Poetry by Brian Mayer

 

 

 

 

CONVERSATION ON ROUTE 23 NORTH, NOVEMBER 1987

 

 

 

 

He leans on me like a rusted bicycle,
Tires flat against the weathered south wall
Of a lonesome, abandoned barn
Slumps into the rear seat of his old Ford
Station wagon, no longer capable of riding
Shotgun in the only car he has ever known
Images reflected in the rear view mirror
Are not always larger than they may appear
A small figure, gaunt…thin…weak
The bluff has lost its long battle against
A sea that is unrelenting and unforgiving

There is no apprentice program
No manual with appendix, numbered illustrations
That touches on the passage of responsibility
I did not recognize the need for silence
My feeble attempt to shoot the breeze
Was more for my own benefit than it was for his
I understand that now
I spoke of realty, the acres we had our eyes on
Now, his eyes were tired and trapped
Locked in that hollow gaze of regret
There, in a whisper, close to tears
I strain to listen

There has been a change of plans

 

 

 

VINYL

 

 

 

A strange sensation overwhelmed
Me on this almost perfect day
It could be confused as an obnoxious odor
To those who would never understand
But there it was…again
A time long forgotten but
Most certainly missed Daydream
Believer Hello
Goodbye Wheels of Fire

 

 

 

SELLING WATER BY THE RIVER

 

 

 

Lobbyists dressed in full
Regalia…their gold stars shine
Through the cigar smoke haze
That oozes from heads that bicker
With balderdash and ballyhoo
Ramped up rhetoric
Destined to stoke the flames
Red on this grand barn fire
As men of good fortune
Find themselves labeled somewhere
Between patriots and heretics
By carnival barkers who continue
Selling water by the river

 

 

 

SO WHAT

 

 

 

These quibblers

Common practice…never in unison

Two cents can’t buy you three

Perfect fourths in harmony

Head full of intuition…imagination…theory

Detractors that never leave lasting

Impressions

So What

 

 

 

R J BLUES

 

 

 

12 bar…in A minor…of course
Band is loose…I am tight
Slow shuffle…drums hardly noticeable
Bass floating effortlessly…smooth as a placid lake
Note by note…line by line
Hands move…without thought…without deliberation
With passion
The thought returns once again
The concept that has always fascinated me
Was any of it true
Stories…tales…rumors…fables
Did the devil take his due
Was it really worth the cost
On the other hand…times have changed
Perhaps I could work out some type of
Fair exchange

 

 

 

HANDS OF WES

 

 

 

 

Tone, the one truth
Find the voice within and
Release, release
There is no love lost for
The technical aspect
The mantra is eternal
Less is more
Rosewood bares the
Burden of this passion
Still, I thirst with desire for
The hands of Wes