The Monday Poems Rise

Three artists meet on vacation in Italy. They stand before a window and watch the last raindrops of a shower fall on the terracotta rooftops at sunset. The painter sets up his canvas, oils, and brushes. The sculptor unpacks his carving tools and block of clay.  The poet holds his journal and pen. Each one wants to take home their interpretation of this view.

The painter flows colors down the canvas like rain. The rust of the roof tiles bleeds into the creamy-white stucco walls and tints the sidewalks. Puddles serve as mirrors, reflecting the freshly washed homes, the thirsty cat, and the people strolling beneath bright umbrellas.

The sculptor notices two visitors outside the window–visitors so common they generally go unseen. He chooses to sculpt these two pigeons, perched along the ridge of the roof. He pinches his clay, as gray as the feathers of the birds, and reveals the lightness and freedom of their flight.

The poet looks, listens, breathes, and feels everything the view offers before penning a single word, likening details to familiar things. By combining the sensory input with their emotional response, words flow like water or dance like rain or appear abstract like the reflections held in the puddles.

Traditionally, a poem runs straight down the left side of a page or is centered. But because the words I’m sharing today come from torn feelings over what the world is going through, I chose to set up the lines into fragments, as if I had torn apart my poem.

I don’t know what you are feeling because of the pandemic. I don’t know how you are dealing emotionally with what has been taken from you. Here are some of my feelings.

Until next Monday.