“What shall we have for breakfast?”
Katie asked her Dad.
He said, “Let’s have something no one else
in the world has ever had.”
“How about a bowl of sunshine
soaked in morning dew ?
Or cookies made from rainbows
just for me and you.
We’ll drink from crystal goblets
filled with clear blue sky.
Roll clouds in sugar and cinnamon
then bake them into pies.
We’ll wash our hands and faces
in a gentle summer rain.
Then dry them on a warm spring breeze
as we walk home down the lane.”
“Isn’t that kind of silly?” Katie said at last.
“Well you never know until you try,” Dad said.
And they both began to laugh.

©2000 Guy Workman

In the still of morning you hear his approach
by the rustling of the leaves.
Like magic you feel him touch your skin
with the kiss of a gentle breeze.
He’s painfully shy, for though you look
you never see his face.
He’s a rover, a rambler, a gypsy spirit
ever moving place to place.
But in rare moments, growing quite bold,
he grabs you  and starts to spin.
You lose yourself to youthful glee
and go dancing with the wind.
You dip, you whirl,  spin round and round,
you get so dizzy you fall to the ground.
Still he’s teasing, twirling here and there.
Tugging your shirt and tasseling your hair.
I hope dear friend that once in your life
you will feel the joy within.
That comes from simply letting go
and dancing with the wind.

Know What?
I don’t want to
never, ever, ever
grow old.
Not after what I’ve seen.
We went to visit
Grandma and Grandpa
in a house that’s
purple and green.
They must be  
A million years old,
or at least maybe forty-five.
Mom and Dad
said they looked really good.
I’m amazed they’re
still alive.
They didn’t have a bit of candy.
Just crackers
dipped in honey.
Their clothes didn’t fit  
and the whole house
smelled kind of funny.
They were
thin as a rail,
white as a ghost,
blind as a bat
and deaf as a post.
They said
it was amazing
how I haven’t changed.
Then all day called me
by my brothers’ name.
They say
it happens to every one.
And it’s not so bad
I’m told.
But still....
I don’t want to
never, ever, ever
grow old.

© 2000 Guy Workman

I stand at the very edge of tomorrow
looking back at yesterday.
Holding that moment clutched in my hand,
when night first turns to day.
I can see the sun, the moon, the stars
like jackstones at my feet.
While by the door, time just stands
tapping out a beat.
The universe yawns and stretches
across the vast, dark sea.
Knowing this long, lazy dawn
will last an eternity.
My eyes are drawn to the shuffling sound
of time as he moves on.
Always forward. Always forward.
Always, all alone.
Through the doorway lies the future.
Endless miles of narrow halls.
With windows of opportunity
lining every wall.
It’s here and now that really counts.
For nothing else is real.
The past is dead and ground to dust
under times never ceasing wheel.
The future is a waking dream
we act out every day.
Built on mist and held in place
by nothing more than faith.
Slowly, slowly I open my hand
to the purple, pink, predawn.
Knowing that everything before this moment
is forever gone.

A creaking, crotchety, crooked old man
walked down a wide, winding path.
He saw a poor pig poised high in a tree,
so he let out a cackling laugh.
“You sweet, silly swine.
How did you get there?
My old puzzled mind must know”.
The plump, pink pig
from his roost in the tree,
raised his head and started to crow.
The old, crafty codger clapped with delight.
“What a weird wild wonder is this!”
“To see such sights at this time in my life
is surely a cause for bliss.”
“Maybe a wicked wind whisked you there.”
He laughed as he spun round and round.
“Or might Mama eagle, on her way home,
  dropped you where you are now?”
The poor pig peered down at the thin, old man
bent in the bold, bright sunlight.
When he heard the man laugh,
the pig got mad,
flew up and popped out of sight.

© 2000 Guy Workman

I love to walk the fields at dawn,
barefoot through the dew.
To sit and watch the rising sun
turn the dark sky blue.

Some days are bright with promise,
like a budding tree.
Some are dark and blow right by
like an autumn leaf.

Each day is a gift we’re given,
fragile, like fine glass.
Ours to mold and try to hold
before it hurries past.

© 2000 Guy Workman

What if...
        An elephant got
        caught in the rain.
        And started to melt
        Like a candy cane.
        Until nothing was left
        But an elephant-sized stain.

What if...
Cows and pigs could fly?
Riding the breezes way up high?
Like four-legged gas bags
grazing the clouds.
Mooing and oinking
as they float all around.
But one thing I’m sure
I would not like to see.
Is one perched on a limb,
right above me.

© 2000 Guy Workman

What if...

sunshine poured down like rain,
filling the gutters, ditches and drains?
Hand in hand, wandering the streets,
we splash pools of sunshine with our bare feet.
Jumping and splashing, what a glorious time,
walking together knee deep in sunshine.