The Invitation by Orian Mountain Dreamer

It doesn’t interest me what you do for a living. I want to
know what you ache for and if you dare to dream of
meeting your heart’s longing.

It doesn’t interest me how old you are. I want to know if
you will risk looking like a fool for love, for your dream,
for the adventure of being alive.

It doesn’t interest me what planets are squaring your
moon. I want to know if you have touched the center of
your own sorrow, if you have been opened by life’s
betrayals or have become shriveled and closed from
fear of further pain.

I want to know if you can sit with pain, mine or your own,
without moving to hide it, or fade it, or fix it.

I want to know if you can be with joy, mine or your own;
if you can dance with wildness and let the ecstasy fill
you to the tips of your fingers and toes without
cautioning us to be careful, be realistic, remember the
limitations of being human.

It doesn’t interest me if the story you are telling me is
true. I want to know if you can disappoint another to be
true to yourself. If you can bear the accusation of
betrayal and not betray your own soul. If you can be
faithless and therefore trustworthy.

I want to know if you can see Beauty even when it is not
pretty every day. And if you can source your own life
from its presence.

I want to know if you can live with failure, yours and
mine, and still stand at the edge of the lake and shout
to the silver of the full moon, ‘Yes.’

It doesn’t interest me to know where you live or how
much money you have. I want to know if you can get up
after the night of grief and despair, weary and bruised
to the bone and do what needs to be done to feed the
children.

It doesn’t interest me who you know or how you came to
be here. I want to know if you will stand in the centre of
the fire with me and not shrink back.

It doesn’t interest me where or what or with whom you
have studied. I want to know what sustains you from the
inside when all else falls away.

I want to know if you can be alone with yourself and if
you truly like the company you keep in the empty
moments.

Thank you to Lansing King

Atlantic Avenue

IMG_1200Atlantic Avenue is a song written by RB Morris local poet, songwriter and performer. Atlantic Avenue is a street in North Knoxville (not to be confused with Historic Old North Knoxville) where he lived several times.

RB does a good job of describing the familiar, often the scruffy, of our city–streets, venues, people–in both his songs and poetry. Accompanied by his guitar and usually a band, his presentation style is unique.

At first, not exactly sure how I felt about his breaking off a song lyric to recite lines from a poem, I stood back questioning. It didn’t take long to realize this was an honest performer, RB being RB.

I attended a home concert one evening where he performed and was glad to hear this song, a old favorite for many of his fans. After leaving the concert my friend, Karen, and I decided to cruise Atlantic Avenue to see if we could figure out where RB had lived. It was after midnight on a hot summer night. We didn’t have any luck but it was a nice way to hold onto the mood.

Lyrics from Atlantic Avenue

by RB Morris

“Windows in old homes, glowing rosy in the night…..”

“Alley cats and nightbirds playing in the shadows and the machines….”

“ And darkness falls forever on broken wheels and dreams…”

Can you see it?

Note from RB: I wrote all the lyrics to the song, as a song it is a co-write with the late Terry Hill who wrote the music.