Slow Dance
 

Slow Dance
This is a poem written by a teenager with cancer.
She wants to see how many people get her poem.
It is quite the poem Please pass it on.

SLOW DANCE

Have you ever
watched
kids
On a merry-go-round?

Or listened to
the rain
Slapping on the ground?

Ever followed a butterfly's erratic flight?
Or gazed at the sun into the
fading
night?

You better slow down.

Don't
dance so
fast.

Time is short.

The music
won't
last.

Do you run through each day
On the fly?

When you ask How are you?
Do you hear
the
reply?

When the day is done
Do you lie
in your
bed



With the next hundred chores
Running through
your head?

You'd better
slow down

Don't dance so
fast.
Time is
short.
The music won't
last.

Ever told your
child,
We'll do it
tomorrow?

And in your
haste,
Not see his sorrow?

Ever lost
touch,
Let a good
friendship die

Cause you
never had time
To call
and say,'Hi'

You'd better slow down.
Don't dance
so fast.



Time
is short.
The music won't
last..

When you run
so fast to get somewhere
You
miss half the fun of getting
there.

When you worry and hurry
through your day,

It is like an unopened
gift....
Thrown
away.

Life is not a
race.
Do take it
slower

Hear the
music
Before the song is
over.



------------
--------

Bravo
 

I bow down to your spirit
and your poetry that is clear truth.

You have to slow down.
You repeat that theme.

It is one of the main things that they are teaching me
at the Continuum Movement.
It helps a lot too, to actually practice moving, walking, dancing, eating; in ultra-ultra slow motion. Try it, you'll like it.

But in everyday life, that is where you apply it: SLOW DOWN. Your actions, your thoughts, the while kit and kaboodle, just slow down.

I'm in business. Got to be practical. Well guess what? Slowing down makes it all get done much, much faster.

Now this poet has got me clicking at my keyboard, and I am amazed at the grace and the truthfulness and the courage of this poem; You are young; most of us on this site are old. You teach us a lesson about seeing with the heart, and there is an outpouring of love that you brought about, by touching from human to human over the generations and despite the pain.
In our "condition" we get to see the best and the worst; that poem and its author are shining examples of the very best that is so often hidden; the best of the human heart.

author of the poem
 

I am sorry that I don't know the name of the author. I received it by forward email which said:
This poem was written by a terminally ill young girl in a New York Hospital.

Imad

This was sent to me by a member of the gone now Als site. I keep it in front of me at the computer every day.








She let go.
Without a thought or a word, she let go.
She let go of the fear.
She let go of the judgments.
She let go of the confluence of opinions swarming around her head.
She let go of the committee of indecision within her.
She let go of all the ‘right’ reasons.
Wholly and completely,
Without hesitation or worry,
She just let go
she didn’t ask anyone for advice
She didn’t read a book on how to let go.
She didn’t search the scriptures.
She just let go.
She let go of all of the memories that held her back.
She let go of all of the anxiety that kept her from moving forward.
She let go
Of the planning
And all of the calculations
About how to do it just right.
She didn’t promise to let go.
She didn’t journal about it.
She didn’t write the projected date in her Day-Timer.
She made no public announcement and
Put no ad in the paper.
She didn’t check the weather report
Or read her daily horoscope.
She just let go.
She didn’t analyze whether she should let go. She didn’t call her friends to discuss the matter. She didn’t do a five-step Spiritual Mind Treatment. She didn’t call the prayer line. She didn’t utter one word. She just let go.
No one was around when it happened. There was no applause or congratulations. No one thanked her or praised her. No one noticed a thing. Like a leaf falling from a tree, she just let go.
There was no effort. There was no struggle. It wasn’t good and it wasn’t bad. It was what it was, and it is just that.
In the space of letting go, she let it all be. A small smile came over her face. A light breeze blew through her. And the sun and the moon shone forevermore…”
In the last analysis, we see only what we are ready to see, what we have been taught to see. We eliminate and ignore everything that is not a part of our prejudices.

