In France I came across this sign:
Provisional bar and occasional hotel.
I wonder if this establishment accepts reservations?
Harmony meters measure
The moods rising
Off the tarmacadam.
Adults, in the swing of
Bills, forget to smile.
Less entertained by obligations
In the local park, a
Teen plays a keyboard
Harvests raw blurred notes, hint
Of a cool soundtrack.
The radiant child.
Echoes of lyrics dignify
The sensual pitch of her
Voice. She sings:
at the speed of joy.
A luminous poet is as light
as an ounce of osmosis.
Time after time
Parents, in the swing of
bills, forget to smile.
Moods rising… radiant child.”
accomplish my dreams?
If when walking on the Avenue Of The Future,
I should happen to encounter
a fortune teller
who tells me: “You will mend your luck
when you turn back the clock.”
Will I deposit my gratitude
in the honesty box?
Or will I forge on ahead
weighed down by
Her detour a reminder not to dwell on anxiety.
I want to absorb the tempo of my female hero.
Go with her on a journey. We’ll decide.
Fill a syrup-colored packing case with maps loosely packed.
Plan our getaway on the backs of envelopes. Take me with you.
“Live and love as if there’s no tomorrow.” I wish she’d said to me.
“Die to tomorrow.”
Add as a P.S.
When I was growing up my mother would say to me: “Child of mine you have your head in the clouds.”
When I grew older I discovered that folks who write poetry are in the minority.
I’m half afraid to write poetry
for you who never read it much
and I’m left laboring
with the secrets and the silence
In plain language.
— Adrienne Rich
She adds the tragic loss of her daughter “Michele” to the mystery of how humankind came to be here on Earth.
If God’s people cannot agree on the Beginning of Time, her wish is that her daughter will never trace her and save herself the disappointment of discovering the tale of her beginning —
Upon a Time.”
Her homeland is a primitive island in the midst of the Caribbean Sea.
“Learning to reading
was reserved for the rulers of the island.
As Michele grows up, she will want to be read to at night. What
will her mother tell her? Should she say that her eyesight is poor.
* * *
My illiterate, mother.
I span her like a shadow self,
calling out her name. “Frances”.
Step into my tracks, Frances. Frances.
Tell me your life story. In my dreams
you are a lifesaver.
You are a palm reader. You read palms.
You read me every night.
There beside me…. whispering incantations,
telling me what comes next…
Replacing fairytales? Replacing
I remember who I am today.