Long Busker Poems

Mark Hurlin Shelton is a Poet from Cape Town South Africa, born in October 1967. He was raised by his grandparents in Three Anchor Bay, near Sea Point, where he attended his first schools: Ellerton...

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In history one can read of an earlier time,
When poetry and lyrics written in rhyme,
Were commonplace.  A travelling band
Of troubadours would wander the land,
Writing and singing, to bestow delights
On ladies, peasants, and errant knights.

Their...

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now this is not a poem but more of a short story if you are expecting a poem this is not one, but please feel free to read my story. it will make you think...

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The lights stream out the tunnel,
The tube stops at the platform, 
Passengers interchange.

I wonder if the man in the suit,
Ever stopped to think about that guitar player,
The busker he never thought to spare a little...

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Let’s sail away to Acapella,
A celebrity haunt owned by Penn and Teller.
I shall act as your prince, you’ll be Cinderella
When we’re sat on a beach in Acapella.

It’s not as sexy as Cannes or as dowdy...

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were he made a sale on the most expensive car on the lot, his boss being so impressed gave him a raise which 
eventually would result in this man getting back his family and being...

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A monochrome of boho days
segue one another surreptitiously.
Endless pantomimes of idle chatter flutter by.
Cantilever bridge, a one stop halting site for gossip and suspense.
Small talk, bespoke winged creature, Combe of pleuron.
Turin shroud spotter in the...

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On the hard cement, she lay
Her dark hair was matted, and her skin was grey
At her side was a soulless shoe
Her face, beaten black and blue
Her clothes were very tattered and torn
Everything about her looked...

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Do I dare look at you when I walk these streets?
Chase your shadow as it crawls under my feet?
For I have walked my way through 
These pleasant, summer nights
Trailing any trace of you in amber
Street...

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People walking head down staring  into their cell phones
In pairs or all alone
Children pushing their children in buggies and prams
Traffic wardens and traffic jams
Zombies trying to walk through you with masses of shopping bags
Gangs...

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He assembled in darkness the corroded horn
by familiarity and sense of touch.
Then cast as thunder into the empty night
long tones void of musical melody.
Sustained tones, fierce and woeful
in succession paraded the street.
Each note precisely chosen,...

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RIDING THE TRAIN

Catchin' the train to the city makes an interesting day
Peak hours all the workers going to earn their pay
Many nationalities all different in their own way
And then there's the trains always a delay

I...

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Café Watch


Sitting in a café, watching life pass by.
People rushing into shops; important stuff to buy.
Groups of foreign workers, stopping, shaking hands;
Local people bustling by – can’t interrupt their plans.

Outside, a lonely busker tries hard...

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Lemon tinted phase
gilded skyline blown
by ethereal fused mist 
eager bard imbued 
opal dream flotilla  
beyond tarnish while
flash point chariots 
of gleam-well canvass
astir or astern perforce 
taunt a hued vase 
porcelain image fest
for staunch earthbound...

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Walking in the back streets of Paris
On a warm balmy evening
Talking with a friend enjoying 
The night and watching 
As the people went on their way
Unhurriedly ,also enjoying the day.

The pace was slow
Sun a fading...

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As the cooper prepares a barrel for new wine the cord-wainer is fashioning new shoes, the cart-wright is building a new cart and I am at the tailors being fitted for new clothes. My lady...

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I start at the bridge
Down the steps I go
I pass the food stalls 
All in a row

Beside the Cathedral
In its garden green
A beautiful sight
There to be seen 

Down at borough market
There's a scent in the...

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All through the last winter
I sat on my own
Playing Cushie Butterfield
On my xylophone
I tried it as a two step
I tried it as waltz
Its not easy on a xylophone
To avoid playing shmaltz
But I got it just...

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A Busker's Dream


The Wayward Busker
paints a vision
from world-tattered images
of a bard who gropes his way along the street,
leaving Light-Dark footprints
wherever he travels. 
Who is he,
this edge-tossed madman
who twirls around 
in his kaleidoscope of brilliant colors
and...

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I stood on that busy street
And I rattled out some tunes
On my tap dancing clogs
And a pair of soup 
spoon
I rattled out some fast songs
And I rattled out some slow
I rattled out bonny songs 
As...

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On a dark rainy morn
She wakes with a big yawn
With no time to relax 
She slips into her torn rain mac
Out the door with guitar in hand
A day in the city is her plan
Already half...

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I step out into the evening,
into a cloud of whispered conversations,
insect talk, birds uttering 
their “goodnights” high in the trees,
the days last gossip settling
back into a more respectable 
muttering of leaves. 

Then other sounds, 
a...

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The air fills with familiar tunes eminating from a flaking dusky red piano, it's master's majestic touch of mitten clad fingers are a sight to behold as they dance sprightly upon ebony and ivory with...

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(A sonnet for the Bath busker who made me cry)

Beneath the Stall Street Colonnades he sings
Of Vincent and his starry, starry night
The echo of his bright resounding strings
Infusing scintillating rain dropped light 
As weary shoppers...

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On the market square
A new busker was in town
We all stood and looked

Reaching for our coins
We tossed them into his bag
We kept looking back

Such careful balance
While he played the violin
Dressed for a circus

Calm and collected
He...

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