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A Musicians Dream

Poem by: GFJones

Summary

I rarely remember dreams. This one surprized me and stuck around long enough to write it down.

Content

Submitted: August 10, 2009

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Content

Submitted: August 10, 2009

A A A

A A A


I went to a party as I slept last night.
It was a most amazing thing.
My mind conjured guests from all over my life,
all talented, gathering to sing.
 
All rustic and solid like an old water mill,
the venue a pure delight.
With open hearth kitchen and meat on the spit,
prepared we were for this night.
 
At every turn there were greetings and hugs,
love thick, as smoke in a stack.
The measure of love is not what’s received,
but the measure of love we give back.
 
Instruments a’plenty lined these woody halls.
All pickers came in well stocked.
The visions then took a Dali-istic turn,
my senses receiving a shock.
 
There stood Obama and Lady Michelle,
a greeting without a hug?
Seeking a job I turned to the prez.
“Seek unemployment,” he said with a shrug.
 
Across the way, musicians did play,
a band of Asian men.
Americana, their chosen genre,
unexpected from a fellow named Chen.
 
I needed to find my six string guitar,
a Martin whose name is Lilly.
Of mahogany she’s made, with little inlay,
more classic than adorned or frilly
 
She was sitting here a moment ago,
yet she is a popular gal.
I looked high and low, she’s a no show,
she may have gone off with my pal.
 
Stepping outside onto earthen road,
a group of Indian men.
One pulling his head out of a guitar,
and cast it into a fen.
 
These interesting fellows sat down on the ground,
and began to play guitars.
The melodies they played were not Blue and Suede,
it sounded as if from sitars.
 
Thinking, “This sounds so cool.” As I rounded the barn,
into its depths I did walk.
I heard my brother on the second floor,
so up I went for a talk.
 
In a room at the front, behind a door,
much laughter could be heard.
A radio studio I beheld,
broadcasting his words so absurd.
 
The next room I entered was empty at first,
then in came a Shriners march.
They were black folks in white face doing a dance,
under the ceilings arch.
 
One man was angry and shouted a curse.
I understood his ire.
I had intruded a place, where I was not wanted.
In his heart it had started a fire.
 
My quest was not finished. I had to find Lilly,
So off I went for a look.
In a room at the back is where I discovered,
that we were victim to crook
 
Instrument cases were scattered about,
by a man that was lean and thin.
Outside was a van at the bottom of stairs,
where he was loading them in.
 
Thinking quickly I slipped out to the side,
got to the front of the van.
Pulling the wires so it would not go.
I had to stop this man.
 
Then shouting to friends, about our plight,
I opened up this truck.
There sat Lilly and my best friends banjo
and a fiddle that we all called Chuck.
 
I know not what came of that dark haired fellow.
I was wrested from my sleep.
I had to get up and make sure that Lilly,
was resting in her keep.
 
If dreams do have morals, I would not know.
My best dreams are when I’m awake.
Making music with Lilly, is one of my dreams.
Losing her, would it my heart break.


© Copyright 2016 GFJones. All rights reserved.

A Musicians Dream

Status: Finished

Genre: Poetry

Houses:

Details

Status: Finished

Genre: Poetry

Houses:

Summary

I rarely remember dreams. This one surprized me and stuck around long enough to write it down.

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