Saturday Night at the Blue Bar (#1 in a series about a special Coffee House and the special people there.)

Ah, the Orchid Room at the Blue Bar…

I come here to listen  

 to youth and vigor spilling out

      from inner voices that speak of vinegar and honey,

      of sulfuric acid and mercury.

Sweet Voodoo Child tests the waters 

      giving glimpses of the power of her words

  yet to come.

She is what gives us hope for the future, 

as delicate as the dew-shimmering webbing

     of a dragonfly’s wings,

as strong as the chainmail of the black knight,

a soul with a Kevlar vest made to fit,

  The inner visual acuity of a Lennon not dead,

          a Leary not burned out on LSD.

I salivate at the mere thought of new words,

    of wisdom so ancient

 it free falls from his soul

…Older Than Aztecs…

Look into his eyes, it’s there to see.

Listen to his voice, it’s easy to hear,

A prophet, he’d scoff at what I say,

 but it’s as real as this dream we live.

Only a man who’s seen beyond time

Could play the music so well

And wear that gray fedora with such grace and style.

I come here to listen to

Sweet Child of Mine

        who brings out the mother in me

      and my she-claws spring to defend.

    But she’s quite grown up, speaking of love,

her voice grown strong

   the way Women’s voices do

       when they leave prince charming's behind

sitting in a mud puddle of pig shit, his mouth hanging open

as she saunters away.

Make no mistake,

None of these people need my

clipped and broken talons in their lives.

      They don’t often know it’s me there at the corner table.

I simply listen to the timbre of their souls

carried on the blue smoke of the Orchid Room

and love them for the fact

they don’t simply live, they feel in ways I recognize,

in ways I respect,

 they stand at this mike to sing their songs for us all.

Ah, Paul’s Orchid Room in the Blue Bar…

I order my drink here:

A Brass Monkey

  That’s ½ oz rum, ½ oz vodka, 4 oz orange juice in a high ball,

But the bartender knows me here, knows my drink.

He fixes it a bit stronger and longer and forgoes the optional Galliano

on nights when I come in

nodding my head in his direction.

Pardon my bare feet.

This is the place I kick off my shoes.

And let my hair fall down.

I sing my song at the mike,

   for the others who come here to listen.

Pardon my low cut crimson dress.

This is the place I show myself for who I am, it’s true.

There are no lies here for me.

    It’s far too easy for the others to feel insincerity in my words

  if they aren't stripped bare.

© 2008 C. Harter Amos