Poem: blue sky lake

My friend was inspired to write a poem after seeing this photo:

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Image: Cynthia Via

She visited New Orleans this past month. We drove to Lake Pontchartrain, and sat there for a while contemplating about our fast-moving day. I forgot how much I needed to slow down. Biking has made me a hopper, moving through moments without settling down to think about them. Suffice to say I miss being a walker. Staring out at the water, I thought: there is love and sadness in that lake. It’s almost like it’s saying, you are no one to the sea. That’s how I feel when I’m floating over an endless body of water.

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I see the vastness of the world,

Like the sea,

it’s unrestrained and always moving

while keeping still and quietly examining

everything and everyone.

I am just another vibe.

The girl without a face.

“A girl has no name.”

And yet I still exist!

 

By Kit Kats.

The muddy waters of January and the absence of sun II

People and objects are hanging above the thick blanket wondering what is to come. In quiet anticipation I wait for  sunnier days either here or there.

sunny disposition. Cynthia Via.
sunny disposition. [Cynthia Via.]
On the first day of the big snowstorm last week I went out to see the fresh snow land. Everyone knows a good storm begins with a soft falling, continuously, but not in fast slashes. Later in the day I ran home after my hands had begun freezing thanks to my absent gloves. I was trotting down on soft snow, and my boots made a peculiar noise. I could only see what was in front. The snow was falling rapidly now that it was getting late. It wasn’t yet slippery so one could hop and run, but it was hard to see.

The constant snow displays itself on trees, cars, and New York streets. Everyday I look out to my garden and see white on the soil, along with tiny footprints, from the cat next door.  January is receiving the snow almost as a cleansing, a fitting occurrence as the first month of the year. Although the month started with many personal highs, the continuation of the month brings dullness and boredom. The many cold days spent locked inside, weekdays with predictable commutes, and silly weekend dinners in restaurants leaves one dissatisfied. It makes more sense to cook at home then going out for the incessant numbness that is the cold and the muddy snow. The conversations don’t appear to be going further than the trivial. I see this month as the end of friendships, the end of life in some regard, the beginning of new friendships, and the beginning of life in some regard. The month of January is a starting point though it appears slow in taking off with all these mundane snow days. People and objects are hanging above the thick blanket wondering what is to come. In quiet anticipation I wait for  sunnier days either here or there.

Everything is beautiful, pure and clean when all my favorite streets and buildings are first colored ethereal white. The large landscapes of New York are snowy deserts with little lamps, benches and trees. It’s only upon the incessant snow falling and the appearance of the muddy gray snow, that the view turns bleak,
and the mood sours.