The Troubadour
The scent of musk permeates the air,
And I, like a troubadour, leap for it there.
To dizzyingly heights and then alight
In a euphoric high filled with pride.
To greet my sweet’s fluttering peeps
That prick my pupils and blush my cheeks.
Then I breathe deep to exercise my vocals
While she dawdles away, charmed by the minstrel.
Like a peacock in bloom, I fan my feathers
And flap my wings in a dazzling repertoire.
And she, a princess of beauty and grace,
Acknowledges my advances without haste.
Boldly encouraged and flagrantly absurd,
I make promises I’ll regret afterwards,
But she is worth every ounce of expenditure
I put forth and more if she so desires.
***
John Denver Tribute 1-31-25
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Troubadour
Annie’s song rings maroon bells
Sung in gratitude by a country boy
As snowflakes celebrate alpine festivals
Where sunshine dances on shoulders.
Cowboy becomes mountain man
Letting melodies soar
High in the cathedral of the Rockies
Dance with dolphins on lyrical waves
Or serenade Blue Ridge mountains
Strumming lullabies for baby.
Perhaps love tells the story of your passion
For mountains, seas and skies and Shenandoah rivers
That dance in calypso dreams
On feathered beds by country roads
Home again.
Poet and pilgrim –
Troubadour gathering scraps of ordinary
Your melted wings brought you back to earth
Too soon
Leaving your song incomplete
Melodies unsung and rhymes unrhymed.
Starwoods still mourn
Where the eagle and the hawk fly in farewell
On the wings of your dreams
Beneath wild western skies
That echo your poems, prayers and promises.
In earnest I would comb the earth
Through desert, mountain, forest, firth
Cross highlands, lowlands, rolling hills
Swim oceans, rivers, fjords, and kills
All to find out where you are
No distance is too great or far
That isn't worth the trodden way
To be with you at end of day
My love is with a passion quite
Enough to make the darkest night
As bright as daytime, all things seen
So clear, no thing can contravene
And though I walk now by myself
My deepest feelings on the shelf
They're all still there, restrained yet strong
Oh Bluebird, how for you I long
I have so much yet to unpack
Poems, love songs, none I lack
I write for you, it's easy to
My heart composes them on cue
Patience Love, sit, wait and see
In case someday she flies to me
Until such time that day may dawn
We'll roam across this world alone
In a land of troubadours and song,
A young man dreamed he would belong,
With heart afire and passions strong,
He set out to join the throng.
He practiced every single day,
Learning scales and melodies to play,
And practiced singing in every way,
Hoping his talents would soon sway.
But when he joined the troubadour's guild,
He found his hopes and dreams were killed,
His voice was croaky, his songs were shrill,
And his rhymes would make your ears feel ill.
The other troubadours mocked his skill,
And called him "wannabe" with a thrill,
But he refused to let their words still,
For he knew he had a different thrill.
He turned to comedy and satire,
And found his voice began to inspire,
With humor and wit, he set the fire,
And his listeners soon began to admire.
So he may not be a troubadour,
But his poetry still has allure,
With comic lines and laughter pure,
He knows his calling is to endure.
Place your finger on my arm
Trace the outline of your guitar
Then take it up on to my chest
And trace my heart, you know it best
You think you don't but yes, you do
It's very beat belongs to you
And someday you may feel its peel
The pulse it has for you is real
Expose faster
your songs from limbo
of your soul and exposes
your bosom...!
Do it list and with tenderness...
May you sing them beautifully
and grace...!
cast them accurately
on your beloved balcony,
at the counter of your intended...
Do it with maximum promptness
and grace, because you're at risk
that she listens to the songs
of love from another
further agile troubadour... and
be enchanted...!
The Troubadour
Like water reflecting upward
To a canopy of trees
Like blossoms on cacti
In a red rock valley
The troubadour makes miracles
from words
Like meteors traveling
From distant silence
Like canyons carved
From deliberate waters
The troubadour makes magic
from sound
Like sunrises over mountains
On cloudless mornings
Like snowfall on asphalt
Like wind in daffodil fields
The troubadour makes songs
That sing my life
The troubadour paints the air
With dichotomy and wine
Like the wondering albatross
I'm airborne on an ascending scale
The troubadour is gale
The troubadour is calm
The troubadour is harvest
The troubadour is seed
The troubadour is nova
I Am Troubadour...
I am troubadour;
the singer and the swinger
of ancient lyrical lines,
as I inscribe them with my pen.
