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renee-1
American
As the sun wakes in the east and rests in the west; As autumn leaves float on the breeze and become still with the chill earth; As snow coats the jaded pasture and thaws under the dawn; As mundane rain drops and robins splash in their bath; As father’s zinnias come alive and buzzing flocks thrive in their nectar; As the sun wakes in the east and rests in the west, I love you.
0
Aug 27, 2012
Aug 27, 2012 at 1:26 PM UTC
I’m As Sure (of It)
While he’s away, Lord, please bless US… with COURAGE to live on put one foot in front of the other make the best decisions make it through another day with HOPE to make it through this he’ll be back soon he still loves me he returns alive and well with STRENGTH to hold it all together cope with the loneliness support the family be able to support him physically, mentally and emotionally when he comes HOME AMEN.
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Aug 27, 2012
Aug 27, 2012 at 1:25 PM UTC
bless US
Before sleeves fight off chills, leaves begin to pour Onto the raw ground, outside the window, as if they were tears That belonged to the trees. Inside the glum house, their star Is placed on the fridge with a glitter border to catch every eye, But their own. They try turning away from her making the winning shot At the basketball game, last season. Below the urn, the firewood burns To thaw the bitter home, as the light providing candles burn Out from exhaustion. The mother tip-toes to the kitchen to pour Away her independence—maybe she’ll come back after the next shot, Then I’ll stop—into a glass. Since the disaster last winter, silent tears Can be heard only within oneself, but can be seen in their eyes By those throughout the town. Not even a wish on a shooting star Can bring her back now. The father only peeks up at the stars When he goes for his evening strolls, his faithfulness has burnt Away since she’s been gone, and everyday gets harder for his eyes To process his vacant house. The town looks on and prays for the poor Family, as they drag their feet to church; their son permanently in tears; Forcing his memory to destroy the images. He ignores everything, but the shot Echoing in his ears. He saw the blood embracing her after the shot; Her body sprawled out on the red snow. Their basketball star, Gone in an instant. This is all he sees—he tries to save her, but the tears In his mother’s eyes tell him she’s already gone—as he stares into the burning Fire. He hears his mother clink the bottle to the glass as she pours Herself another round. He can hear her ask herself, “Why wasn’t it I Who got struck by that bullet? Why would God even consider the i- Dea that is was her turn? God, why didn’t you give her another shot?” The mother takes the last gulp; she reaches for the bottle to pour Another, but her eyes land on the photo of her fallen star. She looks away and begins to cry. The fire continues to burn, Keeping the house warm, as the son stares into the flames and tears Continue to roll off his warm cheeks. The mother stands there, tears Run down her face, her husband begins to hug her. In the corner of his eye, The son sees his parents embracing, as the fire slowly stops burning; He joins them. They all embrace each other and the echoing shot Diminishes in the son’s ears. The struggle is not over, and her star Is not forgotten, but that midnight drink was the last that she would pour. Years go by, but that night stays burnt in their memories. Not so many tears Are falling from the trees or eyes, this time of year; only the rain pours, And at night all that can be spotted is the shot of a shooting star.
0
Aug 27, 2012
Aug 27, 2012 at 1:25 PM UTC
When She’s Gone: The Basketball Star
Before sleeves fight off chills, leaves begin to pour Onto the raw ground, outside the window, as if they were tears That belonged to the trees. Inside the glum house, their star Is placed on the fridge with a glitter border to catch every eye, But their own. They try turning away from her making the winning shot At the basketball game, last season. Below the urn, the firewood burns To thaw the bitter home, as the light providing candles burn Out from exhaustion. The mother tip-toes to the kitchen to pour Away her independence—maybe she’ll come back after the next shot, Then I’ll stop—into a glass. Since the disaster last winter, silent tears Can be heard only within oneself, but can be seen in their eyes By those throughout the town. Not even a wish on a shooting star Can bring her back now. The father only peeks up at the stars When he goes for his evening strolls, his faithfulness has burnt Away since she’s been gone, and everyday gets harder for his eyes To process his vacant house. The town looks on and prays for the poor Family, as they drag their feet to church; their son permanently in tears; Forcing his memory to destroy the images. He ignores everything, but the shot Echoing in his ears. He saw the blood embracing her after the shot; Her body sprawled out on the red snow. Their basketball star, Gone in an instant. This is all he sees—he tries to save her, but the tears In his mother’s eyes tell him she’s already gone—as he stares into the burning Fire. He hears his mother clink the bottle to the glass as she pours Herself another round. He can hear her ask herself, “Why wasn’t it I Who got struck by that bullet? Why would God even consider the i- Dea that is was her turn? God, why didn’t you give her another shot?” The mother takes the last gulp; she reaches for the bottle to pour Another, but her eyes land on the photo of her fallen star. She looks away and begins to cry. The fire continues to burn, Keeping the house warm, as the son stares into the flames and tears Continue to roll off his warm cheeks. The mother stands there, tears Run down her face, her husband begins to hug her. In the corner of his eye, The son sees his parents embracing, as the fire slowly stops burning; He joins them. They all embrace each other and the echoing shot Diminishes in the son’s ears. The struggle is not over, and her star Is not forgotten, but that midnight drink was the last that she would pour. Years go by, but that night stays burnt in their memories. Not so many tears Are falling from the trees or eyes, this time of year; only the rain pours, And at night all that can be spotted is the shot of a shooting star.
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“When you know; You'll just know,” they say to you, when you are six— dreaming of the ideal beaux that in every way just clicks. They say, “Snow will fall all day,” but instead—a hazardous mix. What if it was Joe or Ray or one of those other ***** But even though, I’ve fallen prey to many a man’s trick— owning my woe— I still pray I find The One that makes me tick. “When you know; You'll just know,” they say— omniscient ******
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Aug 27, 2012
Aug 27, 2012 at 1:24 PM UTC
They Say You’ll Know
Sugar maple’s immature leaves bounce lively on the breeze Robins frolic through dandelions and freshly cut grass Brilliant brightness peeks through clouds warming my face Families of rabbits skip through budding yellow tulips Lavender lilacs dance with dogwood blossoms tickling my nose Baby woodpecker taps at the sycamore branch Fat bumblebees buzz from cherry bloom to zinnia bloom
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Aug 27, 2012
Aug 27, 2012 at 1:24 PM UTC
Spring’s Song
Move rack to lowest position, Set to three seventy-five. Pour in one and a third cups water, Sprinkle egg whites (package A), Blend on LOW till moist. Beat on high (but remain patient) Stiff peaks will form when gently Dunking a spatula into your batter (Be sure beater is AT REST before checking). Sprinkle in cake flour (package B) A little at a time on LOWEST setting (Don’t forget to scrape the bottom and edges). Pour batter into your ungreased tube pan, Cut through batter gently with a butter knife In a circular motion To eliminate air bubbles. Bake for at least thirty minutes Or until top crust is golden brown (Ovens vary so keep your eye on it at all times). Cool by hanging tube pan upside down on bottle, Loosen by making up and down strokes with spatula or knife. Gently remove your cake.
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Aug 27, 2012
Aug 27, 2012 at 1:23 PM UTC
Hospitality
I crest the hill lined with young red delicious and pass the rows of rotten purple squash. Barreling into the crooked entrance my tires spit gravel and huff dust into the yard. The golden maple with palm-sized leaves is my beacon through unforeseen junctures and the stony pathway. Lavender tulips genuflect with the wind their reflections dancing on his polished granite.
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Aug 27, 2012
Aug 27, 2012 at 1:20 PM UTC
Too Soon