The Leaving

Damned shroud, ‘Out!
Out! Out!’ I say.
And take with you your misty splay.

Out, out damp mist and evil shroud
Cast from heaven’s celestial cloud.
Get off my field and garden arbor
Go to swamp or to the harbor.

Take your white bone-chilling mass
Get it off my garden grass
There are no granite headstones here
No companions of your certain peers
No witches, ghouls or chilly bones
No silent mold or mossy stones.

Go weave your mist in ornate gates,
Thread your ribbons through steel grates,
Roll up your batting; be gone from here
Fold your pack of troubling fear.
Take your leave – full and complete,
Take with you, your winding sheet.
Go to quiet fields of stone,
Just leave my yard and field alone.

’Cause here, my life is pleasant play
Sufficiency in each new day
And so you MUST be on your way.
A friend is coming for the day.

He shoots a sharp gold keen-edged spike
You’ll quick be gone; without a fight!
Oh, happy charm and quiet grace
Sun, has nicely cleaned the place.

First Writ and Ownership

I don’t remember when I first put pencil to paper but it must have been a magical moment. And soon after that followed the wondrous feeling of independence with the first crafting of pictures, stories, and poems. Works and drawings tidily within the lines of my own will, mind, imagination, and determination. Without interference or impediment. It was like learning to fly.

Until some teacher strode down the aisle, peeked over my shoulder and said, “That is not how to draw a sleeve, that is not a story I believe, and ‘leave’ is not an adjecteeve!"

So?

P.S. I was so little and already someone was tampering with my soul.