Fear of Change


Why, birds, must you be angry?

your cawing, dawning, cries

on forceful wings

with hope of spring

your ire, it mystifies

Perhaps it is your season call

a changing time, alerting

so others heed

your time of need

through winter, disconcerting

Lay still your ruffled feathers

each change is not by choice

and yet you can

as you began

make known your thoughts in voice.



Artwork by Nicole Anderson

Where Poems live

scan 2.jpg


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