Uncle Bob's Words

Words, poetry, stuff like that

A Short Meditation

My mother would tell me that my Dad was so talented:

He could sing, he was a fine artist, he knew languages.

But that he had no ambition.

My oldest brother said simply that the Great Depression broke him.

Perhaps.

And, perhaps, he felt as I do now: fine arts are well and good,

But you need a job.

Mom said Dad felt abased by the people he worked with.

(Our family was always a bit priggish)

I don’t. Oh, but as a living, art is capricious.

Study hard to learn to work a pencil or brush, to do it well –

And some clown comes along with some strong mess

And attitude and there goes the market.

Some say it’s the art, not the money.

Yes, well…

I want a place to stay, a place to cook, a place to sleep.

And a couple of cats, might as well.

Look for that. I’ll be there. And you’re welcome.

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