When debate gets personal and inflamed,
You cry: 'Why can't you talk like an adult?'
'Why can't you engage in adult conversation,
without the claptrap, rants and rage with hurls of abuse and name calling?'
But, I wonder if this is really wise.
For out of the mouths of babes big things grow!
Little voices, utter unfiltered truths.
Resplendent in their concise simplicity.
Unbound by convention's constraints.
They see the world with profound clarity devoid of taints.
They ask easy questions, from their inquiring minds,
That challenge adult's cluttered and confused assumptions.
Their untamed and unabashed honesty in talk,
Cuts to the quick of the question's inner core and kernel.
Children see the world with fresh, clear eyes,
Unfettered by custom fetish, bias or disguise.
Innocent voices, unfiltered and all too true,
Speak simple truths, we've forgotten we knew.
Adults need to speak more child-like,
to be truly useful, helpful and truthful.
Sight, sound, feelings converge, to point sublime,
Until what once was so, is barely there.
As last gasp grasp exhales slip-away time,
Ear, eye strain to catch last glimmer of care.
Fleeting touch lost, dulls to memory bliss,
As soft caress on fingertip so light.
Begs the mind's grip to grasp what senses miss,
As feelings slip into cold heartless night.
You strain to catch the last requiem note.
The faintest whisper of a distant call,
Echoing faint, each refrain more remote,
Straining to be heard, memory's recall.
The decline to vanishing point so sharp,
It cuts to the quick of grip on cliff's scarp,
Midst the twilight of wakefulness and sleep
Our minds meander to places shallow and deep.
They visit domains that while awake we won't go
Depicting ourselves when old, feeble, and slow.
But in only a dozen deepening breaths more
We grow wings and over mountain peaks soar.
Our free-roaming minds are rife with surprises
Letting us look behind old friends' disguises.
We learn with shock of a teacher's double life
It cuts to the quick like a long-bladed knife.
We must have envisioned scenes of these kinds
And hidden them away in the niches of our minds.
Only in twilight do they come to the fore
And make our wanton thoughts a wide-open door.
Walking Stick
Drifting thoughts roll
Through my mind
Full of rhythmic tones
Pulsing in eternal rhyme
Arriving in scattered words
A trove of jewels glimmering
Floating before me as rare birds
Basking, I begin shimmering
Picking out each golden word
Carefully placing them on paper
Choice nibbles of songs unheard
Safe from being a useless vapor
Every word is power packed
Heals hearts or cuts to the quick
Can move us on or set us back
Words are a writer’s walking stick
Carole Cookie Arnold
Hearts be broken
Hearts be quick
Hearts heal faster
When it cuts to the quick
The memories so broken
Stand in unrepair
Why love again
Why would you dare
Is there still hope
Is there still passion
Or this time your love
Will you ration
Do you follow your heart
Or has it learned
The pain and agony of
Getting burned
Do you love again
Trust again
Or are you a fool
And let Satan cast you
In something so cruel
Satan will keep you alone
And in agony
And your heart will turn cold
And this is the tragedy
For the rest of your days
Your heart is protected
But your heart withers dry
From being rejected
I challenge you now
To let your heart heal
To find someone special
And allow it to feel
Love, pure love
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