poetry.

i felt inspired to write these poems the other day at site, after reading nine horses, a collection of poetry by billy collins.

_____________________________________________

i have come back to this blank page,
black leather creased and coming undone,
rain splattering against
the leaf-roof and stick walls

almost as earnestly
seeking its way
as i do here with my pen poised,
scribbling.
_____________________________________________

permission.

what is interesting
is what happens
when you are given permission

to be anything
or anyone you want
in a country where there is no verb,
"to be."

the stumbling-over-oneself
becomes a weekly,
daily,
and sometimes, hourly event

in which nothing seems certain
except that you are
uncertain
of everything:

what the women are carrying
on their heads in those
brightly-colored bundles
hips swaying along the sandy path,
brown skin glowing like a melted chocolate bar.

or why the men sing,
crouched around the framework of a seaside shack,
eating cassava root,
barefoot always.

the roosters begin at 4AM
the cows at 5
and my neighbors music at 6
(i know because i pray to the god of silence daily)

and it is then, in those early hours
i seek to understand
what it is that i am meant to do
but more importantly

why i have been given permission
to be here.
unable to ask,
unable to know.

_______________________________________

still.
there are strange pockets of perfect moments
like these,
when i sit in my wooden chair
rocking crookedly
and the wind blows coarsely through the palms
and the day is coming to its twisted end
when i gaze softly upon
the black & white cat on the stoop,
and the small boy sleeping in the chair,
and think, this is perfection,
perhaps.
perhaps this is my life.