LOOK A PICASSO



LOOK MOM….PICASSO

What God painted

carved from pine with acrylic paint by Robert Margetts

Till this day I will never understand

why Mother took the whip to my little hand.

I followed her words

like a cheshire elf,

and proudly showed off the masterpiece myself.

 

Black first,

then red— oh,

what a swirl—

rolling and mixing to make the head.

Picasso, I’m sure,

would have clapped aloud,

declaring it bold, distinctly not too loud.

 

Then came the blue

and the snowy white,

and a splash of orange—

a bit too bright—

stirred together to shape the body,

a creature cheerful, strange, and oddly.

 

 

But just as my genius began to bloom,

the air in the room shifted to gloom.

My grand debut was suddenly halted,

my artistic career

abruptly assaulted by a whip or a stick—

something swift, something quick—

a tap on my knuckles

that made her point clear,

and down fell the brush with a clatter of fear.

It rolled like a runaway log on the floor,

my tiny paint‑partner painting no more.

 

Only later did I pick up the pen,

and now I write stories of life at age ten—

worlds full of color,

and mischief,

and rhyme,

where no one scolds art for wandering outside the lines.