I Wore a Taffy Dress: Poetry (Poetry for a Dime Book 1)
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Many or few the loves that may Shine upon her silent way — God will love her night and day, My Love, Annie. Dinah Maria Mulock Craik. A Song for a Child. Sing, I pray, a little song, Mother dear! Neither sad nor very long : It is for a little maid, Golden-tressed Adelaide! Therefore let it suit a merry, merry ear, Mother dear. Let it be a merry strain, Mother dear! Shunning e'en the thought of pain : For our gentle child will weep If the theme be dark and deep ; And we will not draw a single, single tear, Mother dear!
Childhood should be all divine, Mother dear! And like an endless summer shine ; Gay as Edward's shouts and cries, Bright as Agnes' azure eyes : Therefore bid thy song be merry : — dost thou hear. Mother dear? Bryan Waller Procter Barry Cornwall. Such fun as we had one rainy day, When father was home and helped us play, And made a ship and hoisted sail, And crossed the sea in a fear- ful gale! But we hadn't sail'd into Lon- don town, When captain, and crew, and vessel went down — Down, down in a jolly wreck, With the captain rolling under' the deck.
So mamma said she would be p'lice- man now, And tried to 'rest us. She didn't know how! Then the lion laughed, and forgot to roar, Till we chased him out of the nursery door ; And then he turned to a pony gay, And carried us all on his back away. Whippity, lickity, kickity, ho! If we hadn't fun, then I don't know! Till we tumbled off, and he cantered on, Never stopping to see if his load w T as gone. And I couldn't tell any more than he Which was Charlie and which was me, Or which was Towser, for, all in a mix, You'd think three people had turird to six, Till Towser's tail had caught in a door ; He wouldn't hurrah with us any more ; And mamma came out the rumpus to quiet, And told us a story to break up the riot.
Hannah Moke Johnson. My little rabbit is alive, And likes his milk and clover ; He likes to see me very much, But is afraid of Rover. I've got a dove, as white as snow, I call her " Polly Feather ;" She flies and hops about the yard, In every kind of weather. I think she likes to see it rain, For then she smooths her jacket ; And seems to be so proud and vain, The turkeys make a racket. The hens are picking off the grass, And singing very loudly ; While our old peacock struts about And shows his colors proudly.
I guess I'll close my letter now, I've nothing more to tell ; Please answer soon, and come to see Your loving little Nell! Wisconsin Farmer. Shining eyes, very blue, Opened very wide ; Yellow curls, very stiff, Hanging side by side ; Chubby cheeks, very pink ; Lips red as holly ; No ears, and only thumbs — That's Polly's dolly!
I make all your clothes- Don 't I make them neatly? And to you I sing my song — Don't I sing it sweetly? I gave you a pinafore, With many ribbons gay ; And I sing and talk to you, Till darkness hides the day. Pussy purrs, and birdie sings, But you are like a mouse — Never even thanked me, Doll, For pretty bran-new house! And if I e'er forget you, Doll, And leave you in your place All the day, yet not a frown Is seen upon your face.
I wish that I could teach you, Doil. All prettily to say 'Thank you! I once had a sweet little doll, dears, The prettiest doll in the world ; Her cheeks were so red and so white, dears, And her hair was so charmingly curled. But I lost my poor little doll, dears, As I played in the heath one day ; And I cried for her more than a week, dears, But I never could find where she lay.
I found my poor little doll, dears, As I played in the heath one day ; Folks say she is terribly changed, dears, For her paint is all washed away. And her arm trodden off by the cows, dears, And her hair not the least bit curled ; Yet for old sakes' sake she is still, dears, The prettiest doll in the world. Chart-es Kingsley. Come and see my baby dear ; Doctor, she is ill, I fear. Yesterday, do what I would, She would touch no kind of food, And she tosses, moans, and cries. Doctor, what do you advise? Good madam, tell me, pray, What have you offered her to-day?
Ah, yes, I see — a piece of cake ; The worst thing you could make her take. Just let me taste. Yes, yes, I fear Too many plums and currants here ; But stop! I will just taste again, So as to make the matter plain. But, doctor, pray excuse me ; oh, You've eaten all my cake up now I I thank you kindly for your care, But do you think 'twas hardly fair? Oh, dear me! Did I eat the cake? But keep her in her bed, well warm, And you will see she'll take no harm. At night and morning use, once more. Her drink and powder as before ; And she must not be over-fed, But may just have a piece of bread.
To-morrow, then. I dare to say, She'll be quite right. Dear doll, how I love you! She gave me a workbox, Cloth, scissors, and thread, To make tiny sheets For your neat little bed. Then I hope to make garments Much larger than these — Warm hoods, gowns, and cloaks, That the poor may not freeze ; And then, if I'm asked where I got all my skill, I'll tell them 'twas making Your dress, cloak, and frill. Our doll-baby show, it was something quite grand; You saw there the loveliest dolls in the land.
Each girl brought her own, in its pret- tiest dress ; Three pins bought a ticket, and not a pin less. For the doll that was choicest we of- fered a prize ; There were wee mites of dollies, and some of great size ; Some came in rich purple, some lilac, some white, With ribbons and laces — a wonderful sight!
Now, there was one dolly so tall and so proud She put all the others quite under a cloud ; But one of us hinted, in so many words, That sometimes fine feathers do not make fine birds. We sat in a row, with our dolls in our laps ; The dolls behaved sweetly, and met no mishaps. No boys were admitted — for boys will make fun ; Now which do you think was the dolly that won?
Soon all was commotion to hear who would get The prize ; for the dollies' committee had met; We were the committee ; and which do you think Was the doll we decided on, all in a wink? Why, each of us said that our own was the best, The finest, the sweetest, the prettiest drest ; So we all got the prize. We'll invite you to go The next time we girls have our doll- baby show. You needn't be trying to comfort me. I tell you my dolly is dead! There's no use saying she isn't, with a crack like that in her head. It's just like you said it wouldn't hurt much to have my tooth out that day; And then, when the man 'most pulled my head off', you hadn't a word to say.
And I guess you must think I'm a baby, when you say you can mend it with glue! As if I didn't know better than that! Why, just suppose it was you! You might make her look all mended — but what do I care for looks? Why, glue's for chairs, and tables, and toys, and the backs of books! My dolly! Oh, but it's the awfullest crack! It just makes me sick to think of the sound when her poor head went whack! Against that horrible brass thing that holds up the little shelf.
