A poem about house concerts. I organised some about seven years ago. You can read about the last one here. I have been talking to a couple of musicians recently about the possibilities of running another series once the pandemic allows, so I suppose this is what sparked the poem.
the first required a bucket precisely placed to ensure the snow melt from the unexpected leak above the bay window did not drip onto the artist
and could have also done without the drama that followed the cat snaffling a pistachio and getting the shell stuck in his palette this was to the detriment of the song being sung
the second was perfection in itself no words can describe the beauty of the evening
which led to some being less than impressed by the third as if a peak can look less impressive from the other side
the fourth and last was different quiet love songs that carried across the still night
as we loaded the amps into their car the summer broke big raindrops instantly cooling the air the moment had ended I moved houseWhat attracted me to the poem was that essentially it is a list details. Also the lines are far longer than anything I would usually write. I think it works. It is another watch this space poem.
The last three words I had used as the ending to another poem, something I have not posted because it was not going anywhere. I find that occasionally I salvage a line from the wreck of a failed poem.The photographs are from a trip to Barcelona in 2012. Those were the days...
To whet you appetite here's Brooke live in 2020.Until next time.