134. Mickey’s not the only ghost. (12 June 2016).

Two Sundays ago the rain was doing just this. The perfect start to a day with no plans and no need to rouse myself. Not the first time I’d started something on this theme,but the first time something has been finished. And Mickey Newbury’s “Looks like rain” from ’69 is now an ever present when I wake up on such mornings. Even if I don’t play it, it’s always in mind on those types of mornings.

 

134. Mickey’s not the only ghost.

 

The ghost of Mickey Newbury,

Is in the rain,

As it bounces off,

The granite walls outside,

Just like I imagine it’d done,

Off the roof,

Of his Nashville houseboat back in ’69,

 

It dances off the window pane,

With a rhythm all its own,

While I scribble down these words,

Not knowing where they’re going,

Except that their coming back to you,

Like the rain to the ground,

As I listen to his sound,

 

Thanks to damp reminders,

On an early summer’s Sunday morning,

Listening to dear old Mickey and the rain,

I feel the absence of the window,

With the impact of a different spelling,

For that tiny little word,

Called pain.

 

The ghost of Mickey Newbury,

Is in the rain,

As it bounces off,

The granite walls outside,

Just like I imagine it’d done,

Off the roof,

Of his Nashville houseboat back in ’69,

 

© Jim Laing 2016.

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About Jim Laing

The Buddha said there were four kinds of people. Those who run from dark to dark, those who run from light to dark, those who run from dark to light and those who run from light to light. From a life going from dark to dark to having a few years running from dark to light, with scuffed hands and knees from sometimes falling, I may be getting the hang of it now. How it began is not now how it is, I need a quiet space, After the noise of the day, So I take sanctuary in the creativity, And my soul feeds, On sometimes dark, Sometimes light fantasy, And I dare like many to work, But stay up off my knees, To dream, perchance to suffer, But always still to dream. Here are things mostly lyrical and poetic, with nonsense sometimes, reviews and personal musings. The coffees hot and always black. The words not necessarily so.
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