Nia, Poem Example

In barrooms where smoke curls around the microphone stand,

Nia’s been and gone and left the 2 a.m. crowd

calling out for more.

The echo of her rauccous rasp lingers long after she’s disappeared

out the red door,

satchel in hand,

still humming that last tune.

In hole-in-the-wall cafes

where people write on the walls and write on the tables

and write their lifestories in small leather notebooks,

Nia’s left her mark in more ways than one,

keeping strangers spellbound with stories of

where she’s come from and

where she’s going and

where she might eventually find herself

if the wind blows her the right way.

In uptown galleries where patrons sip champagne

and talk about Art like it’s nothing more than a commodity

to be tamed like a tiger in an iron cage,

Nia’s gazed at the purple-red-green blur that is her self on canvas

and ripped the hefty price tags down.

“Not for sale,” she’d say, if anyone dared approach her.

But no one does, and she leaves the

gilded galleries unmolested,

her pockets stuffed to bursting with price tags for works

she’ll never sell,

though the pious Patrons would trade their own mean souls to own her.

Look upon theatre stages and gallery walls,

in orchestra pits and drum circles and the simplest library story hour.

Look upon the lone rock at the edge of the ocean where stands

a woman reciting ancient verse in a low, growling voice.

Look upon Nia,

and tremble.