He spits into the busker’s case,
laughing with his mates.
Get a job, old man,’ he taunts.
The busker doesn’t slow.
‘You deaf?’ he asks, to no response;
losing interest, saunters off.
Not deaf, the busker strums his tune,
his mind on days long gone;
a foreign shore, machine-gun fire,
brothers stolen
by crimson waves.

Ryan Stone


24 thoughts on “Busker

  1. Stunning piece Ryan. The music drowning the memories.

    “Buscar” meaning “to look for” – what is this man looking for? maybe peace, maybe nostalgia is hard to bear without sounds.. I can almost hear his music filling the void in his heart.
    Enjoy your week ahead!
    โค D.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. i loved this ryan. those who spit in his case have no idea what he has seen or where he has been. their action means nothing to him in the scheme of things, only serves as a reminder of the what led to war in the first place – misunderstanding, fear, and a grab for one man’s need to have power over another.

    Liked by 1 person

  3. Oh wow, oh wow, oh wow! There’s much more truth in this poem than not–so many homeless vets on our streets here, unable to work for many reasons…and they’ve lost their sense of themselves, their worth–because morons don’t respect them. My heart breaks. Fab poem, Ryan.

    Liked by 1 person

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