It's Still Life

  
Those Old Time Riches [Draft Version]

Mum always said we were rich, but as a kid, it never felt that way. Rich kids wore store-bought clothes. My mum made all ours. Only once did I choose the fabric. Choice was her privilege. Her money; Her choice, and that seemed fair comment to me. My Mum with her crafty hands. Her rich hands. She’d buy old wool coats from the secondhand shop, cut long strips, sew and braid and coil them into rugs. Everyone we knew had one of Mum’s rugs. I still have one. Mum has, too. They’re as long-lived as gospel stories. Most of them she sold though. For my piano lessons. And as Mum pushed wet clothes through the wringer, she’d say “Entertain me,” and so I’d practise. Mozart was her favourite. I played a lot of Mozart, because like she always said, Her money; Her choice. I preferred Beethoven; he was moody and mad as crow-ink blackness. So I reckon Mum was right, we were rich. With songs. With stories. With enough but not too much. My hands made music, and Mum made rugs, rich and durable as a gospel story.

We played in the streets
A country life in the city
Walked right. God’s not blind

Day 28: NaPoWriMo – Prose Poetry

It’s National Poetry Writing Month, which explains the surge in activity. I’m following three different sites generating daily prompts. Writers’ Digest Poetic Asides, the National Poetry Writing Month website (NaPoWriMo) and my old friend, Walt, over at Gnomes. All of these pieces are drafts.