Dancing with the Moon

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The moon over Memphis, looks down at me.

She shines on a river that drifts out to sea.

I can tell by her glow, what she’s trying to say,

“Please have this first dance with me.”

and we go one, two, three, one, two, three…

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painting by me

The moon over Memphis is dancing with me,

We shine on a river that drifts out to see,

She can tell by my glow what I’m trying to say,

“Please have this last dance with me.”

And we go, one, two, three, one, two, three …

(A song I wrote a while back)

 

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

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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