What Grandma Says

(I left out some pictures to tickle your imagination)

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Grandma says she visits Mollybird land.

But Grandma is silly.

She plays in the sand.

She hops in a chair,

I see her eyes glisten

She tells me to sit down

and carefully listen.

“There’s a place,” she says, “where

popsicles grow sideways,

where Lollipop trees

sprout only on Sundays.

Where cows milk the garden

The doggy yells, ‘Moo,’

And the carrot pops up

and says, ‘Howdy Do!’

 

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The dragon blows fire

to light up the coals

so miniture rhinos

can climb from their holes.

At lunchtime,

oh, we’re too busy to eat.

We paint with the squirrels

and then take our seats.

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We sit by the ocean

and blow seahorse bubbles

Our thoughts disappear

but our vision, it doubles!

If Tina the Tiger finds you,

don’t worry.

She’ll tickle you fast

then run off in a hurry!

Old Peter Parrot

doesn’t like peace and quiet

He prefers to squawk loudly

and dress like a pirate.

Then, when it’s time,

the Queen steps on her chair,

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and the bicycling frog

is the first to be there.

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Everyone cheers

and why would they not?

She makes them remember

the fun they forgot.

Now, if you don’t believe me,

of course it’s just fine.

But my unicorn’s here

and I must leave on time.

How I get home?

It’s the best thing, no doubt!

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Oh, don’t forget.

If you whistle real loud.

My silly hippo

will float down from the clouds.”

I take hold of the whistle.

I blow super hard.

A hippo? Really?

Will land in her yard?

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© Carolyn Dennis-Willingham, CDW Creations

Lollipop- daily word prompt

As always, dear writers, the ones with the blocks, think further and deeper outside that damn box!

I haven’t worked with photoshop in a long time. Starting over was NOT like riding a bicycle. But I did it, albeit in a slow, Carolyn fashion.  As most of you know, I am currently writing my fourth novel set in 1963. As my dad used to say, it’s a booger-bear. So, writing children’s books gives me a breath of fresh air. (Yes, I go to sleep rhyming, then pull out my hair.)

Here’s a sample of my latest. It is a reminder for children to keep their imaginations open and active as they listen to a Grandma tell her granddaughter about a magical place.

 

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As always, dear writers, the ones with the blocks,

think further and deeper outside that damn box.

Yes, You Can!

I received the printed children’s book I wrote from Mixbook and I’m so happy with it. Mixbook.com does a great job with the printing and they make it easy to create. And, I have a blast finding the art work. Best thing? My granddaughter loves it! 🙂

Here’s the front cover and the first two pages:

 

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The last page:

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On to the next one!

Four Quills of a Tale- as scribed by Elias Kent (Entry 6)

(Four Quills of a Tale is a folktale about losing one’s creativity and the struggle to regain it)

Entry 1

Entry 2

Entry 3

Entry 4

Entry 5

Where was she, my precious girl who stood by my side village after village? Who filled me with such light!? Such color!? Now, my trustworthy companion, my leader, had left my side.

Hours, perhaps days later, I heard the distinct and distant sound of her honk. It lifted me from the cold ground and my feet followed where my ears lead.

A swirling fog of color engulfed me as if I were trapped inside a tube of colored glass. My arms flailed and, clearing the fog from my vision, I happened upon an old wooden bridge. I hesitated, but only for a brief moment. Goose’s honk continued calling me forward.

On the other side of the bridge, my body became heavy and light at the same time. My eyes were drawn to a beautifully welded lamppost reaching toward the stars and alive with a small, enticing flame.

At the post’s base stood a bald man of abbreviated stature. How curious he was! With one eye, he stared in his hand-held mirror’s reflection and seemed to look behind him with one eye, while staring forward at me with the other.

“Name?” he asked, rudely.

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Katarina by CDW

 

Four Quills of a Tale (as scribed by Elias Kent) – Entry 4

(Four Quills of a Tale is a folktale about losing one’s creativity and the struggle to regain it)

Entry 1

Entry 2

Entry 3

I stroke the feathered quills between my calloused fingers with care, unsure what to expect. Katrina the Great Storyteller has been my shining star atop the tallest pyramid and, if the old woman is correct, Katrina will soon be revealed. But what if my grandiose impression of her becomes one of  disillusionment? As a General orders the march forward, my duty calls. I inhale a breath of courage and place the first goose feather quill between my fingers. I insert the quill into the ink.

What is this? The quill refuses the ebony ink, repelling it like water on a duck. My hand trembles, but calms when the nib forces my press upon the parchment.

It is because of Goose, my muse, that this is, my final story, will be written and subsequently told. I trust that you, Mr. Kent, will not become tiresome or burdened with this charge, but instead, ultimately enlightened and fulfilled.

            I drop the quill. Yes, I am scribing. But these thoughts, these words, this handwriting, is not my own!

The quill rolls decisively toward my trembling hand. I have no recourse but to, again, place the first goose-feathered quill between my fingers.

I never abandoned you, my listening friends. Not with intention. I once was a soul of brilliant color. Sometimes, my hues of imagination were bountiful and my flowers bloomed from gardens sweet. I tilled the soil, deep in exploration of dreams, and stirred fertile ideas in the rich black earth.            

            Once discovered, I took the gems to flowing rivers, cleaned them, and analyzed them with curious and appreciate eyes. Oh, how I loved those times—when Goose and I traveled the countryside sharing tales of imagination with you! Even now, I smile remembering how Goose fluffed her tail feathers with bravado when amongst the listeners.

            And then the colors of my imagination began to fade. Weeds in my gardens multiplied like diseased cells. I yanked and pulled, discarding the bad, hoping the good would conquer. Sometimes, the scarce treasures bled around my hand and trembled with frustration like a blank canvas waiting for paint. Particles of uncertainty coursed through my veins. I tried to find the voice within my stories and the stories within my voice. But they had vanished, as if stolen by thieves in the darkest of night.

            What could I offer if not my stories?

to be continued ….