This artwork is my mother's. It touches my heart.
A thoughtful depiction of something sweet, tiny, and cute.
He broke his stride for me
He threw me a rope
threw a rock
at his head
He was generous
It was his nature
I pushed (ahead)
that was arranged hair by hair for me
at the clothes
so precisely sewn-
the fabric of life
I tore out
I gouged them my doll
I ran, I ran,
and then I ran far away
and then I
when he went right
I was taken aback
would He do it?
(For the likes
…I behold once more
My beloved’s twisted hands held me
as I sat perched
upon the long thick gnarled tree
Its limb a bench
a niche of quiet
A place of rest
10 or so
It was any hour
50 years later
I go there in my mind
and to ponder
what lies ahead
I examine dreams that are
me on the limb
I hold fast to
and it is mine
Don’t want to hang ’round these ghosts no more
as they moan and wander and pace this ol’ floor.
Don’t want to hang ’round the spirits of past, as
they linger and promise things that don’t last.
They slink through the hollow,
they hang at the door
their faces so sullen
that they lie on the floor.
They push wine and pastries
but deliver spoilt food and mush-
they coax me to stay
sitting alone on my tush
not lifting a pen
nor writing a stroke
and behind my back
they chide me, “Slow-poke.”
“L-a-z-y,” they say…
“She won’t make the cut.”
“Let’s hang ‘round until
she’s stuck deep in this rut.”
They mutter and clamor and they raise such a stink,
telling me “Consider our feelings...”
that I must “Stay put,” or “They’re leaving!”
Won’t listen to their chastisements—no, not even one
as they dangle carrots that vanish; that leave me undone.
"You could have been 'this…'” or “You’re over the hill.”
“Look over there--” “Now, try, if you will…”
“You won’t make the day,” “You haven’t come far,”
“You’ve frittered your chances and fallen short of the bar.”
Their obvious content at my own demise
should cause me to act out with an upheaval--
to shake them right off like the weevils they are!
These spirits that plague me are never content
’cept to harp on my obvious faults and my failings
leaving me on the ropes and the railings.
They weigh me down with concern for my plight,
yet they secretly cheer when I’m drifting…
poking holes in my sails all the time when
my spirit is lifting.
©K Annie Powell
This artwork is my mother's. It touches my heart. (So gentle.) A thoughtful depiction of something sweet, tiny, and cute. 'Wa...