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Mrs. Goddard
Looked like Mary Poppins
Always a smile on her face
Caring, Kindness Grace
I wanted to please her
By doing my best
Ace every test

“If At first  
You don’t succeed
Try Try again”

The reward
“To be a Study Buddy”
Help a friend do better
“A feather in your Cap”

We all wanted to be
The little engine that could
To always do good

“I can if I think I can”

Third grade was
A milestone
Our touch tone
It was the First time
Our voices were heard
Even the
Outlandish absurd

I wanted to
Come to school
To learn
“The Golden Rule”

Every morning
She smiled
Every inch
Every mile
She started
The class
With promise
We were beguiled
She had many sayings
Like Mary Poppins

“A spoon full of sugar
Helps the medicine go down
Is the most delightful way”

I still remember
“Silence is golden
So get rich quick”

We would settle in
Wiggling anxiously
In our chairs
Giggling without care
Soaking up
The happiness
In the  AIR
Glancing around
Anticipation giddy
Ready to get to
The nitty-gritty

It was a look
A glance
A waltz
A dance
An expression
Her finger
On her lips
She invited us…

“Are you ready?”
Every face, Smiled
“All right, Boys and Girls ”
“Put on your Thinking Caps”

Each eager child
Full grin smiles
One and all
Went through
The motions
Of putting on
Their Thinking Caps
Arms over the head
Adjusting it just right

She would ask
“Is it on
Good and tight”
We Readjusted our
Caps for good measure
Her face beaming
Smiling with pleasure

We saw our Cap
in our mind
By her
Design

That was the start
of  Our
Imagination
Time
Infatuation
Admiration
Appreciation
Nurtured
We grew
Sublime

We were all
Diamonds
In the rough
With years of
Refinement
We will shine
Sparkle glow
To perfection
Let our inside
Show

Don’t worry
About
Little chips
Imperfections
Polish and shine
Until
No detection

Five minutes
Seemed
Like Forever  

Seeing
the end In sight
Never

As we grew
We knew
Interminable
Time
Marched on

All we can do
Is wait
For what comes
Next

Inspired songs;
1) everything is beautiful 1970
By Ray Stevens

2) remember the days of the old school yard 1977
By Cat Stevens

3) teach your children well
By Crosby Stills Nash & Young 1970


BLT Webster’s word of the day challenge
May 27, 2025
Interminable
Things that have or seem to have no end, especially because they continue for a very long time.
That was the year a boy kissed me
I was madder than a hornet‘s nest. He put our friendship to the test. I had no interest in boys. I was a tomboy
I interested only in running faster, better, then the boys. Not because I wanted to be a Boy, but because I could
My 4 brothers called me a (tomboy) my father called me Charmin Carmen. That’s the year. I got my nickname.
My mom still put me in dresses, but I wore shorts underneath to maintain my propriety.
It wasn’t easy t climbing a chain-link fence with a baseball mitt in a dress, but I  did it gracefully!
The first girl baseball player in full stride , by third grade
A rural country girl in a city school.
Jonathan Moya May 13
I don’t worry how my old clothes  
will look on their new owners at Goodwill.  
They have places to be,  
stories to live  
beyond my closet.  

Still, letting go feels strange.  
I hesitated at the donation bin,  
fingers brushing fabric worn soft  
by years of routine.  
Shirts that carried me through long days,  
pants that held their shape  
even when I didn’t,  
sweaters that wrapped me in warmth  
when I needed comfort.  
Familiar, reliable—  
but clothes, like memories,  
aren’t meant to be hoarded.  

And maybe, I realize,  
I am ready to let them go—  
ready to make space  
for the person I am becoming,  
not just the one I have been.  

Now, my shirts might end up  
on a college kid,  
worn soft from late-night study sessions,  
coffee stains mapping out  
their ambitions.  

My pants could find a new home  
with a dad who needs extra pockets  
for snacks, keys, and crumpled receipts  
from weekends spent chasing his kids.  

A Dolphins t-shirt might land  
in the hands of someone  
who doesn’t even watch football,  
but wears it anyway  
because it fits just right—  
or because aqua and orange  
make them feel bold.  

Some pieces will travel far,  
stuffed into suitcases  
heading toward new cities,  
new jobs, new beginnings.  
Others will stay close,  
worn by someone  
who just needed  
a warm sweater on a cold night.  

