My computer sticker says

BE YOU TIFUL

I want to be.

What does it mean,

in this machine?

Mo’s story,

in the library,

laid out in my notebook –

scratched down, cobbled together,

the only way I can do it.

Yarns laid out with feeling

Knitted together.

Paints poured

On canvas

Scratching out marks

Of my very own.

Why write

so much?

Why knit

so much?

Why make so much mess?

 

All the talking heads,

The self-appointed gatekeepers,

Coming out of every crack,

They have the answer.

Believe,

Send funds.

 

Makers

We craft ourselves.

Dig your hand into that beautiful yarn basket.

Pull up a bright red Wensleydale.

Spin it.

Knit it into your deep green sweater sleeve.

 

Write about the annoying mosquito,

buzzing around your head.

The one you can’t catch for anything.

The one that gets right next to your ear,

just as you are dozing off, and sends you

waving crazy around the room.

Take a blank, white space.

Pour the cadmium blue

In great sweeping lines.

Use your brush

Fat and wide

To spread the colour everywhere.

 

Gatekeepers,

Within and without,

Seem confident they know the destination,

Seem confident in all we lack.

They set the goal. Highlight the deficit. Demand that you sign on.

Their close comrades,

Perfectionism,

Dissatisfaction,

Loss.

The makers want

For us to gain

For us to gain

What we are.

The makers call

Notice

Notice

now, and now, and now.

 

Passing days

Old age

Words in books

Knitted things

Stitches, one by one.

Trees calling,

When I fall into

the old, deep, rutted path.

“Come play!”

They say.

“Okay!”