World Citizen Dreaming
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| Blog Name: | World Citizen Dreaming |
| Url: | http://www.worldcitizendreaming.wordpress.com |
| Language: | English |
| Topics: | writing, story, poetry |
| Description: | Poetry, stories, photographs, slide shows and collages exploring themes of unity in diversity. |
| Popularity: | 22 Followers |
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Gone Nanowrimo
Dear Readers, I’ve gone nanowrimo for the month, there will be no blogging until December. All the best to you fello nanowrimos out there, onward to 50,000 words. I am glad to be in the company of the Soul Fooders whilst doing this. June
Dear Readers, I’ve gone nanowrimo for the month, there will be no blogging until December. All the best to you fello nanowrimos out there, onward to 50,000 words. I am glad to be in the company of the Soul Fooders whilst doing this. June
Hummingbird
the yellow honey eater is dipping her beak into the remembrance of human lives her wings hum around the desires of hunger lingering in human bellies sweetness not enough to stop this burning, wirring of wings questioning and seeing the small she sees the young beggar with a bent leg stretching her arms bent in an orangutan style she was forced to cut one limb and scooter for her supper she hums around the desire for freedom above a girl child stuck at a loom her fingers enslaved to craft carpet for traders who bargain for child labour she is wizzing abov
the yellow honey eater is dipping her beak into the remembrance of human lives her wings hum around the desires of hunger lingering in human bellies sweetness not enough to stop this burning, wirring of wings questioning and seeing the small she sees the young beggar with a bent leg stretching her arms bent in an orangutan style she was forced to cut one limb and scooter for her supper she hums around the desire for freedom above a girl child stuck at a loom her fingers enslaved to craft carpet for traders who bargain for child labour she is wizzing abov
Trolley Wars
I The wheel doesn’t turn the way that it should It just has a soul of its own It can’t be tamed by the suburban circus mistresses Nor will it listen to my kids. The frustration is crawling under my skin Weeling its way like a bug on a biting spree The wheel doesn’t turn the way that it should It veers from left to right, ready to lunch On unsuspecting shoppers out on their grocery prowls. Mums and Dads are simply cursing As their children call out for lolley treasures The wheels don’t turn the way that they should. The children don’t act like they could. The ch
I The wheel doesn’t turn the way that it should It just has a soul of its own It can’t be tamed by the suburban circus mistresses Nor will it listen to my kids. The frustration is crawling under my skin Weeling its way like a bug on a biting spree The wheel doesn’t turn the way that it should It veers from left to right, ready to lunch On unsuspecting shoppers out on their grocery prowls. Mums and Dads are simply cursing As their children call out for lolley treasures The wheels don’t turn the way that they should. The children don’t act like they could. The ch
Wind Dancer
My daughter sings through her feet Down to the tip of her toes. She hums in a constant drone Of the zipping cyclonic winds. She’s a Monica dancing a flood Whose fury dies down in an instant. She’s the wind dancer of our home My daughter with winds in her feet. (From the Vault – of my old poems (c) June Perkins)
My daughter sings through her feet Down to the tip of her toes. She hums in a constant drone Of the zipping cyclonic winds. She’s a Monica dancing a flood Whose fury dies down in an instant. She’s the wind dancer of our home My daughter with winds in her feet. (From the Vault – of my old poems (c) June Perkins)
The Green Broom
Voice of the Bab’s Servant Mubarak Sweeping, sweeping Clearing pathways For Him to walk on Making a befitting place for Him To be with Khadijih. Sweeping, sweeping Another auburn Autumn leaf Falling Still not here But assuring her He will return For each and all Winter trees Pencil like gray outlines Fragile like her weeping. But I know He will return. Spring, opal Green like my broom Painted for His honour. When will He be here To see the blossoms On the trees. Blood red blossoms Fluttering like her happ
Voice of the Bab’s Servant Mubarak Sweeping, sweeping Clearing pathways For Him to walk on Making a befitting place for Him To be with Khadijih. Sweeping, sweeping Another auburn Autumn leaf Falling Still not here But assuring her He will return For each and all Winter trees Pencil like gray outlines Fragile like her weeping. But I know He will return. Spring, opal Green like my broom Painted for His honour. When will He be here To see the blossoms On the trees. Blood red blossoms Fluttering like her happ
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