Great poem - author isn't sick girl
 

I love the poem and wanted to share with some of my friends, but thought I would check it out first.

It was actually written by a child psychologist, David L. Weatherford, and can be found on his personal web site.

http://www.davidlweatherford.com

I found the music annoying, so I just turned off my speakers.

Tip-toe carefully when there is a shrink around
 

Hmmm. A child psychologist pretending to be a sick teenage girl?? Not a good sign.

Or no, I guess other people after him added on the part about the girl.
Could have fooled me. If something is on the internet, it has to be true, right?
Anyway, I still like the poem, but the aspect of it coming to us old folks from a teenager was an important part of the magic.

Don't blame the shrink
 

Yes, that is exactly what happened, Bob. It has been part of a long-running hoax, not of the author's doing.

See http://www.snopes.com/inboxer/medical/slowdance.asp

I still love the poem.

Judith

Deliberate, successful mass poetry reading
 

This was a great example of internet subversion. The poet and the person who attached the story about the little girl, both love this poem and both felt a strong desire to tell everyone about it; and they succeeded immensely.
That was a message being sent out, folks. On purpose.
And it was sent out for free, around the world.
As Parkies, we see the best and we see the worst.
The poem, the poet, the merry prankster - they hoped they would get the message out, and I guarantee you they are tracking it with warmth and glee, I guarantee you they use search engines to pick up every mention of it, and so may see this. Good work!
I have been deeply pondering this dark thing, the one where nobody cares, and they drill holes in people's heads and then drop them, and they falsify the research and test drugs on African children and the sinemet shortage and Mirapex lawsuits and my friend Cecil died alone in the forest, which is maybe what he wanted to do in the end, but I doubt it would have been his first choice if he had choices.
I got up this morning, and I was very thirsty, but there was no whiskey around.
And so, somebody called Imark 3000 or something like that - probably a cyborg from another dimension, pins this poem on my door and moves quietly away.
So I felt compelled to read this poem.
And it brought back to me that we also see the best; that we must slow down and see the best, and so it does not matter whether it was written by a schoolchild or not. It's a timeless message, from person to person to person.
Look at us here right now. We are still hooked on it.
Good work, folks, in getting that poem-message-love-letter out to millions of people.
The creators of beauty are the true revolutionaries.

Cowboy's prayer
 

Okay Imark3000, your got us into reading that poem, slowly, and we had to read it again. And Thelma tells us about this poem she keeps beside her computer. And it's all real. So just to oblige YOU to read, slowly - always read slowly if it is worth reading - now you have been dragged in to what is stuck on my fridge door (C'mon, you can imagine yourself being a cowboy or cowgirl) On my fridge:

I am grateful that I'm placed so well
That I lived my freedom so complete
No slave to anybody else’s hell
Nor weak-eyed dealer on Wall Street

Just let me live my life as I've begun
And give me work that's open to the sky
Make me a partner of the wind and sun
And I won't ask a life that's soft or high

Let me be easy on the man that's down
Let me be square and generous with all
I'm careless sometimes when I go to town
But never let them say I'm mean or small

Make me as big and open as the plains
And honest as the horse between my knees
Clean as a wind that blows behind the rains
Free as the hawk that circles down the breeze

Forgive me if sometimes I forget
You know about the reasons that are hid
You understand the things that gall or fret
Well, you know me better than my mother did

Just keep an eye on all that's done or said
And right me sometimes when I turn aside
And guide me on that dim trail ahead
That stretches upward toward the great divide

Bob: This some body called Imark3000 is me
 

" And so, somebody called Imark 3000 or something like that - probably a cyborg from another dimension, pins this poem on my door and moves quietly away"

This some body has 430 contributions to this forum, is 67 years old and has made friends with members of the forum for some years now.
I think that respect of others is the landmark of this forum and I am sorry to see an intelligent an tallented person like you violating the basic rules of this forum.
Imad