I know that I did it myself. I think you must be crazy — you'll get her another head! What good would forty heads do her? And to think I hadn't quite finished her elegant new spring hat! And I took a sweet ribbon of hers last night to tie on that horrid cat! When my mamma gave me that rib- bon — I was playing out in the yard- She said to me most expressly, " Here's a ribbon for Hildegarde.
Oh, my haby! I wish my head had been hit! For I've hit it over and over, and it hasn't cracked a bit. But since the darling is dead, she'll want to be buried, of course ; We will take my little wagon, Nurse, and you shall be the horse ; And I'll walk behind and cry; and Ave'll put her in this, you see — This dear little box — and we'll bury her then under the maple tree.
And papa will make me a tombstone, like the one he made for my bird ; And he'll put what I tell him on it — yes, every single word! I shall say : " Here lies Hildegarde, a beautiful doll who is dead ; She died of a broken heart and a dreadful crack in her head! Oh, papa! We played at a sail on the sea ; The old arm-chair made such a beau- tiful ship, And it sailed, oh, as nice as could be. We had for a passenger grandmam- ma's cat, And as Tom couldn't pay he went free ; From the fireside we sailed at half- past two o'clock, And we got to the sideboard at three.
But oh! The whale was the sofa, and it, dear papa, Is at least twice as large as our ship ; Our captain called out, " Turn the ship round about! Oh, I wish we had not come on this trip! There wasn't a thing That didn't feel, Sooner or later, The weight o' my heel ; I felt as grand As grand could be ; But oh the whipping My mammy gave me! Mary Mapes Dodjse. I've got two hundred soldiers, An army brave and true ; And some are dressed in blue and red, And some in white and blue. Marching along, marching along, Little lead soldiers, gallant and strong. There are fifty little clean white tents, And half a dozen forts, And twenty bright brass cannon, And all of different sorts.
I put them in the window-seat, And don't they just look fine? March, march, stiff as starch, Little soldiers mine! I'd like to be a soldier, And wear the red and blue ; I suppose the shots don't hurt as much As people say they do. My soldiers never mind the peas, Although they hit so strong, And Avhen they fall I pick them up, And make them march along. Frederick E. I'm a king, a king! A crown is on my head, A sword is at my side, and regal is my tread ; Ho, slave! Vacation shall not end; all slates I order smashed ; The man who says "Arithmetic," he must be soundly thrashed ; All grammars shall be burnt; the spellers we will tear; The boy who spells correctly, a fool's cap he shall wear.
No dolls shall be allowed, for dolls are what I hate ; The girls must give them up, and learn to swim and skate ; Confectioners must charge only a cent a pound For all the plums and candy that in the shops are found. All lecturers must quit our realm with- out delay ; The circus-men and clowns, on pain of death, must stay ; All folk who frown on fun at once must banished be. Xow, fellow, that you know my will, to its fulfilment see! Alfred Selwyn. Wee Willie Winkie rins through the town, Up stairs and doon stairs, in his nicht- gown, Tirlin' at the window, cryin' at the lock, "Are the weans in their bed?
The cat's singin' gay thrums to the sleepin' hen, The doug's speldered on the floor, and disna gie a cheep ; But here's a waukrife laddie that winna fa' asleep. Onything but sleep, ye rogue! Waumblin' aff a bodie's knee like a vera eel, Ruggin' at the cat's lug, and ravellin' a' her thrums : Hey, Willie Winkie! Weary is the mither that has a storie wean, A wee stumpie stoussie, that canna rin his lane, That has a battle aye wi' sleep before he'll close an ee ; But a kiss frae aff his rosy lips gies strength anew to me.
William Miller. Even and firm, two by two, — Three eager, upturned faces, Bonny brown eyes and blue. I am sorely tried,- — I, a hard-hearted old hermit. Who the question am set to decide. Poor little empty palms! A frown steals over her charms. You smile, — do you so much care?
Unclasp your little pink fingers : Ah ha! For into my heart you have stolen, As sunbeams to shadows creep. Only nine, — With your bright, brown hair all shining, While the gray is coming to mine. What was it that Charlie saw, to- day, Down in the pool where the cattle lie? A shoal of the spotted trout at play? Or a sheeny dragon-fly? The fly and the fish were there in- deed ; But as for the ipuzjXe, — guess It was neither a shell, nor flower, nor reed, Nor the nest of a last year's wren.
Some willows droop to the brooklet's bed ; — Who knows but a bee had fallen down? Or a spider, swung from his broken thread, Was learning the way to drown? You have not read me the riddle yet. Not even the Aving of a wounded bee, Nor the web of a spider, torn and wet, Did Charlie this morning see.
Now answer, you who have grown so wise, — What could the wonderful sight have been, But the dimpled face and great blue eyes Of the rogue who was looking in? Will she come in my arms to rest, And nestle her head on my shoulder, While the sun goes down in the west? Or endeavor to understand? Only holds up her mouth to kiss me As she strokes my faee with her hand. I don't think it is such a comfort One has only one's self to blame. Effie smiles, but she will not speak, Or look up through the long curled lashes That are shading her rosy cheek.
Perhaps 7 am thinking, my darling, Of something that never can be. And I — I am sometimes afraid, dear, I want as impossible things. It is bedtime ; so run away ; And I must go back, or the others Will be wondering why I stay. And two for her sleepy eyes. A kiss when I wake in the morning, A kiss when I go to bed, A kiss when I burn my fingers, A kiss when I bump my head; A kiss when my bath is over, A kiss when my bath begins ; My mamma is as full of kisses — As full as nurse is of pins. A kiss when I give her trouble, A kiss when I give her joy : There's nothing like mamma's kisses To her own little baby-boy.
I will clasp my hands around my brother, And say, ' Little children love one an- other. Under the apple tree, spreading and thick, Happy with only a pan and a stick, On the soft grass in the shadow that lies, Our little Fanny is making mud- pies. On her brown apron and bright droop- ing head Showers of pink and white blossoms are shed ; Tied to a branch that seems meant just for that, Dances and nutters her little straw hat.
Dash, full of joy in the bright summer day, Zealously chases the robins away, Barks at the squirrels or snaps at the flies, All the while Fanny is making mud- pies. Sunshine and soft summer breezes astir While she is busy are busy with her ; Cheeks rosy glowing and bright spark- ling eyes Bring they to Fanny while making mud-pies. Dollies and playthings are all laid away, Not to come out till the next rainy day ; Under the blue of these sweet sum- mer skies Nothing's so pleasant as making mud- pies. Gravely she stirs, with a serious look " Making believe " she's a true pastry cook ; Sundry brown splashes on forehead and eyes Show that our Fanny is making mud- pies.
