.

The play we call life

I’m so tired, I feel battered, dreams shattered in a million pieces, broken and beaten, my heart cut open, the world feels cold and I’m lost in it’s whirlwind, I can’t keep up, these maze of emotions from the abyss, I open my mouth to speak but butterflies fly to the chuckles of my unwanted audience, their vacant stares without mercy, I shrink down like an ant, unnoticeable to the foot from the sky to stomp me from above, smashing me into oblivion, never to be seen and heard from again. The short shelf life of a second bit player in this charade of a play that I was unwillingly cast in. Exit stage left, the curtain closed, the sound of the audience in loud applause, good night, this will be our last show…

Fragile flower

I’m a fragile flower in a garden, my leafs are all almost broken off, a fierce wind overtakes me and I do my best to withstand the storm but I’m weak, if this keeps on relentlessly, I’ll eventually blow away.. But take comfort in knowing I’m not the only flower in the garden and others will bloom in my place one’s far more beautiful than I, ones that are strong and able to withstand the strong winds. Don’t you worry. The garden will continue to flourish long after the wind has blown this flower away.

Tell me how you feel

Never hold in your feelings, it will eat away at your soul, say how you feel and the weight will be lifted from your heart, don’t think, just speak, the words will flow exactly the way they’re supposed to be, Face the fear, fight the uncertainty and regardless of the outcome you can take comfort in knowing at least for the moment, you conquered one of your giants. Celebrate this one, the relief you get from speaking your mind. And we breathe…..

Only in dreams

The only times I see you is in my dreams, in my awaken state I’ve forgotten your face and voice but when I dream you’re there talking to me as if you’re still here, just as I remember you, forever young.  A part of me in the dream is thinking “I know you’re gone and this is an illusion” but I’m so thrilled to see you again I humor the REM waves of memory and subconscious. Old faces join us in the dream, like in the past, we’re all in this place together, like before,  sometimes you’re close by and I enjoy talking with you, hearing your voice again, it’s comforting as it as if it’s your way of letting me know you’re ok. Other times you’re far away in the distance, I can see you but I can’t reach you, I try in vain to get your attention but you never seem to know I’m there.

 

When I wake up, I have come to the realization that it was only a dream and you’re still out of reach and the pains of loss encompass me so, I shake with sadness that the reality is so painful after all these years but with all that, it’s still good to talk to you even when I’m sleeping and our conversation was a figment of my imagination. I only hope when I close my eyes tonight and drift off to sleep I might be able to see you again, if only for a short while.  See you in my dreams, until later

A Fourth of July poem

Where are the leaders, the ones that can fix this broken place full of broken people, broken promises, how can we mend this, I have a feeling glue might not be strong enough. when I see what’s happening around me and my blood boils and my skin gets hot, I can feel the anger rising in me, the hypocrisy and the lies and the hatred, my voice raspy from screaming and not feeling heard, seeing all the suffering caused by indifference of those who possess no empathy whatsoever, my heart breaks, my hands tremble, my heart races, the anxiety of it all. And when I speak, I’m shouted down and told I don’t know what I’m talking about, I’m told my feelings are wrong, what I am seeing has become acceptable and I’m the intolerant one,  how dare I not tolerate families ripped apart, how dare I not tolerate unarmed children of a darker shade being murdered by those who were put in place to protect them, how dare I not be concerned when war is looming because those in our government instigates rogue leaders through late night tweets in a bathrobe, pacing around like a mad man, drink on the nightstand, one hand on the phone, the other on the remote tuned into the two minutes of hate, How dare I not tolerate the comments made by my fellow citizens that foreigners are illegals ( how can a human being illegal?) or the derogatory comments screamed by angry mobs about women, minorities, gays and anyone else who disagrees with their agenda. No, I can’t tolerate this, I won’t.  I will continue to speak my mind and I won’t be silenced because the freedom you hold so dear to your heart doesn’t just mean the freedom to express your views but it’s the freedom of all us including me to make my voice heard and no more. This ends now, it’s become intolerable. no more, I say.

The sad clown

There is a clown, his face full of makeup, an exaggerated red smile across his face, red poofy hair and stars painted around his sunken eyes, full of exhaustion and sadness. The makeup masks the hurt, a mask to keep the crowd from seeing the real him, a person they would normally shy away from but in clown makeup, he is beloved.

 

Nervous, with sweaty hands and his heart beating out of his chest, he hears the music of the circus and he knows it’s his cue to go on, although overwhelmed, it;s his job to give joy to the audience at the expense of his dignity, he knows he must sacrifice himself to make the children of the world happy.

 

He enters the arena, arriving on a tricycle for the amusement of the the crowd, their cheering and laughing breaking his fragile heart. “The show must go on” he said silently to himself. The act involved miming, riding an elephant and then ending of a banana cream pie in the face, he never got used to the humiliation.

 

As the show ended the music faded, the crowd dispersed, the lights went out and the arena became bare except for one sad clown, and the sound of quiet weeping, his tears causing his bright make up to run down his face. The only comfort he could take was that he far from the only sad clown in the world, there were many more just like him, and the moment he walked away, they’d be another sad clown to replace him, the show must go on.

 

Dedicated to Robin.

For those that are sensitive

For those of us that are highly sensitive, emotional and overly expressive, we can’t help it, it’s in our make up. Asking us to change our sensitivity is like asking a left-handed person to use their right hand for writing, asking someone with blue eyes to change their eyes color to brown or demanding that a dog speak English.

 

We are who we are and we can’t change, even if we want to. So give us a break, stop trying to make us into something we’re not. We are going to open with our feelings, we can’t help it, really. We are overcome with empathy and concern for others and why is that such a bad thing? Why are so they so threatened by it? Why does it make YOU so uncomfortable?

 

I refuse to be shamed for my sensitivity and I want all the other sensitive beings to know that they’re not alone, there is nothing wrong with them and they should embrace their sensitivity, not be ashamed by a society that doesn’t understand our uniqueness. So walk tall and continue to love, express yourself and speak your heart and truth, whether the rest of the world gets it or not. Peace