tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-55958097257520889122024-03-12T19:17:35.089-07:00The Prytz FamilyJanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13716690020687995783noreply@blogger.comBlogger896125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5595809725752088912.post-34441628810465950732010-03-28T08:51:00.001-07:002010-03-28T08:51:35.514-07:00Just a reminder:<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKWdhGJj91lgID7Xi7mu3Kg9TX9TAKGIpjuLxOSMxaJ-3xqGlJjgKe9eGhcJEhoronRyzB69DWWhJVcNuvaMDiPSa6sJZ5aq3ZyeOMm_bO-zfBDojgCUivaIFBjfXeAnVlC8HKEP8m6vk/s1600-h/IMG_0522.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKWdhGJj91lgID7Xi7mu3Kg9TX9TAKGIpjuLxOSMxaJ-3xqGlJjgKe9eGhcJEhoronRyzB69DWWhJVcNuvaMDiPSa6sJZ5aq3ZyeOMm_bO-zfBDojgCUivaIFBjfXeAnVlC8HKEP8m6vk/s400/IMG_0522.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5331643191868218146" /></a><br />If you're lookin' for Bob and I, we've moved, <a href="http://prytzfamily.blogspot.com/">here</a>. Just move your bookmark and reader, over <a href="http://prytzfamily.blogspot.com/">there</a>.Janhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13716690020687995783noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5595809725752088912.post-69470579590118087592009-10-03T20:09:00.000-07:002009-10-03T20:09:31.635-07:00Autumn 4<div style='text-align:center;margin:0px auto 10px;'><a href='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSVDAOGYwdY_Ev8rAnZ_2P6xpOvaMBeww8_O3gmVfnYfPSUirSmC-xLCo9RjksRMkg66PoEiAtj1azjHo9PBPO1NqFPgBU-zJabfr9OaXCou6OUaMSNXkiKEY5MKq1zUJzsM00cPFAwEU/s1600-h/IMG_7689.jpg'><img src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSVDAOGYwdY_Ev8rAnZ_2P6xpOvaMBeww8_O3gmVfnYfPSUirSmC-xLCo9RjksRMkg66PoEiAtj1azjHo9PBPO1NqFPgBU-zJabfr9OaXCou6OUaMSNXkiKEY5MKq1zUJzsM00cPFAwEU/s400/IMG_7689.jpg' border='0' alt='' /></a> </div><br /><div style='text-align:center;margin:0px auto 10px;'><a href='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAHzeDPoPUN6YoqG9qmfHIa9XC1xf4hRGTtlbWonfUHxWqbPFIiAYTYjlsgYcpWdnn-cMY6m3bEUUFIK8hqy_3XIUngMXFZOqF7BlPpZ92C74rWSO4-dzcjFwUMtHcJE74KdsVCiAIdVc/s1600-h/IMG_7722.jpg'><img src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAHzeDPoPUN6YoqG9qmfHIa9XC1xf4hRGTtlbWonfUHxWqbPFIiAYTYjlsgYcpWdnn-cMY6m3bEUUFIK8hqy_3XIUngMXFZOqF7BlPpZ92C74rWSO4-dzcjFwUMtHcJE74KdsVCiAIdVc/s400/IMG_7722.jpg' border='0' alt='' /></a> </div><br /><div style='text-align:center;margin:0px auto 10px;'><a href='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP3TrZPovdYR9jFJ7L9VNUTyXq_WAgpgqk3v7WKLPcNi1i8omaMupJ382nob5VvJLghCwS46sEaFcYVFnsM2KPwvKBNrCKlcYuOXvfzIG5VJX1FwGwL3XzQzzcwiZdimbeZr_I5DSs_4E/s1600-h/IMG_7729.jpg'><img src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP3TrZPovdYR9jFJ7L9VNUTyXq_WAgpgqk3v7WKLPcNi1i8omaMupJ382nob5VvJLghCwS46sEaFcYVFnsM2KPwvKBNrCKlcYuOXvfzIG5VJX1FwGwL3XzQzzcwiZdimbeZr_I5DSs_4E/s400/IMG_7729.jpg' border='0' alt='' /></a> </div><br /><div style='text-align:center;margin:0px auto 10px;'><a href='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjci12qlFhHXVZjkWqIMqKGz3BsajA7boyTYG_Tk-SlPPChJDziw53I2ku2DJjnBom7yw7vCAvAbZ07JWiYy63OZINbMi_knC5on2By1nvr8Vo_z1XhAit6RghSUKG3zN856oTGBFicfkI/s1600-h/IMG_7738.jpg'><img src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjci12qlFhHXVZjkWqIMqKGz3BsajA7boyTYG_Tk-SlPPChJDziw53I2ku2DJjnBom7yw7vCAvAbZ07JWiYy63OZINbMi_knC5on2By1nvr8Vo_z1XhAit6RghSUKG3zN856oTGBFicfkI/s400/IMG_7738.jpg' border='0' alt='' /></a> </div><div style='clear:both; text-align:CENTER'><a href='http://picasa.google.com/blogger/' target='ext'><img src='http://photos1.blogger.com/pbp.gif' alt='Posted by Picasa' style='border: 0px none ; padding: 0px; background: transparent none repeat scroll 0% 50%; -moz-background-clip: initial; -moz-background-origin: initial; -moz-background-inline-policy: initial;' align='middle' border='0' /></a></div>Janhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13716690020687995783noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5595809725752088912.post-41545665279995841292009-10-03T20:08:00.000-07:002009-10-03T20:08:47.805-07:00Autumn 3<div style='text-align:center;margin:0px auto 10px;'><a href='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPWaswTrycXHVEySGHI5KT5Znd88SzNOJn5QES04W4Dege6PceB78oZ35Rdesx4jugYL8c4KpDZfFPXmOBHKkcUGuhykhHY8nJKH47HPhiiRjNXssmrHj-LxuDvfo6iLgosdbbmEI0A8E/s1600-h/IMG_7642.jpg'><img src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPWaswTrycXHVEySGHI5KT5Znd88SzNOJn5QES04W4Dege6PceB78oZ35Rdesx4jugYL8c4KpDZfFPXmOBHKkcUGuhykhHY8nJKH47HPhiiRjNXssmrHj-LxuDvfo6iLgosdbbmEI0A8E/s400/IMG_7642.jpg' border='0' alt='' /></a> </div><br /><div style='text-align:center;margin:0px auto 10px;'><a href='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2MCMHS4EMr-P0K4QnKV_zXd8HbcSwlwwKNR3pEXRqzZ07BiH-aVtDvGK54L7kjJ3sd3MhswtQqx3W4bTAvaaZyZ0SB55-HbRBS_nK-8dZhMaMcqvRaDWDPwJaimE3Y-7i8mj6q4ZwsRo/s1600-h/IMG_7649.jpg'><img src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2MCMHS4EMr-P0K4QnKV_zXd8HbcSwlwwKNR3pEXRqzZ07BiH-aVtDvGK54L7kjJ3sd3MhswtQqx3W4bTAvaaZyZ0SB55-HbRBS_nK-8dZhMaMcqvRaDWDPwJaimE3Y-7i8mj6q4ZwsRo/s400/IMG_7649.jpg' border='0' alt='' /></a> </div><br /><div style='text-align:center;margin:0px auto 10px;'><a href='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkIp1gcuSDsRbRTI5Pv4hTRzC8hHS4E0D0Se332qi7jqDQ-qXImIef0H0bB-gzExoIdgl-XXmPWtLzt1fNqhfMelPeth5wG1vNyIeBBSInvMZ4QRABudwjeAMtVrNu-NBV-XCfU-JlwnQ/s1600-h/IMG_7656.jpg'><img src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkIp1gcuSDsRbRTI5Pv4hTRzC8hHS4E0D0Se332qi7jqDQ-qXImIef0H0bB-gzExoIdgl-XXmPWtLzt1fNqhfMelPeth5wG1vNyIeBBSInvMZ4QRABudwjeAMtVrNu-NBV-XCfU-JlwnQ/s400/IMG_7656.jpg' border='0' alt='' /></a> </div><br /><div style='text-align:center;margin:0px auto 10px;'><a href='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8xQ2JigUuXRDKL5ZJrOVVGUomeCIq65-pLkR7jU96maYJdZ_XkfGdsx36JsFoGo1Yr6YFvn30VaJzSlKC-I4psssjP1p2XoLY5l05VcmBhsggd_BphePA1V9-w-NhKFhR1KaFN94cde8/s1600-h/IMG_7664.jpg'><img src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8xQ2JigUuXRDKL5ZJrOVVGUomeCIq65-pLkR7jU96maYJdZ_XkfGdsx36JsFoGo1Yr6YFvn30VaJzSlKC-I4psssjP1p2XoLY5l05VcmBhsggd_BphePA1V9-w-NhKFhR1KaFN94cde8/s400/IMG_7664.jpg' border='0' alt='' /></a> </div><div style='clear:both; text-align:CENTER'><a href='http://picasa.google.com/blogger/' target='ext'><img src='http://photos1.blogger.com/pbp.gif' alt='Posted by Picasa' style='border: 0px none ; padding: 0px; background: transparent none repeat scroll 0% 50%; -moz-background-clip: initial; -moz-background-origin: initial; -moz-background-inline-policy: initial;' align='middle' border='0' /></a></div>Janhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13716690020687995783noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5595809725752088912.post-46863781480039303132009-05-03T09:55:00.000-07:002010-03-28T08:50:47.456-07:00Moved<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKWdhGJj91lgID7Xi7mu3Kg9TX9TAKGIpjuLxOSMxaJ-3xqGlJjgKe9eGhcJEhoronRyzB69DWWhJVcNuvaMDiPSa6sJZ5aq3ZyeOMm_bO-zfBDojgCUivaIFBjfXeAnVlC8HKEP8m6vk/s1600-h/IMG_0522.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKWdhGJj91lgID7Xi7mu3Kg9TX9TAKGIpjuLxOSMxaJ-3xqGlJjgKe9eGhcJEhoronRyzB69DWWhJVcNuvaMDiPSa6sJZ5aq3ZyeOMm_bO-zfBDojgCUivaIFBjfXeAnVlC8HKEP8m6vk/s400/IMG_0522.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5331643191868218146" /></a><br />If you're lookin' for Bob and I, we've moved, <a href="http://prytzfamily.blogspot.com/">here</a>. Just move your bookmark and reader, over <a href="http://prytzfamily.blogspot.com/">there</a>.Janhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13716690020687995783noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5595809725752088912.post-61719409081324259352009-04-30T08:07:00.000-07:002009-04-30T08:07:00.254-07:00George Washington<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCJrh8on6h6pboAhdcK6yhjsm20qOyhpiEOycrsOxUB7NhumB8QAmkATSzMTE9gkAWAe4udAMDeKUy2d0L1BAMZIN6k1OhCtYcHP38z1332pd8TT7mmatxaoqGCj5ENzFVaq7XjLcQ7ok/s1600-h/450px-George_Washington_Museum_statue.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5297195722623402866" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCJrh8on6h6pboAhdcK6yhjsm20qOyhpiEOycrsOxUB7NhumB8QAmkATSzMTE9gkAWAe4udAMDeKUy2d0L1BAMZIN6k1OhCtYcHP38z1332pd8TT7mmatxaoqGCj5ENzFVaq7XjLcQ7ok/s400/450px-George_Washington_Museum_statue.