Poetry of Alice Calbri

Where I'm From

Where I'm from is only where I'm at
I don't remember being anyplace else
From the bruises I got myself
From doing something stupid
And drawing small books with no backstory
With pictures of horses that looked more like noodles

I truly don't know what was going on
In my mind whenever I was doing something back then
I guess it was only back then that it had made sense
I remember no-one ever really understood
I guess now that I've grown it's expected that I don't either

The stories I wrote as I got a little older
Stick with me in my mind still
I've always grown from a creative mind
Flourishing in a garden that I planted and cared for
With books for flowers and colouring pencils as trees
The wind rushing by was the water from a spray bottle
That my mother used to get me up in the mornings

The sweet smell of the petals of new pages stained my clothes
Bright uncertain colours of paints in uneven strokes across my mind's sky
I guess I've always lived in a certain place
Outside of just my quaint little town
Every direction you turn you could throw a rock
And hit a church or a chapel.

Just the other day I rode down the street a ways and counted six
I've lived here all my life and never known
that there were so many.

Historical statues and buildings decorate the sides of the street
The street I drive every day
Sometimes I'll notice something and wonder if it had always been there.
Am I really that unobservant...?
New shops and stores pop up everywhere
Some are antique shops, and I know when I have to pull my mother away
So that she doesn't try to go buying everything.

Scents that I welcome to invade my nose include simple things
The pages of a freshly opened book
Or the shelves of a library
The fresh wisp of wind that fills your lung until you can breathe in no more
Standing out in the middle of nowhere, barefoot on the grass
Staring at nothing and everything,
Taking in all and nothing
Just savoring that moment that you're there.

The smell of fresh paint and the feel of a soft brush against my skin
The feel of the wooden handle in my hand
As I stare at a blank canvas, waiting for a new life
Waiting for a new story
The smooth strokes of a pencil across a page
The marks being laid down at first not knowing what they would soon be a part of

The work of a perfectionist is never done,
So more and more marks are made and erased
Even after the work was proclaimed "finished."

Where I'm from does not simply stop at my humble hometown
in which I've grown.
Where I'm from could consist of endless things
I could not tell you all the places I have been
They say the mind truly is a powerful place
So, at the end of the day,
Does it really matter where you were
If you can imagine where you could have been?
Maybe you will be there someday,
But until that day,
Isn't it good to imagine where you wish you were?

-Alice Calbri