Expressive Arts Carnival

Last month I started doing the activities for the Expressive Arts Carnival. The Expressive Arts Carnival was founded to bring survivors of abuse together through expressive arts activities. I love the concept of this entire endeavor. This months activity I don’t really have heroes but   This month I pulled inspiration from a poem I wrote back at University about my father.

Here’s the poem:

My Brown Eyes

Daddy’d rush in after skin scalding days,

Sweat and sunscreen scents clung to sun faded jeans.

Grass stained denim and dirt traded for charcoal, oil paints,

And fine plaster spread on the red living room carpet.

He’d pose me, just so, leaving big charcoal fingerprints

That cover half my shoulders; I’d leave them there all day.

Through throw back ‘70’s specs he’d gauge--

Scritch scratch scratch – gray charcoal smears white

Well past the time my tiny toes start to tingle.

My little neck craned to glimpse the drawn picture,

But with a sharp look I’d stand straight and still,

My jaw clenched so serious not to mess up. Daddy’s

Lips would curl and twitch, charcoal dropped and quick

Tickled to see me smile, laugh and squirm with no

Defense practice sparring; right jab, reverse, hook,

Light contact force fast feet for a challenge

His worn tennis shoe taps my rear foot, pivot.

A slight crooked smile then quick jerk grabs

My lead hand against dropping my guard,

Then steps on my toes to send me down tumbling.

My butt bruised, his grin widens as next time I shift back.

Throwing jabs I can block, my playful yelps cut the

Silence as he waits in the old oak rocking chair.

I ascend the stairs slowly to not make a sound;

Caught -- his half missing finger tap-tapping the arm.

My mom’s eyes are hazel; dad’s eyes are brown,

Unblinking, our eyes reflect, glares bulge,

To burst like the little blue vein above his right eye.

Rising, no one overshadows his 5 foot 10 frame.

A quiet rumble at first, then the ocean roars in his voice.

I shirk for a second then stand squared to face him

From opposite living room corners I scream my defense.

No tears tolerated or shed with tension spread

Thick Jif toast and orange juice made for our breakfast.

His rough, calloused hand raises my chin,

Big bear arms encircle my shoulders

Squeezing me tight, his prickly beard

Rests on my head --

Before he lets go.