After offering “Pay What You Want Poetry” at Rocktoberfest a few weeks ago, I’ve been on the lookout for other gatherings where I might find people who want what I have to offer. I’d already planned to attend the “Sarasota Locals Reunion” event at Payne Park, where five bands were scheduled to perform including The Heart Machine, featuring my drummer Ray Istorica and good friends Michael Miller and Laura Rader. In the morning, I saw that there was also an event called “Le Marche Bohome” at Five Points Park so I packed up my motorcycle with my typewriter, stool, blanket, pillow, sign, and gratitude jar, and headed downtown.
Upon arriving, I said “Hi” to my friend Paula Knudsen, who was there selling her Frumples. Of the chilly 65 degree weather, she said, “I shouldn’t be here. It’s too cold. I want to move to Florida.”
I perused the clothes and crafts offered in the few dozen tents of the bohemian-style market and then set up shop on the circle of bricks toward the center of the park. I put a piece of paper into my typewriter and wrote a poem on the event to get warmed up.
LE MARCHE BOHEME
In the park, the artists gather
displaying their passions
and trying to pay the rent
a guitarista plays softly
singing in French
as Paris comes alive in Sarasota
where the first weekend of November
brings both short sleeves and sweaters
as locals and relocated
adjust to the sixty degree cold front
yesterday’s rain leaves the skies still gray
shoppers are mostly strollers
glancing at merchandise
while engaging conversations
provide a soft mist of chatter
floating through the marketplace
as life goes on in Florida
and most of us breathe unmasked
making the most of a Saturday in the park
signs prohibit sitting on the grass
I am glad I brought a pillow
as I sit in a circle of bricks
just beyond the melee
and appreciate the poetry of life
Just as I finished that poem, a woman approached and asked how “Pay What You Want Poetry” works. I told her, “You tell me what kind of poem you want, then I write it. After you read it, you pay me what you want.” Since it was her friend’s birthday, she said she wanted a free verse poem on the beauty of aging.
THE BEAUTY OF AGING
Many decry the process
as our bodies change
etching wisdom into our skin
and introducing new pains
as the years of service
to the lives we’ve been offered
take their toll
Yet with the perceived burdens
of approaching the grave
that awaits us all
aging does have its joys
as it has its beauties
For age brings understanding
and an embrace of the mystery
in aging we find
who we are
through the relationships
we’ve taken a lifetime to build
and we harvest the love
that we have cultivated
as we are given the opportunity
to be loved as we have loved
age offers us experience
that we can share with others
and to experience the past
as entirely new people
than we were when we first lived
She said that she really liked the ending and put a twenty dollar bill in my gratitude jar. Another woman had expressed interest while I was working on that one, but when she didn’t come back, I just loaded another sheet of paper and wrote another poem. The replacement of a Z for the S in the title was a typo, but I liked it so I kept it.
THE QUEZTION
We often live our lives
in search of the answers
our challenge is that
we should be searching
for questions
Answers are insignificant
when compared to questions
for questions can be asked eternally
while answers can only be given once
Questions open us to possibility
questions stretch our minds
questions
and only questions
offer the opportunity
to explore beyond the walls
that answers have constructed
so may our questions
offer us vision
as we make our way through
the answers of yesterday
and we tickle the mystery
by asking the unknown
so that we may know
the questions to ask
Then I got hungry so I packed up and grabbed lunch downtown. Though the event at Payne Park wasn’t scheduled to start until two, and didn’t actually start until around four, I headed over early. On the way, my wandering mind delivered the line “for some, I am too much and for others not enough” so that was the poem I wrote when I arrived to a nearly empty ampitheatre.
TOO
For some I am too much
for others, I’m not enough
being too much of everything
is getting pretty tough
either I’m too intense
or way too lackadaisical
being too much or too little
is a question metaphysical
some say I’m too tolerant
others too noncommittal
some say I’m too tough
others, I’m too brittle
but I’m not too dense to realize
that it’s certainly not too likely
that I’ll please too many people
or that too many people will like me
but I’m not too concerned
with being too understood
for far too many people
their vision is too obscured
we are all way too distracted
and have too much on our minds
there is too much we just can’t see
because we’re all just way too blind
A friend named Jill approached with a friend, gave me a hug, and introduced me as Sven, which I did not correct. She moved slowly down the next step of the ampitheatre, explaining that she’d broken her kneecap. After slowly finding a seat on the next step down, she soon crawled slowly back up the steps, handed me two dollars and asked for a poem about kneecaps.
