the first day of winter

This is a poetry piece I am finding more and more intriguing with each passing day. I found the second stanza of the poem this morning. It wandered in off the literary byway…well staggered in really, drunk with the pleasure of the words. My favorite line? 

 “Blue moves gray right and left,
leaving an alleyway
where sun-hungry beggars can dine,
’til clouds like heavenly bullies
chase Blue home.”

Frankly I would have been content to stay home all day and work on my poetry. I think, if I’d been still and quite and observant, one more stanza like the one above would have crept in through a window or door.  I’m brewing a creative idea and I would have loved to sit with it today. I don’t want to say anything more about the creative idea. It’s just that intriguingly special. However, instead of working on poetry, I found myself with people. Testosterone-driven people intent to beat each other to the finish line more so that help another over it. Ironically, this is the first day of Kwanzaa. Umoja, which in Swahili means unity. Huh. Really. I saw selfish acts and i felt brutal smiles, ribs crushed beneath hugs that hurt more than healed. I retreat to my neutral corner to lick my wounds from the war of unity.


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