It’s been a long time, but I finally finished a poem.
Those Shoes
Art pointed them out to me.
Art the poet, the old redwood tree, the old wisdom whispering in the wind.
Art as in a man, a creative spirit, a muse, a disturber of the peace.
Art that creative discipline that evades me most days.
On a low black stool, lit by the amber light of the old windows.
Light that can only have come through a bright sun filtered through that special amber yellow glass that inhabits buildings built in the 1920s forming shafts of light creating a monochrome kaleidoscope dusty spotlight.
Light made from memories of Sunday School classes.
Light hiding a child’s game of hide and seek in our Sunday best.
Light of that clip-on bowtie that I lost to my youth.
Light filtered through the cigarette smoke forbidden in the halls of a Methodist church.
The stool I didn’t see until Art pointed it out.
I saw the harpist put it there, in the light.
The harpist who had just played in the Christmas cantata.
The harpist who’s notes I had barely heard through the headset in my audio booth.
I regretted not pointing another microphone her way.
I regretted not having a control to make the sound look like the amber monochrome kaleidoscope spotlight shining on …
Her shoes.
Black high-heeled ankle boots with a touch of lace at the top.
Worn for the performance but now abandoned.
Not seen but needed for the formal concert.
Now cast aside for the comfort of white running shoes as the harp glides by in a wheeled case.
Around the room, musicians put instruments away, talk and greet audience.
I don’t speak, my hands just moved over the recording controls trying to capture a moment.
The music around me is never the same as it is in the headphones over my ears.
I feel the need to apologize to the harpist, the percussionist, the second violin section — your music was in the air but my net could not capture it.
Then there is the monochrome kaleidoscope dusty spotlight shining on a pair of black high-heeled ankle boots with a touch of lace at the top.
Abandoned, set aside, as the music flows from crescendo to memory.
Art, the muse, the disturber of the peace, touches my arm.
“There’s a poem.”
He points to the shoes.
Now I regret not taking the picture when instinct told me to.
Now I regret that I only have words to describe the poem my eyes saw.
Andrew's View of the Week 