Entranced and in a daze from seething pain,
my eyes no longer see, ears no longer hear
the static pelt, a stray
from shoulder down to hand,
the nerve a murmur in the dark.
My head, a cement truck
mixing concrete in my dreams, reality
cogitation and dense smoke.
A whiplash neck,
I cannot drink alone
the wine a subtle tickle I ignore.
This triomino effect-
shoulder, head, neck
a path to hell
bursting through three
angles warped in time.
I see life through my fingers;
I never know where they’ll take me.
When hit with an observation, an inspiration,
I start with one word.
My fingers fly off the keyboard
a pianist on Bach’s Art of Fugue
and it’s not all about you.
I no longer envision the original,
in my mind I’m painting like Henri Matisse-
a hat’s not just a hat,
a hat is a fruit bowl on top of one’s head
filled with lavish colors
green and purple grapes-
no, make that chartreuse and carmine
apples so juicy they drip down your chin
sweeter than a baby’s kiss,
precious life that I adore.
And now my fingers are a jet plane.
I’m not even sure where they took off
because I see a row of Anne Geddes babies
wearing hats of red flowers-
no, make that crimson geraniums-
in the garden growing beside a rope hammock,
haggard where I lie and wait
for inspiration, not you.
Laurie Kolp has numerous publications, some of which include Writer’s Digest, Chicken Soup for the Soul: Devotional Stories for Tough Times, Dead Mule’s School of Southern Literature, Christmas Miracles, The Christian Communicator, Skive Magazine, and several poetry collections. Laurie is a mother of six (a husband, three kids and two dogs).