Here’s a poem about a well-known person, from the perspective of another . . .

It goes something like this . . .

The Hand that Moves Me

He made me not in his image
For his skin was not green
But my voice was his voice
His fingers my expression

He made me from a discarded coat and
Ping pong balls when he was fifteen
I shake my head now, realizing
I’m older than he would ever be

He took to TV with a gang of felt misfits
Painting numbers and ideas on the screen
A once-dying program suddenly
becoming a Street unending

He made me bold, to mask his shyness
What he could not say, I was always keen
So much felt came to life by his hands
A creature shop came to be, where

He made amphibian, barnyard expats and rats
Uninhibited vegetables and fruit were routine
He’d created five children, who I met young
Toiling at his shop, just to be close to him

He hid behind me in confounding ways
Shielding himself behind his dream
While I play banjo in a swamp, singing of rainbows
Or riding a bicycle with skinny new legs

He gave me seven weeks on the Top 40
My own star on the walk of fame, unforeseen
You, your parents, your children all know me
But it was his voice, his dream all along

He left us in 1990, breathlessly snatched away
But the dream must go on: we reconvened
Finally honoring a lifetime of selfless genius
By looking down and feigning shock

He has been greatly missed. Sigh . . . I don’t want to talk about it.

6 Comments

  1. awww, that’s really lovely.
    There’s nothing I can say to enhance that poem, superb.

  2. You know, I didn’t know enough to even know who you were talking, or that he was gone. But wow, what a precious poem <3

    1. Author

      Awwwww 🙂 I don’t think I’ve ever been reblogged before. Thanks!

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