Pawn Shop Pipe Dreams and Imminent Redemption (from 365/365)
She
has traveled the country
for months at a time
She
opened for Johnny Cash
She has seen more
and known more
than ever I will know
or see
She knows the touch
of talented hands
She has seen stage lights
burn brighter than
supernova
She has heard thunderous
applause, and has
shone like lightening.
Above the roar
of the storm,
she sang out
loud and clear
She's not a fan of opera
but one may as well
be penned about her life
Tumultuous journeys,
nomadic departures
dents and dings and
scars
adorn her face.
She has sinned
has been made to sin
she has made love to
G Clefs and I-IV-V
progressions until
orgiastic glee exuded
from those drawn
to hear it - then,
she was cast aside,
passed down to the
next.
Her value
depletes with every
transaction, every gig
She is bowed, won't
quite stay in tune,
acts not offended
on the ride home
from the pawn shop
after the "no thanks"
from the clerk.
Her life's work
can't be adequately
recorded, for no one
thought to put it to
page;
this sage, this crazy
shining phenomenon
is barely preserved
in physicality, not at
all in posterity.
Those who do not
understand her ways,
her manner of living
what she has to do to
survive, may call her
whore, may criticize
her motives. Truth
is, she has none other
than to be in the
spotlight, at least one
more time.
So as I open the
closet door,
to the dusty corner
she's nested in like
a mother bird
protecting her young
I grab her gently
by the neck, caress
her form and polish
her up.
A new pack
of steel strings
isn't quite
redemption,
but it's all I can
do for the old girl,
besides love her,
and let her shine.
has traveled the country
for months at a time
She
opened for Johnny Cash
She has seen more
and known more
than ever I will know
or see
She knows the touch
of talented hands
She has seen stage lights
burn brighter than
supernova
She has heard thunderous
applause, and has
shone like lightening.
Above the roar
of the storm,
she sang out
loud and clear
She's not a fan of opera
but one may as well
be penned about her life
Tumultuous journeys,
nomadic departures
dents and dings and
scars
adorn her face.
She has sinned
has been made to sin
she has made love to
G Clefs and I-IV-V
progressions until
orgiastic glee exuded
from those drawn
to hear it - then,
she was cast aside,
passed down to the
next.
Her value
depletes with every
transaction, every gig
She is bowed, won't
quite stay in tune,
acts not offended
on the ride home
from the pawn shop
after the "no thanks"
from the clerk.
Her life's work
can't be adequately
recorded, for no one
thought to put it to
page;
this sage, this crazy
shining phenomenon
is barely preserved
in physicality, not at
all in posterity.
Those who do not
understand her ways,
her manner of living
what she has to do to
survive, may call her
whore, may criticize
her motives. Truth
is, she has none other
than to be in the
spotlight, at least one
more time.
So as I open the
closet door,
to the dusty corner
she's nested in like
a mother bird
protecting her young
I grab her gently
by the neck, caress
her form and polish
her up.
A new pack
of steel strings
isn't quite
redemption,
but it's all I can
do for the old girl,
besides love her,
and let her shine.