A Note: This is a poem written for Horvax. I think she is a wonderful and 'special' young woman who drinks heavily from the language pool and is rewarded with the gift of words, and art. I think only a very few people have this and post at Starlitecafe. Those of us who read them are given rare insights into what it means to be human beings. And perhaps even hope that we may just make it through this maddening world and all its oppressions.
The art work that is used in this poem comes from Horvax's last few poems and are in part some of the inspiration for the poem itself. I hope that I have done them and her justice.
The music I chose is called 'I Wish' originally done by Stevie Wonder. But this version is a jazz cover by Najee and is one of the songs in his album 'Najee Plays The Key Of Life' (which was the title of the Stevie Wonder album where the song first originated).
I hope that you enjoy this piece and have as much fun with it as I did in writing it. Horvax, this is for you, from your 'voyeur friend'. And thank you for showing me the way to the pool.
~~redzone 5.29.08
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The Path Way View
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 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 Frida 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.
But for now I have only one concern.
Why are you wearing that “lil red hood”?
