
Monday Morning Musings:
“My baby takes the morning train
He works from nine till five and then
He takes another home again
To find me waitin’ for him”
Florrie Palmer, “Morning Train (Nine to Five),” (Recorded by Sheena Easton)
“Why do you write like you’re writing out of time?”
Lin Manuel Miranda, “Non Stop,” Hamilton
“Legacy. What is legacy?
It’s planting seeds in a garden you never get to see.”
Miranda, “The World Was Wide Enough,” Hamilton
“Who lives, who dies, who tells your story?”
–Lin Manuel Miranda, Hamilton
Blue wind soars
into a day of pink and peach
recall this picture– or forget
how the rhythm of earth
turns grey to dazzling bright,

and the magic of a cat
in a long, liquid stretch
with a purr that transfers
burrowing into your soul

How does it happen—
that the light of ghost stars
dances into your morning horizon
and you vow to remember this
how it travels
in light years
but blink—
and it’s gone.
***
We catch the train
walk a cobblestone lane
and past the willow tree
where Hamilton’s bank peeks softly

through branches still green
past, present, what might have been

but here we are
to watch women on trapeze bar
climbing silks, twirling on a hoop
they move in the air, dance, swoop
in transit, a search
for love, a perch
above offers reflection
(and they are perfection)
in strength and skill
traveling without a spill
from any apparatus
and those hearts grab us
the emotions she carries
with colors that vary
red, black and blue
well, we understand, do you?
The red given to lovers, the black
weighing her down, from the lack–
but friends help with the burden
though life is still uncertain.
We so enjoy the show
then it’s time to go
past a wedding
heading
from where the Founding Fathers’ prayed
bridal party and guests all finely arrayed

and we walk and people-watch
from a little swatch
with drinks and apps
then perhaps
it’s time to walk
and talk
down streets and alleys
where people have rallied,
where a Revolutionary generation
fought, died, and built a nation–
to reflect on light
as we travel into the night.

We catch the train
the next day—again
over the bridge, high
above where boats sail by

eat a pre-theater meal
and I’m so excited, I feel
happy to be here
(Hamilton walked near)
lucky to be alive right now–
and wow!
the show lives up to every expectation
and anticipation,
believe the hype, what they say is true
it’s brilliant through and through.
I cry a bit after Philip dies
but laugh and clap, too, and time flies
till we’re heading home on the train
again.
And though moon peaks from a cloud
humming—not too loud

Who lives, who dies, who tells your story?
I dream of things I don’t understand
of Hamilton, and far off lands
of immigrants who get things done–
well, my grandfather was one.
But where does a dream go
between slumber and slowed
breathing and thinking
thoughts slinking
and winking in your mind
till you wake to find
the dream’s traveled far
beyond time, and where are
they? Where do they go
when they’ve flowed
from your brain,
but sometimes appear again?
My mother asks if my father’s alive
and I ponder and strive
to find a way
to say–
cause he died
years ago, not alive
but I’m helpless when she insists
and the dreams twists
then falls away.
So, I write, prose and rhyme
because I’m running out of time
planting seeds, a legacy
she’ll never get to see.

We saw In Transit, a show that’s part of the Philadelphia Fringe line-up this year. We both really enjoyed it, and this group of women of Tangled Movement Art who we’ve seen perform before. They combine theater and circus art. “Morning Train” was a song that was repeated throughout the show. Then, of course we saw Hamilton. The show is a bit of a love song to NYC, but Philadelphia knows Hamilton walked here, too.
I’m delayed today because my computer decided to eat my file, but fortunately, I was able to recover it. Moment. Of. Panic.