A Ben Harper Story
©2018 RC Monson. All rights reserved.
Cover Design: Livewire Productions
Cover Photo by partypacks.co.uk
Tonight, a motley crew of poets and friends jammed into an open area at the center of the bookstore. Folding chairs formed a makeshift theater-in-the-round with a spot in the middle for the microphone stand. At the mic stood tonight’s headliner, a stately young woman with long black hair, exotic green eyes, the features of a Persian queen.
“Half the tears that form in the eyes expose a tender perspective,” the regal young woman read from a volume of her recently published collection, “the aching depth of magnets, the frantic beating of small wings, half-baked solutions walking the dog thru unpainted neighborhoods…”
Among the spectators in the audience were two men in the back row. One man had a stocky build and swarthy good looks. The other had fair hair and glasses. Both men were in their early forties and probably old enough to know better than to gaze with such bald-faced adoration at the emerald-eyed poet as she continued in a rich lilting tone, “… a free flow of naked intuition crashing with the surf and fractured shells, the stream of fate’s unfolding summation,” demonstratively gesturing the motion of stream flow with a broad undulating gesture.