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 singer/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?)