"sods" poems
All year the flax-dam festered in the heart
Of the townland; green and heavy headed
Flax had rotted there, weighted down by huge sods.
Daily it sweltered in the punishing sun.
Bubbles gargled delicately, bluebottles
Wove a strong gauze of sound around the smell.
There were dragon-flies, spotted butterflies,
But best of all was the warm thick slobber
Of frogspawn that grew like clotted water
In the shade of the banks. Here, every spring
I would fill jampotfuls of the jellied
Specks to range on window-sills at home,
On shelves at school, and wait and watch until
The fattening dots burst into nimble-
Swimming tadpoles. Miss Walls would tell us how
The daddy frog was called a bullfrog
And how he croaked and how the mammy frog
Laid hundreds of little eggs and this was
Frogspawn. You could tell the weather by frogs too
For they were yellow in the sun and brown
In rain.
Then one hot day when fields were rank
With cowdung in the grass the angry frogs
Invaded the flax-dam; I ducked through hedges
To a coarse croaking that I had not heard
Before. The air was thick with a bass chorus.
Right down the dam gross-bellied frogs were cocked
On sods; their loose necks pulsed like sails. Some hopped:
The slap and plop were obscene threats. Some sat
Poised like mud grenades, their blunt heads farting.
I sickened, turned, and ran. The great slime kings
Were gathered there for vengeance and I knew
That if I dipped my hand the spawn would clutch it.
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Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pin rest; snug as a gun.
Under my window, a clean rasping sound
When the ***** sinks into gravelly ground:
My father, digging. I look down
Till his straining **** among the flowerbeds
Bends low, comes up twenty years away
Stooping in rhythm through potato drills
Where he was digging.
The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft
Against the inside knee was levered firmly.
He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep
To scatter new potatoes that we picked,
Loving their cool hardness in our hands.
By God, the old man could handle a *****
Just like his old man.
My grandfather cut more turf in a day
Than any other man on Toner's bog.
Once I carried him milk in a bottle
Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up
To drink it, then fell to right away
Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods
Over his shoulder, going down and down
For the good turf. Digging.
The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap
Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge
Through living roots awaken in my head.
But I've no ***** to follow men like them.
Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests.
I'll dig with it.
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The allotment
is where I grow my mind,
tend my vegetables and flowers,
for hours and hours.
Turn over the sods,
pull up weeds,
for
we
think
them
not
flowers.
So there
I spend
hours
and
hours
what
do
you
do?
The allotment is where i spend hours and hours.
Jan 8, 2012
Jan 8, 2012 at 2:13 PM UTC
The allotment
is where I grow my mind,
tend my vegetables and flowers,
for hours and hours.
Turn over the sods,
pull up weeds,
for
we
think
them
not
flowers.
So there
I spend
hours
and
hours
what
do
you
do?
The allotment is where i spend hours and hours.
Dec 5, 2011
Dec 5, 2011 at 2:31 PM UTC
The old priest Peter Gilligan
Was weary night and day
For half his flock were in their beds
Or under green sods lay.
Once, while he nodded in a chair
At the moth-hour of the eve
Another poor man sent for him,
And he began to grieve.
'I have no rest, nor joy, nor peace,
For people die and die;
And after cried he, 'God forgive!
My body spake not I!'
He knelt, and leaning on the chair
He prayed and fell asleep;
And the moth-hour went from the fields,
And stars began to peep.
They slowly into millions grew,
And leaves shook in the wind
And God covered the world with shade
And whispered to mankind.
Upon the time of sparrow chirp
When the moths came once more,
The old priest Peter Gilligan
Stood upright on the floor.
'Mavrone, mavrone! The man has died
While I slept in the chair.'
He roused his horse out of its sleep
And rode with little care.
He rode now as he never rode,
By rocky lane and fen;
The sick man's wife opened the door,
'Father! you come again!'
'And is the poor man dead?' he cried
'He died an hour ago.'
The old priest Peter Gilligan
In grief swayed to and fro.
'When you were gone, he turned and died,
As merry as a bird.'
The old priest Peter Gilligan
He knelt him at that word.
'He Who hath made the night of stars
For souls who tire and bleed,
Sent one of this great angels down,
To help me in my need.
