Picking or Pushing Daisies

by Don Ray Williams
March 10, 2008

You may consider me a little bit crazy.
But I really enjoy walking and picking up daisies.
Bright yellow and orange and white ones too,
When you find happy flowers, there is no way to feel blue.

Sometimes on my walk, a bunny I’ll see,
All furry and happy and bouncing with glee,
Or a bright green parrot, high up on a limb,
He has one eye on me and I have two eyes on him.

When the sky is clear and the sun is bright,
You can’t help but think, that all is alright.
And even when the rain appears,
It just cools the day and cleans the air.

So much to see. So much to do.
No time to waste for me (or you),
So while some might think me a little bit crazy,
I just remember that it is better to be picking, than pushing up daisies.

1 thought on “Picking or Pushing Daisies

  1. I was asked to publish the following link by one of my Panamanian readers, as a comment. She also included her idiomatic translation for English readers.

    Blog: Del escritorio de Guillermo Urbizu
    Entrada: Son ellos: los poetas

    Vínculo: http://www.guillermourbizu.com/2007/12/son-ellos-los-poetas.html

    Here is her translation of what you will find at that URL.

    THEY ARE: THE POETS

    There are people with such sharp sensitivity that they hear in the waves the heart of history. Or in the huge blue of the sky translate the light the horizon suggests. They descend to the depths of sadness and ascend to the peaks of music. In the pages of books they watch the anthem of the breeze. And under the willows they perceive the Lord’s presence among the shades. In solitude, they are never lonely. They revive from the shadows of those summers. They sometimes get up in the early hours of the morning to listen to the breathing of the night and surrender to the mystery of the soul. They think violets in the middle of the snow. They spend their life looking for in the lather of time the eternity of a kiss, of lilies, or of dreams. On the streets they go by chasing a strand of light or of silence, or of a simple image to find shelter. They transform pain into a melody that draws itself in the pentagram of a caressing hand. They read between the lines the rain or the swinging of a body. They go back and forth without moving, restful in the restlessness of their writing. They are: the poets.

    Thanks to the reader that sent this as an email.

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