I wandered down to the
crooked river waterfall
where the dreamer went
To float away…
On the rooftop,
as the trains whistled by
my neighbor’s rhythms of Africa
echoed in my heart
while potters swirled
their lumps of clay
and molten glass
twirled into spirals of rainbows.
I was welcomed by
a menagerie of visionaries.
We painted our bodies,
danced in a circle of ribbons
and sang in the moonlight.
We lived here
in a homemade haven.
The dreamer filmed
a fantastical world
of floating cars and jungle girls.
And the leading man
spoke in rhymes and riddles
while a clown did tricks and
played the fiddle.
The street of water
was a sacred place
of tribal rites and
nights of grace,
where a whirling dervish
was king of the road
when he danced in a trance
as he laughed and cried.
It was poetry slam, electric jam
ahead of its time
edgy rock steady gritty clip-clip
loose grip deconstruct
the sound of
wailing sax jazzy blues
melting into ancient moves.
The house band of poets
set the cove on firedesire
to go higher
more to give
and in that moment: to live
to live to live
I dream of Kent
when the dancing
was so eclectic
how we were wrapped in magic;
the place—it was electric.
A captivating scene
as we lived the dream.
Serene—down by the crooked river
mystical mythical myriad of souls
floating downstream.
