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Archive for the ‘our children’ Category

wws-visit

Look who paid me a visit during the holidays. Yes, Wordsworth of my four children’s books of Wordsworth the little mouse poet who makes a difference with his poetic voice. But more than his visit, I heard this today. Remember Janet, the autistic woman who is finding such comfort in Wordsworth? Last night, her family found her reading the poem on thunderstorms from my book,Wordsworth the Poet. Janet is extremely afraid of thunder but last night, she fell asleep with the book in her hands. Thank you, Wordsworth!

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A former first grade student of 50 years ago, got in touch to thank me for teaching her how to read and for adding literature to her life. I sat stunned thinking, “I taught her to read. Imagine that.”

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Somewhere  a child is looking in as I did, at Christmas as it ought to be:Lighted Christmas trees, presents, carolers at the door, snowflakes andSanta Claus with bundles of toys. Somewhere a 16 year old is looking in, as I did, at romantic firesides, two lovers with crystals filled with wine with sounds of carolers at their door. Somewhere a parent is looking in, knowing the ink has run  dry for another loan as flashes of bank ads promise cash to make Christmas right.

Somewhere still, a child is drawn to the sound of bells and puts his last dime into the kettle red. Somewhere a child is visiting the forgotten in nursing homes with cookies of lopsided trees and four pointed stars sprinkled with red and green.Somewhere a child hands a loaf of warm bread and a cup of cocoa to a homeless who blesses the child, then returns home, looking in.

On Sale

I walk the city under neon lights

Watching shoppers dodge and fight

The endless maze of traffic rush.

They toss in pennies

In corner pails

As chimes ring out

All joy to the world.

They hang out wreaths

On window panes

They wrap and curl

Green plastic bows.

They’ve listened good

To the Adman’s soul.

He’s promised them Joy.

Peace. Love.

Happiness. Goodwill.

Hallelujah to all.

I wonder how many people here tonight

Fear the coming of the promised morn.

( From my Golden Spike, 1973)

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A  Plea

They call me ugly.

They call me names.

But I don’t cry.

I feel nothing.

They call me ugly.

They call me names.

I feel sad.

I feel mad.

But I don’t cry.

I feel scared,

Oh so scared

Of thunder and lightning

But I don’t cry.

I feel different.

So please stop.

That’s not nice.

Don’t be mean.

I have muscles.

And I don’t cry.

I feel nothing.

By Mr. Kramer’s and Mrs. Williams’ classes

The students, ages 18-22,  all won my heart.I had the honor of visiting two classrooms of students who live with Autism.It all began with my children’s book Wordsworth the Poet.Janet, one of the  students with autism,  found so much comfort and joy with Wordsworth, that she and her family invited me to read Wordsworth the Poet to her classmates. Wordsworth is a little mouse poet and that is the cause of his problem. People make fun of him and call him different. But he continues to be a poet and at the end, his family, friends and villagers accept him for who he is.

“They still cannot understand why Wordsworth is what he is. They still cannot understand

how Wordsworth can feel and see so many things. But they no longer worry about him or make fun of him. Now they look at Wordsworth and say, “Wordsworth is a poet.”

Excerpt from Wordsworth the Poet

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Hope

The song is dead.

The swordsman takes

The Victor’s stance.

But somewhere, still

A newborn child

Hears the promised song.

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(more…)

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If I were Judge, I would not use punitive sentences to those who are not of danger to our communities, instead, I would sentence them to acts of human kindness.

For  a year or two or three, go out into the community and conduct acts of kindness to strangers. If guilty of a hate crime, adopt a family of your “hate” and aid them in becoming a part of our community. Work with the children and help them adjust to our schools. Punitive actions do not seem to alter negative human nature…Studying our history of human injustice has not made much of a dent. Perhaps,we need to use human kindness instead of intellectualizing with history and dialogs.


					

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