Saturday, February 20, 2010

A Trail of Crumbs . . .

A Trail of Crumbs . . . .
[not really a poem, and not about art - but a very painful blog for some reason - and I am finally done with it: Sunday 8:35 in the morning - YAY]

Hit the top of my hill  this morning . . . just to see my bus drive by
Ah well - go buy some water and give the extra change
to that smiling guy in the store . . .

People should smile more . . .
it creates beauty on their faces . . . value . . .
and it chases away the black storm clouds while
catching a ray of sunshine and reflecting
some of that shine to the heart of the onlooker.

Something I have learned, in that big brick building
with all the bells and stresses,
smile hard
smile often
and sing special things to the people
. . . it brings joy to the heart . . .
mine and to the others' . . .

I had a teacher, once, who called me 'Smiley' . . .
too painful for

the shy person I was . . .
so I learned not to smile.  And then once, some
friends pointed out that my lips were
naturally upturned at the edges . . .
so I tried ever harder - practiced in front of the
mirrors to be un-smiley - defining a frowny face
-- -- well - I eventually needed to relearn to smile again.

When you work with short people
you love to see their smiles,
those gap toothed smiles    
put some treasures in your heart.

A smile is so mundane and yet
profound, cheap to give
and yet a treasure to receive . . 
even from a stranger.

I finally understand why
people keep writing to me to discuss love;
well . . . its all over my blog
its in my poetry, and other stuff - its about love . . . . ha!

And then blessings of blessings . . .
I ran into an old friend . . . an old dear friend 
of mine, John, he was going around with his
pointy stick picking up cans -
"I'm just being a bum," he said.
He always reminds me of that singer, Willie Nelson,
with whom I have always been in love . . .
and I adore John. I think he is so beautiful . .
I love looking at his sweet old face.  Once a cowboy,
and an inveterate wanderer, now he roams about
the neighborhood, one of our more colorful characters.
He always gives me treats from his garden and hangs around
to chat, and with that sweet smile of his, is so endearing. Sigh . . .
sometimes you want to hang on to someone - forever . . . I hadn't
seen him in quite some time - -  SO YOU SEE - there was a special reason for missing
that stupid bus.
Today, John and I chatted about rats.

Well, I had a great bus ride - I love it when loud
happy people are near to me - - she had the 
whole bus smiling 
and I went to the waterfront 
to snap some pictures just like a tourist 
with my cheap little camera - 
I envied the big pretty ones all the rest
of the crowd had but - I love my little baby -
she fits in my pocket - I followed the river and wandered under the
railroad tracks.
And then past the train station
along many pathways,
and over many roads, seeking a
trail - looking for something
I'm not sure what . . .
and I don't believe I found it.

I meandered through the park blocks until I got to Powell's book store where I was unable to find the books for which I was looking. The largest bookstore in the world and it didn't have my books - oh the irony! Oh well - I am hungry and I smell food.

Something is lurking                                                                  
in the corners of my mind
spiders and dust
and assorted stuff
swept up nightly
but returning
to plague the song
in my brain
like a stumbling
to make me halt and think . . . 

Going Home                                                                       

I realized that I wanted to capture everything in my camera . . .                  
to take a picture of that guy playing his banjo
in the garden by the road,
and that tree with the burly
arms, knotty toes,
and lacy branches, or all
those guys, seven of them walking
down the street,
laughing loudly,
mouths wide open, and
that poor guy in front,
trying to hear something on his phone
frantically covering his ear -
I wanted to take pictures
of the sound of the chimes
and the children questioning
their dad about everything . . . and
The smells of food . . .
the cherry blossoms . . .
Oh, to possess forever those extra
special smiles on the faces of
happy people
or the kindness of the bus driver

I wanted to seize the 
unique colors of the early spring sun
shouting into my eyes,
sparkling and exuberant

I wanted to capture all that
all the bikes
moving down the pathway
together with
the shadows creeping
across the faces of  the buildings
and . . . people blowing in the breeze
and the sound of gentle
chatter on the bus

I want to own
it all
I want it all . . .
every molecule . . .

The golfers on the range
          lined up with tiny white balls and
the way the small white
daisies pooled in the
dip of the green
and the flavor of sunlight
through the tree branches
and every person's soul
captured forever in my camera . . .

But most of all I regret
asking John
to let me snap a picture
of his smile . . .

So, I think this story is NOT about love, but all about that deep  hunger, soul hunger.
And reflections, and sadness, and a trail meandering . . .
with no end.
When I go searching, I never find . . . exactly what. . .
is on my mind . . . 
There is no word to describe what I long for . . .
so I continue to look when I get the chance
and now to struggle,
with words, AND the camera
to narrow in on the elusive meaning of life?

I feel a failure
because I miss the essence of something which
I cannot grab . . .
that elusiveness,
that frustration . . .
I feel it is beyond words . . .
and the capacity of the camera's lens:

BUT I AM grateful for what I have and
that is why I need the mundane . . . 
and my life
after all.



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