52nd Street Fantasy
Here I am, soaked to the skin,
But feeling okay.
The July thunderstorm has passed,
Giving the sidewalks of New York
That sweet perfume a city can only get
After summer’s sudden downpour.
Adrift, as if to dream,
A drunk daydream in the middle of the night,
All I see and hear is you.
With a serenade of: “I Loves You, Porgy”.
Here is where I declare: I love you, too.
God Bless The Child that is me.
Turning down my collar to the rising night,
Straightening my tie to look presentable,
And turning onto “The Street” ...
Here is where I look for you.
Through the ghosts of neon,
Long gone painted signs and resident awnings
Bearing famous names,
Playing behind a Famous Door.
Holy shrines of beatitude, for the devoted,
And conversion, for those curious.
Echoes of music reverberate through decades,
Evoking a place in time
I cannot possibly remember,
But perceive very well.
Here is where I want you.
With a glass of beer, I await your arrival.
My heart jumps, as you cross my mind,
You a paradox of elegance and toughness,
Showing through every line on your face,
And every note that you sing.
Well, here I am, your Lover Man.
But this street, is no longer: “The Street”,
And you’re not coming here,
Over to The Bronx,
St. Raymond’s Cemetery …
Here is where I find you.
A gardenia for your stone,
And a rose for your mother’s.
I tell myself: “Don’t Explain,
Because as she said herself:
‘Anything I do sing, is a part of my life.’
And that’s all that needs to be said.”
I walk away, feeling Fine And Mellow,
And still in love with you.
Here is where I say:
“Goodnight, Lady Day.”
poetryrepairs #240 v17.08:093
When the journey began,
The Monk took a vow of dissonance
As everyone was following the Bird.
And when the Monk was in exile,
The Bird flew back into the tower
Where the bell was tolling for him.
The Trane was rattling for Miles
Pulling a freight load of records
Across many tracks
Before hitting the main switch yard
A runaway Trane
Making up for lost time.
Going at a pace so fantastic
The Monk saw this,
The Trane however
Reached the end of the line too soon,
Just as the Miles began to stretch out so far
Many travelers got lost along the way
Or gave up the journey.
The Monk withdrew into the Abbey
Where the bells tolled first for Father Pops
And then the Mighty Duke.
Sombre and alone in his Abbey,
The Monk took a vow of silence,
And died in the same year
The Trane was finally canonized.
Making a different sound
Driven by the Monk.
A one-way spiritual journey,
Every few hundred Miles.
Racing in directions,
The Bird never flew.
From out of the bell tower,
Ringing: “A Love Supreme”.
poetryrepairs #240 v17.08:093
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DALE PERCY> "52nd Street Fantasy", is about Billie Holiday, my favourite singer. During WW2, she was perhaps the biggest attraction on 52nd Street in New York City, a row of jazz clubs, and this is my "fantasy" about trying to find her in this day and age
"St. Trane", is about John Coltrane, who actually is a saint. I tried to match the fact that Thelonious Monk died the same year as John Coltrane was canonized, 1982.