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brenda Apr 2015
I was always more of an autumn girl, there was something so poetic about watching the leaves fall, maybe that's why I always hated spring. But then you appeared, on that hot april night. So full of leaves. You told me I was an unbloomed flower. So you water me with laughs and sweet words, in a couple of days I started blooming. And then I understood how wonderful spring was.
I now see flowers so differently and with so much respect, because it is so hard to bloom in the time we live in, we are so full of toxic people and words that stick to us like poison ivy, yet you made it look so easy for me.
you told me that I should bloom like a wildflower, no matter the place, no matter the season, no matter the circumstances, you have the ability to brighten up someone's path.

(b.c.)
I'm glad I got the chance to know you
You were always there for us
In the good times and bad times
You always knew just what to say and do.

Comforting us whenever we needed you,
we could talk about anything.
No matter how good or how bad things were,
I knew we could count on you

When we got married you were there
when I wrote my book, you were proud of me.
When I got sick or if I got hurt,
you were there and made me feel better.

You always had a great sense of humor,
even when you were at your worst.
I'll always cherish the great times we had,
at the farm and at holiday time.

I'll remember all the homemade dinners,
that you cooked for us
Whenever we were there, on the farm,
and the good and bad things you shared with us.

Thank you for letting me in,
and thank you for being you.
No matter how anyone looks at it,
You will always be my second mom.

Thank you for all of your love and support,
you were the best second mom I could ever have.

I love you with all my heart,
and I will always miss you!!!

Denise Seymour
March 26th, 2015
This poem is in honor of my mother-in-law who has passed away on March 25th, 2015. She had liver cancer, and was given less than a week to live, but somehow managed to survive for over a month, since her final diagnosis.

This is that last thing she wrote, 1 week before she passed:

I've been ill. Time to begin the hard work of learning to walk again and clearing the puddly out of my brain.

Thank god family and friends are pulling me through slowly but surely.
You may get good care at the hospital, you will get good care from Hospice, but none of it equals the care from family.
John, no complaints ever, has kept me clean, dry, fed,even if I could or would only eat two bites.
Jane's cool hand, love and soothing voice are reassuring.
Chad as usual gave his steady support keeping us on the rails.
Bill and Denise looked for a cure with continued support and love.
Grandsons Dustin and Drew gave great comforting love, support and priceless knowledge.
Last but never least Kasey and Isaac, thank you for your love and support as your studies would allow.
A special thank you to the Seymour, Terrill , White, Smith and Shoen families. They always knew what to do and when to do it. Also to my island buddy Pam Ross, cousin. Friends Bill and Sue Cain and the Hurd Family.
The worst I've learned about myself through this is that, lying in bed doing nothing is definitely NOT my forte. The long dark hours of night will turn on you and if you're not careful, "I can't" may turn to "I don't want to."
The best I've learned is how good a shower can feel, using your own commode, the ability to walk two steps and having the strength to **** a straw.
I've a hard road to a hopefully descent recovery. (For a while anyway) Thank you all for the hand you are playing in it.
Too bad our wounded warriors must fight these battles daily.



She battled with every fiber of her being, everyday, just to get up, and she didn't like lying in bed all day, doing nothing.



The sad part about this, is that when we visited her for the last time, she wanted everyone to say their last good-byes to her. She went from the brink of death, within a week, to rebound, just long enough to thank everyone for supporting her through her illness.

The photo that you see above, is a photo of my mother-in-law, taken back around Christmas time in 2013. She was a very happy woman, with lots of love to share. I miss her already.
Hannah Grant Mar 2015
I love singing at the top of my lungs in my car
I’m pretty sure the guy in the next lane thinks I’m a superstar.
Wait ‘till he sees me play my guitar.
I must have coffee in the morning
Before that...You’ve been given a fair warning.
Books on the floor
Books by the door
Books on my shelf in alphabetical order
No, I don’t have a disorder.
Don’t look so surprised...
I just like things organized…
or at least just my hundreds of tomes.
Gatsby’s journey before Frome’s
Poetry : Symmetry
Words in reason and rhyme
in beat and time.
Favorite color: purple
many a journal
It doesn’t take a Sherlock
to know that my favorite flower is the lilac.
Getting that perfect picture on file.
Jeans, sweater, scarf- that’s my style.
Finding the perfect word after thinking for a while.
a child’s gap-toothed smile.
I love to drive with all of my windows open and sunroof down.
Even if my ‘do looks like the hair of Einstein or the wig of a clown
Mom’s sure that I’ll get scalp cancer
from the uv exposure.
“But I have to”, I answer.
I can’t stay cooped up in an enclosure
ever afraid to venture out.
I want to feel the wind, the sun, on my face
to the heavens I want to shout
I’m free, not just stuck in one place
I want to see the endless green and blue space
I want to see the ocean of grass
the night lights I’ll pass.
I’ll swim at the beach
and for the stars I’ll reach.
Because, more than anything I want to be free
Can’t you see?
The sky was so bright that day,
not even the sun could handle it,
The breeze was so gentle,
it was that of a million butterfly kisses,
The tree branches were so barren,
that they looked like the roots,
In the body of the tree,
you carved a heart that held a T,
and that's when you said you loved me,
Together, a year had gone by,
in the blink of an eye,
time really does fly,
You brushed the sand,
off the back of my hand,
again on the beach it lands,
As day turns to night,
the sky is still bright,
with the stars in sight,
and our hearts in flight,
We pick each other clean,
like petals of a flower,
As the beach wore our clothes,
we wore one another,
The hum of the music,
in sync with the hum of our bodies,
Side by side we lay,
the ocean slowly sways,
A tear falls from my eyes,
as the hatred within me dies,
And that's when I say,
I love you too.
First happy poem I've ever written♥
Eleanor K Mar 2015
Potential is not made when you are a child,
Though, at that age, your elders will search for it.
Potential is made when you pick up a pen,
a pencil, a marker, a paintbrush,
For the first time,
Or for the millionth.

Perfection is nearly caught by a camera,
And never by the hand.
But, if paintings looked like a digital picture,
What would be the point of such expression?
If you are looking to draw with such precision,
Look and find another passion,
another hobby, another profession, another way to vent.
If you are looking to find yourself,
to find peace, to find wisdom, to find enjoyment,
Pick up your hand and take the tool.

The artist's style is found through mistake.
A style, is a lack of perfection,
to show the world through your eyes, to alter it.
What you don't understand,
You will toil over, stress over,
hate yourself over, be frustrated over.

Look away from your mistake for a moment.
What is left, is what is yours.
This will change slowly overtime,
As you become better at both strength
And weakness.
The battle between these two opponents,
Will guide your journey.
The art itself is only a mirror of reflection,
Showing all you have done, your past,
your struggles, your joys, your imperfections, your toils,
This is an artist's style.

Pick up your pen,
Your potential is now.
Carly Laskowski Feb 2015
don't worry little seed,
you will bloom and grow into a beautiful flower soon.
it is only a matter of time.
October 7, 2014.
I won't give up this time because I am strong.
Copyright 2-25-2015 Elizabeth Lawrence ©
Lauren spooner Feb 2015
This February sky is mad and beautiful
and I want to hold its stars in my mouth.
I want to cough them up into new constellations,
spit out the blackness
That gets caught in the back of my throat.
Feel the cold of the moon under my tongue
While the galaxies swirl in my stomach
twisting my insides into new knots
While I know that inside me
There is the potential to create
New worlds, new stars
I breathe in the light studded darkness
Close my eyes and see the night sky
That has made it’s home within me.
I may not be a constellation,
But I could be.
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