She spoke to me
among all the junk art
hanging in that gallery.
She spoke to me.
Look at her!
Wine-opener for arms,
I do love Chardonnay.
Sieved-ladle-top face,
my emotions do flow.
Sunflower heart,
that’s Pollyanna me.
Beaded, feathered earring-skirt,
like miniature dream catchers
always at hand.
Glued on wire, forever smiles.
Whimsical socks with moving feet,
will gladly tap dance, to any beat.
Forget all the photos
down through the ages.
I knew it then, and I know it now.
She’s definitely me
and that’s why I bought her.
So I’m thinking this morning
sitting staring at her,
what are we made of
and who really are we?
Haphazardly or carefully,
crazily cobbled together?
Maybe that’s it then . . .
and she smiles down at me.
We’re all cobbled together.
We’re all just junk,
junk art at heart.
Day 3 of NaPoWriMo, national poetry month, where the challenge is to write a poem every day in April! Today’s prompt from Imaginary Garden with Toads deals with existentialism, as in anything to do with “what is the meaning of life?” What are we really all about?
Photo of junk art bought in Bermuda a number of years ago. She hangs in my study where I see her every day – and she makes me smile.