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />It was on this day in 1789 that George Washington took office as the first president of the United States. Two weeks earlier, he had begun his journey from his home in Mount Vernon to New York City, where the inauguration would take place. He wrote in his journal on April 16th:<br /><br /><br />About 10 o'clock I bade adieu to Mount Vernon, to private life, and to domestic felicity, and with a mind oppressed with more anxious and painful sensations than I have words to express, set out for New York in company with Mr. Thompson, and Colonel Humphries, with the best dispositions to render service to my country in obedience to its call, but with less hope of answering its expectations.<br /><br />It took him seven days to travel the 300-mile route to New York City, then the nation's capital. He passed through crowds of cheering well-wishers along the way, following a path that went through Alexandria, Baltimore, Philadelphia, Trenton, Princeton, and New Brunswick. When he reached Bridgetown, New Jersey, there was waiting for him a large barge built just for the occasion and manned by 13 pilots all dressed in white. A Spanish vessel anchored in the harbor fired 13 guns as a salute and displayed the flags of nations all over the world.<br /><br />It took the House and the Senate a few more days to work out the details of the inauguration, including how to address the president. Vice President John Adams thought it should be, "His Highness, the President of the United States and Protector of their Liberties." Others thought "His Serene Highness" or "His Excellency" or "Mr. Washington" were better choices. The ad hoc Congressional Committee finally decided on "The President of the United States."<br /><br />The Oath of Office took place at Federal Hall on the corner of Wall Street and Nassau Street, on a balcony outside so that many people could witness it. Washington wore a dark brown suit, white silk stockings, shoes with silver buckles, and a sword. New York Chancellor Robert Livingston administered the Oath: "I do solemnly swear that I will faithfully execute the office of President of the United States, and will, to the best of my ability, preserve, protect, and defend the Constitution of the United States."<br /><br />Washington appended the words "so help me God" to the Oath and then kissed the open Bible, which had been missing moments before the ceremony, and when found for the oath had been hastily opened to a random page, which turned out to be Genesis 49. In his inaugural address, Washington asked for the divine blessing of the "benign Parent of the Human Race" on the new government.Janhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13716690020687995783noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5595809725752088912.post-39144655620902679422009-04-30T07:28:00.000-07:002009-04-05T07:37:36.669-07:00Moving<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi51h4SNhTjEdRpFUmPcWkTnlWHqYmCyd2RYLlpVbQE3a7mb0_iVzBMbyx1vfuYWbQRSo_POiLA_sqmhX-wXimCdbBe_Cl8psKOimkodtgh3d0VG-207fHMXYpyORxyVoLz4-9vknRbxsw/s1600-h/File0097.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5321214185860206002" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 194px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi51h4SNhTjEdRpFUmPcWkTnlWHqYmCyd2RYLlpVbQE3a7mb0_iVzBMbyx1vfuYWbQRSo_POiLA_sqmhX-wXimCdbBe_Cl8psKOimkodtgh3d0VG-207fHMXYpyORxyVoLz4-9vknRbxsw/s400/File0097.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div></div><br />Earlier this month this blog was "hijacked", until it was recovered , and switched to a blogspot.com address, I started a new blog, <a href="http://prytzfamily.blogspot.com/">PrytzFamily</a> and I transfered a month's worth of post - over there. This blog has been open for a year and half, my "look" had gotten stale. By being forced into a now spot, I started at the beginning, and I like <a href="http://prytzfamily.blogspot.com/">PrytzFamily</a>, better! I'm moving over <a href="http://prytzfamily.blogspot.com/">there</a> permanently. At the end of April this blog will stop publishing, so please bookmark my <a href="http://prytzfamily.blogspot.com/">new address.</a>Janhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13716690020687995783noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5595809725752088912.post-31546129992404785882009-04-30T01:52:00.000-07:002009-04-30T01:52:00.211-07:00Poems about George Washington<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdKm61tL_jWIaBku4-WHl2cxRjKO1r7aOxSLYQONO19gWqfQkOYU1hPRG5SZ7fPtQkATRKKrqdfP8KrKcfnowcvLOI17UWjR-j9QZASr8WzxRz8aBdqtvIvvpPUEmOpIrp90DMs3hLZKc/s1600-h/492px-Portrait_of_George_Washington.jpeg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5297195115087589186" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 329px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdKm61tL_jWIaBku4-WHl2cxRjKO1r7aOxSLYQONO19gWqfQkOYU1hPRG5SZ7fPtQkATRKKrqdfP8KrKcfnowcvLOI17UWjR-j9QZASr8WzxRz8aBdqtvIvvpPUEmOpIrp90DMs3hLZKc/s400/492px-Portrait_of_George_Washington.jpeg" border="0" /></a><br /><div align="center">A Wish for February<br />Donovan Marshall<br /><br />The Father of His Country<br />Was once a lad like me.<br />He played and wrestled on the green<br />And swung from leafy tree.<br />But when his country called him<br />He put aside his play.<br />I hope that I, like Washington,<br />May serve my land some day!<br /><br /><br />George Washington<br />Winifred C. Marshall<br /><br />I wonder if George Washington<br />Was very fond of books,<br /><br />And if he like to hunt and fish,<br />And wade in little brooks.<br /><br />I wonder if his pocket bulged<br />Like mine with precious things,<br /><br />With marbles, cookies, tops, and balls,<br />And nails, and glass, and strings.<br /><br />I wonder if he whistled tunes<br />While mending broken toys -<br /><br />My father says George Washington<br />Was much like other boys.<br /><br /><br />George Washington<br />Meish Goldish<br /><br />George Washington,<br />You're number one!<br />George Washington,<br />You're number one to me!<br /><br />Leader of the army,<br />An able genreal, George.<br />Strongly and bravely,<br />You led at Valley Forge!<br /><br />Father of our country,<br />Our first President.<br />Proudly and wisely,<br />You led the government!<br /><br />We celebrate your birthday,<br />Our capital has your name.<br />Your picture's on a dollar bill,<br />So all will know your fame!<br /><br />You never told a lie, Goerge,<br />You were brave and smart.<br />First in honor, first in peace,<br />First in our heart!<br /><br /><br />How Washington Dressed<br />Gertrude M. Robinson<br /><br />When Washington was president,<br />He wore the queerest clothes;<br />His shoes had silver buckles on -<br />Now, why, do you suppose?<br /><br />His suit was made of velvet cloth<br />With buckles at the knee;<br />He wore lace ruffles on his coat<br />When he went out to tea.<br /><br />His hair was tied with ribbons, too,<br />And braided like a girl's.<br />How could he be a president,<br />And wear his hair in curls?<br /><br /><br />A Nation's Hero<br />Winifred C. Marshall<br /><br />The flags fly, the bands play;<br />Give him the honor due<br />To one who served his country well,<br />A leader brave and true.<br /><br />First in defense and first in peace;<br />In our hearts, as of yore,<br />He holds first place, George Washington,<br />Our hero, evermore.</div>Janhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13716690020687995783noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5595809725752088912.post-49598123412440013202009-04-29T01:25:00.000-07:002009-04-29T01:25:00.555-07:00Letter Home<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXpsIbMZawpflUZIDGJl5jkWypaqqrLr0Mda5jzmH9IApf0lZUoymMW3_zwsXHjUXzarz9tlhXI238BkNWCPsOx1Lyq8tsVO_xLLqmRhPMKq3PH3_ut5UfJYGBu-dtEtQ9yEqIOaM7xpI/s1600-h/9506letter.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5297095966428953602" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 100px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 100px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXpsIbMZawpflUZIDGJl5jkWypaqqrLr0Mda5jzmH9IApf0lZUoymMW3_zwsXHjUXzarz9tlhXI238BkNWCPsOx1Lyq8tsVO_xLLqmRhPMKq3PH3_ut5UfJYGBu-dtEtQ9yEqIOaM7xpI/s400/9506letter.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center">Letter Home by Ellen Steinbaum,<br /></div><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center">from Container Gardening.