Thirty-five years ago John Denver wrote a song dedicated to his wife Annie. They were separated at the time and headed for divorce.
As he prepared to record the song, someone decided it would be a good idea to pair a country singer with a Spanish tenor. So John Denver and Placido Domingo got together in a studio and recorded what I believe is one of the most beautiful love songs ever written.
Though it only had modest commercial success, rising to 59 on the billboard 100 and 22 on the on adult chart, it has sold over four million copies.
On this Sunday morning, following another difficult week in our world, I think we can all find time for a moment of love. What better way than through music.
Sitting on my lap and laughing at
something only you understand,
your hands come up to my face as you
bounce up and down on my lap and then
gently lay your head on my aging chest.
You won’t remember how that made me feel.
I tell you that I love you, that you’re
precious and funny and smart and
one day when you grow up you’re
going to hold someone in your arms
the way I’m holding you in this moment.
But you won’t remember my words.
You’re just nine months old but your eyes
can tell a story with only the sound of a smile,
and when you fall asleep nestled against me,
life rewinds to another time and place
that others whom I held will also not remember.
Time doesn’t exist in moments like this.
So I’ll hold you quietly against me until you wake,
until they tell me it’s time for you to go,
and you’re lifted away, watching your arms reach
out to me again so that our fingers touch for the
briefest of moments in an instant embrace.
You won’t remember the day that two women separated by
ninety years held each other and laughed.
Sometimes I enjoy playing around with children’s poetry…:)
I live inside a turtle shell,
where no one bothers me.
I spend the days in perfect haze,
just dreaming lazily.
I slowly move from place to place,
I’m in no rush to find,
what I don’t know or can’t explain,
for that I don’t have time.
My Buddy is a snapper,
I chose him carefully,
if you don’t want a part of him,
you’ll want no part of me.
We hang around the marshy ponds,
with weeds and mud galore.
I never have to shower once,
now who can ask for more?
Sometimes my Buddy comes inside,
and spends some time with me,
he listens while I talk with him,
he’s real good company.
I live inside a turtle shell,
where no one bothers me.
I spend my time in perfect rhyme,
Why not? I’m only three!
I couldn’t try to explain this one if i tried. Not sure where it came from..:)
The flagon fills my senses
with nashiness, like a
bad pootie tam on a
boiled florentine nib.
It ain’t easy being
a bathroom stall. One might
be encouraged to believe
the sight lines reflect a
positive expose’ of
But the flesh ain’t fresh and
it’s positively not reflected
in the langoine oasis of
Words find their way to
my waliforms. Vulgar words.
Words that harass the membranes
of warbled tooties.
Designs of phlox drudgeries
escape from the artistic dreameries
and elope into colorful mutations
that party dress my outer being.
I’m violated in the most obensilly
numbness and no one cares. They clean
around my waliforms, freshen the airiness
with smelts of crumagen, modify the
foot foundations and humify the
prestoleum foils of zumber.
But they ignore me. My
scars, my defects. My war paint
remains for each new visitor
to transcript the imaginable.
It’s a bathroom stall. So please,
next time you visit, have a little
composition for my flecticide. If not,
you can take your prendaballs and
send them up your assimulations.
Being an upscale one-eyed fiber nut is
not easy. Sitting in a see through
bag for months watching as people
pass you by or fondle you before tossing
you back into the crowd is degrading.
It makes a well respected nutritional
snack like me feel cheap. I’m not some
chintzy peanut that gets grabbed in handfuls
and thrown back into someone’s beer
infested mouth. I’m a pistachio. I got
class. One ounce of me and you get as much
potassium as half a large banana, a “delicate”
fruit that gets black and brown and soft
in a few days. Weakness isn’t part of my
package. My veins aren’t flowing with
saturated fats. I’m prime monounsaturated.
Tell that to your cholesterol hungry pals.
I got more fiber than broccoli or spinach so
where’s my five servings a day billboard
from the medical community. I’m especially
rich in phytosterol. You don’t know what
that is because you don’t speak my language.
You’re too hung up on peanut butter or
black beans. But I have more B-6 in a one ounce
serving than three ounces of those lightweights.
Still not convinced?
Then let me speak in sexual terms. That always
seems to be an attention grabber. I’m not your
typical easy nut. You can’t just grab me and
have your way. You first need to get
past the shell I put up around me. It’s a
process I call foreplay. It’s been used
by others in more vulgar ways, but I created it.
So now you know. I don’t come cheaply and
I don’t compromise. I expect some respect.
Treat me well and I will stimulate the growth
of your body’s cells and tissues. Enough
sex talk for now. I don’t want you to get the
wrong impression. If you don’t want me for
what’s inside, then you’re just a shallow individual
who doesn’t understand nutritional worth. If that’s
the case, then let’s just end this now. I’m looking for
a lasting relationship. I don’t have time for
one night stands.