A Walk

 

I’m taking my bumblebee for a walk

He likes to drink you see

Floral syrup is his brew

He gets it all for free!

 

I’m taking my Robin for a walk

He flies from tree to tree

It’s hard for me to keep abreast

When Robin’s on a spree

 

I’m taking my butterfly for a walk

He likes to drink each day

Nectar is his beverage

A sip and he’s on his way

 

I love to walk with all my friends

They have so much to say

If only I could understand

Then maybe they would stay

Days of Rhyme and Reason

 

There are more than 7 billion people in the world. I believe there are more than 7 billion, billion stories to be told. Some people are masterful with the written word. Some stories can only be properly told orally or visually. Sometimes that story takes generations to find a conclusion. And sometimes they never do.

My mother used to say that she was not artistic. She felt that she couldn’t paint or write stories. And yet my mother’s story was told through her children. And even though she is gone, her story lives on. I happen to think it is a wonderful story. Especially the way it intertwines with mine.

My story does include paintings that have evolved as I have evolved. My story also includes writing. The very first poem that I ever wrote was:

Eyes like a Hawk

Ears like a fox

Legs like a deer

To run through the year

I may have been eight when I wrote this. But I was proud of it. And so were my parents. They encouraged me. But my angst got in the way and I didn’t write again for many decades. My mother’s father wrote poetry during World War I. We found the originals a few years ago. I thought they were quite spectacular but then I’m probably biased. He was my grandfather!

My brother and I both paint and we both write. Our forms are quite different. My sister doesn’t paint or write but she is an incredible party planner. We all have our strengths. And we all tell our story differently and to different people. It’s like bumblebees moving from blossom to blossom to pollinate. They deposit something and they take something away from each encounter. I guess you could say they spread the love. Our stories interact with others and in doing so becomes part of their story and theirs with ours.

We need each other to survive but it is our individuality that ensures that survival. The problem is that there are some people who don’t quite understand. As I have said in the past the ‘big picture’ is a mosaic made up of a lot of ‘little pictures’. And there are more than 7 billion of them. I wonder how many it would be if we were to count the stories of those who have gone.

As long as we remember those in our past they will live on. Their story will not die. Now is that not a form of immortality?

A Seed Sown

A mighty oak

From a single seed grows

Strength and endurance

That everyone knows

 

But what of the seed

That lands on a stone

No earth for to grow

Forgotten alone

It struggles to live

It battles the odds

But will is the difference

A gift from the gods

 

It may never become

A mighty great tree

But it will touch the strangers

When in passing they see

 

Determined to live

For long or for short

Irrelevant time

Enough to cavort

 

I was the one

I stopped and I saw

Tenacity and drive

It left me in awe

The lesson is learned

No need to grieve

The time will be joyous

If you just believe