The Times, They Are a Changin'

It’s time for Write on Wednesdays with Ink Paper Pen again! Sorry, I wagged last week my excuse is school holidays and the like.

Write On Wednesdays Exercise 5: Write the Music - A bit of choice this week: Pick your favorite song and write down the first line of lyrics OR turn on the radio and write down the first line of lyrics you hear. Then set your timer for 5 minutes and write the first words that come into your head after your writing prompt.  Stop when the buzzer rings! Do this exercise over and over if you wish. 

Extra Credit: After you do the exercise, try it again but this time play the song while you write. Could be an interesting way to get the creativity going... 

Song: Times they are a changin - Bob Dylan

'Come gather round people, where ever you roam...'

We would gather there, on the cold wooden floor of your room. The turquoise walls, made it feel small yet so comforting at the same time. The smell of insence burning over powering the ever present pile of dirty socks in the corner. You didn't care and nor did we, as long as we had our music.

The three of us spent so many days and nights in that little bedroom, writing lyrics playing songs talking about whats wrong with the world but we mostly listened to music, especially Bob Dylan.

Your style was just like his, your voice and ability to write amazing meaningful lyrics, you even looked like him. Your talents were recognised wherever you played and we all knew you had what it takes.

Time passed by as it does and I moved on. The last time I saw you we were gathered once again, but not to joke and sing within those familiar turquoise walls, this time we gathered in the open air to say goodbye to our friend.

This exercise got me thinking and reminiscing of a life past so after I kind of wrote a poem too if your interested...

I used to know him once, he played the string guitar – this homeless looking hobo man who’ll one day be a star.

My friend, the times sure were a changin’, our lives really have evolved. Remember how we played music by the firelight for hours? The nights grew long, our voices worn, fingers bleeding from the cold.

The life of then has all but gone, a memory from afar, an unspoken whisper in the sands of time, left without a scar.

Perhaps the secret love-child of a 60’s icon wrote that even though they never met somehow, telepathically they spoke.

The hobo man still sings and he plays on his guitar, the echo of Dylan etched deep within his repertoire.

The sun is setting, warm on his back, as he grabs his things to leave. Guitar in one hand, bag and his hat, down to the road he made. As he turns around one last time he holds his free hand up and waves , says “Goodbye my friend,” with a wink and a smile and journeys on his way.