Photographed Words

The color purple regals me with serendipity, and I become one with all that I see, a SistahGyrl Walt Whitman, eyeing and being eyed under the evening skies. If I sit statuesque, not batting a lash, the bluebirds may dash across the soft ground to find the the organic peanuts The Duck Man tossed amongst the greenery. In silent contemplation, I recall his one-sided sermon and stern command for me to zip my lip, just listen to him rip what saith the Lord. And when I could not oblige, even with Knee-Baby Sis in my ear, on my celly, advising me to adhere, I invisibly disappear, then send him off with my voice unwilling to ban itself into an imposed silence...

I love the feel of a camera, the sleekness of a pen. With them, I photograph my thoughts in Stone Mountain wind and hide in friendly shade to frame my thoughts. And color my dreams with gratitude.

I am usually brimming with elation to be alive and free to walk and wander, think and ponder. On my clock and not one that tick tocks my days away engaged in someone else's lists of things. Free, I greet pups and trees and stop to stare at what others might think meaningless, inane and decidedly banal.

My church pews are stone walls no higher than my thighs, so I bring my little brown cushion and get comfy to worship in stillness. Listen to the wind. Appreciate a chorus of quacks quacked near the bevy of rods bobbing off the stone bridge in the distance. I am a fisherwoman. My rod is this camera, this pen. My words reel you in. Where we abide for a moment in which we are magically one.

Pink blooms adorn my locs and smear my smile. I have always nursed a penchant for the color. Elusive, it plays peek-a-boo with your skewered attention, appearing and disappearing to reappear in luscious places, in sweet crevices, between lime leaves and warm golden columns.

I imagine I can see forever through the silent sentry of the trees. Across water deeper than mythological rivers in my mind that remind me of Hughes-deep rivers, I come down with tunnel vision, see my love, see her see me, and I wade out into cerulean glass, waving, blowing kisses, thankful she recognizes me.

Together, we walk into a tomorrow in which you are free enough to be you, and me be me, free just like the small bird that sings loud though I know he's small and sweet back off in night woods on Stone Mountain. At times, I remember fear and tell him to be quiet lest something larger hears and comes to call, silencing his melodies faster than my footfalls tap a path to my car in a deserted parking lot.

A sisterfriend can be found amongst the sunset

Leaning on her bike
Her brown eyes ablaze with

talk of mothers and triumph

and welcome mats they toss

before they crowd the house

with the smell of walled

fish grease

On the paths of Stone Mountain, I am at home, comfortably ensconsed on stony pews looking across water rippled with Goddess breath. In the sunshine, amongst the shadows, away from the walking, riding, running, skateboarding throngs, I wrap myself in gratitude. Divinity caresses me, undresses my heart, demanding I part with worries and cares.