But all the soil of her innocent play Soap and clean water will soon wash away ; Many a pleasure in daintier guise Leaves darker traces than Fanny's mud-pies. Between the dark and the daylight, When the night is beginning to lower, Comes a pause in the day's occupa- tions, That is known as the Children's Hour. I hear in the chamber above me The patter of little feet. The sound of a door that is opened, And voices soft and sweet. From my study I see in the lamp- light, Descending the broad hall-stair, Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra, And Edith with golden hair.
A whisper, and then a silence : Yet I know by their merry eyes They are plotting and planning to- gether To take me by surprise. A sudden rush from the stairway, A sudden raid from the hall! By three doors left unguarded They enter my castle-wall! They climb up into my turret, O'er the arms and back of my chair ; If I try to escape they surround me; They seem to be everywhere.
Do you think, blue-eyed banditti, Because you have scaled the wall, Such an old moustache as I am Is not a match for you all '? Kitty — ah, how my heart blesses Kitty, my lily, my rose! Wary of all my caresses, Chary of all she bestows. And there will I keep you for ever, Yes, for ever and a day, Till the walls shall crumble to ruin, And moulder in dust away!
Henby Wadswobth Longfellow. Have you seen Annie and Kitty, Two merry children of mine? All that is winning and pretty Their little persons combine. Annie is kissing and clinging Dozens of times in a day — Chattering, laughing, and singing, Romping and running away. Annie knows all of her neighbors, Dainty and dirty alike — Learns all their talk, and, "bejabers," Says she " adores little Mike.
Annie is full of her fancies, Tells most remarkable lies Innocent little romances, Startling in one of her size. Three little prayers we have taught her, Graded from winter to spring ; Oh, you should listen my daughter Saying them all in a string! Kitty loves quietest places, Whispers sweet sermons to chairs, And with the gravest of faces Teaches old Carlo his prayers.
Matronly, motherly creature! Oh, what a doll she has built — Guiltless of figure or feature — Out of her own little quilt! Naught must come near it to wake it ; Noise must not give it alarm ; And when she sleeps she must take it Into her bed on her arm. Kitty is shy of a caller, Uttering never a word, ' But when alone in the parlor Talks to herself like a bird. Kitty is contrary, rather, And, with a comical smile, Mutters " I won't " to her father, Eying him slyly the while. Loving one more than the other Isn't the thing, I confess ; And I observe that their mother Makes no distinction in dress.
Preference must be improper In a relation like this ; I wouldn't toss up a copper — Kitty, come, give me a kiss! Planting the corn and potatoes. Helping to scatter the seeds, Feeding the hens and the chickens, Freeing the garden from weeds, Driving the cows to the pasture, Feeding the horse in the stall, — We little children are busy ; Sure, there is work for us all, Helping Papa. Spreading the hay in the sunshine, Raking it up when it's dry, Picking the apples and peaches Down in the orchard hard by, Picking the grapes in the vineyard, Gathering nuts in the fall, — We little children are busy ; Yes, there is work for us all, Helping Papa.
Sweeping and washing the dishes, Bringing the wood from the shed, Ironing, sewing, and knitting, Helping to make up the beds, Taking good care of the baby, Watching her lest she should fall,- We little children are busy ; Oh, there is work for us all. Helping Mamma. Work makes us cheerful and happy Makes us both active and strong ; Play we enjoy all the better When we have labored so long.
Gladly we help our kind parents. Quickly we come to their call, Children should love to be busy, — There is much work for us all, Helping Papa and Mamma. Busy little fingers, Everywhere they go, Rosy little fingers, The sweetest that I know! Now into my- work-box, All the buttons finding, Tangling up the knitting, Every spool unwinding! Now into the basket Where the keys are hidden, Full of mischief looking, Knowing it forbidden. Then in mother's tresses, Now her neck enfolding, With such sweet caresses Keeping off a scolding. Daring little fingers, Never, never still!
Make them, heavenly Father, Always do thy will. I'm tired to death Because I have nothing to do. I can see where the boys have gone to fish; They bothered me, too, to go, But for fun like that I hadn't a wish, For I think it's mighty " slow " To sit all day at the end of a rod For the sake of a minnow or two, Or to land, at the farthest, an eel on the sod : I'd rather have nothing to do.
I'm sure they've been out for hours ; I wonder what makes them stay? Ned wanted to saddle Brunette for me. But riding is nothing new ; " I was thinking you'd relish a canter," said he, " Because you have nothing to do. For he seems so happy and gay, When his wood is chopped and his work all done, With his little half hour of play : He neither has books nor top nor ball, Yet he's singing the whole clay through ; But then he is never tired at all Because he has nothing to do.
I will be a grizzly bear, Prowling here and prowling then Sniffing round and round about, Till I find you children out; And my dreadful den shall be Deep within the hollow tree. Roaring like a lion strong, Just now as you came along ; And she'll scream and start to- night If you give her any fright. You shall be the hens and cocks, In the farmer's apple tree Crowing out so lustily ; I will softly creep this way — Peep — and pounce upon my prey ; And I'll bear you to my den, Where the fern grows in the glen.
Go and climb the trees again! I, and little May, and Jane, Are so happy with our flowers! Jane is culling foxglove bells, May and I are making posies, And we want to search the dells For the latest summer roses. I sha'n't shut up my eyes at all, And so you need not fear ; I'll keep them open all the while, To see this picture here. For this will never do. The cottage-work is over, The evening meal is done ; Hark! The children shout with laughter. The uproar louder grows, E'en grandma chuckles faintly, And Johnny chirps and crows.
There ne'er was gilded painting Hung up in lordly hall Gave half the simple pleasure This rabbit on the wall. When o'er life's autumn pathway The sere leaves thickly fall, How oft we sigh, recalling The rabbit on the wall! Catherine Allan. Under my window, under my win- dow, All in the midsummer weather, Three little girls with fluttering curls Flit to and fro together : — There's Bell with her bonnet of satin sheen, And Maud with her mantle of silver green, And Kate with her scarlet feather. Under my window, under my win- dow, Leaning stealthily over, Merry and clear the voice I hear Of each glad-hearted rover.
Under my window, under my win- dow, In the blue midsummer weather, Stealing slow, on a hushed tiptoe, I catch them all together : — Bell with her bonnet of satin sheen, And Maud with her mantle of silver green, And Kate with the scarlet feather. Under my window, under my win- dow, And off through the orchard-closes, While Maud she flouts, and Bell she pouts, They scamper and drop their posies.
