On Walt Whitman’s Birthday, I Felt Like A Witch

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The last day of May and

not a ice cream cone in tact.

It’s like it’s someone’s birthday;

a celebration song of myself

as Walt Whitman said, where the  

“Houses and rooms are full of perfumes”.

Not unlike a ghost or a magnet, I say that

absence makes the perfume smell stronger.

Chemistry can be without material

while words can be meaningless and forgettable.

Because nothing smells better than a reunion.

This makes me gaze up after stuffing my face

With distractions to ask you –

What’s more important?

The life of a child or the life of a rare gorilla?

Mothers never lack conviction.

To Whitman, he knew nothing else but miracles.

Poets have a magnetic way

of making a celebration out of nothing,

like ice cream and perfume and evolution.

So why do I feel like any moment

a house is going to drop on me

and I’m going to come out evil?

 

May 2016

Found poem: Inspired by Whitman’s poem, “Song of Myself” published in 1855

 

I Wonder What You Dream

A Children’s Bedtime Poem by A.E.Edwards

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Illustration by Maurice Sendak

I wonder, wonder,

what’s in your head,

what you’re dreaming,

while you lie in bed.

Is it about princes?

Or wizards?

Or a Dragon’s Lair?

Is it about frogs?

Or worms?

Or a Princess, fair?

Maybe it’s about a crazy zoo?

A one-eyed pirate?

Or a dinosaur that’s blue?

Maybe it’s about a twinkling star,

a distant light

that grants wishes from afar?

I bet it’s about a magic carpet ride!

Or singing flowers

that sway side to side!

Maybe it’s about a friendly beast?

Or a purple butterfly?

Or a big ice cream feast?

This dream, this wonder,

this fairly tale,

is yours to dream,

and your’s to tell.

Whatever the story,

put it in your mind to keep,

Let it enchant you

as you fall fast asleep.