For The Sunday Whirl Wordle # 108
From Misfit’s Mouth To Your Ear
Ole Frank, down at the feed store,
always did know the score. Knew
I never wanted to be just another drone
harvesting a passel of kids while tied
to an angry man with an angrier fist.
If there were any dreams left
in that broken old town they’d
long been withered, beaten down;
like weeds in some control freak’s
garden. Any vow I made with grace
was one that would get me out
of that space.
Learned young to ignore childish
chants; the sly, laughing, look away
glances. Even adults grimaced at my
crooked finger holding a place between
bindings of another book, then looked
away as though I’d done something
They had no idea that written words
were a wonderful cave to crawl into.
A secret place of sun-warmed hope,
filled with known and knowable friends,
and a magic elixir that created limitless
Yes, I walked away that night. Never
thought of circling back. Fact is, they
heard a voice. Something that came
with ease and wasn’t work. What they
missed were the words I’d written.
Those were my first compositions.
Way back then, my dream was to be
like that Janis gal: singing freedom,
winging my way to the me I needed
to become. Maybe hitching a ride
with a good looking guy by name
of Bobby McGee, yeah. That was
the me that I most wanted to be,
so I did it.
Elizabeth Crawford 5/12/13
Notes: My apologies, still not feeling well. This is a draft that needs further work, when my head is clear and I am no longer hurting.