Category : Poetry
The neighbor boy strolled onto my porch.
uninvited
while I was reading and eating breakfast on a day that was perfect
for lazing around. It was Sunday.
And it was perfect as I said.
Just a slight breeze.
He was, I guess about nine.
Of course I knew that he was wise beyond his years
probably wiser in some
secret way than
my 80 plus years.
His skin was soft, and his fingernails were dirty
Im reading some poems by kids,I told him.
Do you like poetry? I asked
He sat down at the table with his chin in his arms
He closed his very large eyes.
His feet couldn’t reach the floor.
He swung them back and forth
to a slow dreamy rhythm.
I am a poem, he said finally,
taking a grape from the bowl on the table
After a long silence between us,
he said, and so are you
with your African bathrobe
and your wrinkled skin all over
and your ten million memories
that poke into your thoughts at strange times.
I couldn’t breath while his words
tumbled out of his soft whispering
lips.
More silence.
I was afraid to break into his ideas
with my grown up phrases of praise for his his wisdom.
Then he said everybody is a poet
or else they are a poem.
Or both.
Are you a poem or a poet? I asked.
He looked away.
Both, he said.
Is that your cat? he asked, noticing Marco Polo
stalking a squirrel in the yard.
Without waiting for my reply
he climbed off the porch
and ran after the cat
who disappeared into the deep grass.
© Helen Webber, 2010
ARE WE LISTENING
This is a bird of hope
that flies around our spinning Earth,
carrying messages from the world’s children.
Are we listening?
The words framing the children’s bird of hope
are by William McDonough,
architect, thinker, author and a leader in the
sustainability movement.
“How do we love all the children,
of all species, for all time?
Please notice that I am not just saying our children;
I am saying all of the children.
And notice I am not just saying our species,
I am saying all species.
And notice I am not just saying now,
I am saying for all time…”
A book celebrating the rights of children,
CATCH A DREAMER, 64 pages of art and poetry,
can be seen at:
http://www.dovetailpublications.org
If I could wear the snail’s curved house
like a rainbow helmet on my head
and if I could see the silvered whale
emerging from his watery bed
Then I would sing a prayer for all
the creatures of this world
from the smallest snail to the biggest whale
That we and they will all prevail
©Helen Webber
Aside from cats and horses, Alice, like
many wild women out there, is a fan
of dancing in the street and in department stores,
Possibly in delicatessens or on the Brooklyn Bridge.
She likes to dance with partners, but is pleased
to dance alone…to show her stuff.
There are many kinds of Palaces in her mind, and some
are real. She knows that you don’t have to be part of any
royal family to dwell in a palace of your own concoction.
More to come about Alice.
If you are an Alice type or know of others, feel free to
describe her. I’d like some of your thoughts.
PS She is ageless.
© Helen Webber 2010
At this point in my life the tides of memory
come rolling in full speed and then slowly retreat
and fade away.
And then a new set of waves sweep in and again
disappear.
What do we remember the most of our childhood?
Do older folks really have a second childhood, or do we
really have three or four or five or six? Maybe we have
so many that we lose count.
How many childhoods are living in you?
I’d love to hear your answers.
Helen
© Helen Webber
This is the beginning of a new series from my collection of Doodles.
A mix of fantasy and froth mixed in with words.
Doodles are emanations from the subconscious, because you are
creating images while your thinking of something else.
They simply emerge as if by magic. The tell-tale signs are inky fingers.
And by the way, The doodle collection will be available as prints.
Details of sizes and prices to follow.
© Helen Webber
GOSSAMER WINGS
Could I leave this mess of dishes
and crumpled clothes?
Could I resist wiping spills and a runny nose?
Could I unworry myself
From preparing the proper food,
Could I, the mother of this wild and restless brood
change my earthbound creeping caterpillar self
and take my childhood dreams off the shelf,
and shed the cocoon and fly far away
over golden hills and silvery streams
melting my children’s magic into my dreams—
with these gossamer wings, who’s to say
where this flight of our imagination
will take us some day?
from THE FOUR SEASONS OF MOTHERHOOD
an 8 page e-boolet celebrating the four stages
of motherhood from infant to adult. Available to send
as an on linebooklet to elebrate mothers.
© Helen Webber, 2010
Is it canvass wrapped around
a wooden rectangle
painted trees from a certain angle,
a crowded dusty city scene
or memories from
a shadowy dream?
Is the paint stroked on
or is it scrubbed?
Is it nameless
or can it be dubbed?
where is it in this vast world of art?
if you want to know
just click on the cart.
And when she’s done
that’s when she’s just begun.
And when she’s done
that’s when she’s done in.
Does her art get thrown
in the veritable dust bin?
Is she special?
Did she say anything new?
Or is it the same age old stew
of potted plants in a still life?
Or does the bowl of fruit
represent the artist’s strife?
She goes on line
to dig in the mine,
to find her place in a very long line.
Everyone wants to get in
to the inter net.
It’s a place to be, and yet
it’s a very iffy bet.
It’s a mind game.
but it’s her game
and she’s lame
because she won’t follow the rules
and let herself be measured by fools.
Is it dough?
I don’t know.
Did I get into the show?
Who makes the rules of the game?
Who decides she’s a Name?
Who is the ruler
of an artists success?
who says what good is?
It’s anyone’s guess.
It’s late in the game
for her to ask this stuff.
It’s a lame game
in scene that’s so rough
asking: “hey baby are you in style?”
“Maybe baby, just for a while.”
But she still wants to know
Did I get into the show?
NO OLDIE LEFT BEHIND
or WHOSE BEHIND IS LEFT?
A ditty by an old biddy.
My Face. Your Toosh.
Your Space. My Smoosh.
Our Twitter. Your titter.
Eat less. Be fitter.
Don’t trust your baby sitter.
Yes, I’m 80 and I am bitter.
Linked up and linked in
still linked to Rin tin-Tin.
You tube and also flickr
is your i phone really quicker,
than racing down to catch the call.
from the phone down the hall..
I used to bake fine rugalah
now I cook with Googelah
to search and find who I am
and wonder: can I eat that spam?
I can dance the Lindy
and even do the blog
I have a web site
as webbed as a frog
But I’m an Old hippy,
and I think I’m in hell.
No one will tell me
what is HTML?
