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Open Poetry #48
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The Chalkboard
| Open Poetry #48 |
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The Chalkboard |
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jwesley Member Rara Avis
since 2000-04-30
Posts 7563Spring, Texas 
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The Chalkboard When I was a toddler, a crawling-walker, always looking up from way down there, my dad put a chalkboard on the wall. I had to stand up to reach it but I dearly loved putting my colored marks on it's green face. I'd spend hours just scratching, and covering, then using my hands, sometimes my tongue, somehow my hair. I'd rub it all off and all over me. I later learned those hours, so wonderfully spent, were fifteen or twenty mommy minutes. And mommy, mommy so dutifully wiped off all the pinks, blues, whites and greens I'd worked so hard to acquire. Sometimes I'd cry when she did because I wasn't ready to be just plain, toddler colored me again. I wanted to stand out, be a flash of color, a living rainbow, as I ran around the house. Sometimes she would let me - and I'd grab dog's tail and crawl-walk from room to room, a multi-hued, chubby grub from which dog kept trying to walk away. When I was too old to toddle, adolescence I guess, the chalkboard had become a real mainstay. It was still the bearer of my many scribbles, but it had also taken on periodic coats of real art. I'd gotten really good at drawing people, you know, a big round head, stick body and legs - and I even understood gender now, with a triangle skirt for my stick girls, and hair on the round head. And real words appeared, much to my amazement, under the end of the chalk. Words that even meant something to other people. But I still saved some words for me, some that only I could decipher, like psygimitgeed - mommy could be psygimitgeed, daddy couldn't: which meant I could sucker mommy into things, daddy was a lot harder, meaner. And then I turned thirteen, and this chalkboard which all these years was something for me and my friends to play on, suddenly became the place to meet. Cryptic notes, phone numbers, doodles, and of course initial filled hearts would magically appear. Love, hate, friendship, sorrow and wondrous happiness all made their mark. Many hands spoke and drew, in pastel colors, on my chalkboard, this living, constantly changing, diary of many lives. I’m an adult now, nineteen, a woman, and I still pass that chalkboard on the wall, in the hallway. Mostly it's empty now, the only constant, my cell phone number; but occasionally, every now and then, something magically appears; a note, a phone number, something silly, or my favorite – I love you. That chalkboard, such an integral part of me for so many years, just hangs there, it's green face waiting, waiting for a splash of color from the nubby pieces of chalk still sitting in the bucket below, with two much used erasers that are almost as old as me. It waits with the patience of a chalkboard, for the child in us all, for the children I'll one day bear, for the loving touch of scratches, scrawls, drawings and words. It's just a chalkboard, a green, much scratched, chalkboard, but my, the wonders it has seen. w. james beard, jr. © December 2000 Note: Revised somewhat and reformated. Reposted at my daughter's request - the chalkboard was hers. [This message has been edited by jwesley (11-05-2012 06:52 PM).] |
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| © Copyright 2012 Wesley James Beard, Jr. - All Rights Reserved | |||
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michellemckee Junior Member
since 2000-04-28
Posts 49Tucson, AZ |
Aw I absolutely love this! It really brings back my own memories as I grew and changed and how some things follow us all through out our lives like your daughters chalk board. I was just reading some of my old poems and was noticing they tend to do the same thing for me, reminding me of places I have been! I am so glad I stopped in to read today! No postmortem journey is rife |
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JerryPat2 Member Laureate
since 2011-02-06
Posts 16975South Louisiana |
Strange you took today to do The Chalkboard, Christina, who lives close to me worked on a chalkboard today, only hers is black. My only dealing with chalkboards was when the teacher called me in front of the class and expected me to do a math problem for everybody. I never could. I graduated, but I cheated a lot. ~*~ If they give you lined paper, write sideways. ~*~ |
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MGROVES
since 2004-02-01
Posts 3802california |
loved it, you sure do know how to bring back good memories My spirit will rise |
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Marchmadness Member Rara Avis
since 2007-09-16
Posts 9271So. El Monte, California |
My seven year old granddaughter ask for a chalkboard for Christmas last year (which surprised me) I had a hard time finding a real chalkboard but I finally did and then I had to order the erasers from another company. So glad I found them and your poem. Ida |
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Pilgrimage Member Elite
since 2001-12-04
Posts 3945Texas, USA |
I do like the way this moves, and changes to show the changing life. Nan (Pilgrim variety) |
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Victoria
since 2000-08-12
Posts 5869 |
Very sweet indeed. Enjoyed and thank you for posting for your daughter. ~V~ A poem is never finished, only abandoned. |
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latearrival Member Ascendant
since 2003-03-21
Posts 5499Florida |
I also loved this.I did not have a chalk board on the wall, but here in Florida I have a long white painted wall in a hall way.I used a blue magic marker and drew some stick bodies on that wall to represent the family. My son came by and made the sun peek out from the top corner,and as the grandchildren came from up north to visit, I handed them a marker and soon the plain white wall was full of joy and memories. It stayed for ten years and was added to but one day the painters came and I had emptied the house and filled a rented truck so all the rooms could be re-floored and painted. Woops,I forgot to tell them "But not that wall". The grand children are all grown up now, but I have photos. jo |
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