The View from Where I Sit

As 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, an elderly 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 free of human idiocy


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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