You claim to know through hearsay
I can write and say a line.
And that may just be something,
But not poetry like thine.

Your lips were first, I noticed.
Their rosey, sanguine shine,
Their gentle part was stiff'ning,
and raises more than I.

If I could be those saintly words,
Sweet nothings from your lips,
I could be, would be art itself
Conceived in breathless kiss.

Upon a wizened ancient lyre                                                                                 Harps music of irrepressible allure                                                                            Suffice to set the soul on fire                                                                                  With supreme reflection pure                                                                                Troubador of the city floor                                                                                        Irresistible tune to cherish and adore                                                                          Fluent in melodies of magor and minor                                                                  No magic no fires of heaven could outshine her                                                        Prophets clamor to hear her and wine her                                                                   She like thee a mystery                                                                                                      Riffs and riddles on the gems of history                                                                      myth and magic her mind's geography                                                                       love's philosophy her theosophy                                                                                 her psalms beget by ear wise trophy                                                                     which ne'er decay or wilt or atrophy                                                                        beget thy sweet and sonorous bars                                                                             WHICH DREAMS OF HEAVEN AND SINGS TO THE STARS                                         in harmony with the cosmic serenade                                                                          in which the soul's truest abade                                                                                    balladeer a renegade who told the truth because it paid                                               to not put one's soul up for trade                                                                                      a passion in love's furnace made                                                                                oh to listen in the dappled shade                                                                                   my mind waltzes with the lilt                                                                                         you have replete lilt to the hilt                                                                                    song stirs flowers sunk in silt                                                                                       they sway and sigh and soar and wilt                                                                          sensuous and attuned to the song                                                                                  that doth ring around the earth up and along                                                              raising the sound of the world in the throng                                                                  for half the world away is tianneman square or hong kong

He sings love songs
     without the love
     for the song.

He amuses the crowd,
     the critical throng.

What they don't know
     is that after the show,
     he goes home
     with a wrinkled brow.

self inflicted torture
sadistic sensation
masochistic sin
****** up hallucination

as tethered thrall
trembling for admission
succumbed balladeer
in your realms of inquisition

scarlet tainted skin
twisted anticipation
the evil of the heart
my dark imagination

witches adorn the front covers
of ecofeminist zines
in an anarchist bookstore
nestled on the Left Bank
of Seattle's waterfront

rare rays of sunlight
filter through sheer curtains
photons glimmering
through fading droplets
clinging to cracked panes
refracting multicolor

i sit in the window-seat
listening to a homeless
balladeer's somber renditions
of Jonny Cash and Woodie Guthrie
serenading the locals bustling
down Pike Street Market
while the Olympic Mountains
keep their vigil
across a lonely bay

Emma Goldman whispers
for Alexander Berkman
and i balance on mismatched cushions
considering Proudhon's insistent
inquiries while Bakunin smirks  
nursing secret heresies of insurrection

colorful posters are paper-machéd
across the walls with slogans of struggle
scrawled in sisterhood and solidarity
stickers plaster the narrow halls
encouraging visitors to Smash Capitalism!
or Read A ******* Book
as jam-packed patrons chance
sly peaks at the black flag
suspended in the back room

a faint breeze flutters intermittently
drifting across the open threshold
lifting spirits as if sifting
through grains of sand
not unlike a child
digging for answers
armed with one
monosyllabic question

why?

the banner
cheerfully pirouettes  
for a revolution
without dancing
is not one worth having

Solitary puppeteers working
their angles , scripting heartfelt
psalms , revealing their dark past
with chilling vocals , accompanied
by simple , twangy , acoustic guitars
Touching the lives of ordinary -
folks struggling to get by
Riding into town with the morning Sun
Moving on by the light of the Moon
An open , honest , country balladeer
The 'Working Mans icon ' called home
on a plain old day in April ..

A troubadour I be.
Playing my musical pen
for those who gather.

A balladeer be I.
One who parades cross page
to sing to readers ears.

A troubadour am I.
The minstrel of written word
who performs my hearts music.

A jongleur be I
gathering events from journey  
to birth a poem

Said Bob Dylan