But dear little Kate takes, naught amiss, And leaps in my arms with a loving kiss, And I give her all my roses. Thomas Westwood. Not long ago I wandered near A play-ground in the wood, And there heard a thing from youth- ful lips That I've never understood. But what he pushed, or where it went, I could not well make out, On account of the thicket of bending boughs That bordered the place about.
Her bright hair floated to and fro, Her red little dress flashed by, But the liveliest thing of all, I thought, Was the gleam of her laughing eye. Swinging and swaying back and forth, With the rose-light in her face, She seemed like a bird and a flower in one, And the wood her native place. I'll send you up, my child! Don't touch me. Mary Mapes Dodge. Quiet, dear! Bed-gown white, Kiss Dolly ; Good night! Fast asleep, As you see ; Heaven keep My girl for me!
They've taken away the ball, Oh dear! And I'll never get it back, I fear ; And now they've gone away, And left me here to stay All alone the live-long-day In here. It was my ball, anyway — Not his, For he never had a ball Like this. Such a coward you'll not see, E'en if you should live to be Old as Deuteronomy, As he is. I'm sure I meant no harm — None at all!
I just held out my hand For the ball, And somehow it hit his head ; Then his nose it went and bled. And as if. I'd killed him dead He did bawl. I'll go and be a babe In the wood! Then they'll never call me Rough and rude. How hungry I am getting! Let me see — I wonder what they're going to have For tea?
Of course there will be jam, And that lovely potted ham. How unfortunate I am! Dear me!
River Rat (A Novelette)
Won't they bring me any light? Must I stay in here all night? I shall surely die of fright ; Oh dear! Mother, darling! I am sorry that I hit him Such a crack! Yes, 'tis her voice I hear! Now good-bye to every fear. For she's calling me her dear Little Jack! Answer that question for me.
All the day long, with your busy con- triving, Into all mischief and fun you ' are driving ; See if your wise little noddle can tell What you are good for. Now ponder it well. The clock is on the stroke of six, The father's work is done ; Sweep up the hearth, and mend the fire, And put the kettle on ; The wild night-wind is blowing cold, 'Tie dreary crossing o'er the wold. He's crossing o'er the wold apace, He's stronger than the storm ; He does not feel the cold ; not he — His heart it is so warm ; For father's heart is stout and true As ever human bosom knew!
He makes all toil, all hardship light ; Would all men were the same! So ready to be pleased, so kind, So very slow to blame! Folks need not be unkind, austere, For love hath readier will than fear. Nay, do not close the shutters, child. For far along the lane The little window looks, and he Can see it shining plain. I've heard him say he loves to mark The cheerful fire-light through the dark. And we'll do all that father likes ; His wishes are so few — Would they were more — that every hour Some wish of his I knew! I'm sure it makes a happy day When I can please him any way.
I know he's coining, by this sign — 'Hark! Run, little Bess, and ope the door, Heaven bless the merry child! And do not let him wait! He's father's self in face and limb, Shout, Baby, shout, and clap thy hands. And father's heart is strong in For father on the threshold stands! The chill November day was done, The working-world home-faring ; The wind came roaring through the streets, And set the gas-lights flaring, And hopelessly and aimlessly The scared old leaves were flying, When, mingled with the soughing wind, I heard a small voice crying ; And shivering on the corner stood A child of four, or over ; No cloak or hat her small, soft arms And wind-blown curls to cover ; Her dimpled face was stained with tears, Her round blue eyes ran over ; She cherished in her wee, cold hand A bunch of faded clover.
And, one hand round her treasure, while She slipped in mine the other, Half scared, half confidential, said, "Oh, please, I want my mother! Don't cry ; I'll take you to it," Sobbing, she answered, " I forget ; The organ made me do it. I've walked about a hundred hours, From one street to another ; The monkey's gone ; I've spoiled my flowers ; Oh, please, I want my mother! Now think a min- ute. I ought to be at home To help him say his prayers — He's such a baby, he forgets, And we are both such players ; And there's a bar between, to keep From pitching on each other, For Harry rolls when he's asleep ; Oh dear!
I want my mother! I tied a kerchief round her neck : " What ribbon's this, my blossom? A card, with number, street, and name! Who fed me from her gentle breast, And hushed me in her arms to rest, And on my cheek sweet kisses pressYl? My Mother. When sleep forsook my open eye, Who was it sang sweet hushaby, And rocked me that I should not ciy?
Who sat and watched my infant head, When sleeping on my cradle bed, And tears of sweet affection shed? When pain and sickness made me cry, Who gazed upon my heavy eye, And wept for fear that I should die? Who dress'd my doll in clothes so gay, And taught me pretty how to play, And minded all I had to say '?
Who ran to help me when I fell, And would some pretty story tell, Or kiss the place to make it well '. Who taught my infant lips to pray, And love God's holy book and day, And walk in wisdom's pleasant way? And can I ever cease to be Affectionate and kind to thee. Who wast so very kind to me, My Mother. Ah no! And if God please my life to spare. I hope I shall reward thy care. When thou art feeble, old, and gray My healthy arms shall be thy stay, And I will soothe thy pains away, My Mother. And when I see thee hang thy head, 'Twill be my turn to watch thy bed, And tears of sweet affection shed, My Mother.
For God, who lives above the skies. Jane Taylor. Grandmamma sits in her quaint arm- chair ; Never was lady more sweet and fair ; Her gray locks ripple like silver shells, And her own brow its story tells Of a gentle life and peaceful even, Little girl May sits rocking away In her own low seat, like some win- some fay ; Two doll-babies her kisses share, And another one lies by the side of her chair ; May is as fair as the morning dew, Cheeks of roses, and ribbons of blue.
When you were little, what did you play? Were you good or naughty the whole long day? Was it hundreds and hundreds of years ago? And what makes your soft hair as white as snow? And a dolly like this, and this, and this? Did you have a pussy like my little Kate? Did you go to bed when the clock struck eight?
Did you have long curls, and beads like mine, And a new silk apron with ribbons fine? I Saying. A beautiful child with throat like snow, Lip just tinted like pink shells rare, Eyes of hazel and golden hair, Hand all dimpled, and teeth like pearls, — Fairest and sweetest of little girls. Wouldn't I love her like everything! Wouldn't I with her frolic and sing! Say, dear grandmamma, w T ho can she be? Still," she added with smiling zest, " I think, dear grandma, I like you best. Was to grow a beautiful grandma for me.
