Monday Morning Musings:
“People observe the colors of a day only at its beginnings and ends, but to me it’s quite clear that a day merges through a multitude of shades and intonations, with each passing moment.
A single hour can consist of thousands of different colors.”
–Markus Zusak, The Book Thief
A lunch date at a favored place
where time both moves and pauses, still—
(our hearts, across, but not apart.
He says, “Look at that horse and cart.”)
We eat and talk, at a leisurely pace
we walk through sun and autumn chill
past greens and blues and shadowed grey
where rival geese gangs gather like Jets and Sharks
(honks and echoes through the park)
and pops of red and golden leaves gently sway
in the breeze that sparks
punctuated by loud fowl annotations.
All the colors of the day, all the light that bends
as life begins and as it ends
what do we see—
no, really look, stare
focus on a tree,
at all the colors there
the hues of yesterday tread
on tomorrow–but see today.
And so, we do,
and watch it slowly fade away
to the bright humming moon in the indigo blue
who sends our dreams out on their way.
Another walk, I see AMOR, bright red
and nearby, a yellow flower
then a memorial to survivors and six million dead
murdered by those came to power
while others stood by.
(Not humanity’s finest hour.)
I see fountains and birds
and buildings and sky–
but what are the words
to offer, when I wonder why
the hate—then comes another shooter
thoughts and prayers do not suffice
against the looters and wannabe storm troopers–
how many more must be sacrificed?
What of memorials then, and statues of love
when the haters make no amends
and the peace dove
seems to fly a route that bends
and sways precariously
while the refugees flee–
So, we gather together, family and friends
find joy in cats and pizza, hold close hope—
look for the helpers, the lights in the crack
look for love, and those who have your back
because who knows when something wicked this way comes
and if only we could be warned by pricking of the thumbs
and if evil only came in theatrical play
wouldn’t earth be a wonderful place to stay?
We walk again, view art on the walls
pops of color on fall’s gloomy streets
discuss stories and recall
this and that, before we take our seats
to see a play about after the apocalypse
a ragtag group that performs The Simpsons.
they recount episodes, buy lines for scripts
try to come to grips, that they’re the ones
who are left. The play continues, years pass
and a mythology forms, but has love won?
Certainly, the need to tell stories is ageless, ancient
words, rhythm, art, song—is eternal
and so is the need to make a statement
about our own times–so it comes full circle.
We discuss the play over cheese and wine
then walk to the train to return to our home
feeling fortunate that we are fine–
though my thoughts roam
to those who have lost people they cherish
killed by hate and those who support it
how do we make it perish,
make the world emit
love, kindness, joy,
and hate outwit–
so, a ploy–
I sleep and dream–
see time rippling in a wave
flowing in an endless eternal sea
colored by infinite hues, and thoughts we save
ride through all space, simply waiting to be
born again with a bang.
Dreams of a thousand colors. Think if. Maybe. Stay.
Even though this is more than one walk, I’m also linking this to Robin’s Walktober. I hope that’s OK, Robin.
I. We had lunch at the Valley Green Inn, then walked along Forbidden Drive. II. I walked through the Philadelphia Holocaust Memorial Plaza (also written about here) and along the Parkway in Philadelphia. III. We walked around before and after seeing Mr. Burns, A Post-Electric Play at the Wilma Theater.