Athena....A Goddess of Poetry

As I have been wont to do recently, I eschewed the group ride this morning for the simple pleasure of sleeping in, leisurely enjoying my morning cup of coffee while getting updated on the Tour De France, and just waiting for the fog to burn off and the glorious sun to appear to warm my impending ride.

I set off with no goal in mind other than to use 4 hours on the bike, but Lake Merritt seemed a destination with merit, so off I rode, watching the battle between gray fog and blue sky playing out above me. Soon enough I found myself at the lake and passing under the 580 Autobahn, noticing that the Farmer's market was in full bloom there in that park in front of the Grand Lake Theater.

Now, normally I just whisk by or around the Roti Chicken truck, or the other various vendor vehicles unloading there, but today the captivating sound of Blues harmonica caught my attention and made me swerve to the curb, where I saw a duo playing the aforementioned harp and also an acoustic guitar. These guys were good---simple tunes but very well done, and having taken some blues guitar lessons way back in a previous life, I could appreciate it all the more. I took in the scene---many people walking about in the warm glorious sun, naked tots joyfully playing in a shallow fountain, and a wistful, somewhat Bohemian woman sitting on a concrete wall, a typewriter in front of her and a case behind her with a hand painted sign that simply stated " Poems for Sale."

I let that sink in. Now, Cathy, aka Flashette, is quite involved in poetry. This must be prime poetry season because not a day goes by without her pounding out a new poem, and it is all good, I mean, where does she get it all from? So I thought I'd mention that to the young woman on the wall, this mutual poetry jones that they must have in common, and I approached her as I approach many of the people in FlashWorld. I was enthralled by my interaction with her.

I felt a connection with her like she is the proverbial old soul trapped in a 21st century body. I told her things I don't normally tell strangers, but she did ask and I felt primed to tell. She then offered to write me a poem. I was taken aback, really. I've never had this offered to me before, and in a way, it seemed too personal at one level, but on the other hand I saw this as a gift, one of many gifts that have come my way lately. So I stepped aside while she pecked away at the vintage portable typewriter---I mean, when was the last time you heard one of these in operation? It was a reassuring sound, a sound from the past, a sound my mother used to make. A typewriter is the sound of commitment---you make errors, you live with them, there is no instant pixal erasure. As well, it's the sound of creativity, deliberately tapping out each letter, the space between each revealing the mind in thought. After a while, here is what the typewriter produced:

today I met

the world's strongest

man he

single handedly succeeded

in stopping

the river's liquid

song, the music

of his soul

gone, erased

why bother

to taste life

when you can

waste life crunching

through dry crispy shells

where joy was rumored to

be seen by eyes bound

tight by sleep.

but even the strong man

could not compete

with Love's plan

and one day

his heart screeched

and broke free

in a sweet flush

of holy heat

this strong man

took his sacred seat

on the throne

of Eternal Now.

Amen.

I love it. I was blown away by its resonant wave. I carefully folded the typewritten piece of paper and put it into my cell phone baggie, and all during my ride I thought about it and how I couldn't wait to get home to read it again. The ride itself took on a gossamer quality, lighter, ephemeral. The wind blew right through me.

athenagrace.wordpress.com

Ride on my friends,

Flash