I'm sure I can't see it at all What a poor feller ever could do For apples, and pennies, and cakes, Without a grandmother or two. Grandmothers speak softly to " ma's " To let a boy have a good time ; Sometimes they will whisper, 'tis true, T'other way w T hen a boy wants to climb. Grandmothers have muffins for tea. And pies, a whole row, in the cellar, And they're apt if they know it in time" To make chicken-pies for a feller.
And if he is bad now and then, And makes a great racketing noise, They only look over their specs And say, " Ah, these boys will be boys! And the hills that are far, far away. Quite often, as twilight comes on. Grandmothers sing hymns very low To themselves as they rock by the fire, About heaven, and when they shall And then a boy, stopping to think. Will find a hot tear in his eye, To know what must come at the last, For grandmothers all have to die. I wish they could stay here and pray. For a boy needs their prayers ev'ry night — Some boys more than others, I s'pose ; Such fellers as me need a sight, Ethel Lynx Beers.
Golden Hair climbed upon grand- papa's knee. Dear little Golden Hair! The ambivalent force of the surreal resists conventional rational categories of intellectual discourse. Behind its elusive potency of mood and charged associations lie the fundamental ambivalence and non rational power of the sacred. Bison Jul Always Been a Little Scrapper. Giving in to making small talk chatter.
Collateral atoms scatter over my head Perfect pitter pattered patterns. Behind my eyes grey matter That feels in tatters After it burned out the rafters. Is my skull getting fatter? Madder than your favorite hatter. And I won't get an ever after. Never been a dodge drafter I meant a draft dodger. And who made Daffy dafter?
Bugs and carrots for my Satur- Day morning napper. Paint splattered pancake batter. Knife and fork clatter. Belly never felt so dapper. What a Knee slapper! Always been a little scrapper Even when I was bigger batter. And I don't know no pastor But I got the spirit moving faster. Probably should've been a future rapper But I could never be a present wrapper And I'm more wrapped up in the past four Years that were snatched by time snatchers. But now I'm bored by this rhyme planner So I'm gonna go get a snack or Two.
Camilla Green Oct Future Days: A Response. Nighttime ivy ringlets caught and pulled, like taffy, sunshine tendrils into rocky satellite white. She swung sunbeams into starlight And I thought it'd drone on forever. Nighttime ivy ringlets caught sunshine tendrils, pulled them into rocky satellite white, like taffy. With firefly breath, I wished on dandelion dust for December's cruel weather to warm, so we could sleep forever on the concrete floor and it'd feel like Pennsylvania moss and twigged leaves.
Saturn would bloom to petal dust in your wake and you would never feel small. And I thought cocoa butter was our solace, that you'd be drenched in chocolate wishes that turn ribboned skin to soft smile scars. The Earth would lay enveloped and confessed- a dripping orb of love and light thrown against the burning oblivion of the universe. I pull in the horizon like a great fish net So much life in its meshes! I call in your soul to come and see. With the spring equinox, four-leaf clovers withered and died, still-lit birthday candles melted into oceans and heads-up pennies piled into roadway castles, unwanted, unneeded by someone who forgot who she was.
I thought, for a moment, that I'd been wrong. Within that rim of rose, there is ungravity and life on Mars. But this world is a rememory of drought and oil spills, drowning you in a warm, sweet, malignant blanket of braided brown hair and tokyo tickets. To you, my whispering lips screamed for palmers- for 13 ounces of memories that were never mine, and still, you slathered it on.
Our streetlights set and the sun flickered out, the pennies I never reached for, someone else had picked up, and the clovers I ignored, I now ached for with all my heart. Evan Stephens Mar Distress Call. Yama Day Tinta Aug The radio alarm is a bit too strong for his afternoon hangover taste.
He goes downstairs, sets the coffee to brewing, rubs his hands through the hair on his face. Daniel Paicopulos The History of Love There is nothing I would change about my life, even if I could, because it all brought me to you. There is nothing I would build, not from paper, stone or wood, except that which created me and you. There is nothing I could say, even if I should, that speaks louder than the me in you. Back later to write! Walt Wojtanik "but you never balk at talking until I enter the conversation. This how the line should have read.
Beth Rodgers Hi everyone! Great work so far! Looking forward to an awesome month of poetry! Having lost everything She would come to realize Would be the existential catalyst For learning so much more. Penny Henderson Stephen Truth telling--that's what got me here. A dangerous tactic at best, and this time, I fear, fatal. Blinking out of this world into his will be like sloughing winter clothes that first warm day in April. I see the door to perfect spring opening now before me. Sorry--you must stay, live with regret and hope to find forgiveness. I pray it for you.
I, though, will walk out singing the song I opened the show with. Truth telling, that's what'll get me home. Nancy Posey Right Here One week from now, the house will be reduced to just us two, the third and last, headed South not just for winter but for good, and now I know how my own family must feel, eight hours away. I was the one to leave, packing up our everything, the kids, the dog, the stuffed Canada goose, standing, mounted in the backseat, rocking forward on that first long drive to our new home-- and home it is, wrapped in mountains, a view that makes me marvel every morning, peeking out the window as I dress to see reflections of the sunrise, the sky violet behind the blue-- Grandfather, Table Rock, sometimes snow-capped, wrapped in clouds.
Back home, my other home, Shoal Creek still feeds into the Tennessee, water washing over the dam heads this way too, past banks from which I waded, fished, threw bread crumbs to the ducks, watching bream surface for their share. For fifteen years I haven't wet a hook, but still I find comfort in the Catawba, traffic floating past my house, boaters, jet skis, Fourth of July fireworks mirrored each year.
Now I'll know for sure that though I wave at their passing, they won't be mine. Even the siren's scream from the highway east of here won't make me take a head count.
- Archives - Poetry Super Highway.
- Nadirs Fire;
- See a Problem?.
I'll know that just as we found our way here, to home, they're finding their own way too. Happy NPM everyone. My today to-do list: write poem check play April Fool's joke words. It wasn't though careful analysis or luck so dumb it didn't know the Alphabet Song. Neither a red cap nor blue shoes, a stripped tamarack nor a blooming azalea. The sea wasn't smooth, wasn't fierce, as the air was not stagnant or fragrant. There was no Voice commanding out of the Firmament, not even a whisper issuing from the cleft of a dying man's lips.
