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.

THE LAST FISH

THE LAST FISH

The last Fish

carved from pine and painted in acrylic by Robert margetts

Rain so wet, ne’er could it quench a thirst, spat forth as mist from clouds so gray, tapping the parched soil for humans to pray. Evil that plagued its king lived a story that could not unwind.

Lips open on dry banks perched spill their life into dirt so baked. To wolf the air through gills so hot, to flow with desire to appease the pain. Dew that could no longer cling to scorched blades wed the inevitable and knelt before the land. Not a hand of water to save, nor a ton of hope to give.

Time, as seen in the pupils of an eye, emits the truth and prepares to die. Swallowing the pain, he took to his bed— water, the blood of Earth, the color of red.

What's the meaning of this poem?

1. A world where water has abandoned the land

The opening lines describe rain that “ne’er could… quench a thirst,” mist that barely touches the soil, and clouds that offer no relief. This isn’t just weather — it’s a metaphor for:

• spiritual drought

• emotional depletion

• a life where nourishment no longer reaches the places that need it

The land is parched, and so is the person at the center of the poem.