My Heredity

Simplicity sometimes works.

Sometimes extravagent metaphors.

Me, I like pretty faces

So words have to be beautiful

In the poetry I read.

I’m vain like that.

 

The same cliche wallpaper

Over and over again…

There it is painted in my living room.

But I like it, so I use it.

It’s funny because every canvas hanging on

My wall a family member did—

Every piece of art on the one wall was made by a family member.

The chess table which appears on my covers

Was made by a PA carpenter.

 

I’m inundated with art, and artists

And yet none of them were famous.

One is an impressionist sail boat.

One a winter scene.

One a needle point of two children on a swing.

One a photograph my dad took.

My chess table is a masterwork.

Why so many Pennsylvanians

Master their art, and don’t get paid much for it.

 

My bookshelf was made by my Grandfather.

My afghan quilt—though patterned off of a magazine—

Was hand stitched by my great grandmother. My book shelf

Was hand crafted by my Grandfather.

All expertly done.

My Nanny did a white afghan

Which such expert craft.

My Grandmother made three afghans,

Too, of a much finer quality.

Photographs, I’m surrounded by.

My house is decorated by family…

Either their faces

Or their works of art.

Even some of the music I’ve had

Growing up…

Songs of high quality that my dad had sung,

Great accoustic songs by my brother,

Recipes of family members handed down from generation to generation…

Sometimes out to six.

Even my sports team

Is part of that Family tradition.

Fourth Generation Philedelphia.

 

Our house is decorated by things we’ve made,

My entire family.

It truly is.

I suppose if I were a good writer,

That would be the cause.

And nobody knows any of us.