I will tell you something about stories They aren’t just entertainment. Don’t be fooled. They are all we have you see, all we have to fight off illness and death You don’t have anything if you don’t have stories. He rubbed his belly. I keep them here Here, put your
As young children we are replete with impressions, needs and affective responses, ( feeling states). We play in the ambiance of literal and non-literal descriptors as we find words to distinguish these images and experiences. We relay on our short history of experience and the interpretations that proximate adults and children offer to us, through
In the previous post I offered a poem by Gwendolyn Brooks. This poem is a a supplication, inviting us to gather up the parts of us that have been disinherited. The words are strong, unapologetic. The timing, the rhythm , the repetition, soothing us into ease. Her language evokes a state. It builds a place,
Infirm Everybody here Is infirm. Everybody here is infirm. Oh. Mend me. Mend me. Lord. Today I Say to them Say to them say to them, Lord: Look! I am beautiful, beautiful with My wing that is wounded My eye that is bonded Or my ear not funded Or my walk all a-wobble I’m
“Everybody here Is infirm. Everybody here is infirm. Oh. Mend me. Mend me. Lord.Today I Say to them Say to them say to them, Lord: Look! I am beautiful, beautiful with My wing that is wounded My eye that is bonded Or my ear not funded Or my walk all a-wobble I’m enough to be