'He Who is wrapped in purple robes,
With planets in His care
Had pity on the least of things
Asleep upon a chair.'
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One Republic
pick and mix, assorted all sorted
wrinkles missing, smooth as glaciers
toils reversing on harbingers like excesses does
walking the trodden alleys learning Sods mathematics
organs pains for non-organics are inherent consequences so
one Republic and the anthropologists utters a myth in passing
all bananas look like all bananas because bananas are bananas alike
sing a song of three pence and a pocket full of fear
Plato's cave a grand auditorium for lames
united disunited ages in anti-virus glares
white noise in white air and masses sigh
the emperor's coat plays invisible chess
ladies think long and hard in minds
for a dolphin swims like none-other
the glides of the sweetest depths
and in those places unseen
expanded vibes of feels
know reasons why so
it's the bigger snap
it's the difference
the forbidden
fruit lures
will not
move
not
go
in
Apr 20, 2019
Apr 20, 2019 at 6:07 AM UTC
On Christmas Eve, the street was dead
Most folks were home or gone
The buildings all were empty
That is, except for one
Gianni kept the lights on
As he did most every night
To let the people of the street
Know that everything's all right
Gianni's was a haven
A safe house for the street
The residents were welcome
And there was always a free seat
On Christmas Eve, though magic...
would take place inside the back
For each Christmas Eve at midnight
They'd get more than Santa with his sack
Precisely at the hour
When Christmas Day became the date
The house lights dimmed just slightly
As if by magic, or by fate
There on stage with Gianni
Sat the Bluesman and a band
Some only played this concert
It was the best one in the land
Hymns and Christmas carols
Sung like angelic odes of joy
And as always ...there's the Bluesman
Smiling, looking just a little coy
You never knew his secrets
There was always more than he would show
And most folks would pay a fortune
To know just what this man did know
Holy, Holy, Holy,
and songs from years gone by
were mixed with hymns that grabbed your heart
and made most folks there cry
It was invitation only
Just the folks from on the street
The locals didn't post it
It was kept quiet.... indiscreet
He played for near three hours
His little band of odds and sods
Singing songs of Christmas
Singing songs to God
He always had his med-sin
that small flask was by his side
And Gianni, every watchful
made sure it never did go dry
The Bluesman, stopped the concert
the room was quiet, all subdued
And everyone just sat there
I swear, not one person moved
He opened up the window
Pointed to the brightest light
He said "another saviour may be born"
"And it may just be tonight"
It was on a night like this my friends
That Mary did give birth
When Jesus Christ, our saviour
was given life right here on earth
My music sends a message
To all, both near and far
The same message was sent years ago
By one bright shining star
Gianni, led them all outside
And they stared into the sky
Silent Night indeed, Gianni thought
And then the Bluesman bid goodbye
He went back through the kitchen
To where he slept most winter nights
Where Gianni, gave him refuge
You know it's safe....from the bright lights.......
Nov 5, 2014
Nov 5, 2014 at 11:51 PM UTC
Speculation proved
contagious,
misinterpretation
crept silently on patchwork soles
(odds n' sods messily stitched,
tittle tattle did no favours)
like a flu it spread,
hushed curiosities rested
outside ol' Hutch baker's door,
where even a freshly oven'd
batch might strain an ear
or five to net nearby tongue trading,
seeds straining on their brows.
Even those Mother hens
had a cluck or two left in them,
rumours about the
'Dust mite Martyr'
as she was dubbed,
“Does she have no shame,
sitting pretty in Matrimony's dress?”
one heaving checkered breast commented
titling her beak
to gain a better look -
At that shriveller slumped,
an examiner of the cobbles
with such a religious stare
her lids traced stones
within the darkness,
a traveller -
wanderer not to be trusted,
especially not
with bloodied lilies tangled
within her gleaming mop.
Oct 25, 2011
Oct 25, 2011 at 1:58 PM UTC
The sun-setting solitude slowly turning a velvety night
a fine goddess now descending concealing all her might.
a temptress teaching, a mother loving, a judge always right
granting us a freedom from a million corners more to fight.
The dark angel calm shining her blinding beams so bright
searchingly merciful creating still deep inky shadows of light
numb blissfully for those conquered heroes false who slighting
off the straight narrow path of the fair,just and right alight.
