Apr 7
I am not The Last Spring Overture
My birth name was Spring, not Greig
And I am not the last of us
Although I soon may sadly be.
I gave my violin away
To someone who abused it
And died with it still in its case
And unavailable to me.
I loaned my autoharp to one
Who never gave it back to me.
My mandolin was somehow stolen
Off my wall during a party.
Years have brought me dolorosa
For the music I’ve not made
On instruments I never learned to play,
The voice that wouldn’t do my will.
My mind can play that Overture
And does it almost once a week
So maybe what I said was wrong
I am The Last Spring Overture
ljm
My birth name was Spring, not Greig
And I am not the last of us
Although I soon may sadly be.
I gave my violin away
To someone who abused it
And died with it still in its case
And unavailable to me.
I loaned my autoharp to one
Who never gave it back to me.
My mandolin was somehow stolen
Off my wall during a party.
Years have brought me dolorosa
For the music I’ve not made
On instruments I never learned to play,
The voice that wouldn’t do my will.
My mind can play that Overture
And does it almost once a week
So maybe what I said was wrong
I am The Last Spring Overture
ljm
challenge: to write a self-portrait poem, in which you explain why you are not a particular piece of art (a symphony, a figurine, a ballet, a sonnet), use at least one outlandish comparison, and a strange (and maybe not actually real) fact.
(F/Laughlin, Nevada)
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