<br /></div><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><br /></div><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center">I love you forever<br /></div><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center">my father's letter tells her<br /></div><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center">for forty-nine pages,<br /></div><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center">from the troopship crossing the Atlantic<br /></div><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center">before they'd ever heard of Anzio.<br /></div><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><br /></div><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center">He misses her, the letter says,<br /></div><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center">counting out days of boredom, seasickness,<br /></div><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center">and changing weather,<br /></div><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center">poker games played for matches<br /></div><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center">when cash and cigarettes ran out,<br /></div><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center">a Red Cross package—soap,<br /></div><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center">cards, a mystery book he traded away<br /></div><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center">for The Rubaiyyat a bunkmate didn't want.<br /></div><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center">He stood night watch and thought<br /></div><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center">of her. Don't forget the payment<br /></div><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center">for insurance, he says.<br /></div><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><br /></div><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center">My mother waits at home with me,<br /></div><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center">waits for the letter he writes day by day<br /></div><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center">moving farther across the ravenous ocean.<br /></div><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center">She will get it in three months and<br /></div><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center">her fingers will smooth the Army stationery<br /></div><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center">to suede.<br /></div><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><br /></div><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center">He will come home, stand<br /></div><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center">beside her in the photograph, leaning<br /></div><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center">on crutches, holding<br /></div><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center">me against the rough wool<br /></div><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center">of his jacket. He will sit<br /></div><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center">alone and listen to Aïda<br /></div><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><br /></div><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center">and they will pick up their<br /></div><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center">interrupted lives. Years later,<br /></div><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center">she will show her grandchildren<br /></div><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center">a yellow envelope with<br /></div><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center">forty-nine wilted pages telling her<br /></div><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><br /></div><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center">of shimmering sequins on the water,<br /></div><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center">the moonlight catching sudden phosphorescence,<br /></div><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center">the churned wake that stretched a silver trail.</div><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1nNk92P6UeIRALANWwqD6V_A0wYhzliwqqYTKhiYOlbn2wBgctHTfsJwoSDgRt7vCposqAqtbgp_2sHfpHkxrZaq1xu4xdrZALyTmQY_TgSCPLj_8DYG90o4y-a8zTIo7W0k8G95kZag/s1600-h/poem2e.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5297096290552084658" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 114px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1nNk92P6UeIRALANWwqD6V_A0wYhzliwqqYTKhiYOlbn2wBgctHTfsJwoSDgRt7vCposqAqtbgp_2sHfpHkxrZaq1xu4xdrZALyTmQY_TgSCPLj_8DYG90o4y-a8zTIo7W0k8G95kZag/s200/poem2e.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Do you have a poem you love, and want to share? Inaugurated by the Academy in April 1996, <a href="http://www.poets.org/page.php/prmID/41">National Poetry Month </a>(NPM) brings together publishers, booksellers, literary organizations, libraries, schools, and poets around the country to celebrate poetry and its vital place in American culture. Thousands of businesses and non-profit organizations participate through. <div><a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: 0px; BORDER-TOP: 0px; BACKGROUND: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; BORDER-LEFT: 0px; BORDER-BOTTOM: 0px" src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54487/58/3BECB1ECE133F2363C7F122ED55DBCE2.png" /></a><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">images from google images</span><br /></div>Janhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13716690020687995783noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5595809725752088912.post-33847606033916793652009-04-28T01:41:00.000-07:002009-04-28T01:41:00.471-07:00Everything We Do<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfKqlnj2w_qqxYnarQhslL-926WHeSSHbtL8AeIl7ob0yAWbIJ82VGeKDi2oo7bxpcluxmQs9-8ptkyUMXfC4WOxHFd9_FJQmDYp9HWfTqjATGj1A9ViRDqySIW_-BUF900RxVRs9jBMQ/s1600-h/IMG_1188.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5297197291248894082" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfKqlnj2w_qqxYnarQhslL-926WHeSSHbtL8AeIl7ob0yAWbIJ82VGeKDi2oo7bxpcluxmQs9-8ptkyUMXfC4WOxHFd9_FJQmDYp9HWfTqjATGj1A9ViRDqySIW_-BUF900RxVRs9jBMQ/s400/IMG_1188.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div align="center">Everything We Do by Peter Meinke,<br />from Liquid Paper: New and Selected Poems.<br /><br />Everything we do is for our first loves<br />whom we have lost irrevocably<br />who have married insurance salesmen<br />and moved to Topeka<br />and never think of us at all.<br /><br />We fly planes & design buildings<br />and write poems<br />that all say Sally I love you<br />I'll never love anyone else<br />Why didn't you know I was going to be a poet?<br /><br />The walks to school, the kisses in the snow<br />gather as we dream backwards, sweetness with age:<br />our legs are young again, our voices<br />strong and happy, we're not afraid.<br />We don't know enough to be afraid.<br /><br />And now<br />we hold (hidden, hopeless) the hope<br />that some day<br />she may fly in our plane<br />enter our building<br />read our poem<br /><br />And that night, deep in her dream,<br />Sally, far in darkness, in Topeka,<br />with the salesman lying beside her,<br />will cry out<br />our unfamiliar name. </div><div align="center"></div><div align="left"><br /></div><br /><br />Do you have a poem you love, and want to share? Inaugurated by the Academy in April 1996, <a href="http://www.poets.org/page.php/prmID/41">National Poetry Month </a>(NPM) brings together publishers, booksellers, literary organizations, libraries, schools, and poets around the country to celebrate poetry and its vital place in American culture. Thousands of businesses and non-profit organizations participate through.<br /><a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: 0px; BORDER-TOP: 0px; BACKGROUND: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; BORDER-LEFT: 0px; BORDER-BOTTOM: 0px" src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54487/58/3BECB1ECE133F2363C7F122ED55DBCE2.png" /></a><br />Photo by myself.Janhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13716690020687995783noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5595809725752088912.post-26164089914022523962009-04-26T01:28:00.000-07:002009-04-26T01:28:00.775-07:00Looking Back in My Eighty-first Year<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCdodquwnQanG_vX7b3PFzcsNlK90sX9ISRL4f-3jB3EnIkwGs_OMGcyciHbCD2ey-UjcuiLDoZ9ByrAlkENh-SUvAmzkPluPgZcpvaeXYgIT1hLOSYHgwqJPWUI4uWBQyn1R4nzhqV7I/s1600-h/blacklove3.