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red
Red high heels, beaded bag stuffed with dreams
Tight at its seems- full of such longing
To see and know and hear and feel every sandy beach and
movie reel
in the wide world.
Tracing constellations with a chewed up fingertip I find the pattern.
See the cycle.
Name the offender.
Sight the beast.
My shoes they work just like a flag and me and that beast we play tag- till some cows come home
Wanting warm milk
And a story.
I clicked down halls of marble and stone
Learned the East Side on my own
Baby’s wilderness
Familiar turns and twists
Sat atop a hill.
Whenever I go do that now- though I ve tried all I can think of now
I’m still there somehow
On the other hill
Many miles from here.
Waiting for some sort of sign
A door to a different place, where everybody talked too fast and stayed up nights weaving stories for the masses
Using only the best thread
Woven from carefully crafted observations and the tenderness of a Mother Moon.
A Nice Way of Saying
i learned the Eastside of Detroit on my own...that brought back a few memories...the tenderness of a Mother Moon? just plain nice penning that...weaving stories for the masses...ah poetry, a nice way of saying~~~A~~~