This lady is everywhere at all times in Boston and possibly other cities as well. She is ancient and endearing and going to rummage the hell out of your recycling.
Making her metal grocery cart was the best part of this one.
Thank you to the two teenagers behind me on the bus today who had a lengthy conversation about this woman AND about how much pe apparently still sucks in middle-school.
Someone said I have the soul of an artist…
Does that mean I'm in my own world?
Or am I just more in touch with this world.
A baby wails methodically behind me to the left,
water splashes and laps the underbelly of this dock
I lie here,
flat, still except for my fingers and wrist sliding over the notebook paper
the mother clucks and soothes, rocking until
the baby settles and this pen
marking this paper soothes me.
If I had the soul of an artists I'd create, yes?
But maybe they're wrong. Maybe I don't.
After all, I'm just lying here taking in the deeply
solid blue of the water and the gray grainy old dock
Then I close one eye and try to gaze out over the bridge
the sailboats are ducking under
but that sun is just too bright.
So I turn and glance behind at leaves too green
to be believed, their hue radiant
and contrasting beautifully with that
deep blue lapping up
beside me.
If I had the soul of an artist, I'd compose something yes?
But I can't read a note much less write two together
especially not when the wind rustles the
trees into an applause and crinkles my paper into a giggle
and splish splashes the water
and knocks over my bike
jarring me from a dreamlike state like the bang of a drum.
shh, the baby sleeps.
If I had the soul of an artist, I would try to reflect an image, yes?
I would attempt to conjure up an image
from somewhere in my subconscious
and present it in some outward form.
But, I can't because
All I can do is take in this gorgeous day that surrounds me
with the soul that I am.
And that soul gets distracted enough to keep riding a bike
down a road until it ends
and it thinks the body can breathe better when the sun can see its face
It is too proud to ask for help,
it loves so deeply it often gets hurt
but never careful.
It experiences every color as if emerging from a cave
but misses sounds watching the world,
So don't call its name, don't break the spell
because then I'll be back. I'll have to land and I'm scared
of where that will be.
It could be that soft bed of wildflowers in that old Bambi tape,
or a pungent asphalt that always scraped my knees
trying to learn how to fly as a kid.
I could land in the middle of the ocean and
be too tired to swim
Or I could land on a couch somewhere and
be expected to spill all this feeling
inside of me and have them
explained.
This soul knows the life it lived
and everyday that makes me
see and feel
just as me, not an artist portraying a dream.
I'm inside of it and shouldn't be shaken.
So as the breeze lazily drifts over the small of
my back the way certain fingers once danced
and the baby wakes
and the waves roll, the dock sways
the lullaby drifts over it all.
Don't wake this soul up, it's happy in this dream
Happy as it is.
**nothing wrong with having the "soul of an artist" it was meant well but in the sense that I often(usually) have my head in the clouds and...I just didn't want my soul labelled just then:P
No comments:
Post a Comment