To be creative like Picasso or Bach or Dave
or the guy in Times Square who bends
Forks into dragons.
I want to create.
The unquenched desire almost chokes me--
driven back into the belly
and I realize that I have created
children.
Children who need stuff like food
and clean clothes and love.
And while I steal away a moment
to let energy out on tablets of white
and blue lines Owen, three year old
Super Boy in Batman underwear
is riding my Ugg boot like a horse.
And I fight back the frustration
of responsibility and chuckle
at this creation.
While I day-dream about building
beautiful objects with my hands,
Judah is mad that life isn't turning out
the way he planned, that being five
sucks and nothing is fair. I nod
that in fact that is the truth, life
is not fair and we don't get what we want
because we are empty.
And I want to create.
To make lanterns out of wine bottles
and poems that give life or perspective
to those a few steps behind.
I want to pour out something beautiful
that is God made and be filled.
But Owen wants to help and be a part.
To chew gum with me. "Mom, are you
going to get me some?" And he sings
a tune and doesn't stop talking.
And motherhood seeps in, and he licks
my finger to draw me out of my page
with his saliva and gooey tongue.
I want to create.
Truth is, I have created people
which seems ordinary.
And Judah protests the injustice of life
with his backpack on his head.
And while he confronts his loss
BBQ flavored potato chips
make everything better and as salty-
sweet crunch permeates the room,
I need to do laundry.