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5296925317831745954" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCdodquwnQanG_vX7b3PFzcsNlK90sX9ISRL4f-3jB3EnIkwGs_OMGcyciHbCD2ey-UjcuiLDoZ9ByrAlkENh-SUvAmzkPluPgZcpvaeXYgIT1hLOSYHgwqJPWUI4uWBQyn1R4nzhqV7I/s400/blacklove3.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Looking Back in My Eighty-first Year, by Maxine Kumin,<br />from Still to Mow.<br /><br />How did we get to be old ladies—<br />my grandmother's job-when we<br />were the long-leggèd girls?<br />—Hilma Wolitzer<br /><br />Instead of marrying the day after graduation,<br />in spite of freezing on my father's arm as<br />here comes the bride struck up,<br />saying, I'm not sure I want to do this,<br /><br />I should have taken that fellowship<br />to the University of Grenoble to examine<br />the original manuscript<br />of Stendahl's unfinished Lucien Leuwen,<br /><br />I, who had never been west of the Mississippi,<br />should have crossed the ocean<br />in third class on the Cunard White Star,<br />the war just over, the Second World War<br /><br />when Kilroy was here, that innocent graffito,<br />two eyes and a nose draped over<br />a fence line. How could I go?<br />Passion had locked us together.<br /><br />Sixty years my lover,<br />he says he would have waited.<br />He says he would have sat<br />where the steamship docked<br /><br />till the last of the pursers<br />decamped, and I rushed back<br />littering the runway with carbon paper...<br />Why didn't I go? It was fated.<br /><br />Marriage dizzied us. Hand over hand,<br />flesh against flesh for the final haul,<br />we tugged our lifeline through limestone and sand,<br />lover and long-leggèd girl.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkKzR1aLWyWbbS1AMSgsdcLzGZaDghLjTq-vuR_yTULAasWKZDSgY84Dr5_bSTxSE0jefkHhhlhXnisL_1PVSiQ8ziYHiNQsOeOrqF-52Y4ipCpZ1ZRL6v5TLWOjetLY_6GyAFSlAfaFI/s1600-h/18612499_1bb28838db.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5297192621099262898" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 307px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkKzR1aLWyWbbS1AMSgsdcLzGZaDghLjTq-vuR_yTULAasWKZDSgY84Dr5_bSTxSE0jefkHhhlhXnisL_1PVSiQ8ziYHiNQsOeOrqF-52Y4ipCpZ1ZRL6v5TLWOjetLY_6GyAFSlAfaFI/s400/18612499_1bb28838db.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Do you have a poem you love, and want to share? Inaugurated by the Academy in April 1996, <a href="http://www.poets.org/page.php/prmID/41">National Poetry Month </a>(NPM) brings together publishers, booksellers, literary organizations, libraries, schools, and poets around the country to celebrate poetry and its vital place in American culture. Thousands of businesses and non-profit organizations participate through.<br /><div><a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: 0px; BORDER-TOP: 0px; BACKGROUND: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; BORDER-LEFT: 0px; BORDER-BOTTOM: 0px" src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54487/58/3BECB1ECE133F2363C7F122ED55DBCE2.png" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Image from Google Images, I love both these photos and couldn't decide.</span></div>Janhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13716690020687995783noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5595809725752088912.post-41097640052076745932009-04-25T03:28:00.000-07:002009-04-25T03:28:00.538-07:00After Our Daughter's Wedding<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVLptoJCi2nezmZpQzWqrTuDPK5udDZ7LIX4T54PIFCZIQ_uwJx3ahYak2LI6XJNXzh8DjomqXGtTkpj5uM-XZn7AJnyPnS6XIbyxFdCvuVJvBJcSRn-34Ct4mFn5fm68csUACzepaqOw/s1600-h/2236440621_b78e945576.jpg"><img alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVLptoJCi2nezmZpQzWqrTuDPK5udDZ7LIX4T54PIFCZIQ_uwJx3ahYak2LI6XJNXzh8DjomqXGtTkpj5uM-XZn7AJnyPnS6XIbyxFdCvuVJvBJcSRn-34Ct4mFn5fm68csUACzepaqOw/s400/2236440621_b78e945576.jpg" border="0" /></a> <div style="CLEAR: both"><a href="http://picasa.google.com/blogger/" target="ext"></a></div><br /><br />After Our Daughter's Wedding by Ellen Bass<br />from Mules of Love<br /><br />While the remnants of cake<br />and half-empty champagne glasses<br />lay on the lawn like sunbathers lingering<br />in the slanting light, we left the house guests<br />and drove to Antonelli's pond.<br />On a log by the bank I sat in my flowered dress and cried.<br />A lone fisherman drifted by, casting his ribbon of light.<br />"Do you feel like you've given her away?" you asked.<br />But no, it was that she made it<br />to here, that she didn't<br />drown in a well or die<br />of pneumonia or take the pills.<br />She wasn't crushed<br />under the mammoth wheels of a semi<br />on highway 17, wasn't found<br />lying in the alley<br />that night after rehearsal<br />when I got the time wrong.<br />It's animal. The egg<br />not eaten by a weasel. Turtles<br />crossing the beach, exposed<br />in the moonlight. And we<br />have so few to start with.<br />And that long gestation—<br />like carrying your soul out in front of you.<br />All those years of feeding<br />and watching. The vulnerable hollow<br />at the back of the neck. Never knowing<br />what could pick them off—a seagull<br />swooping down for a clam.<br />Our most basic imperative:<br />for them to survive.<br />And there's never been a moment<br />we could count on it.<br /><br />Today is Carrie's and Ole's anniversary. After their wedding, Bob and I had such a let down, after all the months of hub-bub of wedding preparations. We were very lucky for several reasons, one was Carrie's choice of a husband; another was that Carrie did most of the "work" involved in the planning of "her day". I was her back-up and Bob wrote the checks.<br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><a href="http://www.poets.org/page.php/prmID/41">National Poetry Month </a>(NPM) brings together publishers, booksellers, literary organizations, libraries, schools, and poets around the country to celebrate poetry and its vital place in American culture. Thousands of businesses and non-profit organizations participate through. <div> <a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: 0px; BORDER-TOP: 0px; BACKGROUND: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; BORDER-LEFT: 0px; BORDER-BOTTOM: 0px" src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54487/58/3BECB1ECE133F2363C7F122ED55DBCE2.png" /></a><br /><br /></div>Janhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13716690020687995783noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5595809725752088912.post-45596561972556323572009-04-24T01:56:00.000-07:002009-04-24T01:56:00.420-07:00Hardware<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM_WWD2434P3yjvDhYj3ocl958REgIzDpVcI5FGoH44OcAvu2e1BVDbyflZve30Vtp_19LWDKwkh9efEXh0D8BRFjYYplBzn4XhlHeMcKOhzyZ7M8XDhz0V0nt8RdyM1XuPMzO7rNZPPw/s1600-h/nutsbolts.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 234px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM_WWD2434P3yjvDhYj3ocl958REgIzDpVcI5FGoH44OcAvu2e1BVDbyflZve30Vtp_19LWDKwkh9efEXh0D8BRFjYYplBzn4XhlHeMcKOhzyZ7M8XDhz0V0nt8RdyM1XuPMzO7rNZPPw/s400/nutsbolts.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5298801451407195666" /></a><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: center;">Hardware by Ronald Wallace<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">from Time's Fancy.<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">My father always knew the secret<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">name of everything—<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">stove bolt and wing nut,<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">set screw and rasp, ratchet<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">wrench, band saw, and ball—<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">peen hammer. He was my<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">tour guide and translator<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">through that foreign country<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">with its short-tempered natives<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">in their crewcuts and tattoos,<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">who suffered my incompetence<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">with gruffness and disgust.<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Pay attention, he would say,<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">and you'll learn a thing or two.