Finally
A road gravel
Gray, brown, quiet
Leading back to home
Dust stirred up by walking
I waited for words to be spoken
Maybe the leaves would whisper
Or I’d hear through the crunch of gravel
I thought, at times, it echoed in the trees,
When I walked alone.
It was later I found it—
In between—
My fingers skimming lines
Page after page
I heard the words
As I read
Like a silver lute,
Strummed by skilled fingers
Reverberating
Filling the air
Promises meant to exist
Promises made to be kept
And I finally believed.
*
*
*
I’ve written before about how I wonder if art imitates life, or exaggerates it. Is it hyperbole? I love how a painting expresses so much in a single captured moment, how a poem holds within it hidden and multiple meanings, how a book captures the realities and fictions of our human lives. Truths are exposed in these forms. Yet, as much as I want to believe and know that some of that is not exaggerated… sometimes, I have a hard time of it. Sometimes life feels like a long, dank tunnel, and I can’t find the exit. Where is the beauty of the sunrise in this place? Sometimes I feel as if I’m surrounded by a circle by enemies and they all have their swords drawn on me. This is a recurring thought. Actually, it’s more like a nightmare. Why? Sometimes I feel like David being pursued by Saul and I’m trying to find hideouts on the way. Where are the stories of love and friendship down here? Is it all false? Maybe some of us just need to keep imagining. I keep choosing this. This poem is me, choosing to believe that something of that hyperbole in the stories and words I read, and the pictures I see, actually does exist in reality. And of course, it means more, that I did find a place and source of Promise (my spiritual journey). It’s easier for me to write about the dark side of promises. Believing “upon thy promising fortune” (Shakespeare) is much harder. Still I often wonder what is the end, and if I’ll get out. I’m looking for windows and searching for sunlight… a way out. It feels like a very long journey. And now I feel like one of these weird, ill-fated, strange poets or artists that I used to read about….
