Here is a poem I wrote recently, as a warning not to put our creative lives on hold. They will not wait indefinitely.
Connie Banks
Connie Banks works three jobs.
None of them are at taking care of herself
I see, as she hoists her bulky frame out from around the metal desk
in the Bead O Rama warehouse
to show me sterling silver lobster clasps.
Connie Banks makes jewelry, only when she has to.
And she makes quilts, to give as gifts.
But her passion is painting with oil pastels,
and I might see her paintings in a one woman show,
except you need quite a few to put a portfolio together.
Nevertheless, she has a project going all the time.
She has learned to paint a little every day.
She has learned that.
And she keeps her work on the kitchen table.
Right now, it’s a picture of two red roses.
But she hasn’t had time, between her three jobs
to take more photographs for inspiration.
She’s a photographer too,
though she’s tired of beach landscapes and
nautical themes on every magazine cover.
I may see Connie Banks’ paintings
at the town library in the fall.
I promise her I’ll watch for them.
“It’s nice to be asked to show your work,” I say,
“and not have to knock on closed doors.”
Connie Banks works three jobs
now that she is retired,
and shows me lobster clasps
while she should be swirling pastel oil paints
across a willing canvas.
I want to shake her by the shoulders
and say, “What the hell are you waiting for?”
Your hair is white.
Your heart is exhausted under the burden of a hundred extra pounds.
Stop giving it away to these dead concrete walls.
Stop answering my foolish questions about jewelry findings
and run out into the August sunshine with your camera,
home to your palette
and the two red roses on the kitchen table.
