I live where dragonflies spew tiny fire to light my non-harmful cigarettes
and grass grows blue and trees sprout leaves of fuchsia.
I live where the monsters bake cakes that, when eaten, guarantee good dreams
and snails give piggy-back rides through golden mountains.
I live where three-legged dogs drive jeeps and give free rides to the carnival
and carousel horse take breaks so you can feed them granola and honey.
I live where every living being is peculiar and wondrous, wearing their mix-matched clothing or none at all.
I live where lies that spring off tongues evaporate before they reach the air and meaningful words are collected, free for consumption.
I live where injuries and sicknesses are healed by blowing dandelion tuffs
and the only disaster is when the flavor leaves your gum.
Would you like to come for a visit?
Writers need to keep every snippet of wonderment they can muster. 🧚🏽♀️🦄 That’s where the diamonds are buried.
I so miss my fireflies,
but these will do for now.
Special thanks to Linda G. Hill for posting the above photo at
(Top image is from my hand and mind)
Not everyone does, you know. Some adults think that those little human “beans” should sprout somewhere else, anywhere but in their close proximity.
Yes, children are loud and can irritate and inflame every nerve to the point where anti-inflamatories don’t work.
Children are curious to a
fault – “How come?” “Why do I haf-ta?” “What’s that?” Those questions sometimes makes us grown-ups feel stupid because we don’t always have the internet at hand for research.
But I know that children are magic.
They help us remember what our long-ago years were like.
They remind us of that feeling of satisfaction when the “ah-ha!” moments pop out of nowhere land.
They refill our imagination bucket with all kinds of sweet nuggets of creativity.
Three years ago and four grandchildren later, ribbons of creativity, once hidden in my DNA, have sprouted again. Thanks to those growing “beans,” the product of their influence is now available
Thank you for taking a look.
I decided to look up one of my favorite words along with my favorite poet. Here’s what I got:
What? Emily Dickinson hasn’t posted anything within 14 days??
And then I thought of how we rekindle our own imaginations – through the eyes of children, of course.
Then, I thought of Shel Silverstein.
But this is my all-time favorite:
And, by the way – Just because Emily hasn’t posted in a while doesn’t mean she’s not alive.
Befuddled, bewildered and baffled am I
to think that my house cannot live in the sky
I’d open my windows each morning at dawn
and wave to the birds as they proudly flap on
I’d puff up the clouds that create my front yard
and bend my own rainbow to hang as my guard
At night I would juggle and play with the stars
then tuck them in safely in soft layered jars
Now, as i look up, I don’t understand
why my house it must always be glued to the land.
If we funnel our time and energies into being creative, we will see more colors.
And, we will have more fun!
art by CD-W
… her granddaughter smiles. “Mom, when will Bad Ass Grandma come back from her vacation?”
“What’s so funny?”
“Thinking about what she did. She lifted one leg over something I couldn’t see then ran round and round while bouncing up and down.”
Round and round up and down
on the carousel horses.
Up and down, round and round
as the music plays.
The lights on top they shine so bright
as we go round and round
use your hands to hold on tight
as we go up and down.’
Then she sang it over and over again.”
“Yes, your grandmother is quite extravagant with her imagination. Was she still wearing a
Granddaughter laughed and
trotted back to her room, saying, “I hope she’ll be home soon. She promised me the moon.”
I’m glad. Who knows? I might need them when the time comes. I also happened to notice a lot of cigarette butts on the steps. Guess some folks listening to Led Zeppelin wanted a last smoke before entering through the pearly gates.
As you can guess, I didn’t climb the stairs. I still have a lot of blogging to do. 🙂
photo taken in Cabo San Lucus, Mexico by C. Dennis-Willingham
She is an old, old woman
full of grace but wisdom more
She rocks within her sinewed arms
a child from long before.
She serves as a reminder
(Through an image made of stone)
those passed are not forgotten, thus
we never are alone.