Here are some pictures that I took while in London and traveling abroad and poems that I wrote to go along with them!
The World is a Painting
(Boscastle)
The world is a painting with a palette
undefined. Each prick of grass and spray of
salt unleash the colors of the mind. The
eye distorts the image yet grasps
the life within. Can you see the colors,
that make life begin again?
The world is a painting with a palette
undefined. Hues emerge the memories
of tales left behind. Those familiar
faces and words in the periphery
float above. Can you see the colors of
yesterday that grow from that past love?
The Brick Lane Cello
(Brick Lane,London)
The first day of 6th grade I chose the cello
though I have hands for the bass. From my mom’s
past and my present I knew it was for me.
Though notes were hard, my friend could sing
so well. My first one was like a browning
banana. That yellowish-green-brown color.
Mrs. Bates in her wool socks, picture of a cello
hanging by the stairs in her small flat. Her hands
would shake when that bow touched the string.
The way the rosin moved across the horse
string hairs often made me uneasy. My fingers
quickly learned their place on the smooth
wood and that touch became somewhat familiar.
That mixture of wood and glue smell that hit my
face as I walked into the store when it came time
to pick my own for my birthday. It was brand new-no
more loans or school instruments that were too
tired to sing.
Driving to Miss Linda’s house with the
petrified wood in front. Her wall of collaged music
sheets and cats sauntering about is forever
in my head. And the way the tips of her fingers
comforted the strings into a lullaby.
Notre Dame
(Paris,France)
Hear the Bells, they ring away
The rain pours to start the day
In wetness I stand and gaze up above
to see the building that for so long I grew to love.
I marvel at the ancient walls of stone,
as they stand and make their presence known.
Though small I am, I try to talk
to the walls of old where many so called sinners did walk.
Those whose lives were filled with pain and hate,
whose struggles and cries echoed the air until it was too late.
“Sanctuary, sanctuary” the abused did cry out
And stepped into the welcoming halls, though in doubt.
Why is it so hard to just let others be
Although unique, no one is much different from you or me,
The stones full of love did see through this worldly view,
To our divine center with the plan to be washed anew.
I stand damp and chill in a row outside the wall
I am a sinner who is always prone to fall
Will these stones let me in with a promise of sanctuary
with the hope of peace, love and prosperity?
I step in hoping these words ring true,
The rain falls, the bell turns and the walls seem to say “I do, I do.”
Streets that Talk
(Lisbon,Portugal)
Cobbled steps underneath the sole of my shoe
Bright yellows, pinks and blues
A city that is built upon hues
A hike to a palace made the world a new
Ancient towers and stories from the sea
Walls used as canvases of stone
The roasted chestnut smell is well known
Tiles lined up with precision, but flow free
Rocks of my Past
(Stonehenge)
Rocks. Stones. Gravel. Boulders. Pebbles. Dirt. Sand.
Nibbling on small rocks from my petite hand
The front entryway to the old house on 220 Chestnut Ridge
Our secret club in the garage on top of the fridge
Scooters and skateboards down the long hall
My aunt holding my bike to not let me fall
Marbles, blocks and cars on a Sunday afternoon
Dancing by the couch to that Olympic tune
Furbies on boxes huddled in the bathroom
My little pet snail that met an unfortunate doom
The island near the house where we as orphans did live
All of these things did that house on the rocks give