But it was a desk in classroom plain as prose, and a girl with a single pencil that rolled by the senseless law of gravity to bounce once, twice and settle at the feet of a boy who didn't know the time of day but knew enough to pick it up and hand it over with almost a smile and that, my cherubs is the way you get into an Epic of the Heart, by bowing slowly and looking up, and then letting it go.
Tilly Bud Perhaps a little more than I ought to share about my parents. It may be the journey that matters most, but at this moment I covet a seat by the fire. Karen H. Phillips What a rich beginning! Can't wait to get back to my laptop, after I breakfast out with hubby--one of our "off day" traditions. Hmmmm, there's a topic. Looking forward to our month together, Robert and company.
MiskMask Thanks for the mention, Jerry. A Half-Baked Poet And so I learnt to bake, no pennies saved for goodness sake, but a need to know, a need to knead, a new hobby, to lobby for renewed self, to re-awake what age nibbles away from ones appearance, a need for reinvention, an intervention before I'm blown away as a speck of dust or mistaken as a rusty well-used kitchen tool. And so I bake, I'm a baking fool, my pantry filled with rye and spelt, multi-grain and minty-green bags of premium white that lean against favourite seasoned tins.
Yeasts quick, yeasts instant, I beg fresh yeast off bakers like children begging for money, and yet it seemed funny that my need to knead, to bake my way into an new identity led me straight into your waiting arms. To write, words soar, my thoughts rising, half-baked what surprise I might today awake. Michelle Hed A Spark Lost and wandering in world of gray shades, looking for a purpose, a meaning - Found a spark in the gray shades glowing yellow and growing - Like a water drop ripple my world turned from gray to colorful hues as the spark grew - Found a purpose, an enjoyment in all things, no longer lost.
At the expense of sounding crazy, my thoughts get hazy and I wander. I wonder what lies ahead but feeling dread instead. A fine unnatural balance, wearing this valance like the shroud it is. Darkness offers no recompense, and you plead the only defense you can, insanity. You were crazy not to have seen it. Walking a fine line between help and hell. Billie Miller - Rudebusch What brought you to me? That's what brought me to you. A miracle of no import, a spark for a fire not yet built, the turn of a spindle- it wobbles, prepares to fall.
RJ Clarken Wow! So many great poems! And so early in the day! Here's one of my entries - a couplet sonnet. Last How did I get to the age I am now? What happened to the years, and how did the past become the time-blurred past? What I thought would last sure didn't last. Yet while I'd be the last to complain it seems my plans were all in vain. I thought I'd be both famous and rich. I wish I could say, 'It was just a glitch. My middle finger?
It lacks the sass it used to have. What now Age can't be the last romance. Like, how can that be? The logic he could craft! Allu Alfred Fears take root young. Fears take shape unsung. Fear of roaches, fear of matches, Fear of dreary corners, And ghostly encounters, But nothing beats the cold jitters, That erupt when faced with unyielding numbers. Mother said "Numbers matter", For they dominate every exchange hereafter. Father said "Numbers hold power", Shy away and be doomed slower. Piled up peer pressure, And divergent desire however, Seal a steady decline into an eternal numerical stammer.
The curling eights and sticky fours pick on the ego, As fumbling attempts to command'em falter, turning you a zero. Under their unrelenting gaze, Stuck in a confounding maze, Your only solace Is to rush back from the chocking world of numbers And find comfort conceding your fears in words. Michael Grove The Journey The journey started with a call. A pillow for a softer fall, Of feathers from an angels' wing.
Then heard the words for all to sing. With broken fragments of a heart. Out of the grave to act the part. Straight from the wind, a voice is heard, To understand and share the word. As if a poem could change a day. To read and seek and find the way. A mood transformed onto a page. By pen of fool and heart of sage. With sandled foot on bended knee. One eye opened up to see. The other resting, prone to reason. Fears not charge of war or treason.
A hot potato passed around. Another metaphor is found. No way to keep this all inside. A sleeping giant cannot hide. It is made out of light and its absence, rubble, and color plates in the Encyclopedia Britannica, leather and gloss and smelling chilly white in Laurie Kolp "All the world's a stage and all the men and women merely players. You had me wrapped around your finger, so I had the power to point it away from myself. I lived according to what I thought I knew.
'Sundress' poems - Hello Poetry
That I should be a little wary of the skinny girls in tight skirts and painted on smiles. But those slick intentions were only sketched out on flesh colored paper by my mind. My own eyes made them dance, made them come alive. So when you finally were done with my games and you turned your back on "us", I fell apart. And you got upset when someone else picked up my pieces. Instead of me, it's you now eating with the big bent spoon out of that gallon bucket of ice cream, hoping it'll heal something.
Instead of me, it's you now wondering what happened. It's you who thinks about the bad times, wishing they were better. But they weren't. Or maybe it's just me, drawing one bent spoon in your sad, empty drawer because I think it'll help me get over you. If you only knew. Back to the library! Ah, a webmaster, or programmer. Is it too late to go back to librarian?
Freelance writer? Hobbyist poet? Hey, my novel's finished! And I'm still writing code. Nobody told me about Points C through Z. Anders Bylund April rocks, probably harder than Cleveland. For what it's worth, my contribution search tool is back and hardly needed any maintenance at all this year. Robert, you're one of my personal heroes. Patricia A. Hawkenson Swan Watch My black mask with emotions tucked allows my signature to elegantly script a watery illusion to flood the page. I don't expect anyone to know if I've left behind a glistening trail. My solitary path of dignity may only be seen by me.
But a bridge leads down and in the quiet inlet reeds and lilies protect the swan. MiskMask The Act of Listening She only heard half of what's said, one hand pressed hard up the side of her head. Her right ear was clear to hear what her left ear could not, as she wanted not to hear what was not really right 35 words. London Bridge is standing firm- The fair lady had at last come home to England: The land of her grandmother's tales. Fashioned out of frosting and rice krispie treats, With the Oregon Trail marked in green sprinkles. At first this history project seemed absurd, Sugar-coating every hill and valley.
But in the end, perhaps all of our attempts To explain our origins leave us gasping: Manifest destiny, guts and glory, luck. We spend our lives reshaping the stories We tell about how we got here, with frosting To cover the cracks we aren't ready to show. Heiberg Next Stop I am passing. I am definitely passing. I am on my way. I am definitely on my way, sitting, in my car, in the train, in the bus, on the ferry. I am going somewhere. Honestly That's why I'm here. Linda Voit What got me here I had walked the dog, fed him and while he squatted in the back yard talked to the neighbor about the aerator he rented for the weekend and how nice it was to feel spring.
