Sailboat at dust, all is quiet,
Swimming bare ass is a riot,
He asks of my doing,
I float there while mewing,
“No one’s so flawed they can’t try it!”
Skinny-dipping
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Tag Archives: poems
Bathing in Feathers
Immerse yourself in feathers
left by a magic swan
bathe in the salty water
from where the pearls were drawn.
Free yourself of tethers
that bind your heart’s delight
then dance the moon, so you will swoon
for freedom and insight.
Is this how you feel too?
The Invitation by Oriah Mountain Dreamer -One of my all-time favorite poems!
It doesn’t interest me what you do for a living. I want to know what you ache for and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart’s longing.
It doesn’t interest me how old you are. I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love, for your dream, for the adventure of being alive.
It doesn’t interest me what planets are squaring your moon. I want to know if you have touched the centre of your own sorrow, if you have been opened by life’s betrayals or have become shrivelled and closed from fear of further pain.
I want to know if you can sit with pain, mine or your own, without moving to hide it, or fade it, or fix it.
I want to know if you can be with joy, mine or your own; if you can dance with wildness and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes without cautioning us to be careful, be realistic, remember the limitations of being human.
It doesn’t interest me if the story you are telling me is true. I want to know if you can disappoint another to be true to yourself. If you can bear the accusation of betrayal and not betray your own soul. If you can be faithless and therefore trustworthy.
I want to know if you can see Beauty even when it is not pretty every day. And if you can source your own life from its presence.
I want to know if you can live with failure, yours and mine, and still stand at the edge of the lake and shout to the silver of the full moon, ‘Yes.’
It doesn’t interest me to know where you live or how much money you have. I want to know if you can get up after the night of grief and despair, weary and bruised to the bone and do what needs to be done to feed the children.
It doesn’t interest me who you know or how you came to be here. I want to know if you will stand in the centre of the fire with me and not shrink back.
It doesn’t interest me where or what or with whom you have studied. I want to know what sustains you from the inside when all else falls away.
I want to know if you can be alone with yourself and if you truly like the company you keep in the empty moments.
Where Poems live
CD-W
There’s a place were poems live
a secret place well hidden
away from the madness
away from the strangers
where life, with all it’s twists and turns, flourishes and grows.
The place where poems grow
is a never ending pasture
where little sprouts are watered and pruned
waiting to be nurtured waiting
to be harvested by the author.
If I could, I’d spend more time in that pasture
I would feel the creative winds kiss my cheeks
and smell the air left behind from inspiring rains
I would listen to the seasons and taste the warmth of words upon my tongue.
I visit there sometimes
I twirl and dance and run and play
And when I’m tired
I lay on the green and stretch my arms toward the sky
I twirl the clouds around my fingertips
and smile at their tickled laughter
All in that secret place
where poems live.
– CD-W
The Lone Deserter
The lone deserter travels on, through tapestry of green, paying no attention to the land he’s never seen.
Passion pocketed for later use, the milestones tucked away, with treasures from another life he once felt sure would stay.
Trying for clear passage, his back now all that shows, struggling to seek distance, from lovers, friends and foe.
We watch him trip and stumble, yet he holds his head erect, while trying to deny and mask the sadness we detect.
The ocean tide once friendly, the setting sky so gray, he separates his vision of the past now gone astray.
His shadow barely showing, horizon on attack, reminding us as we watch him go, of the power that we lack.
When will we get him back?
by CD-W
The One Hundred Languages of Children
photo credit
THE ONE HUNDRED LANGUAGES OF CHILDREN
The child is made of one hundred.
The child has a hundred languages a hundred hands a hundred thoughts a hundred ways of thinking of playing, of speaking.
A hundred always a hundred ways of listening of marvelling of loving a hundred joys for singing and understanding a hundred worlds to discover a hundred worlds to invent a hundred worlds to dream.
The child has a hundred languages (and a hundred hundred more) but they steal ninety-nine.
The schools and the culture separate the head from the body.
They tell the child: to think without hands to do without head to listen and not to speak to understand without joy to love and to marvel only at Easter and Christmas.
They tell the child: to discover the world already there and of the hundred they steal ninety-nine.
They tell the child: that work and play reality and fantasy science and imagination sky and earth reason and dream are things that do not belong together.
And thus they tell the child that the hundred is not there.
The child says: No way. The hundred is there.
Loris Malaguzzi
Four Million Threads
They showed from every corner
From sea to shining sea
And set their sights to ameliorate
The key of democracy.
And, across the globe they crowded
Lifting wings of strength, declared
the rights of all humanity
Shall no longer be impaired.
Yes, on that day, they gathered
Determined, forged ahead
awareness in a tapestry,
made from four million thread.
-CDW 1-22-17
Please have a look at these related posts:
Jill -a lie by any other name is still a lie.
GC’s, “Yes gentlemen , the oft labelled “weaker sex” demonstrated to the entire world that they had more spine and political savvy than many of the top gun politicians around the world.”
And marches around the world.
The Infinite Search for Self
There are those who I remember
And prefer to let them dwell
Within the ghostly shadows of a Nostradamus spell
Whether prophesy or heresy
Or the cost of simple jealousy
Is life a simple parody?
Since it’s me I know not well?
-CDW
Calm for the Soul
Me in the 1970’s. I think I was 16. I still have this guitar!
Music ‘tis the calm for the soul
its lingering presence of tone
So sweet the sound, to which I’m bound
Doth keep me from being alone.
Refrain! I beg the timbered tone
Do not renounce these ears!
For with it not, the peace once sought
Is severed when once sincere.
-CDW
Relax into being
Keep open your mind
Keep open your heart
fill your pillows with feathers
to comfort a loss
Breathe in the new air
fragrant and warm
relax into being
the wonder you are.
-CDW
HAPPY NEW YEAR, MY FRIENDS!
Carolyn Dennis-Willingham 