Image and Text (C) 2011  by Metta Anderson - All Rights Reserved
I was standing on the terrace today
just about one
I guess.
There was a wind,
a fresh one,
coming in from the west,
across the sabana,
from the Magdalena Valley on the other side of the mountain
and it came across with something like
a pulse, a rhythm,
not just a simple breeze.
I was standing
on a ladder,
looking over the wall,
to look out over the city toward the south and southwest
recontructing in my mind
the city
as a series of geometric abstract
Debating with myself
whether or not the resulting paintings
would be too. . .
too. . .
readily identifiable
as the view from my terrace
as the city of Bogotá, even though
I haven't really seen any art
at all
that refers to Bogotá
directly. It's always
someplace else.
Never here.
And then
I closed my eyes and
started to thank Jesus and the Virgin for
this amazing place
the opportunities
presented to me.
And in the middle of this
I became aware of a
kind of
second generation
New Age music
on the radio
(you thought it'd be
didn't you?
Fooled ya'!)
A clear soprano singing
but I didn't
catch the words
just the sound
which was as clear
as the air
around me
A pause
(in my mind)
and then
it joined with the wind
coming out of the west.
Coming out of the west
it still pulsed
and I felt it contained
songs I couldn't hear
voices I couldn't hear
in languages
I couldn't understand
it was full of
There were people in the wind.
I paused again
thought of Mom.
The breeze shifted
caressed my hair
then my face.
"Hi, Mom,"
I thought,
"how are you?
Out for a spin
in your Soulmobile?"
More breeze
more caress
After three husbands
and GM goes
you deserve it.
A Soulmobile
V-8 engine
fully loaded
"And there you are
endless highway ahead of you
four-lane blacktop
sunny skies
top down
"And no Florence
where you got
all those speeding tickets!
Speed all you want
"And have you met
"Take him
for a spin,
if you
run into him."
this is Mom.
You've never really lived
til you've gone on the road
with her. Hope you
guys can find
some decent radio
out there.
She likes music,
"And, Mom?
If you run into GaGa,
be nice.
Show her
what real class
is all about,
The breeze
pulsed forward
swirled around me
(a cloud of dust?).
It was my mother
out for a spin
enjoying the day.
She had to go now,
so I waved
as I stood there
on the terrace,
regretting that
we hadn't taken that one last road trip
we talked about a few years ago.
It would have been

Arizona highway toward Nogales

Pastel on paper, digitally created, Dec. 2010

Text and images (C) 2011 by Metta Anderson - All Rights Reserved




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Filed under Poems, Untold Tales

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