Sun Star Divine
I sat Indian style on the ivory wrought iron chair of my favorite outside cafe Sun Star Divine. As I sipped pomegranate tea out of an oversized weathered porceline mug, I stared at the blank parchment pages of my antique journal sitting in my lap, hoping the words would write themselves.
I thought for sure coming to the cafe and watching the eclectic mix of passer-bys would spark a tinge of creativity. NOTHING. I needed one phrase, no just one prophetic word to get my juices flowing. I searched my soul, my surroundings, the atmosphere for that one word, to no avail.
The sunset began to peek under the umbrella over my table casting an amber and garnet hue onto the tan linen halter dress I was wearing. I slightly chuckled to myself thinking how God is a fashion genius because at that moment I decided I would tie dye the dress those very same colors the next day.
After the brief diversion of thought from the empty pages of my journal, I willed myself back into a creative trance, summoning my muse to visit me. My overly cute waitress with her matching sparkle pink eye shadow and gloss broke my self-hypnosis inquiring if I wanted a refill. With a sigh, I responded with an exasperated "Sure."
"What's wrong honey?"
Her concern sounded so sincere I was tempted to spill my guts and tell her all that was wrong; tell her I couldn't focus, I had been suffering from writer's block for over 2 weeks and I was afraid to compete in the upcoming slam I had been preparing for months for and I had began to doubt my ability to write.
I decided to let her off the hook with a faint smile and say "Just a little writer's block". With an upbeat positive tone she assured me something would come, be patient. I received her positive energy and decided that was a good note to wrap up on. I closed my journal and relaxed in my seat and finished my tea. I left a generous tip for my waitress, because in fact she helped to lift some of the heaviness from my spirit. Whether or not her concern was sincere, I appreciated it.
I let out one last cleansing sigh and grabbed my straw espedrilles from the seat next to me, slipping my feet into them weaving the satin ribbon around my calves. I put my journal into the matching satchel and left.
I was in the process of transforming my extra bedroom into a lab where I could create. I wanted to feel like Bruce Wayne in his bat-lair. So, I walked down the street to a boutique that I frequented that sold authentic African artifacts. I greeted the owner Uzuri, a sister with a quadroon heritage. She was from a southern part of Africa where the British presence was strong. Her mother was half Nigerian and British and her father was French. I admired her peculiar beauty. She was tall, with a peach complexion accented with light brown freckles across her nose. She had sandy brown unruly naturally spiraled tresses that were strewn about her head.
A beautiful djembe drum caught my eye so I preceded to the back of the store to get a closer look. I decided to purchase it, despite the three digit figure on the tag. I fastened its leather strap horizontally across my shoulder. "Ka odi aburo obinrin." Uzuri smiled at my attempt at Yoruba and repeated what I said in English. "Goodbye sister."
I began the 2 block walk to my car. I put the drum in my backseat along with my satchel. Just as I turned the key in the ignition, a tap on my window startled me. I let down the window and a beautiful silvery baritone voice wafted into my ears and invaded my aura like a the sound of a megaphone in a small closet. "You dropped this." I thanked him and he was gone. It was not a coincidence that this beautiful man found my journal, the very source of my present angst.
He was the beautiful golden color of a sunrise. He had chocolate locs that draped the slight slope in his shoulders, like a lion's mane and the face of a Pharaoh. He had glowing chestnut brown eyes and lips that looked as if his every word dripped from them like honey.
He was a gift from my muse sent to release me from the prison I was in.
I sat right there in my car and used this man as a key to my shackles and liberated myself as I covered the once empty parchment pages with my expression of freedom. This poem will forever stand as a totem of that night when I was rescued from writer's block.
I've never seen you before brotha,
You were my nubian conqerer and I your right hand.
I've never seen you before brotha,
Or baby, maybe we can make our own history.
This piece was created for the Serendipitous Nouns Game from the Discussion Board utilizing the following words:
totem, pomegranate, quadroon, garnet, megaphone, sparkle