<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Now it's forty years later,<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">and I'm packing up his tools<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">(If you know the proper<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">names of things you're never<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">at a loss) tongue-tied, incompetent,<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">my hands and heart full<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">of doohickeys and widgets,<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">whatchamacallits, thingamabobs.<br /></div></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><a href="http://www.poets.org/page.php/prmID/41">National Poetry Month </a>(NPM) brings together publishers, booksellers, literary organizations, libraries, schools, and poets around the country to celebrate poetry and its vital place in American culture. Thousands of businesses and non-profit organizations participate through. <div> <a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: 0px; BORDER-TOP: 0px; BACKGROUND: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; BORDER-LEFT: 0px; BORDER-BOTTOM: 0px" src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54487/58/3BECB1ECE133F2363C7F122ED55DBCE2.png" /></a><br /><br /></div>Janhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13716690020687995783noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5595809725752088912.post-56252517490555378152009-04-23T01:54:00.000-07:002009-04-23T01:54:00.851-07:00I'll Be Seeing You<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8Cxpv_n2z-kWlJ1GJA8ycnj-1K8M_Jx_n9MKcuuGa-mDNpSWOz51pvYtOq0eEFZzN7nIN8WfoYST9WHhP756256Q8KpXtfwzaUme9sBUhpA0yu68Dl0EJxd2fZC8ucmvAsk5AHFeJFno/s1600-h/MN0060874.gif"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8Cxpv_n2z-kWlJ1GJA8ycnj-1K8M_Jx_n9MKcuuGa-mDNpSWOz51pvYtOq0eEFZzN7nIN8WfoYST9WHhP756256Q8KpXtfwzaUme9sBUhpA0yu68Dl0EJxd2fZC8ucmvAsk5AHFeJFno/s400/MN0060874.gif" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5298800550189567554" /></a><br /><br /><div>I'll Be Seeing You by Jo McDougall <br /><br />World War II is slipping away, I can feel it.<br />Its officers are gray.<br />Their wives who danced at the USO<br />are gray, too.<div><br />Veterans forget their stories. Some lands they fought in <br />have new names, and Linda Venetti<br />who deserted the husband who raised cows<br />to run off with an officer<br />has come home to look after her mother<br />and work the McDonald's morning shift.</div><div><br />William Holden is dead,<br />and my mother, who knew all the words<br />to "When the Lights Go On Again All over the World."<br /></div><div><br /></div></div><br />Do you have a poem you love, and want to share? Inaugurated by the Academy in April 1996, <a href="http://www.poets.org/page.php/prmID/41">National Poetry Month </a>(NPM) brings together publishers, booksellers, literary organizations, libraries, schools, and poets around the country to celebrate poetry and its vital place in American culture. Thousands of businesses and non-profit organizations participate through. <div> <a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: 0px; BORDER-TOP: 0px; BACKGROUND: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; BORDER-LEFT: 0px; BORDER-BOTTOM: 0px" src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54487/58/3BECB1ECE133F2363C7F122ED55DBCE2.png" /></a><br /><br /></div>Janhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13716690020687995783noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5595809725752088912.post-49643479264286875602009-04-22T02:47:00.000-07:002009-04-22T02:47:01.163-07:00The Door<div style="MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; TEXT-ALIGN: center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo9gqJmHrMOH2kKTfgAduRS2wPXF3gPjKSlEkXvWFUb9CNnO9be5tcV1eanlMJbFstrtNbIeo1ThfLE90wvyibwEnyViWI92i3G8bo1xZLERtwfznh_Dkh-i-IHEsrx0on30HIEibJPfw/s1600-h/2008-07-20-0513-381.jpg"><img alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo9gqJmHrMOH2kKTfgAduRS2wPXF3gPjKSlEkXvWFUb9CNnO9be5tcV1eanlMJbFstrtNbIeo1ThfLE90wvyibwEnyViWI92i3G8bo1xZLERtwfznh_Dkh-i-IHEsrx0on30HIEibJPfw/s400/2008-07-20-0513-381.jpg" border="0" /></a> </div><div style="CLEAR: both; TEXT-ALIGN: center"><a href="http://picasa.google.com/blogger/" target="ext"></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">The Door, by Charles Simic<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">Step up to the door.<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">Softly, softly<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">As if approaching<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">A house of cards.<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">Bare feet allowed.<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">Dogs allowed.<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">The sun and the moon and the evening<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">Wind allowed.<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">In the shadow of this door<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">You'll play in the smallest theaters<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">With a bit of dark gravel<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">And a solitary white bread crumb.<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">The door that thinks<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">With your eyes<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">Thinks and thinks<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">Even while you're away.<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">If you can find a doorstep,<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">Carry your bride over it<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">And leave your shoes behind<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">Alone with the night falling.<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">If you can see a keyhole in this door,<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">Put your ear against it<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">And listen to the sounds of love<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">On the other side.<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">Don't try to open the door.<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">The child you were once<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">Will come out with eyes blindfolded<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">And lose itself in the crowd.<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">The door opens by itself<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">While you sleep.<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">All keys you ever lost,<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">All rusty keys<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">Lie behind it unused.<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">The door opens by itself</span>.<br /></div><br />Do you have a poem you love, and want to share? Inaugurated by the Academy in April 1996, <a href="http://www.poets.org/page.php/prmID/41">National Poetry Month </a>(NPM) brings together publishers, booksellers, literary organizations, libraries, schools, and poets around the country to celebrate poetry and its vital place in American culture. Thousands of businesses and non-profit organizations participate through. <div> <a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: 0px; BORDER-TOP: 0px; BACKGROUND: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; BORDER-LEFT: 0px; BORDER-BOTTOM: 0px" src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54487/58/3BECB1ECE133F2363C7F122ED55DBCE2.png" /></a><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">image from my files</span></div>Janhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13716690020687995783noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5595809725752088912.post-11329754700518581522009-04-21T01:21:00.000-07:002009-04-21T01:21:01.021-07:00Book Review<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIKotZh7yFJKS0iGtFn0cgsdDuqFvizfIZyCNZ523DhBhL1reRCUbwTKKHkIR-fR2pHuJV02Wp1idlSg5xMzK35vFL4xkquKxSr8JMxiHzROxXWw7OMZDqetOVPF_2_8TW2ODsa_pMSpw/s1600-h/21fugees_xlarge1x.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIKotZh7yFJKS0iGtFn0cgsdDuqFvizfIZyCNZ523DhBhL1reRCUbwTKKHkIR-fR2pHuJV02Wp1idlSg5xMzK35vFL4xkquKxSr8JMxiHzROxXWw7OMZDqetOVPF_2_8TW2ODsa_pMSpw/s400/21fugees_xlarge1x.