(upon reading Ferlinghetti again)
Written by Nita Penfold
Why can’t you paint a poem, the light seeping
from the words like the split skirt of the bleeding heart blossom?
Why can’t you follow the great poet into his sun,
the one who wrenched your soul open at fourteen
with a “Coney Island of the Mind,” his sharp verse
touching you in places you never knew you had
poking holes in your mind, your thoughts, the light
leaking out and in and out exposing the ragged way
to the soul. Why can’t you harness the light that shoots
from your hands like fireworks and lightning and
shooting stars? You can see it, young children can too…
one light walking amid other lights, their eyes bright with it,
they smile the secret-keeping smile as if it is all some grand
game we play ‘til we all come home.