I had pulled poetry books by Deb Marquart and Sharon Olds off the shelf in the family room because I love to eat poems with my breakfast. I had made a bowl of Cheerios with strawberries and skim milk a cup of black coffee two pieces of 9-grain bread, toasted with a touch of butter.
The dog settled on my bare toes while I ate. After ten Marquart poems and three Olds poems, it struck me. I jumped up, said Kingston! It's April first! Time for poem-a-day! He looked at me like I had beef and we ran to the computer. Linda Voit Hi guys, If anyone can tell me how to get my name to appear as a link in this like most of you do, I sure would appreciate it.
Another smiling face that tells me I am not valued or important and my suffering and the suffering of my loved ones is something we just have to deal with alone, unhelped, disregarded. That frankly if we went go off to quietly end it all it would probably be a relief to all unconcerned with our welfare because none of us are children anymore and so we have no intrinsic value. The poems we write the songs composed the books we produce are nothing and will not be missed by the smiling faces who seem to think that people aged under eighteen are the only people worth anything that a strange transition happens and across one second a valuable child, a precious child loses all worth and becomes an adult.
So here I am making a small noise banging a small drum and wondering why everyone doesn't see that we are all children and always will be? Elizabeth Johnson Some great poems up already this morning! I have to admit, I'm kind of worried about getting through this month of poeming. My muse has not exactly been cooperative the past few months But for now, a simple shadorma re:what got me to Poetic Asides today. PAD Challenge summons an age old love of words, plying phrases to sweep and swell like cresting waves on paper.
A step into the shallows; the Current pushes me back. I let it. Two steps. Three steps. Will the water take me? Joy Cagil Birdsongs At dawn, I woke up to birdsongs, from strays that sang and flew away. At midday, I lunched with witches from my coven, as my children pulled at my hem, children raised on Enfamil, matchbox cars, and college beer, children who were birds, too, and they flew, singing their own songs. Now, sandhill cranes cry, untamed, unterrified of the golf balls sailing to my porch door, and we sing our songs together, synchronizing sorrows into harmony, for I know, strangers that we are, sandhill cranes will be extinct like me.
Walt Wojtanik Linda, put your link into the "Home Page" box just above the comment box. It should highlight your name and become the link. And thanks for the fun challenge! Nikki Markle Andrew Kreider loved your "Frosting" MiskMask Thank you, Nikki, and I look forward to reading more of your work this month. Yours reminded me of my childhood, fishing mountain streams with my father. Nice memories. Sometimes, he'd totter and fall, and sit and wail to no awail.
But, with time he'd figure it out, and find his way, step by step. Finally, a stride more assured, not so absurd to think that each footprint is a journey attempted. Not exempted in heart or mind he finds direction and purpose. Occasionally, setbacks knock him off track and back to square one. But one foot paces forward, the other leaves an imprint saying "I was here! Words that boggle, a secure feeling putting a man one step ahead of the rest.
His best foot forward earned his reward, one word in front of the other brought him here. No giant leap, keeping his wits about him and as grateful for them as he is for their ability; verbal agility that speaks from the heart, starting one April morn and baby stepping each day to May. It was the tiny trail of terrible men she tossed her heart at, when all they really wanted was her body. The smell of Jack Daniels and weed and the roar of his anger and the torn and tear-soaked pillows and the sound of the plead -ing girl in the mirror go.
The forests of trees she killed along the way bleeding rage to page and praying for forgiveness and redemption and hope. It was the inexact sigh -ence of leaving and the fragile art of loving where she landed. Sheryl Kay Oder Not in the plan I wasn't planned-- at least not this year. Life's events seem to whiz by as my slowing mind and body crawl to catch up. Other Aprils have seen words, phrases, and metaphors crowd out weeds and taxes. I can't afford to keep up that "irresponsible" impulse. Well, maybe today. I'll be waiting with Mother at the ophthalmologist's office.
I can write a poem then. So why do I write now instead? She will be loved. Your muffled cries underneath the covers tell me how you want to die, that you are not perfect like how everyone is or how your family wants you to be no matter how much, how hard, how long you tried. Yet I take your hand and place an iced glove to bring you back from your tears, your pain, your flashbacks I wish I could have read from your medical chart Khadija Anderson What Got Me Here was the wind not just a little breeze but the longest Santa Ana wind in history it blew hot and vicious off the Mojave for three weeks and I arrived in the world screaming with the hot wind And my mother who was pregnant at her wedding cried when I was born she wailed at the pain and at being 18 with a baby What got me here was pain and the howling wind blowing off the Mojave into a world scorching and unfair 74 words.
I cannot say because it is a secret, so no one but me is s'posed to know the destination of the Plan. Because I can - the only answer I will give. I choose to lead this life I live. W 49 words. We are full of DNA, and mostly water, and long, long journeys. In the archaeology of our houses, we've found family Bibles and old photographs, we've handed down stories like ill-fitting clothing. My grandfather's grandfather a German noble. A long line of grandmothers to the Puritans, and the first of many American winters, frozen so solid that tears would turn to salt glass.
Have we ever deserved all this fine ancestry? What have we done lately? Blood is thicker than apocrypha, and the threads of souls run deepest of all. I don't want to tell you about lost countries on far-off continents, and how I have become the sum of their equations. I'd rather speculate that some aunt or uncle, Back Then, also felt different: paisan stableboy catching tongues with another late at night, Weimar torchsinger with painted nails and pierced ears.
I am not one to make claims about genetics: but I can't deny the comfort of thinking in the fleets that sail the histories of my family, there must've been someone who felt this way, once upon a time, and to think that the last of their particles is traveling my self, peeking every so often through these, my eyes. Was it the mini rental car, Or so much more? Do I take the question into existentialism? Do I question the paths I have taken, The choices I have made? Are those the things that have brought me to this place? Was it the abuse caused by during childhood? The neglect and harsh words, the physical pain?
Was it the divorce at such a young age? Have I become who I wanted to be Molded and shaped by all those things in my past Or am I the woman I choose to be by my actions and decisions of now? Do I have the strength to be me? Or do I flounder and go down beneath the weight?
What brought me here today? My past, my present, my hope of the future? I am here, right now That is all I know. For a sip. Just one Sip Of inspiration sweet A sip. Wait till Wednesday Find it there But Wednesday Came and went November rain will surely fall But it didn't rain this year Dreams like mirages Dripping inspiration Eyes filled, but mouth still dry But the earth is round All things return To where they started from Back to April that will be To inspiration sweet 73 words.
