Thursday, April 16, 2015

NaPoWriMo Day #16

Less than two weeks to go after today!

I searched around the sites today and didn't really find a prompt that truly called to my muse, so I returned to my own list of writing prompts over at Pink.Girl.Ink and chose to write with the prompt from Day #9.

It went something like this:  Coffee Shop Talk:  Write a poem about a coffee shop.  Describe some interesting patrons.  Include your favorite coffee drink.  Throw in the name of a famous poet. 

This poem actually is inspired by a story I saw on the TV show Disappeared.  Writer/soul searcher, and Jack Kerouac enthusiast, Leah Roberts left for a cross-country trip to Bellingham, Washington in early March of 2000 and was never seen again.  You can actually watch the full episode HERE.  The story of Leah really hit home and touched my heart because she seemed so much like me, with her love of literature, her itching to get out there and see the world, and her exploration of journal writing and good music.  So, this poem really is in honor of Leah Roberts.  May she one day return home, smiling, an epic story-teller with experiences to share with the world!

Girl, Lost

Had she never left town,
We may have rubbed elbows
While waiting in line at the
Corner coffee shop for our
Regular cup-of-Joe.
We might have made friends,
Sharing the only seats available,
Two parties awaiting an empty table.
Perhaps we would have debated
The quick haiku of Kerouac
Over Vanilla Bean and Macchiato;
She would have offered me
Insight from her best moleskin,
Exchanged numbers with me
And walked happily to her car that night,
A copy of my manuscript zipped
Between the  chaos of her shoulder-bag,
My new pro-bono editor.
Or maybe we would have
Never met at all, I would have
Merely watched her from my
Corner-perch, a wave of colorful
Energy in a smoke-hazy room
Full of people who were all searching
For something beyond this hard
life of singular mediocrity, time clocks
and the ever-resonating responsibility
of things that barely reward,
if they, indeed, ever reward at all.
We could have written our separate
Books, in sync, yet never speaking.
And maybe, one day, many years
From the breathing-space of that town,
In another far-away place,
I would have reach for a book
On the shelf of an inner-city bookstore,
Happy to seek the back cover
And place her name to a face,
Smiling and hopeful, lively still
As a warm-fleshed soul, still wondering.

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