Picasso’s Brickwork


Picasso’s Brickwork

At the concert
The guitarist stood
In the smoke
Like a younger version of
“The Old Guitarist”
Only he wears black jeans
Like me
And stands against
A red brick wall
With wet lime, sand and
Cement in his eyes,
And he uses the back of his
Hand as a trowel for his
Tears while I pray for him.
“Beautiful,” I tell him,
When I pass him
On my way out

Because I heard a
Crack of joy
Spider through melancholy
As a ram’s horn
Blasted from somewhere
Along the outskirts
Of Jericho.


Note: Last night I came home from a concert with a guitarist still on my heart. Accustomed to larger and wilder venues, two of the band members noted this was the favorite show of the tour. They appeared tired after a long tour and then shaken up by a different vibe at our local venue. These guys are used to performing in bars and folk festivals. But ours was a quiet listening room. And quiet enough for my spirit to feel something stirring, maybe cracking, on that stage.

And I could still hear the sound of those horns when I came home.

18 thoughts on “Picasso’s Brickwork

  1. What a gift your group gave to them — not to treat them as background music, or a crazy beat to accompany someone’s dancing… Just for you to sit and listen. And in this case, pray.

    • I was only joking about my ill feelings toward you — and all your selfish concert-going of late. But, yes, there’s music in the air, Laura. And maybe something is about to spring, too …

  2. loved this one. I always liked that painting, and I’ve often re-imagined Jericho with guitars (strange but true!)

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