A poem I wrote:  I am a coward because other poems I write are not revealing my deep fears etc. but this one does.  It is about my fear of being seen as an old, crazy lady who has never succeeded who keeps telling everyone she is a singersinger/songwriter.

It is also about busking – becoming a street performer…Recently I have decided the best way to launch my songwriter/guitarist career at age 58 is on the street – in San Francisco and other places.  Since trying to play in clubs etc seems so labor intensive – the calls, the being ignored,  the few gigs that pay so little…it just seems easier to show up, wheel in my battery operated amp and microphone, and sing my heart out…not sure if I can make any money this way but for now i have a loving spouse who is willing to fund my art adventure – although he is getting impatient since I have been earning zero and we need the money…

So here goes – my poem to express how I think I am a crazy old nut for trying to be a “songwriter” and how I also think that by not writing about this exact fear, I will not be a good songwriter.

Old and Unsuccessful

Bumps on my hips

Lumps in my breast

to forget to be old

I’m doing my best

To keep writing songs

That live to be sung

To live for the next

I write another one

I’m plodding along

in my dorky fashion

ploddings ok

it begets passion

I read the New Yorker

for inspiration

of poets past

and our crumbling nation

and hold court on the street

to whomever will listen

polish my words

out here ’til they glisten

Sick of hearing

it’s not for sissies

yes I’m older

than Ulysses

Dream of someday

re-living my past

The man that got away

returning at last

Confessing his love

I was right all along

It must be true

Cause I’m singing this song

and you’ll hear as I do

it proves one thing

I’m crazy as hell

I feel that sting

It’s hard to bare

but easier still

than closing up shop

going back on the pills

(note:  I was going to correct the spelling of “bare” but it seems fitting to leave it grammatically wrong for obvious reasons?)

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2 thoughts on “A Poem about Getting Old, No Pills, Being a Busker (aka Street Performer)

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