Michael Grove On A Clock What brought you to this place in time called April? What brings you here and now is justly query. To validate the ever moving mechanism. It's not for empty hearts to pain or worry. The baby boy came with and thru the eyepiece. He rode here on the arms of the great clock. The hour hand at first the infants' vessel. Remained there thru the tick and then the tock. At thirty seven candles took the great leap. Vanished amidst the numerals of Rome.
Not to far gone to hang there in the circle. And thus the minute hand became his home. But after fifty bells the tower shaken. No more the minute, much to slow it moves. The thinnest hand is sweeping over faces. Grab hold of it and see how life improves. Now no more hands outreaching moving slower. This time and place is second number one. Don't blink or think because you will have missed me. I'm here for now and soon I will be gone.
Kit Cooley Happy April, all! Contrarian There was no trail, and so l blaze one, no right word, and so I make one, that life didn't fit, and thus I weave one, no future in sight, and now I dream one. Linda Voit Thank you Barbara Young! Don't have web page so will put email in there, too and see if it links. Thanks for the thought-provoking "Frosting" Andrew Kreider and the waking of a memory of landing in England Katrelya Angus. And thanks to everyone else, too. I love April. Daniel Paicopulos a silly but kindly homage You knowthe planned ones, For which we set our destinations, Whether figurative or literal, ahead of time; Then plot our path, Pack our provisions, And strike out, Relatively secure in the knowledge We will get there By our own two hands.
Other times, pure serendipity wins the prize For getting us to where we are Landing us square in the middle of Good fortune or not, Where we are left To take advantage of unanticipated Targets of opportunity. And quick thinking alone Makes the outcome our own, As if we are the ones responsible somehow For being where we are, For better or worse. Yet, on occasion isn't it simply The passage of time That allows us simply to be where we are? Mightn't such unplanned "while you wait" moments, Be the sum of the what and the how of where we are Like the instant between breaths When there is neither ebb nor flow?
During those times, We sit in the midst of quiet or turbulence, Doing nothing in particular And certainly nothing of special value Or personal advantage in mind. Such circumstances of time and place Neither sought nor pursued Are gifts of a sortwanted or not, For which there is nothing to do Beyond acknowledging the Unexpected blessing of another moment In the face of a hopefully unexpected, Yet inevitable And today the grass is still the same weary brown. No brave blades have volunteered To lead the lawn into springtime and the robins Try to dig worms in earth frozen harder than strone.
The melting lanes and roads filled with potholes The cars bump and jump like they were part of An amusement park ride. How soon will it be When all the parks are open and beaches, too? And the tourists parade passing in front of our house - Oh! I remember you drooling as the bikinis Swayed on their way to the beach, music sounding From little wires in their ears - Now you are gone and all the parades continue without you. Listen to the chorus of little frogs, singing over and over. The garden empty - asking what happened to the gardener?
Do I explain that the gardener has gone to live in the earth? Like every thing that today is alive and breathing For what is the earth but a collection of dreams waiting Ready to sprout their wings of impossible green.? Domino A rough and twining path often trod by women in this day and age.
Absent father judging her technique. Desperate for some sort of life. Choices forced by circumstance. Working, striving, making a life somehow, out of bits of this and that and random talents she never knew she had. Maybe just the act of making hard choices makes one hard. Maybe it makes one whole. On it, I take daylong trips up Lexington Rd through Concord to the pond, where I float on the dark cold water, soaking up muse and sky, while the bike you built only for me, leans against a tree, ready and waiting. Haven't missed one since Trite but true. Every step you've taken thus far has shaped and formed your Worldly view.
Random thoughts or calculated plots. Schemes and dreams and plans are all a part of the journey that brought you here to where you now stand. Mike Barzacchini Susan's Journey I woke up and it did rain. Then I waited on the train. The bus? Well it too was late. But now I'm here and it is great 20 words. Here's my poem: The Hand of God What brought me here on this vast earth was the miracle of birth The hand of God brought me here with a single tear He brought me here to this place with the creation of grace Debra Ann Gray- Elliott Great 1st day poems everyone! Phillips Write a "what got you here" poem.
Dad spun zany modern fairy tales and tucked me into bed. I scribbled at the kitchen table, turned pages of picture books, wrote stories and verses to show teachers, read of Boxcar Children and Captain Hook. Climbed into the willow at my grandma's to "play-like" with my brother and fertilize imagination. Waxed with purple prose, to the delight of my sophomore English teacher.
A Shakespeare professor instructed me, a poetry professor stimulated my view. Then I turned toward a career of teaching little children, toward marriage, home, and family. I never really forsook the literary life. I slightly shelved it. For some reason, I never thought of writing as a way of life, till our children found their wings, I sought mine, and God lit the way home to the written word. Diane It's amazing to see so many great posts.
I would love to comment on numerous ones, but can't possibly. Great job everyone. Sheryl Kay, I look forward to what ever you are able to post. Hopefully it will be more than you think you will do! Tim, I can relate to your poem. My best inspiration for poeming is this challenge, in spite of intentions to do much more! Michael Grove, what a poignant poem. I hope to see more of yours. Hopefully I'll get going on my own now, after reading so many interesting posts.
Blessings 93 words.
Held too close in blackout-walls encased in white-fall. Woodpile failing like the lift of axe. But what town sells a lupine-quilt, worships in pine-cathedral, lights the dawn-lamp on an east ridge? This valley-island rising from two-lane outskirts of a town, but shaded by hawkhouse on a hill, under dayspring and eye of the hawk. I seem to be always on the road, rain kicking up from the pavement and slamming at the windows, radio turned up hurtin' loud.
I'm counting the milepost markers, passing log trucks and old people hunched over their steering wheels on a sightseeing cruise to the coast, but I don't see sights. I just drive seventy miles to the nursing home where I watch him sleep in his diaper, cry a bit, and drive seventy miles back to sit here on this sofa petting the dog, not sure I went anywhere at all.
Demsy Monticello poeticasides. Quode to My Supervisor My leg s carry my self, I put one of them onto a shelf, At night when I go home. I joke over my loss, But at work I'm still the boss, This was a very short tome. Sheryl Kay Oder Whoops. The first line should read, It wasn't planned. Yes, I was planned, by God and my parents. Sheryl 18 words. Pam April Fool It's the color of bone, or tooth, but you know they call it cream, as if that fragile, violated-white fluid is truly exalted.