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5307127749943179346" /></a><br />I usually do book reviews at <a href="http://www.lovesbooksntea.com/">Loves Book N Tea</a>, but I wanted to tell more people about this fabulous book. When you read <a href="http://search.barnesandnoble.com/Outcasts-United/Warren-St-John/e/9780385522038">Outcast United</a>, not only will your learn about the terrific kids that make up the Fugees, and their dedicated coach, you get a lesson in global politics. Here's a synopsis:<div><br /></div><div>Set against the backdrop of an American town that without its consent had become a vast social experiment, Outcasts United follows a pivotal season in the life of the Fugees and their charismatic coach. Warren St. John documents the lives of a diverse group of young people as they miraculously coalesce into a band of brothers, while also drawing a fascinating portrait of a fading American town struggling to accommodate its new arrivals. At the center of the story is fiery Coach Luma, who relentlessly drives her players to success on the soccer field while holding together their lives—and the lives of their families—in the face of a series of daunting challenges.<br /><br />This fast-paced chronicle of a single season is a complex and inspiring tale of a small town becoming a global community—and an account of the ingenious and complicated ways we create a home in a changing world.<br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Read it, you'll be glad you did.</div>Janhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13716690020687995783noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5595809725752088912.post-51025623236299492892009-04-20T01:20:00.000-07:002009-04-20T01:20:00.526-07:00The Loon by James Tate<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgURGRU7NcvaAMAfOYOdRo-Uec2CN1TRZ3svQRzERC1yuQe45Tf28DaxGLPquATbxYf_DqxMWy_rdPPJguXRP8_hdUqymms-qKLiH6S_5_CGEAikiBRQFLuBFkK5Tjwf9KRBG4fBtwGXdc/s1600-h/Loon2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgURGRU7NcvaAMAfOYOdRo-Uec2CN1TRZ3svQRzERC1yuQe45Tf28DaxGLPquATbxYf_DqxMWy_rdPPJguXRP8_hdUqymms-qKLiH6S_5_CGEAikiBRQFLuBFkK5Tjwf9KRBG4fBtwGXdc/s400/Loon2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5315291456451626754" /></a><br /><br /><div>I hope when you read this, you pause and say hmmm!</div><div><br /></div>"The Loon" by James Tate<br />from Return to the City of White Donkeys.<br /><br />A loon woke me this morning. It was like waking up<br />in another world. I had no idea what was expected of me.<br />I waited for instructions. Someone called and asked me<br />if I wanted a free trip to Florida. I said, "Sure. Can<br />I go today?" A man in a uniform picked me up in a limousine,<br />and the next thing I know I'm being chased by an alligator<br />across a parking lot. A crowd gathers and cheers me on.<br />Of course, none of this really happened. I'm still sleeping.<br />I don't want to go to work. I want to know what the loon is<br />saying. It sounds like ecstasy tinged with unfathomable<br />terror. One thing is certain: at least they are not speaking<br />of tax shelters. The phone rings. It's my boss. She says,<br />"Where are you?" I say, "I don't know. I don't recognize<br />my surroundings. I think I've been kidnapped. If they make<br />demands of you, don't give in. That's my professional advice."<br />Just then, the loon let out a tremendous looping, soaring,<br />swirling, quadruple whoop. "My god, are you alright?" my<br />boss said. "In case we do not meet again, I want you to know<br />that I've always loved you, Agnes," I said. "What?" she said.<br />"What are you saying?" "Good-bye, my darling. Try to remember me<br />as your ever loyal servant," I said. "Did you say you loved<br />me?" she said. I said, "Yes," and hung up. I tried<br />to go back to sleep, but the idea of being kidnapped had me<br />quite worked up. I looked in the mirror for signs of torture.<br />Every time the loon cried, I screamed and contorted my face<br />in agony. They were going to cut off my head and place it on<br />a stake. I overheard them talking. They seemed like very<br />reasonable men, even, one might say, likeable.<br /><br />Do you have a poem you love, and want to share? Inaugurated by the Academy in April 1996, <a href="http://www.poets.org/page.php/prmID/41">National Poetry Month </a>(NPM) brings together publishers, booksellers, literary organizations, libraries, schools, and poets around the country to celebrate poetry and its vital place in American culture. Thousands of businesses and non-profit organizations participate through. <div> <a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: 0px; BORDER-TOP: 0px; BACKGROUND: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; BORDER-LEFT: 0px; BORDER-BOTTOM: 0px" src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54487/58/3BECB1ECE133F2363C7F122ED55DBCE2.png" /></a></div>Janhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13716690020687995783noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5595809725752088912.post-32555443117561778442009-04-19T01:08:00.000-07:002009-04-19T01:08:00.572-07:00"Poem on a Line by Anne Sexton, 'We are All Writing God's Poem'"<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe1nO_U8lM52mBg2Wg3S_pZ3ZVtt5510DnmZHVzVciSnMUfNAC5GgDcbFTuYA07MmCjBbrekQMqc1f9JTMNpRFgd7ugb_8kKB3R2-YwiIl7okEE8ZhslRyfal6DW7A4HuKBks66Ww2X0g/s1600-h/IMG_0667.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 500px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe1nO_U8lM52mBg2Wg3S_pZ3ZVtt5510DnmZHVzVciSnMUfNAC5GgDcbFTuYA07MmCjBbrekQMqc1f9JTMNpRFgd7ugb_8kKB3R2-YwiIl7okEE8ZhslRyfal6DW7A4HuKBks66Ww2X0g/s400/IMG_0667.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5315674365758156162" /></a><br />"Poem on a Line by Anne Sexton, 'We are All Writing God's Poem'"<br />by Barbara Crooker, from Line Dance<br /><br />Today, the sky's the soft blue of a work shirt washed<br />a thousand times. The journey of a thousand miles<br />begins with a single step. On the interstate listening<br />to NPR, I heard a Hubble scientist<br />say, "The universe is not only stranger than we<br />think, it's stranger than we can think." I think<br />I've driven into spring, as the woods revive<br />with a loud shout, redbud trees, their gaudy<br />scarves flung over bark's bare limbs. Barely doing<br />sixty, I pass a tractor trailer called Glory Bound,<br />and aren't we just? Just yesterday,<br />I read Li Po: "There is no end of things<br />in the heart," but it seems like things<br />are always ending—vacation or childhood,<br />relationships, stores going out of business,<br />like the one that sold jeans that really fit—<br />And where do we fit in? How can we get up<br />in the morning, knowing what we do? But we do,<br />put one foot after the other, open the window,<br />make coffee, watch the steam curl up<br />and disappear. At night, the scent of phlox curls<br />in the open window, while the sky turns red violet,<br />lavender, thistle, a box of spilled crayons.<br />The moon spills its milk on the black tabletop<br />for the thousandth time.<br /><br /><div><br />Do you have a poem you love, and want to share? Inaugurated by the Academy in April 1996, <a href="http://www.poets.org/page.php/prmID/41">National Poetry Month </a>(NPM) brings together publishers, booksellers, literary organizations, libraries, schools, and poets around the country to celebrate poetry and its vital place in American culture. Thousands of businesses and non-profit organizations participate through. <div> <a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: 0px; BORDER-TOP: 0px; BACKGROUND: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; BORDER-LEFT: 0px; BORDER-BOTTOM: 0px" src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54487/58/3BECB1ECE133F2363C7F122ED55DBCE2.png" /></a><br /></div></div>Janhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13716690020687995783noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5595809725752088912.post-17240846246908386172009-04-18T02:43:00.000-07:002009-04-18T02:43:01.127-07:00Middle-Aged Men, LeaningMiddle-Aged Men, Leaning by Bruce Taylor <br /><br />They lean on rakes. <br />It's late, it is evening<br />already inside their houses.<br /><br />The children are gone. <br />Their wives are on the phone<br />talking softly to someone else.<br /><br />This frost, this early Fall<br />upon their minds, a small<br />measure of patience and regard<br /><br />as if the twilight world<br />in bright papery pieces<br />diminished so and thus.