INSPIRED BY GIBRAN

Some poetry is like beautiful music, and this is one. Simply beautiful.
I reblogged this post because …
https://catinthecactus.com/2015/09/22/how-to-pay-the-reblog-blessing-forward/

random rants ruminations ramblings

“If you reveal your secrets to the wind,
you should not blame the wind for revealing them to the trees.”

I whispered my secret to the four winds

An eavesdropping cloud breezing past, picked it up and ascended heavenward

The wind carried it silently to the trees

Murmuring among themselves, the branches spread the word across the forest

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Ode to fat-lady-cankles

ugly witch crone on a broomstick

I thought cankles were only for old hags
For obese, ugly crones and nags
But I’ve got them now
And I feel like a cow
And my feet look like water filled bags!

NO! … I’m having my first episode of “cankles”
Those rotten and fat swollen ankles
I’m really peeved off
As they’re massive and soft and
I can’t wear my flip flops or sandals.

According to the info on Google
The fluid retention can be crucial
It’s from the aeroplane ride
28 hours inside
And not walking but sitting
Ohhhh … it’s brutal!

I say … “BE GONE! You disgusting fat ankles”
Find someone else and bless them with cankles
I don’t like you at all
And I’m actually appalled
That I’m now the old crone cursed with “CANKLES”!!!!

fat foot cankleOh dear Lord … help me. My ankles have been kidnapped and been replaced by cankles!

I got onto Google to see what it said about cankles …
“Definition: a woman whose fat and swollen ankle merges unattractively with that of the calf”

Really??? Cankles??? ME?????

NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!

© 2015 CEW

I hate to love poetry. Am I an oxymoron?

Roses are blue Violets are red quote in flamesI’ve quite proudly said in the past that “I hate poetry”.  And meant it. I did. But since I started blogging I’m drawn to it. To the words. To the images they create. To the emotions they evoke.

And it confuses me.

I am learning. There are some brilliant writers who call themselves bloggers, but these bloggers really are brilliant writers.  They are poets.

I hate to love poetry. But I think I do. And I don’t understand why.

And it confuses me.

I wish I could write poetry. I can’t. But I’m drawn to want to try. I tried once in a previous post but I think it wasn’t really poetry. Just writing trying to sound like poetry. But it still meant something to me. Is poetry like art? Is it subjective?

These poets are throwing my mind into turmoil. It is because of you that my view of poetry has been thrown off its axis. It’s because of you I am confused!  Go and torment someone else’s mind.  Be gone from mine.

Read these poems from these poets and you may understand my dilemma …

Kunal Thakore: How can someone paint such a masterpiece with words? I want to hate this, but I can’t. It is too lovely.

and this …

Harsh Reality:  This poem is simple but complex. But … it’s beautiful. I hate that I love it.

and this …

Keith Garrett Poetry: I’m learning that poetry doesn’t have to rhyme, but it draws me in. Like an addiction. It calls to me. Like port sliding down my throat. Warming me from the inside.

And it confuses me.

A seed has been planted and the poets in the blogging community are watering it.

Go away. Leave me alone. I want to go back to the world I know.

Where I hate poetry!

©2015 CEW

Flame Image courtesy of Freepik

 

 

 

An Aunt’s Reflection

3 hearts on clotheslineI am their Aunt.

I watched; as they grew inside their mother’s womb. I’d put my hand on her stomach and feel them move. I’d smile.

A boy. He was battered and bruised from a traumatic birth.   I watched his cousins say “he’s beautiful” to his Mum. I told them not to mention his injuries as they’d hurt his Mum’s feelings. I saw; the creation of a new mother’s love come into being.

A girl. I watched; as she entered the world and was gently placed on her mother’s stomach. She cried when she looked upon her tiny daughter.

I watched; when they were 2 and 3 years old and their dad left their Mum. Who would have known they’d grow up in a single parent household. Not I. Not anyone.

I watched; as their Mum struggled to bring them both up, on her own when they were so little. I watched; as she went back to work and put them in childcare so she could keep paying the bills. And I held her when she cried; because she didn’t plan for them not to have a dad living in the same house, like most of their friends had.

I was there for their first day of school. I watched; as they walked through the gate, struggling to hold those big school bags on their backs.

I watched their tantrums and I went to their home to be the “tough” one when they were giving their Mum a hard time. They could be little terrors at times! I heard; when then called me “The Commando”.

I watched; as the doctor told their Mum she had cancer. And I watched over them in the hospital as she had surgery. It was a tough year.

I watched a little girl; struggling with a big vacuum cleaner to try and help her Mum clean the house. I watched a little boy, who would lean close to his Mum when she slept, not wanting to wake her, but just making sure she was still breathing. I watched; as they both went through things that no child should ever have to go through.

But do you know what I’ve seen with all of my watching?

He – is one incredible and amazing young man. He has so much integrity and I’m proud of the man he is becoming. He is only 15, but he seems so much older. A true gentle-man. A man any young woman would be proud to take home and introduce to her parents.

She – is not just my niece, she is “my sister”. A 14 year old young woman, a nurturer, who cares about others with amazing empathy and compassion that most girls her age do not possess. She is beautiful and witty, smart and intelligent. Her heart for social justice and what is right is so powerful in such a young woman.

But I don’t just watch them. I pray for them; I encourage them; and I am one of their most ardent supporters. But more than anything.

I love them. I am their Aunt.

©2015 CEW

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