Where I'm From Trilogy

The Artist

I am from a box of sixty four crayons that melted
in the heat of the sun inside a polished metal box.
I am from paper covered windows in an old station wagon
providing shade on the long drive out west
and a canvas for my whimsical designs.

From pencils with colored lead swirling in circles
to hide the tell-tale paths of stokes on the paper.
I am from a watercolor tray where the green always mixed with blue
and the yellow never stayed yellow,
from uncontrollable pigment to fine line markers that usually bled when wet.

I am from canvas tightly stretched on a frame,
from thick paint that squirted out of tubes like earthworms.
I am from fine horse hair brushes that curled on the end
and occasionally frayed when not given good care.

I am from raw umber, yellow ochre, and titanium white,
from the cat who defied me to sketch his likeness.
I’m from a palette of dry paint so thin, it was almost transparent,
 but when stroked with a brush plunged into water, 
became giddy with desire,
staggering, waiting,
for it’s place on the page.

 The Reader

I am from grandpa’s lap and canopy beds,
from mile high book shelves and red velvet chairs
that absorbed my every word.

I am from baby brothers
and the Calberry Awards, whose faded ribbons
were the genesis of my youth.

I am from Archie comics and Judy Bloom,
from unkept diaries and love sick notes.
I’m from Dragon’s of Eden and Lord of the Flies,
from iambic pentameter and haiku.

I am from silly songs and lunch box messages,
doodle pads and rocking chairs,
from Dr. Spock to Dr. Seuss and magazines full of how-tos.
On my desk a stack of memoirs,
Mechanically Inclined and teacher affirmations.

I am from these moments,
happily inhabiting a mystical state,
seeking meaning and pleasure
in a hectic existence.

 The Writer

I am from the crayon on the wall,
a string of letters neatly scrawled and hidden
behind my bed so no one could mistake my
creation for transgression.
I am from prayerful notes
hidden inside my father’s wallet
to promise a safe return on his
anticipated journeys.

From long forgotten messages
encrypted for authorized eyes only,
folded geometrically
and obscurely transported across the room.

I am from meaningless journals that, even in my best attempts,
documented only the day’s events and never revealed
what I kept sheltered in my soul.

From poems forced into cadences or rhymes and, if we felt dangerous,
made us laugh when we introduced dirty lyrics.
I am from short stories accompanied with illustration,
dedicated to little brothers and bound with metal rings,
but shared only with the contest’s judges.

I’m from diagramming sentences that were mathematically simple
and from independent research papers that weren’t.
From unwritten letters,
empty cards and vacant journals;
a relentless curse of needing to be a great writer,
making it difficult to be a writer at all.