February 15, 1999: Bursts of birth
As a poet—I can sneak around and be anybody I wish. As a painter—the stains from the ink reveal the artist. You can’t imagine my reaction when I first learned of this. I laughed inside whispering, “If they only knew this avenue so silent—bridges fogged over by weathered dreams, a valley much too deep to scale…a poet that is I.” Why must I look at the world through eyes that travel countless journeys? Who sets the course? I am no captain and this vessel with a crew of one isn’t fit to sail a sea so open for such journey. Plastic raincoats make up the wind filled sails—bright orange, luminous to the distant waters edge. Lost frogs in search of lily pads see it as a place to rest. I cover my eyes in hopes of never being recognized—tattered and torn; the wood melts, revealing the remains of 1000 dreams. Only to hear me scream “We will not make it!” My crew of one does not respond. He is left there to think, to plan, to scrape from the journey chunks of burned skin—all that life has scalded during wars of misunderstood circumstance. The journey, I am not the captain, for I fear the frogs chasing my orange sails, plastic and wind filled. Tell me, whose eyes are these?