<br /><br />~<br />They lean on hoes<br />in Spring the green earth<br />turned once more beneath them<br /><br />their eyes full of flowers<br />their hands full too<br />of the planting still to do<br /><br />the weeds and drought awaiting<br />their pocketful of seed<br />the water they must carry.<br /><br />~<br />In an early winter dark they lean <br />on shovels, a graying heart<br />a last bad rap inside them,<br /><br />looking upward toward the sky<br />the yard, the driveway, the car<br />the street, the world<br /><br />itself for all they know<br />buried by the falling snow<br />even as they gasp to breathe<br /><br />and re-breathe the visible breath,<br />like a burst cartoon balloon<br />of an old imperfect prayer.<br /><br />~<br />In summer, after long mowing,<br />they lean toward a growing<br />silence in the plush grasses<br /><br />in leaves of many greens<br />in trees of their own colors<br />where grackle and crow<br /><br />each to its own shadow<br />in the dusky reach of branches<br />gather quietly to stay.<br /><br />in the dusky reach of branches<br />gather quietly to stay. <div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAutblT6MNUC4ko7Xys6fiYL66kF-3sMORX7q6khR75DAYcSaYj5SxK5_77FGgrSwYhrNTsoc2W0K3JzH4-sIYha6Eie3dpApdayA91t3PKSnQZ8LdqL4a2HstFZcJTu0mGxQVVp_qlWA/s1600-h/rake"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5298621659210212658" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 362px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAutblT6MNUC4ko7Xys6fiYL66kF-3sMORX7q6khR75DAYcSaYj5SxK5_77FGgrSwYhrNTsoc2W0K3JzH4-sIYha6Eie3dpApdayA91t3PKSnQZ8LdqL4a2HstFZcJTu0mGxQVVp_qlWA/s400/rake" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Do you have a poem you love, and want to share? Inaugurated by the Academy in April 1996, <a href="http://www.poets.org/page.php/prmID/41">National Poetry Month </a>(NPM) brings together publishers, booksellers, literary organizations, libraries, schools, and poets around the country to celebrate poetry and its vital place in American culture. Thousands of businesses and non-profit organizations participate through. <div><a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: 0px; BORDER-TOP: 0px; BACKGROUND: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; BORDER-LEFT: 0px; BORDER-BOTTOM: 0px" src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54487/58/3BECB1ECE133F2363C7F122ED55DBCE2.png" /></a><br /></div></div>Janhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13716690020687995783noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5595809725752088912.post-6291637383553754672009-04-17T01:04:00.000-07:002009-04-17T01:04:00.570-07:00The Man Next Door Is Teaching His Dog to DriveThe Man Next Door Is Teaching His Dog to Drive<br />by Cathryn Essinger from My Dog Does Not Read Plato.<br /><br />It all began when he came out one morning<br />and found the dog waiting for him behind the wheel.<br />He thought she looked pretty good sitting there,<br /><br />so he started taking her into town with him<br />just so she could get a feel for the road.<br />They have made a few turns through the field,<br /><br />him sitting beside her, his foot on the accelerator,<br />her muzzle on the wheel. Now they are practicing<br />going up and down the lane with him whispering<br /><br />encouragement in her silky ear. She is a handsome<br />dog with long ears and a speckled muzzle and he<br />is a good teacher. Now my wife, Millie, he says,<br /><br />she was always too timid on the road, but don't you<br />be afraid to let people know that you are there.<br />The dog seems to be thinking about this seriously.<br /><br />Braking, however, is still a problem, but he is building<br />a mouthpiece which he hopes to attach to the steering<br />column, and when he upgrades to one of those new<br /><br />Sports Utility Vehicles with the remote ignition device,<br />he will have solved the key and the lock problem.<br />Although he has not yet let her drive into town,<br /><br />he thinks she will be ready sometime next month,<br />and when his eyes get bad and her hip dysplasia<br />gets worse, he thinks this will come in real handy.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji1WEc-NSGiPJ9lBz0JbcsG3C7k8dXdIbjSys4guPuHYYHpsTu-SK-F8REElnt2HGfzjdMwjCz1MCZ-p4hwpd9tW7FjH5sbgbgZkW_7wGEan836jnruPdCFcp3NlUk24lxmo-FI8EUi40/s1600-h/dog-driving-car-0808-lg-86831827.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5297206483469240610" style="WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 266px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji1WEc-NSGiPJ9lBz0JbcsG3C7k8dXdIbjSys4guPuHYYHpsTu-SK-F8REElnt2HGfzjdMwjCz1MCZ-p4hwpd9tW7FjH5sbgbgZkW_7wGEan836jnruPdCFcp3NlUk24lxmo-FI8EUi40/s400/dog-driving-car-0808-lg-86831827.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div></div><div><br /><br /><br />Do you have a poem you love, and want to share?<br /><br />Inaugurated by the Academy in April 1996, <a href="http://www.poets.org/page.php/prmID/41">National Poetry Month</a> (NPM) brings together publishers, booksellers, literary organizations, libraries, schools, and poets around the country to celebrate poetry and its vital place in American culture. Thousands of businesses and non-profit organizations participate through readings, festivals, book displays, workshops, and other events. </div><br /><br /><a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: 0px; BORDER-TOP: 0px; BACKGROUND: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; BORDER-LEFT: 0px; BORDER-BOTTOM: 0px" src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54487/58/3BECB1ECE133F2363C7F122ED55DBCE2.png" /></a>Janhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13716690020687995783noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5595809725752088912.post-5190089131880626842009-04-16T02:38:00.000-07:002009-04-16T02:38:00.608-07:00Unfortunate Coincidence<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimlmKiw7GH6hLiGef3ZcaPaIzwB2zF2Uag9RSXlskXQZs7lilgvXxB-EL1qpN2oIenUgNX9SYpVy_Sihr74Jn3_aTCMOa7Pt2ES77creMPwBt_XFsEMZZ2AXr734hgxQD4NnYCqXfwnOM/s1600-h/grfw_heart_021408.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5297204998502637362" style="WIDTH: 109px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 109px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimlmKiw7GH6hLiGef3ZcaPaIzwB2zF2Uag9RSXlskXQZs7lilgvXxB-EL1qpN2oIenUgNX9SYpVy_Sihr74Jn3_aTCMOa7Pt2ES77creMPwBt_XFsEMZZ2AXr734hgxQD4NnYCqXfwnOM/s400/grfw_heart_021408.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRvAbShv1BIE3sFh1x3BDfo0jNsT3l0ZOmrgwIlo4fX14yBtdYsstakBbm3Y29s_VA0e2y-eGd66MDcRDmGui46OxFTsnEDS32txgusImf9_t2hCM6ET7s9P5SuwaMagXpI0_qsMacJQw/s1600-h/grfw_heart_021408.jpg"></a><br />Unfortunate Coincidence by Dorothy Parker<br />From Enough Rope<br /><br />By the time you swear you're his,<br />Shivering and sighing,<br />And he vows his passion is<br />Infinite, undying,<br />Lady, make a note of this —<br />One of you is lying.<br /><br />First printed in Life, (8 April 1926) p. 11 </div><br /><br />Do you have a poem you love, and want to share? Inaugurated by the Academy in April 1996, <a href="http://www.poets.org/page.php/prmID/41">National Poetry Month </a>(NPM) brings together publishers, booksellers, literary organizations, libraries, schools, and poets around the country to celebrate poetry and its vital place in American culture. Thousands of businesses and non-profit organizations participate through.<br /><a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: 0px; BORDER-TOP: 0px; BACKGROUND: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; BORDER-LEFT: 0px; BORDER-BOTTOM: 0px" src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54487/58/3BECB1ECE133F2363C7F122ED55DBCE2.png" /></a>Janhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13716690020687995783noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5595809725752088912.post-18526905855720637762009-04-15T01:46:00.000-07:002009-04-15T01:46:00.586-07:00Winter Song<div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHqljdEh5kZHg-eRqOhp8c0w5BRL_BRAM4dU_Z9fPvY8r6tKlVvcSQ_OM9O-HeMni6YgVeYhbg1STzsDmfHuIftmgkCBCNBz89osf0minxBfOqx9UKiLpgEj7ayCo9KdzUrZJqSUPRqVU/s1600-h/NPM_2008_poster_thb.gif"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5185015340770015826" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHqljdEh5kZHg-eRqOhp8c0w5BRL_BRAM4dU_Z9fPvY8r6tKlVvcSQ_OM9O-HeMni6YgVeYhbg1STzsDmfHuIftmgkCBCNBz89osf0minxBfOqx9UKiLpgEj7ayCo9KdzUrZJqSUPRqVU/s320/NPM_2008_poster_thb.gif" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Winter Song by Aaron Kramer,<br />from Wicked Times.