Faulkner said writers need three things – experience, observation and
imagination. Focused observation tends to improve my writing, but that’s not
why I do it. I enjoy jotting down my surroundings and the inner workings of the
soul, observing them through the lens of truth, because I am fascinated by the
world in which I live. I am fascinated by why people do what they do. Above
all, I am fascinated by God working among us, drawing us to Himself. So here
are a few of my observations. Sometimes I call it poetry.
View
from Where I Sit
(Blackberry
Market – Glen Ellyn, Illinois a few days after the Boston Marathon Bombing)
She
twirls, a flurry of pink
Ballet
tutu, fuchsia bow askew, blush velvet slippers
Twisting
her blonde hair as she selects a blackberry tart
Then
goes for a vanilla crème
Slowly
with her walker, a silvery dame surveys the menu
An
Asian waitress, hair in a sleek, perk upsweep
Red
shoes, crisp apron serves up a croissant
An
untimely April snow falls outside the warmth of Blackberry Market
Inside
individuals savor sunny delights of choice
Of
imaginative flow spiked by lattes and
The
smooth banjo-strummed lyrics of Mumford & Sons
Orange
pea coat, beige quilted jacket, floriated tapestry bag
A
rose, tattooed like a necklace
Gracing
the neck, bisque laurel wreath tiles
On
the ceiling, industrial metal stools for creatives
With
their laptops, me, among them
And
the smell, oh, the smell
Of
freshly baked cinnamon rolls
But
most of all, it’s the way everyone carries themselves
They
walk free
They
talk free
God,
maintain our peace
The
Point
Cold
breeze jostled me from hibernation
Three
blocks from the miniature theatre
Where
Peter Pan and his posse of lost boys
Snuck
in around the back entrance
Turns
out he starred in the play
I
dropped you off, caught a cadence to the café
Passing
daffodils in dying hours
Before
early blooming frost
Is
this butter-bright intensity diminished
If
never played before an audience, like me?
Daffodils
neither strut nor fret
Nature
is extravagant, yet not an idiot, like we
I
dine among artists and writers
Dreaming
of that moment of fame
Your
stage or mine? Narcissus-fueled
Fantasies
orbit round name
Leading
to lonely days or a bitter phrase
Yet
we can enjoy all this, and be free
There’s
something about wisdom that deepens
The
hue of yellow and the blue in your eyes
The
joy of being, spellbound by another
A
stage? No, this fleeting life signifies
A
humble dance before its Creator
Shakespeare
was only partially right
No
wonder we strut and fret
No
wonder we strive to be free
We’ve
missed the point
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