Why?
Why did they leave?
Was time too short to leave footprints in the sand
or did they level the playing field to erase proof of their presence?
Did they call to me before bidding adieu
when my ears remained distant?
Discouraged I’m not.
Beneath the sea
A plethora of life.
And now September burns the careful tree
That builds each year the leaf and bark again
With solemn care and rounded certainty
That nothing lives which seasons do not mend.
…
The young are never robbed of innocence
But given gold of love and memory.
We live in wealth whose bounds exceed our sense,
And when we die are full of memory.
by Donald Hall
Mr. Hall died last Saturday, June 30th. He was 89.
I wonder why I wander
in this forest thick sans light
how the birds can fly above it all
peering down upon this “sight.”
What must they think of us below –
– this self-discovery mass –
who struggle dusk to dawn each day
to fly a life first class?
But I will not give up this path
dark or light, while restless
for awed discovery of things unknown
makes this wanderer breathless.
The human course, it often baffles –
the politics, ego, discord –
who wants the giveaways of maniacs?
No, they can keep their judgement raffles.
But if something makes our bellies churn
the core, an apple rotten,
then curious it makes our eye
perhaps, it’s then, we learn.
painting by CD-W
Are you comfortable with the company you keep?
the skin that you wear?
the decisions you make –
the great ones, the good ones
the bad ones and,
even the terrible ones?
Do you accept the wrinkles,
the imperfections,
the bones of your being?
I hope so.
This is your life.
Your song.
And only you can sing it.
image credit
via Song
My Frigidaire’s in disrepair
the water’s leaking everywhere
My husband, well, he’s unaware
He’s napping in his underwear.
I tell myself, “do not despair.”
There must be food I can prepare
something fresh, a peach or pear?
Poor Fridge, it’s had it’s wear and tear
this in common, this we share
But I will act most debonair
when I wake up my sleeping bear
still with stance that’s set to square
and tell him he must fetch our fare
(“yes, now go and do your share”)
then waving just one hand in flair
I’ll sit upon my outdoor chair,
paint my nails with greater care
then catch a snooze mid-air.
– C. Dennis-Willingham ©
painting by Kay Crain
(I love this piece of art)
via Frigid
In every fabric of my soul
where fibers weave and thread
where stitching seems quite flawless
there are stains from when I bled
Ah, but isn’t it quite marvelous
to know this quilt has tracked
all my strains and struggles
yet I still remain intact.
Yes, I still remain intact.
— by C. Dennis-Willingham
photo image – quilt of Maya Angelou made by Faith Ringgold
via Fabric
Is reflection the conveyor
of a message thinly sent
to serve as object’s layer
in an undersized percent
Or,
is reflection the conveyor
of a purposeful intent
to show the viewing player
the beauty of accent?
via Conveyor
Do not weep for me
for I have experienced a lifetime of joy
the sounds of birthing
the squeals of jubilant voices.
Do not weep for me
for I have felt the vibrations of storms
and weathered through them with dignity.
I have witnessed the changing of seasons
and watched the children have children.
I have seen the fruits gathered and shared by many hands.
I have smelled the soups of wellness upon a cookstove,
freshly cut grass at my entrance,
and the rain both distant and near.
I have experienced these things and more.
Do not weep for me.
Weep for the forlorn.
via Forlorn
Carolyn Dennis-Willingham 