Generous is she, the queen majestic enduring all the pain stoic,
our pleasures and folly wise,even joys twisted and distorted vain!
sods poor,fiends rich, the carnal drags and compassionate hearts,
killers cold, sly cons,soaked winos, glitzy stars, gamblers and tarts,
children of a kind all in her ***** mix,playing perfectly their parts
trusting a goddess neither blessing nor reproaching dead impassive
allowing us all a discretion total she is our grand,real mother massive!
I am a son blessed rare,watching neon bathed the nightly circus affected
judging never,comfortably learning with My Nocturnal Angel protected!
Dec 4, 2012
Dec 4, 2012 at 5:44 AM UTC
If you had come away with me
into another state
we had been quiet together.
But there the sun coming up
out of the nothing beyond the lake was
too low in the sky,
there was too great a pushing
against him,
too much of sumac buds, pink
in the head
with the clear gum upon them,
too many opening hearts of lilac leaves,
too many, too many swollen
limp poplar tassels on the
bare branches!
It was too strong in the air.
I had no rest against that
springtime!
The pounding of the hoofs on the
raw sods
stayed with me half through the night.
I awoke smiling but tired.
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The last pose flickered, failed. The screen's dead white
Glared in a sudden flooding of harsh light
Stabbing the eyes; and as I stumbled out
The curtain rose. A fat girl with a pout
And legs like hams, began to sing "His Mother".
Gusts of bad air rose in a choking smother;
Smoke, the wet steam of clothes, the stench of plush,
Powder, cheap perfume, mingled in a rush.
I stepped into the lobby -- and stood still
Struck dumb by sudden beauty, body and will.
Cleanness and rapture -- excellence made plain --
The storming, thrashing arrows of the rain!
Pouring and dripping on the roofs and rods,
Smelling of woods and hills and fresh-turned sods,
Black on the sidewalks, gray in the far sky,
Crashing on thirsty panes, on gutters dry,
Hurrying the crowd to shelter, making fair
The streets, the houses, and the heat-soaked air, --
Merciful, holy, charging, sweeping, flashing,
It smote the soul with a most iron clashing! . . .
Like dragons' eyes the street-lamps suddenly gleamed,
Yellow and round and dim-low globes of flame.
And, scarce-perceived, the clouds' tall banners streamed.
Out of the petty wars, the daily shame,
Beauty strove suddenly, and rose, and flowered. . . .
I gripped my coat and plunged where awnings lowered.
Made one with hissing blackness, caught, embraced,
By splendor and by striving and swift haste --
Spring coming in with thunderings and strife --
I stamped the ground in the strong joy of life!
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Gone are the glorious Greeks of old,
Glorious in mien and mind;
Their bones are mingled with the mould,
Their dust is on the wind;
The forms they hewed from living stone
Survive the waste of years, alone,
And, scattered with their ashes, show
What greatness perished long ago.
Yet fresh the myrtles there--the springs
Gush brightly as of yore;
Flowers blossom from the dust of kings,
As many an age before.
There nature moulds as nobly now,
As e'er of old, the human brow;
And copies still the martial form
That braved Plataea's battle storm.
Boy! thy first looks were taught to seek
Their heaven in Hellas' skies:
Her airs have tinged thy dusky cheek,
Her sunshine lit thine eyes;
Thine ears have drunk the woodland strains
Heard by old poets, and thy veins
Swell with the blood of demigods,
That slumber in thy country's sods.
Now is thy nation free--though late--
Thy elder brethren broke--
Broke, ere thy spirit felt its weight,
The intolerable yoke.
And Greece, decayed, dethroned, doth see
Her youth renewed in such as thee:
A shoot of that old vine that made
The nations silent in its shade.
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I lived in a town where Sunny D dreams rested lazily on Mondays.
Nothing is go go go - no - it’s lazy to rise. Lazy to bed. Lazy to meet up with friends at the beach. Lazily chewing on donuts while we listen to songs that lazily leak through the teeth of our radio free censorship both lazily digesting in our sour guts making us lazy in the way we think. Feeding off the television, white noise static permeating the folds of our lazy minds. We now regurgitate headlines at parties lazily arguing, debating, though not a single thought is our own. We are lazy in the way that we say we’ll accomplish something. Making up little kid dreams for broken promises of “I’ll get to it tomorrow”. But we never do. Never did. Just lazily puff on ***** shards. Our crushed bits of ignorance. Every night. Lazy sods. Working, sleeping, working, smoking, sleeping, working.
