The Braided Inkwell

Walking down the beach
Watching various passers by
With various modes of movement

They bike
They skate
They jog
They walk

But there was one lady
Pink cotton spandex bikers
Tie dye shirt with a matching hue of pink strewn through
Sneakers on, hair almost pink,
Walkman pumping a tune
Known only to her.

Must have made her gleeful…
Because she was strutting,
Stepping,
Grooving in her rhythmic step
With all her dentures on display.
She was no spring chicken,
Yet wise enough to don her Walkman
And let her hair down
And she didn’t give a hot damn
What the jogging, biking, walking, or skating passersby
Thought of her boardwalk prance.

Enjoying a stranger enjoying themselves and knowing they don’t know the exact caliber of joy they’re giving you, just the sheer love of them loving life… Soaking all this in and inwardly determining to lovingly, happily spew the same…

Is this not happiness?

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Life is inherently mutable.
Ebbing, flowing, altering
Changing…

Friends love
Friends are lost.
They grow mature, marry
And alliances change.

But what happens
When one senses
The changes of others and
Feels left behind?

When they watch as the fascination of another
Morphs into something else?
Into love, or at times
Into disappointment.

It always happens.
When one discovers
The object of their fascination
Is indeed human.
Has thoughts.
And those thoughts just might be
Opposite theirs
Or even silly to them.

But that’s one of life’s changes.
Everyone held in high regard,
In high esteem
Eventually falls short.
Through their own doing,
By simply being authentic.
Authenticity can increase speed
On the fall from grace.

It’s then that the process of acceptance
Begins.
If it begins.

If it begins.

To prevent fall out from authenticity,
I sometimes hide.

Hiding me from others
Is easier, safer
Because “they” might not like
The many contradictions
That comprise me.

But alas, life’s only constant
Wafts its soft but distinctive scent.
I sense the changing wind in the air.
I’ve been figured out.
But not accepted.
‘Tis the mutability of life.

And alas, I’ll move on,
Only to play the game again,
Only to move on when the love wanes
And change again
Leans in for its kiss.

The Braided Inkwell/Liz Anderson
May 23, 2009

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Money can’t buy
the comforts of home.

the smell of mother’s peach cobbler,
the scent and taste of crispy-edged cornbread.

the sound of daddy’s shower-studio crooning,
the songs of musical praise.

the texture of the carpet under my bare feet
well worn by the love-treads of visiting sons and daughters,
and crawling, toddling and running nieces

The taste of cinnamon and nutmeg,
hot peaches and cold vanilla ice cream.

the sight of parents
always happy to see me
no matter when.

Money can’t buy the comforts of home…
But when a friend is found…
a kindred spirit…
that’s just as priceless…
as familial bonds

And even though they aren’t related by blood
a deeper force is at work
connecting spirits
in kinship
and brotherly love.

The Braided Inkwell/Liz Anderson
November 26, 2007

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