On Brighton streets where the buskers play,
Ren poured his soul out day by day.
Three young musicians heard his sound,
Stopped in their tracks, turned right around.
A jam sparked fire, a sudden crowd rush.
Four voices blending into The Big Push.
Strangers at first, but the music proved
That fate steps in when the right hearts groove.
They, the invisible manipulators
that speak for us all,
they called us 'the people'.
Some went seeking Big Foot,
we needed a sasquatch, a mentor.
Some tried hallucinogens,
others called it a day too soon.
Snicker bars were getting smaller,
there was much unfocused discontent.
The dead were accused of letting us down
far too gently.
The people waited
for an artificial Intelligence,
a drug to lead them
to make better decisions.
People lost faith in people,
buskers pawned their guitars and flutes,
violins were sold for guns.
It was the best of the worst,
and it did not get any better
just suspiciously easier.
when you doze and slumber
you drift into streets of
vagabond dreams:
street artist and soothsayers
begging for a 'dream a penny', 'five for a dollar',
buskers, who play reminiscences,
palm readers and wrinkle whisperers,
fortune tellers with smokey crystal balls,
clowns who want to make you laugh,
jokers who want to scare you witless with nightmares,
artists keen to show you up as graffiti on walls,
street-food vendors peddling food and aromas,
late-night delights down red-light lanes
roll up, roll up, and be dared
to see what the troupe of tramps
will reveal in your dream-time,
for which you have no choice:
where you go,
when you stop,
who you meet,
what unfolds,
as the script is lucid
and all locked-in to
whether you like it or not,
so open the door, take a seat, lean back
and partake what vagabond
dreams will befall on you
Buskers
So much fluff
And not enough
Of the real stuff
That life is made of.
Buskers in parks and on corners
Play for money and exposure,
And liven up drab quarters
By entertaining onlookers.
Slow down life’s pace,
Hesitate and listen
To these street musicians,
And drop a coin in the case.
Enjoy the moment, participate!
Sing along and feel the beat,
And clap your hands or tap your feet
For a wonderful experience.
***
Note:
Busking: Busking is the playing of music in the street or other public places for voluntary donations. People who engage in this form of entertainment are called street performers or buskers.
Julius Jaggery Jones
Had an ache deep in his bones
Sang the blues for nickels and dollars
In mellowest of baritones.
Julius Jaggery Jones
Seated on street cobblestones
Paid his dues in groanings and hollers
Delivering back alley moans.
The garrulous, Greek grape gatherers,
Joined joyously with jocund japes,
The olive pickers and Ostrich plucker’s,
Celebrating the seasons success in song.
The querulous quiver of musical quavers,
From a quorum of quality wine quaffer’s
Reverberated robustly round the room,
And resonated rhythmically from the roofs rafters.
An altercation arose amongst some aggressive Athenians,
Averting an armed argument was avoided adroitly,
By brave, bold buskers, brusquely berating their bombast,
And loudly and laudably lamenting such Loutish leanings.
Personally I drank my Retsina and went back to my Hotel,
Relic of a raucous night's revel
In an empty shop doorway
Stands a solitary cider bottle sentinel
Bundles of bedding. Beneath
Huddles a barely visible body
Whom I have to skirt around
Shop windows blacked out and blinded
With nothing to offer but silence
No clink of cash registers here
Sprouting up in this desert
The cacti of fast food outlets and poundshops
Cheap takeaways and cheap goods at throwaway prices
Buskers booming out their ballads
Their desperate music fills the air
Echoing the city's despair
The reek of commercial cancer does abound
A city hub,soon to be the dead centre
With the tumbleweed of litter blowing all around
When I woke up this morning,
I felt hopeful, eager, positive and calm.
I was going to teach myself to juggle,
Tossing balls from palm to palm.
I’d admired street performers perform their tricks,
On the corners of every street.
Buskers, young and old, made every little manoeuvre
Look simple, easy and neat.
They did the shuffle and box,
The barrage and chops
Cascading in perfect unity.
And I’d stood there amazed,
Enthralled and half crazed,
Knowing I’d fit right into this community.
So, what was once awe became optimism to learn,
To grow, to build and obtain.
And I threw the balls up, watching each of them fall,
Too fast for my little brain.
My optimism fled, waving goodbye,
Leaving me accepting a feeling of submission.
My brain’s not that fast, no juggling today,
I'm now in awe of a singing musician.
Like concrete fingers,
Stretching high,
So many jagged teeth,
Upon the sky.
Their electrical beacons,
Fill up the night,
With their vivid multi colours,
Shining very bright.
Old and new side by side,
Blending in a pot,
Buildings here of every kind,
Some that time forgot.
Forever there is full motion,
With human traffic,
Everything with a purpose,
A real living graphic.
A colourful tapestry of life,
A weave of many hues,
Diversity through every turn,
Joy it doth infuse.
A magnet for creative joy
Haven for the arts
Pulling them all together
And strumming on their hearts.
Colours, sounds and smells divine
Everything you need
More than enough for everyone
For every different creed
Honking horns and buskers vie,
For the publics ear,
And public houses tempt you in,
To drink all their beer.
So much there is to see and do
I don’t know where to start
But I now know this for sure
This city is in my heart.
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