I am traditionalist;
of writing down many thoughts,
inscribing them on parchment skin
the feelings of inner self.
I am the smith;
a crafter of dexterity
in using many points of view;
when putting down on paper.
I am storyteller;
the one likes to relate
and tell tales of the past,
when sitting at my post
as a new verse unfolds.
and as for all of this
I am the lover of many words,
I am troubadour
and the scribe of writing down,
which effectively
comes from within my mind….
Francis Cooper - Mac
Troubadour Heart
Your troubadour heart
diamond embers sows
through cloudlike
patches of blue gently
strumming wreathes
of feathered accords
and when sadness rears
its grieving head
your strings weaving
invisible threads
a simple melody lace
and a thousand
lifting notes rise
tied in a flow of
caressing waves
calling me back
from a dark and grave
soul stealing place
and I now bathe
in the dreams of tomorrow
as your troubadour heart
carries mine away . . .
Laughter frozen in time
Silent yesterday's trapped inside
Whispered dreams aching to be heard
Before layers of years and lessons learned
Buried the path to the child in my heart.
Traveling on a mid-summer breeze
A misplaced troubadour
With a suitcase of tears
Parting mists with gentle hands
Beckoning...
"Come out and play, before the storm
Don't fear the chill
Neverending fires are here to warm
As the child in my heart
Learns to dance with yours"
"Greet winds of change with open arms
Let it strip you bare
Open your eyes as the music swells
In every note, I'll be there
As your soul's voice awakens
There's nowhere to fall
Hear the child in your heart
Spirit remembers all"
The troubadour had traveled on
Changing winds have fallen still
Suitcase is mine now, gently reminding
When times are hard
Hold loosely to the truth you've known
You'll always find, remembered answers, just in time
A voice will whisper...
"Come out, come out, come out and play
Listen through the joys and tears
Through every smile and fading fear
Let it bring you home"
"Home, to the child in your heart".
It all began in a small Orange Room
Followed by the big streets of The City
In which led to the grand stage of the Madison Square Garden
From the many meager loose change
To the endless sleeps on sofas
His own words never stopped on reaching for his dreams
Songs about love and heartbreak
Lyrics about emotions and experiences
Melodies about the story of his or one's own life
From trials and tribulations
To transformations and triumphs
In those who listened to this troubadour singer-songwriter...
We have visualized the true message behind his music
Black who I be
Carrion my feed
Common is my flight
Hidin’ - still -
Back of my fellow
Raven’s roost
I’ll steal away your pain
If you’ll but allow me
Simple
‘Cause it’s also mine
All yea got to do
Is choose
Known your secrets
Can’t hide ’m from me
Does that make me
Your enemy?
Black
Who I be
Carryin’ away your heart on wing
Chargin’ your spirit’s battery
Requires your permit
Yea, black…who I be
Snatchin’ opportunity
Findin’ where they be
Known possibility
‘Cause Black that’s who I be!
Black’s in all souls
Don’t mean you ain’t got one
Black is who we be
Magpie’s make good company
Especially for tea
Especially
For tea!
STAR TROUBADOUR
Who in noontime blaze
Comes singing of left
right
above places
of reality time-frozen
moment of clarity
a moment lost but gained?
Star-troubadour
blessed with revelation
with Earth-blind devotion
Comes singing
I catch his song on the fringe
I love the songs of working people played
In cabins and at dances, and along
Highways where the vagabonds wander by,
Unchanged since days of early English song.
The English, Celtic minstrelsy can never die
As long as mandolins and fiddles cry
The ancient ballads of true love turned wrong—
Of God—and ghosts—and deaths and birth,
Wherever people and their folklore throng.
Out on the sea (or prairies) where the songs are made
Of people close to water, dust and earth:
Elements that give music its true worth
As folk song singers ply their timeless trade.
In the far country,
in a century of veils and swords,
the merry Troubadour rode his horse.
Among true friends
He was the most devoted friend,
and all around loved him
for his kindness.
The sky was filled with stars.
Night was floating above the earth.
Suddenly I met him
in yesterday’s dream.
He said, «I shall be true only to you
during the most black trouble
and in bright-coloured success.»
Morning has crept into my home
like a scarlet snake.
And today, too, I was mistaken
when I looked back at
a masculine figure!
No, it is not he!
O God, O God! I have forgotten his face!
I shall not be able to find
my fine, dream-time Troubadour!
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