1. Standard memberredbadger
    Suzzie says Badger
    is Racist Bastard
    Joined
    09 Jun '14
    Moves
    10079
    31 Aug '15 14:43
    Life in the Fruit Bow
    Was exceedingly glum
    Then a strange thing happened
    to a peach said the Plum

    He Vanished in Spanish
    was all he could say
    So they held an Inquest
    that went on al day

    The grape made the firs point
    that he had a hunch
    that the Fruitnapper
    was none of his bunch
  2. Standard memberGrampy Bobby
    Boston Lad
    USA
    Joined
    14 Jul '07
    Moves
    43012
    05 Sep '15 04:49
    and so that was the morning and evening of the 52nd day
    since July 15, 2015.........
  3. Standard memberGrampy Bobby
    Boston Lad
    USA
    Joined
    14 Jul '07
    Moves
    43012
    06 Sep '15 03:56
    The Gift Outright

    The land was ours before we were the land's.
    She was our land more than a hundred years
    Before we were her people. She was ours
    In Massachusetts, in Virginia.
    But we were England's, still colonials,
    Possessing what we still were unpossessed by,
    Possessed by what we now no more possessed.
    Something we were withholding made us weak.
    Until we found out that it was ourselves
    We were withholding from our land of living,
    And forthwith found salvation in surrender.
    Such as we were we gave ourselves outright
    (The deed of gift was many deeds of war)
    To the land vaguely realizing westward,
    But still unstoried, artless, unenhanced,
    Such as she was, such as she would become.

    Note: Robert Frost read his poem at John F. Kennedy's Inauguaration.

    http://www.orwelltoday.com/jfkinaugpoem.shtml
  4. Standard memberGrampy Bobby
    Boston Lad
    USA
    Joined
    14 Jul '07
    Moves
    43012
    14 Sep '15 04:08
    Our visiting poet for Sunday, September 13, 2014,
    on day twenty nine is Leanne O’Sullivan:

    Waiting for My Clothes

    The day the doctors and nurses are having
    their weekly patient interviews, I sit waiting
    my turn outside the office, my back to the wall,
    legs curled up under my chin, playing

    with the hem of my white hospital gown.
    They have taken everything they thought
    should be taken — my clothes, my books
    my music, as if being stripped of these

    were part of the cure, like removing the sheath
    from a blade that has slaughtered.
    They said, Wait a few days, and if you're good
    you can have your things back. They'd taken

    my journal, my word made flesh, and I think
    of those doctors knowing me naked
    holding me by my spine, two fingers
    under my neck, the way you would hold a baby,

    taking my soul from between my ribs
    and leafing through the pages of my thoughts,
    as if they were reading my palms,
    and my name beneath them like a confession,

    owning this girl, claiming this world
    of blackness and lightness and death
    and birth. It lies in their hands like a life-line,
    and I feel myself fall open or apart.

    They hear my voice as they read
    and think, Who is this girl that is speaking?
    I know the end, she tells them.
    It is the last line, both source and closing.

    It is what oceans sing to, how the sun moves,
    a place for the map-maker to begin.
    Behind the door, nothing is said.
    Like dreams, my clothes come out of their boxes.

    By Leanne O’Sullivan

    http://writersalmanac.publicradio.org/index.php?date=2013%2F08%2F03
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