The Path Way View

... a poem written for my Muse...

The Path Way View (Part 1)

***This is the first of a two part tribute to my Muse

      when I first started writing***

Its spring and snowing pink,

as I walk along the path

lined with white and cherry flowers.

Ahead there are benches

oddly spaced with views of trees

and grass, sky, and seen 

between green scraggly bushes, 

the distant glimmer of a rolling stream.

oo0oo

Ahead, I see you, sitting,

listening to music, perhaps a 

Tori Amos song.

In your lap a drawing pad

with what appears the beginnings

of a woman’s face, her flowing hair

lightly covering her youthful breasts.

Your hands move ever so gently

filling in the shades of shadows with light

giving her life,

her eyes sparkle with attitude.

And as you draw,

there is a small, almost arrogant, smile,

a smile that boldly asserts your

artistic glee, and marks your beauty

with whimsy and bobbed hair.

oo0oo

As I near your bench 

the light in the park shifted,

a breeze stirred an eddy of pink

and white petals,

many finding homes in your hair.

You laugh.

But even more amazing,

it seems that each swirl of air

came from your fingers

caressing the pen 

and the dance each stroke

made on the drawing pad.

It was infectious

as this breeze touched everyone.

People stopped, turned

looked around, trying 

to see where it was coming from.

But I think I was the only one

who knew it was coming from you.

It was like a secret shared

and I tucked it into my shirt pocket

close, where secrets should be kept.

oo0oo

I wanted to approach,

say hi,

ask you why all nature anticipates

your each pencil stroke,

as even wrens do a flutter dance as they sing.

But I shied away behind a nearby tree,

torn between asking many questions

and being a voyeur.

Then, you must have seen my curiosity

shimmering in the air

as out of nowhere came a gust of wind

pushing me into your laughing view.

You say clearly, but not with spoken words,

“I have no answers that would satisfy,

I only draw and write what is in my mind.

Perhaps what you seek, lays within a Kahlo scene

or in the exotic perfumes:

the frangipani, bougainvillea 

and night-blooming cereus of the Philippines.

She guides me, you know,

shows me the path way and makes the pink snow.

She helps me draw 

and rail against feudal 

or bourgeois traditions.

But I, I am only who I am.

A woman who seeks the mysteries

of the language pool; 

who comes to drink and fish,

to catch the colors of the mind.”

oo0oo

It is spring and raining pink

as now I stand by your bench

looking over your shoulder,

captured by your artists scent,

witnessing gentle hands drawing;

finalize this woman with determined eyes.

Yes, I am still curious 

and want to know everything.

Perhaps tomorrow I might return

and you will enrapture me

in your cherry blossom skies.

~~redzone 5.19.08 (edited 9.23.14)

Reviews

[Briana O'Connor]

So you are a stalker and a poet? What a diverse combination :P This was very well penned. I love the way you told a story with your words in a non traditional fashion. The way you described the scene had me feeling like I was on the journey with you. This poem was quite impressive. Thank you for sharing.

[redzone]

Thanks Briana, most are not amused at my stalking.. lol. But, if these words allowed you an adventure and journey then it was worth standing behind that tree. You know she caught me right away and I couldn't have stayed hidden. I'm way to curious and open to be a good stalker, not to mention the ugliness of it... anyway, glad you read and left a cool comment.. ;0)