Where Poems live

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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?

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by CD-W

photo credit

The One Hundred Languages of Children

An amazing inspirational poem about children, the mistakes we make in teaching them, and how they can learn to become their true selves.

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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

 

Infinite

Calm for the Soul

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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

My wish for YOU

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After my sweet mom died, I made this shadow box for my heartbroken father. (These are paper doves, not stuffed!) Together, Mom and Dad had always enjoyed the sweet sound of mourning doves and kept their bird and squirrel feeders full. Now, my parents live together in a softer place.

The poem is Emily Dickinson’s:

Hope is the thing with feathers

that perches on the soul

and sings a tune

without the words

and never stops at all.

(excerpt)

For this coming new year, my wish for all of you is to feel the love, peace, joy and hope in the soft tickles of feathers.

Blessings all,

Carolyn

“Short One Paddle for a Row”

I wrote this a while back as a blues song. If only I could hear Taj Mahal bring it to life! Check his “Ain’t nobody’s business but my own.”

I met him once, had my picture taken with him. Wish I could find it for you! But, you know. I’ll find it when I ain’t lookin’. 

I’m ain’t hungry ’cause I got my tunes

Ain’t thirsty, ’cause I’ve paid my dues

Hope you don’t mind me sayin’

But I sure like playin’ these blues, uh huh.

I sure like playing’ these blues.

I got the flow going, but my boat’s kinda slowin’

I’m just one paddle short of a row

You know

I’m just short one paddle for a row.

I ain’t weary ’cause I dreamed all day

Stayed up all night just to here myself play

I’m not sleep deprived

’cause I just arrived

I’m just little tired ’round the edges, but hey!

I got that sultry timing’, just ain’t so good at ryhmin’

I’m just two jiggers short of a lime

But I’m fine.

I’m just two nickels short of a dime.

So if you think you hear me comin’

hit the road and start a thumbin’

just float me down an oar a’fore you go

Cause I’m short one paddle for a row, you know.

I’m just short one paddle for a row.

But I sure like playin’ these blues, uh huh.

I sure like playing’ these blues.