Tambourine Man Not Again

In a previous blog, I composed a poem about how I played trombone in live, “gig” performance. When not blowing my horn during many tunes, I often banged the tambourine unnoticed instead. Reminiscing how “eyes in the crowd” largely fixated on our lead singer’s, dramatic performance, I now imagine what it would feel like being such an idolized superstar. The following poem inspired by the famous Bob Dylan folk song attached below reflects these sentiments.

Spread Voice To Send Cool As Midnight Falls
Take Notice Bob Dylan Of My Celebrity Calls
Crowd Beats In Pulsed Dance Strong Hearts Eyes Wide
Electric Jungle Gone Crazy No Place To Hide

No Time For False Hero As Morning Light Sprays
Shun Bless, Bleed, Breathe, Brood In Normalized Ways
True Destiny Calls For Blind Superstar Storm
As King Of The Mike Frees Mind From Dull Norm

Put Me Up Front In Sinned Idol Stoned Scene
Never Hidden In Shadow, I’m No Tambourine

Author:

I accomplished a rewarding career as a teacher and professor for 28 years.No more daily lesson plans now frees my curious mind to experience life on my own terms now.

5 thoughts on “Tambourine Man Not Again

  1. Your poem conjured up some wonderful memories. You sir, are a poet! I would have liked to have seen you play music back in the day.
    Ah the tambourine…we don’t see it much anymore. The harmonica and the tambourine used to be such staples in the performances of our musical heroes of the 60’s and 70’s. I saw Dylan sing Mr. Tambourine man when I was 16. He was pretty incredible. (I believe it was 1965.) And Janice banged away on her Tambourine in 1968 when she came to the U of Miami. Your poem made me remember those performances.

    But, my question to you is this… did you get all bruised when you played the tambourine? I sure did! It’s a deadly weapon! Lol. I played rhythm guitar in my band, but every now and then I’d pick up the tambourine and jump around with it during a performance. Hours later, my entire thigh would be bruised and black and blue from hitting it against my leg and my left palm would also be purple. I’ve always wanted to invent a tambourine that didn’t injure its player. But then, when I listen to Dylan sing that song in its purest form, I know that like the gritty, pure sound of old amps with tubes, recreating perfection destroys or takes away something from the sound when it’s upgraded. And the bruising marks the tambourine made on my body was well worth it because the sound and the sheer energy of the instrument was amazing to play and to hear. It captured our generation’s music.
    Keep writing your poetry. You draw me back in time with your words. ✌️🎸✌️

    Like

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