The clarinetist

j ludwikowski tolstonog

I heard his clarinet on Burbank, near the freeway.
He was there the old man, he was there again today
through the car window, I handed a bill to him, one dollar
holding his music, for a short while,
he brought his hand close to mine,
I held it for a flash It felt cold, and dry against my palm
I loved him, I loved him nice, with all my heart
I still can feel the rough cut of his lifeline.
Thanks, he said…Driving off, I wondered if perhaps,
he despised me for being white

Circle

j. ludwikowski tolstonog

Seashells, a pile of sand
A lost soul flying by
The sea, the wind over the land
A man, a life,
One step, one thought
One experience, insight
…Still a life
Knowledge, wisdom, blessed light
Slow burning fire,
Fusion
Confusion,
Oversimplification
The march of time
Burst of vision
The Hand that passes
To erase the misconception that we call life
A lost soul going by
A few shells, a pile of sand...
A gentle breeze has cleaned the land.