Poems for Rodriguez by Marc LaLonde

These poems about Rodriguez were written recently by Marc LaLonde, after seeing Searching For Sugar Man.

Contact Marc at: marcslalonde@juno.com

In an encore for a journeyman

In an encore for a journeyman,
A rambling hurdy-gurdy man,
The past becomes the future now,
Like mirrors facing mirrors somehow,
Echoes in a foreign land,
Played by a calloused working hand,
Sung by a shadow growing old,
Tales so tall, that nearly went untold,
Bordering on the spectral and ethereal,
Reality becomes much more ephemeral,
Like windmills vying with Don Quixote,
Or visions seen through los peyote,
Like penguins in a southern clime,
So sings a man in quarter time,
Catch the music, catch the dreams,
Can it all really be, as it seems,
Yes it can, and yes it is,
Capetown blues, how sweet it is,
A dead man walks upon the stage,
That gave a voice to tears and rage,
Bass lines thump, laying down,
A big red carpet, all over town,
An African country his biggest fan,
An encore for a journey, man……..

Marc LaLonde 2012

The troubadour, long gone, wandered back into sight

The troubadour, long gone, wandered back into sight,
Still singing his musings, to a cold dark night,
Whispers in the darkness, whispers in the light,
So quiet in his soul, more quiet in his manner,
Never dreaming his name flew on some distant banner,
But fate would just not hear it, as history truly ran her,
Singing his words to himself in a corner,
Worlds apart, those words did warn her,
As a new world rose, on his words that borne her,
Shuffling through his steps, the music man muses,
As fires ignited, searching for the ends of dynamic fuses,
Not seeing the spark of his words, and the hearts it chooses,
A world away and distance grew near,
As music gave courage to those who knew fear,
Selling their lives for a freedom so dear,
Mandela’s and Biko’s, apartness grew weaker,
Maybe all freedom ever needed, was an eloquent speaker,
Or someone to sing, a troubadour to seek her,
Hiding in plain sight, beyond the reaches of corruption,
Singing to the world, with no permanent interruption,
Only the kind life throws at every man, frequent disruption,
Tired and stooping, the troubadour wanders back home,
Singing to himself, while his soul, still it does roam,
Finding strength and comfort in each song born from poem,
One more travel, every troubadour has yet one more,
Some have done less, while some have done more,
But each one has sung truth, finding their soul and its sum core,
Sugarman sang, to crowds in rooms only standing,
Rodriguez sang, to crowds while autographs handing,
Sixto sings, to crowds in his memory, upon homeward landing,
While the troubadour wanders, down streets of ghosts and skeletons long
gone,
Singing himself to sleep, wandering far, returning in time to wake before
dawn,
The music man works, for no more than a little, giving riches away with a
yawn,
So sings the man, so sings the world that knows his song,
So wanders the poet, humming to himself all day long,
So travels the troubadour, but to the world he surely does now
belong……….

Marc LaLonde 2012

A minstrel sings, in some place sublime

A minstrel sings, in some place sublime,
That evokes another, in dimensional rhyme,
Echoing soundly down hallways of time,
Blending fine melodies, like rosemary and thyme,
Harmony striking on so many chords,
Disturbing the beat of harsh overlords,
Strumming on heart strings, like taut pulled cords,
Singing into being, plowshares from swords,
Change in the air, flying on wings,
The crescendo rising, as the minstrel sings,
Tempting the future, to see what it brings,
The tempo is carried, on voices with wings,
Fine tuning the tone, then crashing like cymbals,
As songs are played, on Gibsons and Kimballs,
Together apart, the divisions clash as symbols,
As lives spin and dance, pivoting on gimbals,
A minstrel sings, though never in haste,
With economy of effort, too great to waste,
Leaving the hearer with a sweet aftertaste,
A Sugarman’s voice, circled the earth’s waist,
Bringing a symphony, to the deaf and the poor,
Sending sweet sounds from the likes of a Sewer,
With only the strings that accompany and lure,
The deep that is in us, the deaf and the poor……….

Marc LaLonde 2012