The Anonymous Poet

I'd almost completely forgotten about it. That small sheet of paper from a notepad that was slipped onto the frame of a picture hanging in my living room. In my previous life the picture had hung in a room very brightly illuminated by sunlight. What writing that was originally present on the note had been bleached away by the sun almost to the point of invisibility. Almost.

It was a poem. Given to me years ago by my friend, Carroll Briggs. A poet, an artist, an actor and plant geneticist, he often would scribble a quick poem out and give it to a friend. I can't remember how this one came into my possesion but I'd attached it to a picture frame so I could occasionally gaze at it and the slowly fading words scribbled in ink. I noticed the paper today and finally went about the business of seeing if I could divine the almost invisible message.

I do remember when I'd met Carroll. It was in the autumn of 1978 and me and my best friend Dan were on our way to Mr. Briggs house to pick up his daughter who my friend Dan would eventually marry. Gatherings at the Briggs' house would become regular affairs, especially on New Years Eve. We were always made to feel so welcome and I know that both Dan and I have many pleasant memories from those college days long gone by. One time during a party I made myself at home at Carroll's desk and read through a compendium of most of his poetry which took me a good hour or so. It was kind of strange to be reading poetry while a party raged all around me. I never said I was a partying kind of guy, did I?

Carroll was also an accomplished actor and we shared the stage at the college many times. Me, trying to hone my acting skills so I could one day make a living at it and him, out there for the sheer joy of it all. He was a jolly fellow who was always quick to laugh. If you needed a lift Carroll was the guy who could drag you out of your doldrums.

I sat down at the dining room table and tried to read the old note. If you held it up to the sunlight just right you could just barely make out the scrawl. I'm glad I took the time to rescue these words from the brink of oblivion and I'm fairly certain that this poem has never been seen or published before. Thanks Carroll.

Under my pillow
I found a song
It wasn't a ballad
It wasn't long
It didn't say
"I love you"
It didn't say
"You're wrong"
All it said was
"It's Monday
Make the coffee STRONG."

Carroll Briggs
23 October, 1989