There once was a sweet potato named Sam.<\/p>\n
In his best, most tuberous voice,<\/p>\n
He\u2019d repeat the phrase of his choice,<\/p>\n
Reminding the world that he was someveggie of note:<\/p>\n
My name is Sam; I yam what I yam!<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
But somehow, through the soil and the sand,<\/p>\n
And oftime through the mud all around,<\/p>\n
It never rang true, all muffled of sound,<\/p>\n
Though his leaves, in the sun, ruffled refrain;<\/p>\n
\u201cMy name is Sam: I yam what I yam!\u201d he tubered again.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Daily he\u2019d stretch up more greens and more vines<\/p>\n
Toward the towering oaks and the wind-swaying pines<\/p>\n
Who soared high above<\/p>\n
Where Sam dared not strive.<\/p>\n
To the overcast clouds,<\/p>\n
To the bees in their hives<\/p>\n
To all that moved free, not shackled like Sam\u2014<\/p>\n
\u201cI can\u2019t roam like you, but I yam what I yam!\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Then, late in the season, the farmer began<\/p>\n
To dig up the field and harvest the sweets.<\/p>\n
He dug up the furrows, the tators and weeds.<\/p>\n
Sam\u2019s eyes in bright sun, roots out of the dim–<\/p>\n
For the first time, forever, not buried or grim,<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
No longer needing to shout or to scream,<\/p>\n
He lifted a whisper, dared shatter the dream,<\/p>\n
And all of the world finally heard his refrain,<\/p>\n
\u201cI yam what I yam,\u201d he softly proclaimed.<\/p>\n
\u201cMy name is Sam,\u201d he whispered again.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Um, I\u2019m not liking that one at all\u2026<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
I am short. I am fat.<\/p>\n
I\u2019d make a better sleeping cat,<\/p>\n
Than all the things they say I should be,<\/p>\n
A mom, a \u2018talent\u2019, a statuesque twig,<\/p>\n
Have hair\u2014and not cancer, just a form for a wig<\/p>\n
That never fits right<\/p>\n
And forever is itching.<\/p>\n
And I should talk \u2018positive\u2019 and stop all this b****ing\u2026<\/p>\n
As chemo melts through<\/p>\n
All the \u2018me\u2019 that I was.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
And well-meaning friends, helpful and certain<\/p>\n
Keep telling me nonsense will stop all the hurtin\u2019<\/p>\n
Like \u2018it\u2019s only hair\u2019 (not when it\u2019s on your own head)<\/p>\n
And \u201cThis, too, will pass (it\u2019s better than dead)\u201d<\/p>\n
Their phrases, too, are but scarves for the \u2018bald\u2019<\/p>\n
When my wishes and dreams lay exposed,<\/p>\n
Disposed,<\/p>\n
shaking, aching,<\/p>\n
The outcome unknown.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Little but dross,<\/p>\n
Being refined.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
There are no trite phrases<\/p>\n
That can be rhymed<\/p>\n
And make glad the rhythm<\/p>\n
Of life chemically metered<\/p>\n
in twenty-one days\u2026<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Seven of misery,<\/p>\n
Seven, some better<\/p>\n
Seven in countdown to start again\u2026<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Flamingo flock on the lawn marches forward<\/p>\n
Like some cancer-pink army, flailing in chaos<\/p>\n
And eating their shrimp to maintain their hue\u2026<\/p>\n
\u201cIt\u2019s only feathers. It will grow back\u201d<\/p>\n
As they enter my dreamtime, \u2018ports\u2019 bulging their necks,<\/p>\n
Drip bags dangling from waggle-ing beaks,<\/p>\n
Counting the days, the treatments, the weeks.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
And should any small part of my \u2018I am\u2019 remain,<\/p>\n
When all of the smelting, dross-purging are through,<\/p>\n
May God, the great, eternal I Am, –who happens to have hair, whether or not I do–<\/p>\n
Find some scrap of MY \u2018I am\u2019 still faithful and true.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
There once was a sweet potato named Sam. In his best, most tuberous voice, He\u2019d repeat the phrase of his choice, Reminding the world that he was someveggie of note: My name is Sam; I yam what I yam! But somehow, through the soil…<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":564,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[7],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-47417","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-marathon-poem"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/47417","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\/564"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=47417"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/47417\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":47481,"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/47417\/revisions\/47481"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=47417"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=47417"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=47417"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}