Poems in the drawer
She did not remember him really,
she had been just a child.
Perhaps he had written to pass the time?
She did not know he was driven to create.
This literary Beethoven,
this unseen Rembrandt
who often rose with sleep-filled eyes
long before the winged ones stirred
to put on record another 'masterpiece'
fighting to get out of his head
and onto the scrap of paper,
only to be covered by similar scraps
in the dressing table drawer.
Never to be read and enjoyed
or even criticized and ridiculed.
Now, with the creator gone,
each 'masterpiece' would take its place,
perhaps its rightful place, amongst the
old washing machines and 78's.
She couldn't recall the face or the voice
of that distant one whose blood she shared,
but she felt a deep sadness
as she black-bagged his life's work.
What else could she do
with the poems in the drawer?
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Comments about this poem (Poems in the drawer by Thomas Phelps )
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