The door opens
As the fridge knocks
The toaster motors
As the clock tocks

The dog roots
Making leaves rustle
The truck rumbles 
And people tussle

The chopper bats
While clouds float
The children gawk 
As walkers tote

The weeds crawl 
Around brick block
The gate swings 
Making finches flock

When I sit in the park I often fantasize about meeting a great sage that has immense powers to help me, to have the ability to break down my barriers, to have answers without my asking, to make me feel comfortable and desire to open up, to ease my pain and anxiety. 

I Am The Sage

The scratches are more visible than I remember. The bubbles toward the back reach the surface in timed gurgles through a menagerie of rolled stones, smooth ovals of glass chunks, and tiny seashells. Clean water agitates the surface when it enters the vessel and intersects with the flow of air, launching varied bubbles across the top. It’s a race to reach the confines of the tank. Few make it. I remember the scratches. Especially the long deep one.

A voice from across the room snaps me back into reality and out of the fish tank. “I want to make simple but beautiful things, and walk on the sunny side of the street,” says a calm and comfortable voice.  The words fill the room as if launched into the air for anyone to catch. The cadence of their voice is easy to follow, calming, making their presence inviting. Oddly, I compare its rhythm to that of a slow rippling creek over bedrock, as if the words were born out of the idea of my previous thoughts. Maybe they are the lone bubble that won the race. 

The words are familiar like their face. Wide eyes are surrounded by slanted folds that meet at the corner, and are framed by long locks of gray hair peppered with dark streaks. Their eyes are reflective over the top line of their glasses suggesting the spectacles are for reading only. Their eyes are hazel. So are mine.

They continue, “I want to find the opposite of war, and celebrate a love story.” They speak while moving their attention around the room, finally coming to gaze into my eyes as they finish the statement with, “...celebrate a love story.” I am comfortable but confused. Looking back toward the tank holding water nothing has changed except for the new cluster of air bubbles racing across the surface. Oh, and the fish have exposed themselves, four tetras and an overgrown sucker. The scratch is still noticeable. 

By my side a window exposes the color of morning daylight. It could be any day in winter. While the sun angles sharp through the glass, the wind, a low hum, sneaks through thin cracks in the window frame. Any concern of the breech is thwarted by the calming tone playing on repeat, as air squeezes through the tight gaps.

The music, as it would have to be called, is rich and shifts between an orchestral ensemble and the breadth of a large chorus. Wind whistles most often, but not today. It is an elaborate selection of instruments playing on repeat. Well beyond white noise. Through the whir of breaching airflow, I hear the calm voice again from across the room say, “I want to elevate and spread kindness and compassion like fresh air on Sunday morning.”

I haven’t heard my own voice today. Not knowing if they are going to answer me, I crack the seal and ask them, “Is today Sunday?” The days of the week are an abstract pattern on a piece of paper that hangs on the refrigerator, and blurs together like a child’s crayon-drawing of their favorite dessert. I think hard and find the anchor that provides the starting point, and count forward. I answer my own question with a whisper, “It is Sunday.”

The angle of the sunlight continues to suggest morning hours, but only if I know where I am. I say out loud, “What time is it?”

It was hot. The sun had set. A low glow sat atop the horizon of a jagged group of three and four story buildings. Layers and planes, chunks of darkness, and silhouettes against the fading light, drew down a one point perspective to a shimmering blue glow around the outdoor seating of the sushi restaurant. The skies were clear with only two slight wispy clouds low in the indigo-gray sky. They floated above a small gabled peak and its window. 

A car crept around the corner, interrupting the darkness. It beamed forward into squinting eyes before angling a four point turn into a skinny parking spot. When the headlights cut out the blue lit facade around the restaurant exposed two people, their silhouette, each leaning on the brick walls that faced each other. Both were smokers as they puffed and dragged down a break time cig. The smoke rose dark against the light. 

