Artistic License Poem by Betty Bleen

Perhaps this is the way Picasso got started,
as a baby sitting in a high chair, dumping
the dish and the cup, the fork or spoon onto
the floor, delighting in how the green peas
met with the yellow gravy, how the mashed
potatoes looked set against the wood planks
of the kitchen floor. Did he laugh with glee
to see the yolk of the egg swirled in the
white of the milk? How the red Jell-O looked
floating in the chicken soup? Later, when
painting became more than a figment in his
mind's eye, did he recall this early mixing of
color, this playing with food?
I prefer to think of you in this way,
Granddaughter, dabbling in colors like a
young Picasso, the only tools you have, the
fingers in your food. It is much easier on my
psyche to channel happy thoughts your way,
preferable to my getting upset, aggravated
every time you dump your plate of food,
my blood pressure rising to the roof.
At every meal you fend off any attempts to
feed you, preferring to lift your own fork or
spoon, then send them sailing, as if to say,
'I will be in charge of my world. I will
command what is at hand.' As my mind
wanders, I begin dabbling in daydreams,
futuristic thoughts... I am gleaming with
pride, you are being called a genius as
you are applauded for your latest
masterpiece... but swiftly I am brought
back to reality, when just as fast you hurl
from your high chair this meal's plate of
food, today's most recent rendering of art.