Rainy Days and Coffee

Denver cloudburst

rusty chain

Soaked to the skin

hung over brain

Parked and shivered

old brick alley

Familiar jazz window

’bout a gal named Sally

Pedaled down Eighth

corners flooded

Sedan out of nowhere

comical but sudden

Pushed her hard

both tires went flat

Found the java

there I sat

Safe and dryer

window glazed

Sheets of rain

lightning blazed

Mountains in the distance

blurred by the storm

Flecks of snow

winter born

Piles of books

known and unknown

Stories of desires

under the stones

Thomas Wolfe speaks to me

faded cover

Turn the page

plot discover

Rain declined

remarks toward the night

Pushing up Broadway

faded street light…

This poem is found on page 35-37 in Old Photographs and Wild Dreams by

John K Bucher Sr. The hardcover version is available on Amazon.com

The Notorious MLG

Melrose Larry Green on Hollywood Boulevard

Old Photographs and Wild Dreams – Page 177

THE NOTORIOUS MLG

Year after year he smiles and sells

orange vest and winter shorts

Greenblatt kid from Brooklyn ….Melrose Avenue

sandwich board life

Talent out the ass from piano to singing – comic

politico

Howard Stern’s WACKPACK spitfire mouthpiece …pot stirrer

Bobo & Mary Ann

No stranger to conflict…village town crier…MBA Cornell

Celebrity accountant

In spite of all the bluster, the sandpaper beliefs – heart of pure gold

gifted entertainer

Larry inspires me when I see that smile – that GRIN

This new book is for sale and only available in hard back. To get your copy click below:

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

The Last Cowboy In Teller

remembering-the-old-times

Relentless western rain pouring onto soupy gray lanes

horses and cars scare one another as the old world is shoved

aside by a new one

Teller’s emptying out – gone to the oil fields

money…the corrupter and killer of civilizations

(or at least the one he knew)

He nudges the paint pony onward

past the stores out of neighborhoods

very few horses in town anymore

cars, lots of the damn things

the rain peppers his face as he turns his collar up

dark blue horizons on the hills

Been here his whole cowboy life

all he knows

the wife died a few years back and the kids moved to the oil fields

money…lots of money

the old range hand tends to his herd…talks to them

opens the barn and feeds his livelihood as the sun sinks west

he sits on a bale and watches them eat and stick their mouths

into the water trough

be a full moon tonight

back when he was young he would drink and dance

at bar back in Teller when the moon got full

tonight just a fire and beans before

retiring and hoping for an old cowboy’s

dreams

 

I knew Your Father

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I knew your father, a way you never did

sitting at a bar, a little off the grid

He became my friend, a teacher, a time

his stories enthralled me and then became mine

his friendship was real, honest and true

He was consistent, easy to turn to

Like father and more, he became part of my day

drinking and talking, never a cliché

We didn’t always see things and completely agree

but our friendship was deeper, I was made to see

What he saw in me, I never understood

he carved out a table of ancient redwood

Beer and wings, sometimes a little more

I hope we meet again, on a distant mystical  shore

Now he is gone, some days I feel a bother

I’m just glad I can say “I knew your father”

 

 

 

Sweet August

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Ahhh sweet August…the Everest of summer time

hot days and nights – sidewalks chocked with tourists

boats with bright sails smoothly drifting by

the park – ahhh the park

BBQ and wine – guitar strumming and love poems

cool dark movie theaters with giant boxes of popcorn

every day is a gift with an hour glass

only thirty one days – then gone

cheap watermelon and a walk among the trees

a season of reflection – slow down – look around

a song bird tells me how sweet it is and that winter will erase all of it

tee shirts, shorts, sandals – that’s all

bike along the ocean and smell  life in the salty air

memories flood and leave – childhood

dusty old roads and scorching baseball afternoons

fruit and vegetable delights fill the markets

zen evenings watching the sun retreat

full moon madness and tales of werewolves

sweet August and another year going by

 

Taking the Air

old-west-town-by-night

eighteen eighties western frontier bound

late in the evening when only a prairie sound

cowboys and gentlemen in all their affairs

would walk the night streets and “take the air”

a customary routine from a simpler age

to lay aside all troubles, discouragement and rage

today this seems zen like, so Buddha, so rare

to walk down the street and breathe the local air

hustlers and drifters, joined the silent share

to shut up and just take in the night air

profound and so common, anyone could

life would be different, uniquely so good

cool and refreshing, a lesson from the past

to slow down and enjoy, not breeze by so fast

to rise up and leave that comfortable chair

join the old cowboys and take the night air