Maggie Shurtleff is the mom of three wild boys in Connecticut. She reads, writes, teaches and learns. She often gets caught in esoteric conversations with her children when she has to really pay attention to the road-> there by her lack of attention to their exact wonderings have lead them to believe the world is like a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. The top bread is the sky. The bottom bread the earth. We're the peanut butter side and when the moon shines on us the jelly side is dancing all wiggly like - and that's why we have dreams.
So you see, there is no fine line, there's gigantic leaps from sanity to not - and all you need is a mother who doesn't want to get into an accident as she's answering your sagacious questions. And by the way - I just learned the word sagacious and thought I'd use it right now - aren't you lucky! Hope to find you healthy and happy between peanut chunks or wiggles and not floating among bread particles, either way there; you're a bit screwed.
Please send comments to Maggie.


So tell me young man
Maggie Shurtleff
So tell me young man
where is it that you saw faith -
was it in a church or a temple
maybe in a forest or sea.

Was it in a child's eye
or laughter
maybe in the cry or coo.

Was it like an old penny
found on the street -
did you bend down pick it up
rub it clean & blow away the dust

or did you slip it in your
pocket as is.

Was it one of those things
staring you right in the face
for the longest time - and you
just never saw it like
your wife who asked you for years
to wipe the peanut butter
off the spoon before putting
it in the dishwasher.

Was it held neatly under your
finger nails mixed in with the sweat
and sawdust, soiled and grimy

Was it, this faith you have
buried under your thick hide
and only felt once your insides
were turned outside and the rawness
of you pained upon whispers

Tell me, young man, I want to know
where to go, what to do, what not to do
to get this faith - or a faith like yours—

an unwavering, all saving, no burden
type of faith you have that lets you
glide freely above us... .

I want to lay my worries down
just as you put aside all that
stained and pricked.

Tell me, is there enough room for me
Is there enough of—whatever it is
that makes you shine-so happy,
is there enough to share with the likes
of me.

Is it too late.
Tell me, is it too late.

Maggie Shurtleff©2005
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last update 23.03.2016