The Music Man and Peace by the Sea



The Music Man, he soothes; he plays all his chords in blue,

leans back his head, eyes closed, fingers of a poet.

He plays out his soul, in sonnets of electrics strings,

harmonies of rain and green. He’s made of music, mountain,

and silence, still searching for his home.  His melody

so sweet that clouds rain words, lift hearts into bloom.

Miles and miles away, she sits in peace by the sea,

and the mountain tells the waves the Music Man’s song.

She hears it all, Music Man’s dreams never sleep; she collects

each note, each word, each dream, two souls – and builds a home for both.



All night she stayed,
forehead pressed 
against the chilly window, 
waiting for the rain 
to turn to snow. 
Pleading eyes watched 
the streetlight, as rain 
fell down, and wind 
chased it sideways. 
All she needed 
was to see it turn 
white, to cover life 
outside the window 
with tiny pieces of 
icy hope. 
But morning brought 
only dark puddles 
outside and on 
her face. 

The Woman at the Corner

I noticed you on the corner because you look

just like me, but then I saw your cardboard sign with its

searing words, “Mother of 2, homeless, can’t feed kids,”

and all I could think was your sign was the same color

as my minivan.  And tonight my kids would eat a nice

dinner and sleep in their own comfortable rooms and

play games on the computer and text their friends.  I tried

to look away, but I couldn’t because I saw your eyes, and

they spoke of being broken, and shame covered me

like a spider web.  The stoplight had changed to green,

and I had to move on.  You watched me drive

away, and your head dropped.  My purse sat next to me,

but with no cash, I kept driving, until there were more

drops on my cheeks than on the windshield, and I turned

into the bank, to the ATM, and anxiously pulled $20 out

as the rain fell harder.  Driving back, I feared you would be

gone, and my shame would stay, but you were still there,

sign now on top of your head, on that somber corner, shivering,

waiting.  And I stopped.  I handed you $20, and you whispered,

“Thank you.”  I got in my car, turned up the heat to high,

tried to feel better about that corner, about the spider webs

of shame.  As the wipers swished the rain away, I tried

to picture two kids eating dinner with their mother, but

all I could see was the needle marks running up your arm

as I handed you the damp $20. You will be there

 at the somber corner tomorrow, too.