In my house,
art was for the primed, the disciplined,
those who called themselves artists
and displayed works of grandeur.
I once tried to draw a tulip,
a lonely, red, tulip in a brown, clay pot,
my drawing shoved aside in a drawer.
Monster minateurs, saving art for the very best
to be kept in a cage of perfection.
And I wondered
if they ever started off
drawing rudimentary tulips in clay pots.
Art is for the 3-dimensional they always told me
So I forgot about art.
Forgot how to access it and went off
and found new hobbies to amuse myself with.
Last summer, at the age of 35, I picked up a pen
and found myself doodling on a napkin
I peered back at the nonsensical shapes and lines
and had a glimmer of recognition
“Is this art? Am I doing art?” I said.
Suddenly, the world opened and endless possibilities
Art was free.