southern salem

Winston-Salem-by-DAAmmonsHello ya’ll! I am currently in the city featured above, about four hours away from my hometown. The other day I got to walk to the two buildings on the right– the Wells Fargo and BB&T towers–and while this is not my picture (my “dumb phone” can’t put pictures online) I do have quite a few that I took myself. This weekend has been a unique experience of trying new things–like dance classes and shawarma (Avengers fans, anyone?). I have also learned much about modern film and storytelling and how to have a purpose to my dreams. God has been teaching me alot, and I will share more later. The following poem I wrote in a little cafe near the hotel while drinking “Magical Coffee” out of a mason jar. 🙂

when i am feeling classic
less like American dreams and more cultured
but somehow still myself
sandals, jeans, and a hoodie with
two five dollar bills and three dimes in the pocket
when I am feeling more like poetry and sweet tea
and less like lines and credit cards
and music that tries too hard to sound inspirational
I can go to the places that few know but those who do
love it with a piece of their spirit more than heart.
when in between the crisscross bricks on the sidewalk
I can catch a splinter of sunlight that is bathing
in a puddle from last night’s rain.
when i can spot daisies blooming around the edge
of dead leafy things that no one could pick out
even if they had a degree in horticulture
when bicycles lean against benches,
and people switch spots so one person
can read Tolkein in peace while the
other puffs smoke into the wind.
when girls with red tips in their hair
trot alongside gentlemen with briefcases
and baristas heading back to work after break
when artwork is painted on the sides of browning buildings
and is still thought as beautiful
when children trip along behind their parents
and offer half-innocent grins
and then are yelled at for lagging behind
and skip over the crisscrossed bricks to catch their mother’s hand.
when coffee comes with brown sugar on top
and women with long hair and long skirts sit on couches sipping it from mason jars
when people can be friendly and not told to be less of themselves
when they can laugh outrightly with no stares
and abstract art can hang on the walls above them and not be criticized.
when everything is wooden and the music is mysteriously
floating beneath the surface of grinders
and questions about baguettes and cappuccinos.
when little white men tell people to walk
and red hands tell them to stop but no one listens
and they all walk across tree-lined streets and no one seems to care anyway.
when buildings with blue tips scrape the sky
but nestled in between them are places not as impressive but much sweeter
when restaurants with outdoor seating play foreign music
and people smile as they walk by with sunglasses and bandannas on their heads.
when people stand in the awnings of buildings and in parking garages
and on street corners and just watch life
and parks are nestled in spots where birds can still find a home
taxi cabs are lime green with black letters
and lampposts look like the one Lucy saw in the wardrobe.
when life is fast and slow all at once
when it is busy and calm and people smile, blink, and pray within a breath.
where music blends with echoes of culture without the desire to challenge it
where hope is in a cup of coffee, and friendship in a conversation with a stranger
this is the unadvertised dreamland
of a city in the South.


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