Untitled Poetry at The Gypsy Coffeehouse
an HA Fan Poem by Pyrex Shards
Normal people pretending to be.
That's what they are.
They all stand up for their fifteen minutes,
every Tuesday night,
at The Gypsy on fifth and main,
and they vomit tripe,
their poetry is stillborn.
We're the victims,
the angst is their knife,
as they read from their tattered
dirty little notebooks,
and pluck at guitar strings,
months out of tune.
She waits for her moment,
sipping a latte or a tea,
tuning out the noise.
Just another face in the crowd,
of emos and goths,
ravers and preps.
People who will approach you,
and witness Jesus to you…
She ignores the circus,
turns a page in her book,
straightens her pigtails,
and fingers the pink bow,
in her golden hair.
She doesn't know he's watching her,
doesn't know he's there.
The last fifteen,
and its her time,
she closes the book,
closes her eyes,
stills herself,
as he watches from a corner.
The emcee announces,
her name is Helga.
No last name,
she prefers it that way,
away from her anchors,
her weights,
the ballast in her reality.
She approaches the crowd center,
but she doesn't sit,
she prefers to stand,
like a singer behind the mic,
whose words are themselves music.
She recites from memory,
while her blue eyes study us,
as we turn to her,
in rapt attention,
for we are a willing canvas,
upon which she paints.
It is a tapestry of words,
warm with her breath,
illuminated with her soul,
judgmental and angry.
She tells us of longing,
pain,
suffering,
agony,
love,
hate,
nurture,
neglect,
impotence,
selflessness,
and avarice.
Words genuine like diamonds,
each and every one.
She stands there,
a naked poetess before us,
painting with her lifeblood,
portraits of her soul,
for all to see.
She is the poetry she speaks,
choreographing haunting words,
that flutter through the air.
The words are free,
to fly and soar,
through the enraptured crowd,
but she doesn't know,
that one whom she seeks,
those syllables have found him,
and whispered in his ear.
He knows her secret,
her desire,
her fear.
He's always known,
since the rooftop,
the pier,
the preschool umbrella,
and the flood hurried plea.
He sits and watches her,
in a silent and devoted vigil,
because he knows that she loves him,
and he love's her.