Le Artiste<\/p>\n
for Donald<\/em><\/p>\n At the age of five At the old house We fought with pillows That weekend, you left us The deliciousness of not-real fear Your paintings still hang in the dining room<\/p>\n My mom, your heartbroken sister, I am grateful, Uncle<\/p>\n Because of you And I am brave<\/p>\n <\/p>\n (c) Davita Joie 2016<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Le Artiste for Donald At the age of five I ceased to be afraid of monsters under my bed At the old house My Uncle Donald, an artist, Chased my brother and I for hours It was a game Laughter bubbled from our throats and…<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":9,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[11],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-25700","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-half-marathon-poem"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/25700","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/9"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=25700"}],"version-history":[{"count":3,"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/25700\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":29422,"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/25700\/revisions\/29422"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=25700"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=25700"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=25700"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
\nI ceased to be afraid of monsters under my bed<\/p>\n
\nMy Uncle Donald, an artist,
\nChased my brother and I for hours
\nIt was a game
\nLaughter bubbled from our throats and
\nBounced off the walls of our room and
\nMade a home under our beds<\/p>\n
\nAnd hid
\nAnd sought<\/p>\n
\nAnd because I was five
\nI remember precious little<\/p>\n
\nYour shiny brown skin
\nYour wide and toothy smile
\nYou seemed so tall
\nSo invincible at seventeen<\/p>\n
\nRemembers much more than I
\nI wish now that you and I could talk about art and
\nBond over the capricious nature of the creative process
\nWe would understand each other<\/p>\n
\nI still believe that Laughter,
\nNot Monsters,
\nLives under my bed<\/p>\n