Mrs. Honeycreek woke from her sleep of such slumber With a wake and a moan and a yawn and a mutter Her white and grey hair was spread out all with tangles To form a large cotton mass showing knots from all angles She rose from her bed of goose feathers and foam To a room of dust bunnies, dark shadows, her home She felt oh quite off Not right And in shambles As she realized her head Was at the foot of her bed With her pillow tucked under her old creepy ankles She was frail and quite lonely bitter of sorts With crow’s feet for days And wrinkles hard as quartz She lived all alone in a wide drafty house Wooden floors Peeling doors And a large pesky mouse She straightened her back from her bed of great comfort To figure out why her hands were all sticky She felt really icky Knew something was wrong When she saw handfuls of candy Clumped up in her palm Candy corn laid not just in her hands but all over her floors Her pillows And way up on her fans She felt even more off as she pulled back her covers To reveal her grey PJs were all in a clutter Her bottoms were backward Her button-up wrong As each button was clasped It seemed to a different song Her top button low Bottom button missed And her panties misaligned An impractical miss Her white parachute panties Her grannie jammie essential Were on the wrong way! A dementia potential? “Candy in bed! And an ache in my head!” She climbed out of bed And walked down her hall As a mouse scattered by And right up her wall She smelled a bad smell One burning and black As she stepped down her stars it hit her with a smack Plumes of dark smoke had been rising up the stairs Through the kitchen then the hall and seeped into her grey hair She hurried real quick through smoke fragrant and thick She looked down on a pan covered with fog To find eight blacked biscuits Soaked in dark smog Burnt to a crisp A waist of her dough Who dare cook my biscuits! She didn’t even know… She cracked a creaky window Just slightly more Let out the dark air Then walked to her living room and paused in a stair Her beige couch had flipped over Her rocking chair moved Her thick curtains cut up In shapes and in grooves her blankets were folded in a neat pile she looked down to her table To see a crocodile! puzzle of course One creepy and large Who’s length spread three feet She had never seen it complete She moved her pale feet from the spot which they were glued To walk round her house to find everything skewed She filled with confusion anger And tire For the cause of this mess, she was the supplier Mrs. Honeycreek knew Just in that moment She must have done it all traveled her home To re-arranged and to roamed She had ruined her curtains And wasted her dough She had flipped round her living room And scattered candy to and fro She had folded and puzzled and smoked up her home Nearly started a fire What else? Who's to know Mrs. Honeycreek sighed as she looked at her mess She was angry yet tired And wanted to rest Her back screamed with ache Her neck skin had stretched Her ankles her knees Her hips all compressed She dragged her poor feet Right-back through her house All the while being followed By a fat pesky mouse Right up her stairs in bedroom then bed she flipped round her pillow And laid down her old cranky head Then Mrs. Honeycreek woke from her sleep of such slumber With a wake and a moan and a yawn and a mutter She repeated this sequence, day in and day out Of waking Confusion Then tire With doubt Till the day her old head didn’t rise from her pillow The mouse chewed burnt biscuits flies flew through her window Her room and her home stayed frozen in time Still And then lifeless Sad but sublime A stench flew with wind Confused and mislead And no breath left her body her mouth or her head Mrs. Honeycreek didn’t wake from her sleep such of slumber There was no wake There was no moan, no yawn And no mutter
Artist Statement Burnt Biscuits was inspired by old age and my family's history of Alzheimer's disease.