My uncle offered me a sketch book,
To shake my world it was all it took,
Using a sharpened pencil and some crayons,
My imagination stretched hills and canyons.

All my works began with baby showers,
Mountains and prairies and flowers,
Then came crawling the superpowers,
Along with artillery and gun powders.

Blue skies with harmless white clouds,
Witnessed sudden violent thunderstorms,
The green grass got filled with scattered shrouds,
And rocks transformed into cemeteries full of worms.

Planes came hovering in dropping their bombs,
While little colorless men found instant tombs,
Sometimes retaliating with their meager arms,
While others implored the heavens with their arms.

But hundreds ended up dying on my battle grounds,
Instead of smiling children riding on merry go rounds,
Had I drawn animals I would have picked hare and hounds,
For a child supposed to draw yellow suns, I was out of bounds.

The sketchbook was subsequently thrown away,
And I was advised to stick to sunsets and rivers,
But I still remember the works with cold shivers,
I guess I was having the blue period my own way.

A drawing from the post-sketchbook eventually did escape,
Supposedly about my neighborhood and the landscape,
You would think it harmless and done in utter joy,
Then please explain to me that Indian, and the cowboy.