Reading harold_maude's journal

Last night was a strange night. I learned how to cut and paste and went a bit crazy with it.
I ended up putting up two copies of "Uncle Bob and the pig" one here and one in the poetry section. Sorry about that.

Some of my older work tells a story about something. I like writing that way. It's like reading a really short book.
I've discovered that how I create definately has a shape to it, like an old tree down in some swamp next to the ocean.

I realize that it will never be to everyone's liking. And that's ok.
Everyone has their own creative voice and all the work that comes from the hands, wether in song or written word or visual surface, the collected work then becomes an immage of the person who created it.
It tells a very definate story.
When you think about it, it's almost a living library of human existance.

The only problem is, there are only so many days in a life and only so much time and so we can miss reading much in the living library.

I'm a little cracked tea cup
tangled in the roots
an old oak tree
feeds me

I can weave the threads
and so can you
of tea cups
and cookies
and other fancy things
of dreams
and wishes
and stars
so very far away.

You be the teapot
I'll be the cup
and we'll invite
the ladybug
to be the cookies
decorated with sugar
in so many different colors
and on a sunny afternoon
we'll all sit down
in the tangled roots
of the old oak tree
and lay a cloth
of linen and lace
and have a tea
all propper and fine
and upon our dreams
we'll feast and dine...

It only looks that way because your standing on your head.