Poems and Songs

Welcome. Glad to see you here. You’re the very ones I was thinking of. (x2) Leave all your worries outside of the door. And breathe deep no hurry together once more.

So come right in. Sing a song or two. Give your throat a treat. Warble on. Let’s begin like the birdies do. Here’s a bucket to keep your tunes. You’re welcome

sledding icy white frozen hills slippery age ginormous shoveling storm competition chocolate sled on ice

This pretty planet spinning through space, You’re a garden, you’re a harbor, You’re a holy place, Golden sun going down Gentle blue giant spin us around All through the night Safe ‘til the morning light.

I’m practicing my I-belong-here no-twig-snap no-leaf-rustle no-branch-crack see-all, know-all float-like-fog like-smoke pine-needle-soft forest walk. No one will know I’m coming. No one will know when I’m gone.

open-billed gulls fighting for fish heads creak like rusted gates

Bring me a little water, Sylvie. Bring me a little water now. Bring me a little water, Sylvie. Every little once in a while. Bring it in a bucket, Sylvie. Bring it in a bucket now. Bring it in a bucket, Sylvie. Every little once in a while. &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Can’t you hear me calling? Can’t you hear me now? Can’t you hear me calling? Every little once in a while.

“Hope” is the thing with feathers - That perches in the soul - And sings the tune without the words - And never stops - at all -

What is it the wind has lost that she keeps looking for under each leaf?

The fog comes on little cat feet. It sits looking over harbor and city on silent haunches and then moves on.

<a href="bookcreator://page/4k3D5jMdRESsxfzpWtk6Jw">The Welcome Song</a>

<a href="bookcreator://page/CVuZTbhyQByNz-2XcJCGPQ">This Pretty Planet</a>

<a href="bookcreator://page/OblJWW17TayqHiqMT3vDvA">Forest Walk</a>

<a href="bookcreator://page/lCXS6UdLQTeyfUrU5Adx9Q">Pigeons</a>

<a href="bookcreator://page/R5Kg1wDUQj2ffYjG3_UuOg">Bring Me Little Water, Sylvie</a>

Pigeons are city folk content to live with concrete and cement. They seldom try the sky.

A pigeon never sings of hill and flowering hedge, but busily commutes from sidewalk to his ledge. Oh pigeon, what a waste of wings!

Hold fast to dreams For if dreams die Life is a broken-winged bird That cannot fly. Hold fast to dreams For when dreams go Life is a barren field Frozen with snow.

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