Some call it art. Some do not.
Prattle perhaps. Scribble.
It shows up in the night.
It is read by strangers and friends.
Bits of it resound. Maybe remembered.
It fades with the weather.
That is the nature of it.
Circumstances that resonated a week, a season,
moments that made it all resonate
before it fades.
In time, someone will paint over it.
Maybe you. New words. New poems.
Every day you do it. Every day.
Grateful anyone reads. Always surprised.
Still. Still surprised.
There was a time you wanted to be famous.
Not that poets and artists from obscure places
end up on the Tonight Show. You never were
the most realistic crayon out there.
But you had dreams, some of them borrowed.
The odd thing is how many you made happen.
not yours. Yours got lost. Your grafitti painted over
with billboards and a need to be loved.
You broke of course.
It’s what happens when the best of you
is painted over.
And that brokeness was the best thing,
the darkness made you real.
Made you, you. That child you remembered,
gleefully painting mindless color,
capturing what was lost.
Capturing what was found
picking up the scattered words
and re-arranging, a happy puzzle,
and angry puzzle. Everything immediate
or poor history. Feelings. Nothing more.
You make it.
And walk to the next wall.
And happier for it.
The moment is enough.
About this poem
I seem to be thinking back on my life a lot lately. Not morbidly or with a sense of loss, just in a “Wow, what a journey!” sort of way. In gratitude.
Why do I believe in God? Because there is no other explanation of how things so broken can become, not whole, but new.
Bring on the ray guns. It’s dancing time.
PS: The picture was taken in Saint Louis. I have such a weakness for graffiti.