The cycle goes on.
In this land where time takes a nap. Where magnolia groves now rest lazily in the space of an old man’s memories. You see, even time is lazy among salty air humidity that clings to lungs in a wet rag sensation so that we are lazy even in the way that we breathe. That’s why our grandparents tell us all those stories. So that we are not caught up in the lazy way light filters through the leaves of citrine sunsets that mingle into dawn.
Still, we yawn a question “what was I supposed to be doing again?” Here in this land where we all seem to exist in a static myth. Start another lazy day. Lost to IT. The big IT. The ever growing IT. The IT that consumes our lazy days with lazy work and lazy sleep and too much lazy play.
It’s easy here to let go of what this land used to be. Back when gold ships carried Ponce de Leon upon God’s wings to a place where Highway 19 was no pavement or brick or man made industry but rough and raw and hot
and undiscovered Timucuan territory. We effortlessly lose sight of our own history to lazy daydreaming
That slow,
drip
drip
drip
of time leaking into tomorrow leaking into tomorrow
leaking into tomorrow leaking into tomorrow
Until your future
leaks into tomorrow
Until you wake up from this lazy hell.
Until you realize there is nothing left ahead on your lazy path
Until the future has become your present and you are out of
Days to dawdle and to say “I will deal with it tomorrow” before it all
None too slowly
Rather abruptly
Comes to a clashing end.
Oct 17, 2018
Oct 17, 2018 at 11:38 AM UTC
I got wet.
Then I got more wet.
Then I lost my keys.
And my shoes were filled with rain,
chattering teeth, soaked to my thighs
through to my skin
shrivelled up feet, trench foot set in
but then I think about real trench foot
and silently apologise to the poor sods
who died with wet feet
I cried when I peeled off my clothes
I felt sorry for myself
But the little un had made me a hot drink
So I thought myself lucky
I am not native to wet and cold
The sun is needed for us growin' old
May 14, 2020
May 14, 2020 at 8:10 AM UTC
It's been a while since I've let my fingers do the talking
Subtle clattering intermittent between self consuming stares into space
Strange and conventional instrumental atmospheres driving fantastical thought
And that self indulgent need to be heard by people without discernible cells
I guess my poems are a hobby of sorts
A collection of ideas, observations and metaphors put forward (barely) structurally
Though I admit the process is more for introverted enjoyment than anything direct
What my tongue would sound blurting these words is a fantasy in itself
I try to stay optimistic in them
Holding on to my passion for the positive, despite the convoluted dysfunction of the day to day
I do it with the same eyes as speaking to others, trying to be someone who's worth being around
Ending with some ******* non-committal message about an approach towards tomorrow
I hope one day I'll get around to reading these poems
Hearing what my inner monologue sounds like in that quiet but intently occupied space
Taking the time off poor sods who'll listen, hoping that the messages mean more than just metaphor
But I'll get over it if life doesn't produce such idealistic circumstances
Thanks for reading what I've written
These white spaces have given me a quiet personal realm for exploring ideas
A place where I can explore my intelligence beyond academia
Indulge my passion for the written word by pouring out gallons of ********
And hopefully make someone, somewhere, smile in the process
Jan 3, 2013
Jan 3, 2013 at 3:50 PM UTC
FRENCH KISSING ON VENUS(A little nonsense )
Just coming to life.
Was up til three.
Playing silly sods.
Hopped into my baby son's spaceship.
Found myself on Venus.
Don't know how I got there.
Maybe I was seeking love.
Venus has a purpose, in matters of such trivia.
In the silly world of love.
Met a few Venusian chaps.
Funny things they were.
Their hands were wandering everywhere.
Too many of them you know.
Far too many hands that is.
One went in for a French kiss.
Guys from Venus like to kiss.
His tongue was very very long, with it my tonsils tickled.
Irksome tongue, it made me choke.
Ipso facto, that mega tongue, made me rather sick.
That rampant guy from Venus, well he ripped of all my clothes.
Used them as a hand kerchief, on which he wiped his runny nose.
Somehow.
Method as yet unknown.
Landed outside my front door.
