The Poetry Garden Lines. Straight, short, curved, circles. Chiseled, embossed, drawn. Scratched, light, heavy, reversed. On stones and sand, leather and bark, thin fiber, appearing by magic on glass transmitted magically through space. I call them squiggles. Squiggles since early time incite, inform, entrance, enhance, bless. They bring war and peace – both within and without – they make us chortle, sniffle, weep; laugh for joy, fight like hell. Squiggles inspire. Two wheels, four pedals, fourteen hundred miles. Ancient Maude lumbering behind a patient Jimmy. One tall tressed in night shades of red; the other not tall, crowned in short sunny oat straw. Both with sunburned noses, aching muscles and joy on their faces. Squiggles delivered in specially built homes, bright homes, not huge edifices but little homes to encourage, create, incite, soothe. In hamlets, so called ‘marginal’ neighborhoods filled with real people, on Main Street, here and there. Small cards, white, erupt from two machines, outdated now, standard when these peddlers were young. One word. Clicks and clacks. Pecks and bells bring forth smiles, insight, amazement, peace, tears and healing. These scratchy squiggles. Black on white yet in brilliant color. Shrubs and trees, benches and seats. Young brown eyes, brown skins, bright colors flashing, twirling, exploding, floating in air. Tributes and thanks. Music and Culver’s. This trip complete. Life is not. Inspiration goes on. And on. Our squiggles continue. Our lives. Our lives through our squiggles. Continue forever. In honor of TYPEWRITER II The Tandem Poetry Tour Bill Mathis, Beloit, Wisconsin 07/31/14
Posted on: Fri, 01 Aug 2014 03:07:22 +0000
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