I wonder what the good folks at weather.com think I am looking for when I visit their website.
I would like to tell them that I am frequently looking for the ten day forecast. It’s really interesting in the winter here in Houston, as you could have a day at 30 degrees or one at 70. In the long, hot summer, there is really no point in looking, other than to see if you can expect your child’s swim meet to be delayed by rain.
On occasion, I am looking for the hourly forecast so that I can see if it will be raining at 3:30 in the afternoon. Then I will have to pick up my child from school instead of forcing her to walk.
A few times a year, I will even be looking at another city’s forecast to determine what to pack for an upcoming trip. Lucky…
What is poetry to me? Poetry is the ability to capture the moment in words. To provide a description so strong you can taste it, feel it, and your emotions react as such. The power of imagery is the mace of Poetry and she wields it with the strength of the writer. I believe poetry can be written by anyone. The simplest of words placed with the care of a Japanese stone garden can create remarkable art. The influence of the poem is measured by a full spectrum of attributes and it is thus very hard to compare and contrast one poem to another. It is like comparing art, for who can truly say what the artist intended but that person themselves.
My attraction to poetry is centered on the fact that a poem is written for me first. If I understand the lines and the meaning behind them that is all that matters. Your enjoyment is secondary. But if I succeed in my goal I should be able to take you places with me. Every time I write a poem I slit my proverbial wrist and pour my soul onto the page in hopes that a single feeling is felt. Whatever feeling that might be.
I see them passing by. Different colors, sizes, holding occupants from different places and off to see some new adventure. It is like a reel of life playing before my eyes.
The emotion that wells forth is a longing, a fleeting fancy of jealousy. It is the same notion I get when I hear and then witness a plane passing overhead. I want to be there on that plane.
It is not a depressive want for escape from my life, for I would want my wife and daughters to see the world with me, it is instead an inner urge to never feel settled. It is a wonder I am so complacent on a daily basis for I feel this nomadic tedency to strike camp and see what is out there…just over there one more horizon away. It is hard to shake this feeling when it occurs, maybe one day soon we will fold our tents and see the next city on our list. Hopefully somewhere with an ocean view and endless inspirations for pages yet to be written.
It matters not your surroundings you can hear her voice. It must be a woman, a man never sounded so sweet. She whispers even as she calls whatever sweet lullaby it is that she sings.
You can hear it with clarity in the mountains, where music’s purity can be witnessed unhindered. The song of the breeze can still be caught between man made stone mountains, but it may take the gift of the blind to hear it.
In my backyard there is a large garden bordered by a fence that probably soon needs to be repaired. A few trees line the fence and together they help create a barrier from the zooming sounds of human automobiles that vibrate from the street beyond. It is an amusing balance between a peaceful calm and the desperate pull of society’s daily life. Even now I can hear some birds chattering in idle curiosity about it.
Have you taken a moment to hear the breeze? Maybe it was that perfect time when the wind was busy with an agenda, the people were scarce around you, and you had the chance to breathe alone… To shatter the single care or thought trying to develop and instead to hear the breeze and listen to her wisdom.