I went to Boulder Arts Outdoors, a relatively recent summer festival in Boulder, Colorado. It started last year during the pandemic, and attendees had to watch from their cars. This year it was at the Bandshell in Boulder, making for a better viewing experience. There were six Thursday performances; I was only able to make two of them, but I’m glad I went. They were great shows, showcasing a variety of local talent and genres.
During one of the shows, I wrote a bit of a stream of consciousness poem (which is not my usual style, e.g. Rhythm of Madness. It probably only makes sense to me, and I’ll probably forget what it meant a year from now, but here it is:
Drum beats do I hear
Marching me to what?
Everywhere a rhythm
Pounding me to dust.
Backs of heads
Stare back at me
Each one asking
What I want to be.
Ballet dancers take the stage
Somber lines direct my heart
To ponder all the ways
Lines begin, end, and hurt.
A clap I make to break the silence
But then a hairstyle
Shouts louder over text
No more smiles, just hostile.
Joyous notes erupt
From the blue-tinted stage
But can’t completely drown
The previous rage.
Near term questions
Meaning of life
Song and dance
Everyday the same
But still no answers
Or maybe I don’t have rhythm.
The drum beats but I have no groove.
Just keep moving.
Don’t think.
