Roy Ostling
I still hear the refrain of his penny whistle, the gyre of a timeless Celtic air.
How many notice grey-bearded Tim Lander seated against the walls Commercial Street, his little aged dog by his feet, know his poetry embodies the voice of Walt Whitman, the cadence and presence of Allan Ginsberg. Next time you hear him playing stop and buy a copy of his latest self-printed book - New poim. He sees mo
re of our city and the arc of its lives, than scores observe in their lifetimes. Here is an excerpt from his latest work - reproduced with love as he has requested:
The beggar wakes early
goes out to stand on his corner
the same one where his father stood before him
and his father too
that was his heritage
He gives his offering
To the god of thieves
And the musician
flexes his fingers
in the cold air of dawn
tunes his instrument
wishes the world
“Good morning”
sending a thread of sound
among the hurrying nightweary feet
and the smell of coffee
jerks the world awake.
I still hear the refrain of his penny whistle, the gyre of a timeless Celtic air.
How many notice grey-bearded Tim Lander seated against the walls Commercial Street, his little aged dog by his feet, know his poetry embodies the voice of Walt Whitman, the cadence and presence of Allan Ginsberg. Next time you hear him playing stop and buy a copy of his latest self-printed book - New poim. He sees mo
re of our city and the arc of its lives, than scores observe in their lifetimes. Here is an excerpt from his latest work - reproduced with love as he has requested:
The beggar wakes early
goes out to stand on his corner
the same one where his father stood before him
and his father too
that was his heritage
He gives his offering
To the god of thieves
And the musician
flexes his fingers
in the cold air of dawn
tunes his instrument
wishes the world
“Good morning”
sending a thread of sound
among the hurrying nightweary feet
and the smell of coffee
jerks the world awake.