I wish I was a zen artist in the park
               a sutra in the sky with sun-burnt hairy feet
               under faded bell-bottomed jeans.
               my toes splattered with paint.
               sometimes I'd write, sometimes I'd paint
               but always with my feet in the grass.
               the street musicians would play all around me.
               me, the musicians, then their cases,
               collecting pocket-change from the passersby . . .

               - a man once new now old feeding seagulls on a sunny white sand beach.

               - roller-bladers in fluorescent spandex and shades doing circles around fountains
               dancing as they go.

               - women bobbling babies to the beat on their way to the market and fruit stands.

               - suits on breaks smoking cigarettes trying to forget their 32nd floor window
               jobs.

               - older women in hats with bows and grocery bags filled with vegetables and
               green on top.

               - couples young lovers with flowers first dates walk in each others arms glance
               away to watch the crowd.

               my life would involve this crowd
               of little paintings in my head.
               I could paint the ones I please,
               sell for what I need,
               a zen artist in the park.

                             - Mark A. Willard, MSII