KNEECAP
a broken kneecap
makes you realize
how often you take
prayer for granted
no longer able
to kneel in reverence
before the Creator of all things
and ask to make
the pain go away
realizing there must
not be anyone there
to begin with
for what sort of benevolent Creator
would create a breakable kneecap?
Initially, she said it was more religious than she expected, and as I was writing it, I realized she probably wasn’t relgious, which is why the ending made it irreligious. Anway, what do you want for two bucks?
Another woman approached and said she wanted a poem about a mother and son, the love between them. She said she loved her son with all of her heart, and with a devious smile I asked, “and how does he feel about you?” She said “vice versa”, and I asked a few more questions about their relationship and listened for keywords before getting started.
MOTHER AND SON
The day that mother first held her son
her love was unconditional
and the way in which she cared for him
was completely unequivocal
Mother cared for son the best she could
instilling ethics in the work you provide
and whatever he faced, through thick and through thin
she was always on his side
As mother guided son to be an adult
and to live the best life that he could
and son taught mother how to live
and then she understood
how love expands when you invest
in the lives of those you love
If there be a love greater than that
between mother and son
it is a love that
I know not of
I delivered the poem to my customer, and we both had tears in our eyes by the time she read the last line. She took a few moments to compose herself and brought me another twenty dollar bill.
A Facebook friend of mine who used to run in the same theatre circles I’ve occassionally wandered through came by with her daughter. I offered her a poem, and she said she wanted one about “Independence”. I asked what that meant to her and delivered this one.
INDEPENDENCE
We begin dependent
suckling at the breasts
of our mothers
unable to live
outside their sweet embrace
we are completely dependent
As we grow
we find our freedom
finding our own way
making our own decisions
on our own
we find our independence
we are our independence
When we lose
our sense of freedom
when we give our lives
to another
we often give up
our independence
but it always returns to us
it is what we are
She liked it a lot and gave me a hug. We chatted for awhile before her teenager’s boredom compelled her to leave. Considering that I was at the “Sarasota Locals Reunion” event, I figured that I should write a poem about locals.
LOCALS
Locals are those
who live where we grow
whether we’re home or abroad
it’s the locals that show
how to live where we are
wherever that may be
beyond the sight of the tourists
it’s the locals who see
what’s truly special about the place where they live
and because they appreciate it
they’re the first ones who give
a care about what their community is
and because they create it
they are the artists
the locals grow the food they eat
they also play the music
they care so much for the place they live
because they are the ones who use it
they may not be too many
and they may not be that vocal
but if you want to feel the vibe of a community
hang out with the locals
My last client of the day gave me three dollars and asked for a poem. At first she said she wanted it to be about Sarasota, and then said she wanted it to tell people to “be nice”. I incorporated both.
BE NICE
Sarasota was once called the meanest city
when it came to dealing with the homeless
and though we’ve come a long way
you still can’t call us blameless
for how we treat the least of these
or how we treat each other
we all too often ignore the fact
that we are all sisters and brothers
Maybe it’s too much sunshine
or maybe it’s nothing at all
maybe we’re just like everyone else
who has also taken the fall
for people all around the world
treat one another badly
and though we all want to live in a better world
it hasn’t turned out that way, sadly
but every day gives another chance
to change the way we live
what if we let go of bad vibes
and only good vibes we give
living here in paradise
we’ve no reason for hearts of ice
to every single person you meet
for God’s sake, just be nice.
I boosted the idea of “Pay What You Want Poetry” from Daniel Lee, who used to offer “Free Poetry” at the Sarasota Farmer’s Market. While I could just give away my talent and hope for charity, I’ve done a lot of things for free in my life, and still do, and not a lot of people can craft and type a custom poem in under ten to fifteen minutes, and I just feel that I need to value that. Considering how my poems often hit people emotionally and how unique the experience is, I dare say that the skill is invaluable, and I can’t really put a price on it, so I offer my customers the opportunity to pay what they want.
Since I’ve been offering this “Pay What You Want Poetry”, I’ve learned one valuable thing: poems are much more valuable after they are written than they are before. People who pay me before the poem is written give me a couple of bucks while people who pay me after they read the poem give me tens and twenties. For those who’ve received them, I hope they regard them as priceless as the experience is for me.
