Dear Life, Yesterday I found myself in the “zone” of writing, that blissful space in the moment, a deeper voice speaking, words flowing and a surprise when you go back to read what’s on the page. Thank you to Ro, my new teacher for Creative Expressions class. Ro emailed “homework” and one of the assignments was completing a poem, I AM FROM..” I am from books and paints and paper and nature and stories.
Yours Truly, Pamela Rose

Here is the entire piece if you care to read:

My “I AM FROM” poem from a template of prompts:

I am from books and paints and paper and nature and stories.

I am from light and dark, chaos and order, ugliness and beauty of life.

I am from the fresh flowers picked from the garden and put into water glasses and empty jars.

I am from tall grasses, oak and Maplewood trees whose long limbs I remember as if they were my own.

I’m from mended shards of growing up with topsy turvy memories.

From grandfather upending tables in drunken disarray and mothers, all sisters, gathering their children to play another game of distraction and turning the music up louder to break the deafening sound of fear.

I am from swimming with large snapping turtles in muddy water and then flying with a life-grip around a knotted rope over that river behind our dead-end house while being Tarzan and Jane.

I am from crooked wooden steps nailed onto the trunk of trees rising high above the ground in the woods where our forts of sanctuary and secrets were built.

I am from picking ripe cherries from my grandmother’s tree, biting the fruit and rubbing the sweet burgundy juice on my lips like Cleopatra.

I am from being spun in the air at the ends of my father’s strong hands while his feet kept the quick beat of the polka.

I am from Sunday morning church services with strong incense and blood streaming from Jesus’ crown of thorns, and nailed hands and feet while I bent my innocent child head and stuck out my tongue with holy grace to receive His body alive in a white host.

I am from staring upward from the pew to see painted ceilings of angels and saints while hearing tales of devils hovering nearby.

I am from all this and the imagination to becoming a muralist, an artist, and a writer.

I am from the radio playing be-bop to the Beatles, Motown to musicals.

I am from singing Ring Around the Rosie and thinking the song was made for my Grandmother and my Mother because both were named Rosie.

I am from a long line of men named Louis, so many, that my mother called my father Mark because our last name is Markoya and his first name was Louis.

I am from an apartment of few rooms stacked three-floors high with aunts, uncles, cousins and grandparents crowded on top, below and next door.

I am from the “poor” side of the richest county in America, Fairfield, CT, but had no clue until I was 10 years old and had to go to school up the hill where the “other half” lived.

I am from picnics and holiday feasts of Hungarian and American food.

I am from blue collars working three jobs to keep the roof overhead and food on the table and tiredness disguised with laughter and anger and fear.

I am from “we want a better life for you” and we did have better lives.

I am from tears of anguish and toil, hearts of love and giving, celebrations of life and death.

Pamela Markoya (c) January 22, 2025

Graphit Drawing on Paper 01.14.2025