What a shock that was.
For my poor unfortunate neighbours.
Who saw all my naked bits.
A weird situation, created by a kiss.
Feb 10, 2014
Feb 10, 2014 at 5:05 AM UTC
A sprinkling of ice sugar across the moor tops
A gentle reminder, that winters fingers still grip
Despite the buds, bursting through warming sods
Waking greenery deepening, life forging ahead
The day slightly longer, than yesterday,
Warmth in a higher sun, gaining strength
Sky less matt grey, a brighter hue of blue
Urgent bird’s darting, dancing movements
Marking territory with a sweeter song
This the first day of spring
Mar 3, 2015
Mar 3, 2015 at 6:56 PM UTC
I.
The burnt patches on your
Index finger have quietly been
Snuffing out the cigarettes you've
Been inhaling ever since
The start of this
****** conversation—
All too deep, I suppose.
II.
Your cigarettes remind
Me of my shriveled up crayons:
Wayward patches of yellow and
amber in between
Countless granules of
Fairydust;
Gaudy amalgamation
Of mirthless colors.
III.
As you leave the downtrodden
Sods of my mind,
I can't help but pick up
The stubs you've been grounding
Out all night.
Light a match.
Listless.
IV.
You'll be delighted to know
My bedroom walls now
Come in different
Shades of gray.
Apr 14, 2014
Apr 14, 2014 at 10:59 AM UTC
Drink a toast to the dreams that got lost.
Sat in a world of the single minded.
The location of shattered dreams lost.
No longer whispering.
Ghosts of long gone dreams.
They wail.
They scream as banshees of doom.
Predicting solitary misery.
Not destitute,
Quite happy really,
Hell maybe, I am,
I am not.
The music plays and I drown in it.
Swallowing it, hook line and sinker.
This funny woman,
A deep thinker.
An amusing muser.
Somewhat bemused.
She lives on the planet of miserable cow.
The couple next door.
Sharing a lunch,
One between two.
In oblivious dreams of true romance.
New romantics perhaps.
As lucky sods and demi-gods,
They sat and munched their lunch.
Me,
The she,
Listens to the music, listless.
In a place where no-one can dance.
Tapping my foot in time.
Yes, my friend.
I said in time
And the music strokes the air.
The music gets stuck in my auburn hair.
Soul to soul,
She is bare,
Unwrapped.
My coffee went cold.
Should I maybe be so bold.
To stay and listen to more.
And the music became more.
So much more.
My inspiration on this glorious day.
Passion in full view.
C'est la vie.
(And Alaric ,my friend).
May the devil enjoy my play on words,
Such injustice be kindly greeted.
Would prefer to tickle angels, with my words instead.
Sooner meet the Lord of Love,
When I end up dead!
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Dec 7, 2013
Dec 7, 2013 at 1:46 PM UTC
No one ever asked me
if I wanted to be shackled, instead of being free
no one ever asked, but decided anyway
to turn and bolt the open doors
tie me to the dusty concrete floors and work me to the bone.
No one said,you'll never own a home and if you do
we'll steal it back
and mortgage you instead,
one day we'll all be dead
'so what's the rush?' is what I said.
Brokers in the token towers endowed with powers beyond our 'ken'
and if or when they do decide to let the status quo remain
the status quo will automatically, register it as another of the same old krap
it's something else that they'll steal back.
I've got to tell you, that I'm pig sick
of make it fast and spend it quick and sod the rule of law it never did apply , to the hotshot, potbellied, suited city guy who has his eye on articles one to five and in any case will most definitely survive against the odds by burying away us poor sods in backroom books,stirred slowly into microfilm by corporate crooks who cook away as if each day a different menu was on sale.
Beyond the pale where riders sit and watch the scenes unfold, and it is foretold that judgement day will wash the wicked clean away and save the righteous.
Yes,
well don't I just believe all that
another bunch of total krap.
The pious in their pious world could not foresee that greed alone would be the fall of man..and in the fall,where man has done it all and nothing of it done remains
the register clicks on two more games to play
one tonight
and one the day to come
a bonus ball for everyone except Mario because he's on heroin,you know it,I know it
the moguls in the mighty towers blow coke into their nose and they know it too.
Not a thing I want to do
should I do, would I if I could do,do?
