Where I'm From

I used to hate poetry. I hated how ambiguous it could be--how there was no right answer as to what it was supposed to mean. After living some more, however, I've found that some my more complex life experiences are best expressed by the abstract, the ambiguous, not in plain prose.

Anyway, a long time ago I read an excellent poem written here by Tiffany, and, inspired by it, I decided to call a truce with poetry and write a poem of my own. I kept it sitting in my drafts for a few months, but the lull in my blogging of late has, out of necessity, forced me to pull it out.

So here it is--Annie's First Poem:

Where I'm From

I am from stories, from piles of words and pictures in my little girl hands,
that color the ceiling while I wait for sleep.

I am from calloused hands, rough and accustomed to tribulation.
Bent by work, stiff from toil,
Passed from father to son, who grew into father--
My father.

I am from long nights.
The resonant scream of saw blade against wood that cries through the family room floor,
and accompanies our sleep.

I am from homemade.
From home sewn,
home cooked,
home grown,
home bound.
The taste of chicken noodle borne up in steam
that curls in our tired eyes.

I am from bare feet and irreverent laughter in couch cushion forts.
From learning to keep up and watch out and be quiet.
From brothers.

I am from Windows of Heaven
and Father in Heaven
and Stairway to Heaven.
On the yellowing keys of an upright piano
I play--just yellowing keys and me.

I am from someday but not today. Where we are content to wait, to adapt, to settle.
To finish the work.
To do without.
Here the world is apart, so far from our small corner.
It is for someone else.

I am from falling in love with the boy downstairs
who exists in a world where impossible
doesn't.
In my big girl heart I hold his words and pictures
that color the ceiling while I wait no more.

(the end.)

I'm going to ask my mom to hang it on the fridge.

You should try writing your own.