Acrobats, I found you in a year when certain creativity was in the flux of
bloom or chrysalis. Your eyes greeted mine with stark white cornstarch and
charcoal on your foreheads… and your noses creased with a smile. It would rain on each
day you were scheduled to perform. Waiting and starring at the drops—falling, your
ears would pick up the thunder and the lightning would cue you forward. Would the
future be your white contrast, red contrast, black contrast against the monsoon world
growing darker or lifting? Acrobats, I found you all steady on your stilts. Reaching each
hand as it came towards you and lifting one after another into the sky as the sound of
indigenous Colombian flutes filled the air and the souls of all that stood in witness.
Joining us, joining all who followed you through the Square with a single audible gasp.
Kinetic human sculptures. Casting permanent shadows on the roadways where
life has taken you, imprints of music and passion on the memories of your audience.
Nemcatacoa Teatro and The Carpetbag Brigade hands tethered in performance with Great
Others. A range of faces I won’t forget & names my tongue intends to continue shaping.
Products of each other, products of self and nature, of society and the love of art. The
questions that are left on our lips may never form for you. Yet the matter will be long
retained. Acrobats, I have wishes that once again the bricks will be red and white and our
Square will give way to after-parties that reveal the tenderness and humanity that make
thunder and lightning have new meaning. Erasing a tornado that haunts a poet’s
unconsciousness. Acrobats, a homage and prayer, for each of you I have grown to know
very little, yet goose bumps rise and this jaw aches as I take on a challenge to
write to you and convey as much depth and width and weight as the variable
xi might call. All that is what you—Acrobats—drum up in the heat, this energy and
yearning. A comprehension of the vacío y palabras that awaken our chaos and our
zen. Mix well in a jar with love for my kin, rising dreams and the scent of rain.
Written for Daily Prompt: A to Z