Biographical Poetry posted June 26, 2012


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Who I really am.

Twelve

by Phyllis Stewart


I am twelve years old.
I comb my grandmother’s long gray hair
and sweep the leaves off her front porch.

I spend sunny summer days
playing in the woods and fields.
I pick apples from the orchard for a pie,
stopping at my favorite tree
to spin dizzily on my swing.
Then I climb way up
and sit high in the tree
with the wind on my face
while the world goes by below me.

I am twenty years old.
tan and slender in my mini-skirt,
walking to my English class.

I'll soon trade college for career,
and the thought terrifies me.
No one can see it, but I’m just a kid.
I don’t feel like an adult,
and I’m not ready to walk that path.
I’d rather be twelve years old,
sitting high in a tree
with the wind on my face
while the world goes by below me.

I am thirty-three
and capture the hearts of men with ease,
but I'm bored with them all.

I've been there, done that,
and traveled the world,
all very nice the first time around,
but distant lands hold no appeal
compared to the home of my youth.
How I miss being twelve years old,
sitting high in a tree
with the wind on my face
while the world goes by below me.

I am fifty-two.
My mirror stopped working;
it shows my mother's face.

I am married to the perfect man,
with wonderful kids
who love and need their mom.
My own mom has moved to be near us
and it’s my turn to take care of her.
While I’m glad to have family,
I often wish I could sit for a while,
 high in a tree
with the wind on my face
while the world got by without me.

I am sixty-six.
I am my grandmother with long gray hair,
sweeping leaves off my front porch.

Mom is in Heaven,
the kids are on their own,
and my guy knows how to wash his socks.
I am free now, free to write
about all that I have learned.
It’s been a good life with no regrets.
As a senior citizen in failing health
I can see the exit door,
but, the funny thing is...
inside I’m still just twelve years old,
wanting nothing more than
... well ... you know.

Like all of us, my time will come.
And when it does,
let there be flocks of songbirds
high in a tree,
making music on the wind,
as I go to that world above me.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~




"I Am" Poems.. writing prompt entry
Writing Prompt
Write an "I am" Poem.

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