poetry
napowrimo
What is it
Tamara told me the answer to this puzzle (her answer at least) – what do you think it is?
What is it
That makes lovers whisper silly words all through the night.
What is it
That makes the painter rush home to paint the girl he met.
What is it
That makes the poet forget his dinner under the rain of words.
What is it
That makes the baby find her mother’s breasts while sleeping.
What is it
That makes that tough boy smile when he recalls his first kiss .
What is it
That makes my lover run into the night when I’m gone asleep .
Stumbling Out the Gates
yes we should all live like we are in love – in love with the world, you can see it glow
On the day
I declared to the world
that I will be living through my heart
instead of through my head, I
went for a jog, with Lucy, in the rain
made a dutch baby rise
drank too much coffee
cleaned the kitchen
did some laundry
watched the rain
said “I am love I am love” over and over again silently
had an argument with my wife
cried a little
ego-ed a lot
came to a better understanding
made a grilled cheese sandwich on sourdough for the kids
made grilled tuna for the grownups
wanted the grill cheese more
watched the rain
cleaned the kitchen
left the house
sat with my parents and really listened
watched drunk history with them on their tablets while the kids played a game on their computer in the other room
told the kids to get off the computer
then we all watched video montages…
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BEES
yes !
Proverb
When the student is ready the teacher will appear
Buddha
My Authors Page on Amazon
Driftwood
The Driftwood page has been updated with poems and links
Tree of Life
nice – and true :)
We talked to our kids about souls
hard to be a parent sometimes when they ask these questions but good for your own clear thinking and lovely too, especially when years later you realise they took all you said on board and kept it
(except my son wanted to come back as a teddy bear and i imagine he must have changed his mind about that by now)
Swinging Bridge at Babcock State Park, West Virginia
“Hey Mom, are trees living things or living beings?”
Our nine year old son looked into the forest then up at me as we hiked side by side along a gurgling brook. His dad and sister walked a few steps ahead of us. Upstream was the Glade Creek Grist Mill in West Virginia, a rustic wooden building with a pitched roof. Today its wet planks were framed by yellowing autumn trees.
“I guess that depends on what you mean by living being,” I said. “I think of a being as — ” I tried to think of words that would be familiar to him. I failed. “As a sentient being — something that has a soul.” The path was littered in gold, red, and toast brown leaves, and I kicked at a drift with my leather hiking shoe.
“Personally, I think of trees…
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Ten Things My Daughter Should Know
one poem from many i liked on this site
The Dreaming Path 