The skinny alley was cobbled and dead ended into 10th street. Most vehicles were forced to keep a tire on the curb and close to the adjacent brick wall. The path, as it might rather be called, acted as the base or stage of a thin projected image. Only eight feet wide but almost infinitely tall. A small slice of city life glowed on its skinny screen. The darkness, beginning with dusk, framed the action as the endless reel unfolded. The intermittent focus, broken by the elements of life and nature, passed by on the narrow alleyway exposing a split moment in time. 

It’s heavy, the way creativity streams through the blood, the brain. Seeing life, the tiniest of specs floating through the air, the immense nature of our universe and beyond, the abstract view of flickering lights and solidity of concrete foundations. It all affords an individual the creative license to use any language of expression to make the point, no matter how sharp or dull.

There is a place for every bit no matter the size or depth of their intentions. How one fits the details together, and how one fits among those details will determine the end result, lest it be judged. The personality within the expression, only described through one’s own perspective, is as unique as the deep red crimson interior of a pomegranate, as common as a match, a knife, a stick and a pair of garden gloves. Or possibly dice, a pencil and a small piece of paper. Maybe even, a whirlwind of autumn leaves in red, yellow, brown, purple, and orange as a child chases the circling nature. Just one step in the process of an origin story of those same leaves. It’s quite possible to cycle through the senses in the morning to tamp down unnecessary anxiety, somehow a connection to the creative process that only they will know. 

Deep within the sentence, or lodged among the welds of a kinetic sculpture, they lose something every time. An artist will leave behind a minuscule piece of themselves that will only emerge for those willing to see.

A woman in a dark colored light coat with a dog walked up close to the corner of 10th and Pine Street. She was ready to continue through the red light if traffic allowed. Cars drove through the intersection on the green light while she waited. The evening was dark, but the four way intersection was well lit and the people walking around were happy and light as well.

Out from under the car parked closest to the intersection a partially full can of soda rolled into the light toward the gutter at a 45 degree angle. The can was purple and it’s hollow sound was heavy with leftover liquid. It rolled slowly but with purpose and the weight inside gave it life. It was slow, then fast, then slow again. It made the sound one would expect. The aluminum ting with low tones got louder as the sugary water sloshed side to side. It was animated and slowed as it rolled down hill toward the curb and closer to the woman. It had life and it was coming out into the light at 10th and Pine.

With a slight sense of disgust and alarm, the woman stepped back from the curb and the approaching can. It moved with such ambition, as if it had a goal, that the woman was compelled to pull her dog in close and walk away in the opposite direction. She disappeared around the corner. The purple can finally bumped into the curb positioned in such a way that it released its remaining dark fluid onto the gutter floor. 

Where is the sun now
Is it down? We continue to circle around
Now the plants flourish in the garden
Forever harden
Thick is the trunk of a sycamore
Solid as the hardwood floor 
Don’t ask me why

Caribbean waters flow shallow below
The wind always blows
Leaves and nuts fall from the tree
Not for squirrels let it be
As the cycle of life makes its turn
Feed back to the earth
Don’t let it burn

White is cold
What color is anticipation?
After the snow
It must be green
Let it be
Cold as the darkness sets in
Deep beneath the frost

Life yearns for approval
It will be alive again
Sprout up above the earth
Fly below the canopy within the darkness
Feel the wind again
A fresh breeze off the water’s edge

A black squirrel lived in a tall tree above a small park near a school in the center of a big city. It was spotted on rare occasions between old red brick buildings situated next to early 19th century cobblestone paths. The black squirrel was exceptionally nimble and would scurry across the sharp points of a black wrought iron fence meant to keep outsiders out. In late winter, or possibly early spring, the squirrel’s fur was shiny and dark and contrasted against the crystals of white snow and clear blue sky after a late seasonal storm. Those chilly brisk days exposed quick black streaks in the corner of squinting eyes. “What was that?” a woman would ask. “I only saw a black tail,” another would respond. As it shifted and flitted, the black tail resembled that of a feathered boa of exquisite taste saved for the flamboyant at heart or maybe Halloween. If the color black truly has slimming qualities, the black squirrel was a perfect example, appearing to keep its fit physique after foraging, collecting and fattening for the dormant winter months. Certainly, a fat black squirrel has never been documented. Have you ever seen a fat black squirrel?