Take off your shoes, put on your slippers
and remember.

Time Machine
Homemade in the woods,
Nov 21, 2014      Nov 22, 2014

Homemade in the woods,
old man John,
he of green thumb,
made many wines from
homegrown vines.

His blackberry a favorite of mine.

He claimed dandelion
he was partial to mix, the taste
reminding him of a young girl's
hips, swaying wild
in the wind's whips.

He was sipping it as he told me this.

Her magic recipe of love homemade
Pradip Chattopadhyay

Fried brinjal rolled in flatbread
Her magic recipe of love homemade
What treasure they hold what charm unlocks
When sharp at two opens up lunchbox!

A sweet candy from the finest cheese
Made from cow milk a salivary bliss
I feel helpless and little can do
My belly when growls sharp at two!

I feel entranced in that magic hour
When smell green peas and cauliflower
She makes them fine rich butter spread
The toasted breads her love homemade!

She knows my bowel not makes it rich
Fine cut cucumber in soft sandwich
In all them I find her special brew
Of love homemade to be opened at two!

Though it’s never that I made her known
How sweetly relish her love homegrown
But when I open lunchbox at two
Wonder without her what I would do!

homemade Black Cherry Acai Berry Oolong tea and
Jaso Bolay
Jaso Bolay
Aug 11, 2014

I just want you to understand
that although you are
trying to forget me,
we share a year's worth of
memories, habits, secrets.
We adjusted our singular pattern
to coincide with each other.
I cannot remember what it
feels like to sleep on the
left side of my bed. Or the
I do not know how to stop making
one cup of
homemade Black Cherry Acai Berry Oolong tea and one mug of
stark black coffee. I do not know how to remember last year without remembering
I do not know how to stop
remember you.

homemade valentines
kara lynn bird
kara lynn bird
Feb 8, 2013      Feb 9, 2013

Artistically determined to create
homemade valentines
cut with precision
like your lips
meeting mine,
saturated with color-
of all things bright
wishing on stars
with each letter I write,
painting soft lines
like my fingertips
meeting your collar bones
If only I wasn't alone
We could kiss
and create
A homemade valentine of our own.

Tom McCone
Tom McCone
Dec 3, 2012      Dec 3, 2012

thought breeds fear breeds hesitation breeds inactivity breeds regret breeds sorrow breeds this second
lying against the wall, heavy paint consuming terminal strands
ink stains on two-dollar offwhite notes
whose words are these?
not sure.

this second breeds disappointment breeds apathy breeds hopelessness breeds fatigue breeds long sleep
rivulets make short indents, slipping clockwork makes little difference                                                      
words by heart fall from cracked lip skin                                                                                                      
whose laments are these?                                                                                                                                
I understand.                                                                                                                                                    
and wish I didn't.

Sep 8, 2010

and whos to blame for this insane game
the rest of man kind would think its fine,
i love the world but does it love me back?
infested in my life i been hacked
whos to know where we'll be in 15 years
how many of us will shed those tears.
when every moment arises,will you be tall,
condemned we'll be each time we fall,
to remember all of those nights and days,
the times where it was so blessed,
but now its all just so gray,
so muthafuckin stressed
moments in between night and day,
not talkin bout dusk til dawn,
but the day that we are all gone.

hate to love it and love to hate it.
just listen and let your brain take it
what will be, we mae never see.
cherish the moments in your life,
once its all done, was it all just pure strife?
so fill my scars and watch it bleed
once i thought that's all i would need
so much more is left in the world
but how many times do we see just one world
get that natural high and then come fly
open your eyes and breath in the phresh air
soon enough you'll find the ones who'll care

Chris Fracc
Chris Fracc
Feb 17      Feb 17

Well two kids met, fell into love like a singular drop of rain
He took on her adverse to the norm
She took on his pain
No choice when you take his name
He took his space for music
She took a moment to herself, just to paint
But he started in on traveling bands that always took him far away
She stayed home with the newborn, and the pallets of her tone grayed
Every time he left and came back older, with every breath his voice had changed
She kept sketching those pictures of home life, but reality and the art just weren't the same
She keeps an album just inside the front door, hoping he looks every-time he walks in
But he's a red eye vacant, and he'll thumb through but it never does let it all sink in
Now we're talking three kids, and a small farm, and the weight is baring down
It's all that she can do to keep it going, it's all he can do to stick around
The music plays on without him, the babes need more than a rumor now and then
He bounces them on a dirt stained knee, and tells them stories of way back when
When daddy was a talent, when daddy was more than just a failing farmer,
They need daddy to be a father, so he breaks out a fiddle, and lulls them all back to sleep
Then he watches over his woman's shoulder, she's painting another picture for the album
And the colors returned to life
The art is back unique
The blues in her has lightened
And his shading is a bit more deep

all part of my homemade jam memories.
Paula Swanson
Paula Swanson
Oct 9, 2010

The sound of thick bubbling,
with the smell of fresh blackberries.
The stains upon our fingers and clothes,
all part of my homemade jam memories.

Growing wild along the roads,
the brambles tall and thick.
Pails and buckets overflowing,
eating our fill as we would pick.

The kitchen, busy as a beehive,
those tasty berries getting mashed.
The "Women" all worked together,
young or old, we each had our tasks.

Four generations, making jam.
"Puttin' back" as it was called.
I still remember the stories told
and the laughter from us all.

Not just a smile does it bring,
a calmness pours soft over me.
A giggle will well up time to time,
at my homemade jam memories.

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