I won’t know where they go,  
but I like to think they’ll be loved,  
threadbare in all the best ways,  
living new lives  
I’ll never see.  

And as I walk away,  
hands empty, closet lighter,  
I expect to feel loss—  
but instead, I feel space.  
Room for new stories,  
new routines,  
new warmth—  
not just in fabric,  
but in the quiet that remains.  

Maybe I’ll fill it with something new,  
or maybe I’ll leave it open,  
letting the quiet remind me  
that not everything needs replacing.  
That sometimes,  
emptiness is its own kind of comfort,  
a soft place to grow into something new.
Max Gisel May 10
Max
I am a nameless creature so fluid,
Never the same from day to day.
I pinned myself down too soon,
On a whim I named myself.
It was the wrong time for it,
I was not ready and didn't think.
Now I am 17,
No longer the scared 13 year old I was.
The name I chose was wrong.
My parents detested it too much,
And it just wasn't mine.
I know no name shall feel like mine,
Not more than a few months,
But that's okay with me.
I will pin myself down again,
My name is now Max.
It may stick,
It may not.
I picked the name Jack when I was maybe 13 or so while in a mental hospital. It was ok, but my parents didn't like it since it was my great grandpa's or something. They didn't want me to "ruin" what they thought of when his name was said. I know I shouldn't let them dictate my life so much, but Max is cooler I guess. Anything to avoid my birth name.
A single candle
A window open
             An arm cascades
Shane Apr 24
Falling, like autumn leaves,
Drifting through the air,
Guided by the wind,
In shades of red and yellow fair.
But as they touch the ground,
Their colors start to fade,
Turning brown and battered,
Before they pass away.
Beaten, tattered, and torn,
All hopes of happiness forlorn.
Heavy Hearted Mar 13
Who we are now being the toll taken,

On behalf of each moment we relapse- the mind's Choir,

Transformations, now;  until we cease to be

In position's symptomatic with abandon desire .

From the first awakening to the sighted's sleepless death-

We're bent under times unbearable weight, between each of the two,

I wont lose something beneath heaven's breath, worse,

Than the reluctant, peculiar, perfection of you.
first writing of the new year, inspired after reading Sara Teasdale's ' Strange Victory' .
Jonathan Moya Mar 10
I journey towards the night
watching the light recede.
Awaiting me, an unsteady
dreamscape of losing
things and beings
and never finding them.

But, there is also the ocean,
of waves cradling me to sleep
with the lullaby of my name’s
repetition- marooning me  
from the sound of others,
the fears, anxieties to come.

Yet, my unconscious tugs me
towards the new tomorrow, forcing
my drowsy mind to count backwards
from sixty to one, until the gravity and  
heaviness retreats into the
light and life to come—

the awakening that  turns
the dark blue inside to light blue sky,
the rising eastern glow that is
the morning star affirming
to my eyelids that this dark life
was just a dream of my fretful mind.

Awaiting me, the to-do list of my morning:
the ritual of the toilet, scale, finger ******,
Psyllium powder stirred in water, catering
to my dog’s and wife’s love language of
gourmet kibble and Nescafe— an  A.M.  life
measured out in watery tablespoons of love.

The cadence of my feet lives itself out in
thirty steps and half minute treks, a sacred
pitter-patter in rhythm with my breath that
allows the traumas of the past- the dead, the
cancers, the broken houses destroyed and rebuilt-
to exist in hidden memories and bad dreams.
Zywa Mar 10
The world is asleep,

lightly breathed upon and kissed --


by the rising sun.
Composition "Fragile Balance" (2014, Jürg Frey), for ensemble and piano, performed on four saxophones by the Amstel Quartet in the Organpark on March 8th, 2025

Collection "org anp ARK" #98
night drapes
day spreads
stars emit light
moons conceal dark
around the north star-fire
away from the south moon-water
stars journey
moons remain
in their wake
at their rest
stories extend
stories retract
B Feb 27
Wading through the waters of the past
You know this feeling will not last
But the rain just won't cease to pour
This life is known to be just a bore
Filling up your past with water
Gone with the flood is your poor old daughter
Raveging through cities and towns
Stand up on your roof so you won't drown
But in that tall wall of destruction
Is a body in need of reconstruction
Begging you to jump into it
Tell your mother you’ll be back in a bit
Back with a new friend that she doesn’t like
After the flood strike
You’ve changed beyond recognition
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