Humility

The sound of clouds moving across the sky.

A subtle reminder that we do not own this world;

rather we have been granted the privilege of visiting.

January 18, 2010

©2010 Peter Tobia

Act I

Act I

Bath water drawn into the comfort of white porcelain.

Act II

Knife of electricity rips open the sky
Seconds of silence.
Rain bleeds into the night
Leaves tremble, faces wet. No part untouched.

Act III

The applause of thunder.
Nature bows.
No understudy needed.

January 18, 2010

©2010 Peter Tobia

B/W

I bought the black kid in the laundromat a popsicle for .50 cents.
I don't know his feelings, but he said thank you, and we just talked at intervals about basketball, baseball, etc.
He was washing his sneakers and I thought it was the only thing to say.

I gave the black kid, who was short a quarter the .25 cents.
Maybe I was taken, but maybe he didn't have any money.
The cashier, he told me it was standard procedure for "them."
"Yeah, they'll do it every time," he said.

I don't care for spare change too much these days. I have holes in both my pockets.

Martin Luther King Day
January 18, 2010.

©2010 Peter Tobia

ROCKY MOUNT, NORTH CAROLINA

My hand is wrapped around a pocket full of change as I push the button for the third floor.

I toss suitcases onto a luggage cart and weave back down the hall… bumping into hotel walls.

The door opens on floor two. A women from housekeeping steps in.

She glances down at my luggage and the Caterpillar trucks my son received as a Christmas gift.

“My husband worked for them for three months,” she said.

“He collected the little yellow dump trucks and put them on our window sill at home.”
A slight smile showed comfort in the short lived security.

She said after he started his job he got laid off because of the recession. Her face showed little disappointment. It seemed more familiar with acceptance.

Her husband is diabetic and is in the process of  trying to collect disability.

Her hands, white and clean, ruffled dirty bed sheets as fluorescent light colored her skin with a green sickness. I stopped looking into her eyes.

As the elevator door opened, she wishes me a Happy New Year and a safe trip home. She moves away slowly, pushing her basket of laundry down a hall she has walked for eight years.

As the door closes I am left alone looking into a mirror framed by

shiny metal and sick lighting; my face and clothing absent of color.

I linger…looking. A revealing portrait is seen as I move away.

Sunday morning

January 4, 2010

 ©2010 Peter Tobia

SOUTH LAND

Silver-green moss; dangling Spanish thread…a glimmer of hope.

A symbol of southern mystery and dangerous beauty.

The pride of the south embarrassed by its past…
hooded-ghosts on tombstones drawn by weather’s hand.

Foolish minds believing "good ole boy" smiles and hand shakes can heal.

Made in '37, rusting bus on soil soaked in sorrow. 

A suspicious calmness prevails before the question is quietly asked:
"Is it over?" or "does the disease continue to grow in silence?"

History is what one person remembers. Sometimes it's rewritten
by a blind-witness who says he heard the truth.

Empty, broken billboards signs; like the memory loss
of an aging mind not remembering what was said or who said it.

The music, thought simple, is complicated in its simplicity.

Songs of well-traveled roads, dirt-red honesty and finding
peace through prayer.

Songs about finding your own way, but when you do, how much do you find?

Lost in a song played over and over because a single phrase stops time.

January 13, 2010

©2010 Peter Tobia