A poet sent me this poem. It is a poem I could never write. It is the poem of a spirit stronger, freer and bolder. When a poem as true as this comes my way I feel I know the poet, I’d recognise him by the beauty of the poem. I marvel at the freedom he claims and I rejoice for him, while holding my breath as he skelters along life’s unseen edge. My timid spirit prays, ‘o let him not fall off the edge.’
Paint Me As I Am
Why don’t you paint me as I am?
Running and reading, with waves and
Sand tangling in my hair.
With fire in my hands.
Paint me as a surfer, catching opportunities like a wave.
Paint me without dark paint, for I am not
only shades of grey.
Paint me somewhere else, where dew moistens leaves
and the chilly air circulating around me that
makes every fibre of my being feel alive.
Paint me with my wrinkles, for those are signs of me laughing.
Paint me so my tears and scars don’t show.
Paint me with my nightmares but most of all, paint me with my dreams.
– Miles, aged 11
Spectacular! I have tears in my eyes and prickles on my skin. A gift shared – written so eloquently of joy, optimism, heartbreak, dreams….
Such a warm-hearted response!
I will make sure miles sees it
Wow, he has your talent!
I wish I had his
The poet’s gift to say so much succinctly, and to make it sing- a poem, not a telegram
And the courage to probe the self so deeply
If I didn’t love him I’d still admire him