I wonder where it's written that
we have to go there to get back
and if we go why don't we stay
one day we'll all be dead.
A thought as going ,when to bed arrived in and another trial that I survived through
one more dish of microfiche that never swam in any sea
and small as anything you see
or smaller for all that
a status bit of ***
for tat
and let the gnats and hounds of titled lords and ladies give the peasants rampant rabies, who cares but the undertakers undertaker,the sombre funeral formulator?
and I don't give a ****
Jul 12, 2013
Jul 12, 2013 at 3:46 PM UTC
Came home from a trek into town.
To buy so odds and sods.
Guess what smacked me in the eyes.
Memories generated by sweet pewter rocking horse.
I walked into the sitting room.
Found laid upon the deck.
Undamaged fortunately.
My little pewter rocking horse.
Initiated memories of us two in the pub.
Where we first met that rocking horse.
Not mine.
The one that lived on the shelf by the books.
Remember that day so clearly.
You were very funny.
You still are in your own sweet way.
You were drunkish and I was your dear lady.
Still am.
Everyone who approached us.
You greeted with one question are you a poet?
You told the world that proud you are to be one.
Me. Poetess also with poise and prowess.
I'm proud of you.
I will always remember that day.
Come what ever.
As poets and lovers we remain.
Livvi Kent Sept 2013
Sep 7, 2013
Sep 7, 2013 at 11:11 AM UTC
Jiggle a notion of the Hieland brew
that swells from Scotland's crispy dew
To fill hearts a plenty with joy and song
Scot's Whiskey born wild and strong.
Swallow that liquid of golden honey
down your gullet to warm your tummy
Then know you drank the breath of Gods
a fiery brew you drunken sods.
Crisp as a cold wind against your lungs
Hot as the temper upon your tongues
Whiskey,Whiskey the Scotsman's drink
that lifts your spirits to the brink.
You'll find it where ever Scotsman congregate
Heiland Whiskey best drank straight.
-----Alisdaire O'Caoimph------
Mar 24, 2011
Mar 24, 2011 at 1:52 PM UTC
*Paul Simon wrote of sitting at a railway station,
With a ticket for his destination,
A cool autumn morn, and I’m doing the same,
Penning my thoughts, while awaiting my train.
A nice warm coffee cupped in my hand,
My trusty pen, the poet’s wand,
More travellers arrive, their tickets purchase,
While I just sit, composing verses.
My I-Pod blasts out Thin Lizzy live,
The music helps my poem thrive,
People staring, I'm deep in thought,
Me thinks this poem won’t be short.
The train arrives, of course its late,
So much to do, I cannot wait,
We pass through villages, towns and fields,
The lonely scarecrow, no secrets he yields.
The stunning views sure do amaze,
As we journey on through drizzly haze,
The farmer’s fields and their misty shroud,
As I travel further from maddening crowd.
Through the cloud comes a shaft of light,
Then forms a rainbow, bold and bright,
You see the world with a different view,
Or perhaps not, as we pass through Crewe.
Great, sods law, one working loo,
And yes of course, there’s quite a queue,
I-Pod still belting out the tunes,
As along the track, the train it zooms.
Ahh, now my destination is in sight,
Now a cracking day and drunken night,
A time to catch up with good friends,
And where both Journey, and poem ends.*
© Cinco Espiritus Creation
2013
May 6, 2016
May 6, 2016 at 7:33 AM UTC
The morning gives a wink,a passing nod
and sods off
to play again in yesterday.
I lay my worries to one side
pry the lid off Monday night
as if the innards of yesterday had invited me
to come and play
a game of hide and seek.
Last week I did the same and was rewarded when the morning came
with a blindfold on my eyes
and mournful cries from Wednesday when it realised the games we play
were lost,
and who could say
when found once more in the morning which had discovered that I wore
pyjamas laced with polka dots?
Each anniversary of Sunday,Tuesday,any day where night comes out to play
in the nursery
where the dreamers and the children stay
and the lemon socks of half eaten sticks of rock will stick tight to tiny toes
I tap my fingers on the window pane
I want to play in yesterday again.
Who knows the secrets that we find when rummaging within the mind and yesterday is often kind,
much kinder than today.
Jul 8, 2013
Jul 8, 2013 at 7:33 PM UTC