Baker Street Boys

Baker Street Boys

Some days …I awaken to still being

a Baker Street boy

A Texas fog of childhood

memories

Old run-down house …slowly remodeled

basement shared with brother David

Tree house construction – injuries

paper route days

Rock and roll came to town

Dallas concert

Shot guns by the railroad tracks

black bass dinners

Cousins next door…funny fence stories

Thanksgiving

Growing pains…Daniel’s asthma pump

James playing under the Christmas tree

Transformative time in our childhood…personalities

….likes and dislikes…longing again for Amsden

Mrs. Cook’s History class and trips to Colorado

Funerals to remember and riding the bus

Bicycle Saturdays at the Rialto…six Pepsi caps

Mowing grass at Tanglewood…one dollar per hour

Fifty hours a week…chiggers all over…sulfur tablets

Hot summers and cold winters…sleet

Leaning to drive…drivers’ ed…license

Thinking and planning…dreams

Memories of Baker Street …boys

page 95 – 96 Old Photographs and Wild Dreams

only available in hardcover on Amazon- order yours today!

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Old Photographs & Wild Dreams

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My latest book is now for sale and you can get it from the link below. This is a beautiful hard back book with 100 poems, prose and stories covering a range of subjects: trains, bicycles, bars, cafes, California beaches, streets, Denison, abstract feelings, coffee shops, night hours, Hollywood, East Texas, old preachers, and cowboys.

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Jazz Notes #3

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Behind him in the shadowy corner

dim lit stage and a guitar coaxes a steady melodic message

drink up – have another one

she’s gone – your fault …all your fault

people shuffle in and out…some whistle and clap

at the music

the jazz guitar

depressed and lonely he stays and drinks

a friend drops by – who owes him a saw buck

asks for another – and a drink

mind decides to drift inward to the songs

whispers of dream clouds and beach days…sea shells

good woman and good whiskey

money to burn…

the dark corner stops playing-  silence is deafening

still he stays and drinks

soon the break is over and the jazz heats up again

until dawn ….he leaves

until tomorrow…

Jazz Notes #2

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From the ripe age of 12 he learned his craft and taught us about miracles

that all came under the headlines of JAZZ -gypsy jazz

the thunder that rang inside his sweet head and fetched

Stephane and his swinging violin to the stage

Despite the fire in the caravan and the burns and losing some fingers

and feelings –

the guitar came first

Music from European small cafes while women danced and whirled their skirts

Paris night clubs melting under hot lights and sweaty crowds

twirling his mustache and bending the strings, all the while smiling that grin

that he knows something naughty happened

He changed us, the world, the way we think…

from stages in London, in front of thousands of lucky souls

while Eddie Cantor kissed his hand and allowing

American jazz to seep into his gypsy skin and bones

Playing with the Duke at Carnegie Hall and bowing

to the cheering New Yorkers, he played

God did he play

A beatnik at heart he sometimes skipped concerts

“to walk to the beach” or “smell the dew”

We owe a debt to you sir and thank God you made records

Jazz Notes

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Soft notes escaping from the Harlem window as big old Buicks

cruise down Fifth Avenue and dine on dance clubs until dawn

Ella and the Count are everywhere and anywhere for all hip cats

to dig and find a place to jump on

The golden horns and smoky air intoxicate the modern soul

that yearns for the truth about what momma told them

Listen closely for a Blue Moon to saddle up the past with real

dollars and very tiny income

Red rose gardens and whitewashed school books suddenly

make sense in the cool reefer night

Forgetting the style and not caring for rules the cats bob and weave

as the bats fly out and give you a crazy bite

Jazz from the earth and Jazz from the sky, calling for the east

and calling for the west

drums beating loud for the cattle call that rounds up

Harlem’s best

Soft notes escaping from an empty loft near the park that

fall on the sidewalk until the ghosts move along

Victrola heaven cranks orders from the magician’s

vocal chords that tap out the broken heart’s song

Get up right now and head to the store, the radio, or the

old smoky club

Your jazz is waiting patiently and you never have to

show the man your ticket stub

A Hole in the Heavens

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Sometime after the War, the big one, the second time

after years of austerity

after years of fear

after years of funerals

after years of hard labor

A hole cracked open in the heavens

and music poured down

and poetry poured down

and literature was born

and freedom expanded

Kerouac, Ginsberg, Burroughs, Elvis, The Beatles, Steinbeck, and Playboy

danced in the streets

danced in our ears

danced in our minds

danced in our feet

Yes, they came from the Heavens, the place where all goodness is born

but the hole dried shut

sometimes it leaks a little

but not nearly enough

sometimes we need more, much more

So, the next one of us who dies, better leave with a jack hammer

and find where the hole use to be

start drilling, and drill down deep and hard

let the goodness flow down on us

like a flood