Limited Innocence

By bjaybrooks on
Comic collage about Buddy Holly, the Day the Music Died, and a tribute performance.
A vintage-style comic traces Buddy Holly’s legacy through music, tragedy, and memory.

We saw Don McLean last night. MJ and I were in the front row. He wrote the song American Pie. The usher asked us not to rush the stage. Quite a concert. Being seated just a few feet from Mr. McLean was an added treat. MJ and I could understand every word. The songs harkened back to a different time. A time of limited innocence.

I can see part of a beach ball through the cedar tree. Brooks Pond has no beach. Soon, they’ll put the beach balls in storage. August is a short timer. School is back. School Buses are out. When I lived in the country, I rode the School Bus each day. It is amazing how uncomfortable the seats are. The High School Football Game on Friday Night had four people tased by the police. Not Friday Night Lights.

American Pie refers to, ‘The three men I admire the most, the Father Son and the Holy Ghost they caught the last train for the coast the day the music died.’

Comic panel text: "BOARDING THE LAST COASTAL TRAIN." A boy asks, "THE LAST TRAIN... DO WE EVEN HAVE TICKETS?" A man says, "WE MUST GO, THE COAST IS FADING." An older man says, "WE CARRY THE TRUTH, MY SON, THE FARE IS PAID IN FAITH." Signs read "LAST TRAIN" and "COASTAL LINE - LAST TRAIN"; labels read "CLACK," "CHOO," "WHOOSH," and "FATHER SON HOLY GHOST."
A father and son board a storm-battered coastal train as the fading coast calls them onward.

‘And in the streets the children screamed, the lovers cried, and the poets dreamed, but not a word was spoken. The church bells all were broken.’

Three large bells hanging in a ruined stone tower
Three weathered bells hang inside a crumbling stone tower beneath a broken wooden roof.

The August Sun is setting. We look for our Poets. Someone to reveal wisdom. Someone who has seen much.

‘Now for ten years we’ve been on our own, And moss grows fat on a rolling stone, But that’s not how it used to be.’

Moss-covered boulder rolling downhill with text “ROLLIN’ STONE!”, “THUMP! BUMBLE!”, and “ROAR!”
A moss-covered boulder barrels down a forest trail amid comic-book sound effects.

So here we are with the results of being on our own. Can we scrape the moss off? Can we listen for the music? Will we seek the Poet again?

POEMS OF LOSS AND REMEMBRANCE; CRUNCH!; AND SO, MY FRIENDS, REMEMBER THE ECHOES OF THEIR LAST WORDS... THEIR VOICES STILL WHISPER IN OUR SILENCE...; IT'S... IT'S LIKE HE'S SAYING WHAT I FEEL...; CRUNCH!; MY GRANDSON... THIS SONG REMINDS ME...
A tearful gathering listens to a poem that revives memories of loved ones.

Posted in: Uncategorized

Leave a comment