<br /><br />Under a willow<br />close by a brook<br />her lap for a pillow<br />her eyes for a book<br /><br />she like a drummer<br />practiced her art<br />all spring and all summer—<br />the drum was my heart.<br /><br />Hear how the willow sighs to the sun:<br />It is over and done with, over and done!<br />Hear the cold brook, that can hardly run:<br />It is over and done with, over and done!<br /><br />Under what maple<br />close by what lake<br />will she lie next April?<br />Whose heart will she break?</div><p><br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT2p8LfzxGQkc6VbL0Ljmvp77Bxq5ANGA_0GcPVh_RqRnTrJWIJUH_bHpLxNXhU8oH8E7qVfE0fol9WxrrV_9nJVbM9q0xAm6Ywcfu9cgOQ8DT7fqmrn4LlYTZH94lX7vmxWWNWm8MKJE/s1600-h/254383348_e8769d5e2b_edited.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5184786199969806850" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT2p8LfzxGQkc6VbL0Ljmvp77Bxq5ANGA_0GcPVh_RqRnTrJWIJUH_bHpLxNXhU8oH8E7qVfE0fol9WxrrV_9nJVbM9q0xAm6Ywcfu9cgOQ8DT7fqmrn4LlYTZH94lX7vmxWWNWm8MKJE/s320/254383348_e8769d5e2b_edited.jpg" border="0" /></a> <span style="font-size:78%;">Photo edited from </span><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/vialetter/"><span style="font-size:78%;">vial3tt3r</span></a> </p><p></p>Do you have a poem you love, and want to share? Inaugurated by the Academy in April 1996, <a href="http://www.poets.org/page.php/prmID/41">National Poetry Month </a>(NPM) brings together publishers, booksellers, literary organizations, libraries, schools, and poets around the country to celebrate poetry and its vital place in American culture. Thousands of businesses and non-profit organizations participate through.<br /><a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: 0px; BORDER-TOP: 0px; BACKGROUND: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; BORDER-LEFT: 0px; BORDER-BOTTOM: 0px" src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54487/58/3BECB1ECE133F2363C7F122ED55DBCE2.png" /></a>Janhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13716690020687995783noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5595809725752088912.post-26685542482706881232009-04-14T05:41:00.000-07:002009-04-14T05:41:00.897-07:00Happy Birthday, Brett<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4LdefgKu7p3SAxwb86vXkq2uu0U1muZwgZ8YmVpQoMRRFkh44H3wyi1htzoIIwIo4LBBT-_SsLci4mmLY-gfZDdFZLRvw9LGQLlHI4-gNIrvebr_i7x9_CF7hFzadv2GQLhK_9FOfu08/s1600-h/File0040_edited.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 319px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4LdefgKu7p3SAxwb86vXkq2uu0U1muZwgZ8YmVpQoMRRFkh44H3wyi1htzoIIwIo4LBBT-_SsLci4mmLY-gfZDdFZLRvw9LGQLlHI4-gNIrvebr_i7x9_CF7hFzadv2GQLhK_9FOfu08/s400/File0040_edited.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5318253498502981106" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7DwNapWdtZA3LZ4RCQuPSoPB_xv9YVQCkzaqmdhTPvco0V5CzZY5us0jKFAJZvFkCaaqNJRro7JZv2Cku_eMjYAJNrkTq__idgSoOIMiL0YSdOSXz2gHqegtpCW2NZWtIVDa8Zx0XPCk/s1600-h/brett.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 268px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7DwNapWdtZA3LZ4RCQuPSoPB_xv9YVQCkzaqmdhTPvco0V5CzZY5us0jKFAJZvFkCaaqNJRro7JZv2Cku_eMjYAJNrkTq__idgSoOIMiL0YSdOSXz2gHqegtpCW2NZWtIVDa8Zx0XPCk/s400/brett.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5318253498930632626" /></a>Janhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13716690020687995783noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5595809725752088912.post-66194376458864062842009-04-14T01:01:00.000-07:002009-04-14T01:01:01.064-07:00Eating TogetherEating Together by Kim Addonizio<br />from What Is This Thing Called Love.<br /><br />I know my friend is going,<br />though she still sits there<br />across from me in the restaurant,<br />and leans over the table to dip<br />her bread in the oil on my plate; I know<br />how thick her hair used to be,<br />and what it takes for her to discard<br />her man's cap partway through our meal,<br />to look straight at the young waiter<br />and smile when he asks<br />how we are liking it. She eats<br />as though starving—chicken, dolmata,<br />the buttery flakes of filo—<br />and what's killing her<br />eats, too. I watch her lift<br />a glistening black olive and peel<br />the meat from the pit, watch<br />her fine long fingers, and her face,<br />puffy from medication. She lowers<br />her eyes to the food, pretending<br />not to know what I know. She's going.<br />And we go on eating.<br /><br />Do you have a poem you love, and want to share?<br /><br />Inaugurated by the Academy in April 1996, <a href="http://www.poets.org/page.php/prmID/41">National Poetry Month</a> (NPM) brings together publishers, booksellers, literary organizations, libraries, schools, and poets around the country to celebrate poetry and its vital place in American culture. Thousands of businesses and non-profit organizations participate through readings, festivals, book displays, workshops, and other events.<br /><br /><br /><a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: 0px; BORDER-TOP: 0px; BACKGROUND: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; BORDER-LEFT: 0px; BORDER-BOTTOM: 0px" src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54487/58/3BECB1ECE133F2363C7F122ED55DBCE2.png" /></a>Janhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13716690020687995783noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5595809725752088912.post-25239699990574649712009-04-13T02:34:00.000-07:002009-04-13T02:34:00.731-07:00Poem or Advice?<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGhH7simTsAejuwWPXG39lWUT_ixDygpe6FZb81NnuVvkn96fVP-Xeh_pjgNakJamkqX5GLUZF5aXjlBIAT8TGKJjl6-EeU-FTXptQAzU2PranePiLcUIfohlkmtgENkg0-J06BPTMUgQ/s1600-h/LovingCup.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5297198377145825522" style="WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 156px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGhH7simTsAejuwWPXG39lWUT_ixDygpe6FZb81NnuVvkn96fVP-Xeh_pjgNakJamkqX5GLUZF5aXjlBIAT8TGKJjl6-EeU-FTXptQAzU2PranePiLcUIfohlkmtgENkg0-J06BPTMUgQ/s200/LovingCup.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div><br />A Word to Husbands<br /><br />To keep your marriage brimming,<br />With love in the loving cup,<br />Whenever you’re wrong admit it;<br />Whenever you’re right shut up.<br /><br />~Ogden Nash</div><div></div><div></div><br /><br />Do you have a poem you love, and want to share? Inaugurated by the Academy in April 1996, <a href="http://www.poets.org/page.php/prmID/41">National Poetry Month </a>(NPM) brings together publishers, booksellers, literary organizations, libraries, schools, and poets around the country to celebrate poetry and its vital place in American culture. Thousands of businesses and non-profit organizations participate through.<br /><a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: 0px; BORDER-TOP: 0px; BACKGROUND: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; BORDER-LEFT: 0px; BORDER-BOTTOM: 0px" src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54487/58/3BECB1ECE133F2363C7F122ED55DBCE2.png" /></a>Janhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13716690020687995783noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5595809725752088912.post-17434023784009330882009-04-12T01:26:00.000-07:002009-04-12T01:26:00.875-07:00Great Depression Story<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyqvm4X2gwtBC3a2tD9YqVPD5RG5LsB-fmJRaOaBDLhGs00dkQA6GxxKgP6YxK8RStB2DQdQZt0RmXdZsSuawIrsUr99Tl1W8ySqW25AosTj6a_SFK8eP0rheBb-MCrwH4lzoDGZBQlbU/s1600-h/SteamtownBoxcar.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5297199283338995250" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 214px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyqvm4X2gwtBC3a2tD9YqVPD5RG5LsB-fmJRaOaBDLhGs00dkQA6GxxKgP6YxK8RStB2DQdQZt0RmXdZsSuawIrsUr99Tl1W8ySqW25AosTj6a_SFK8eP0rheBb-MCrwH4lzoDGZBQlbU/s320/SteamtownBoxcar.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpSRfn7M1GKvLneDLIeKF5FhS8yrIBGY5ebPPVTfmBorKp5EA6oHOKgrzlMZLUGRqSyDhKIRBs-1NMvTv2_866zcOTj4lYz1T0hIWuzpAdGH6zPI__ywAjGKl4p7GbBOkLl7CPfLy9R6w/s1600-h/SteamtownBoxcar.jpg"></a><br /><br /><div align="center">Great Depression Story by Claudia Emerson<br />from Figure Studies<br /><br />Sometimes the season changed in the telling,<br />sometimes the state, but it was always during<br /><br />the Depression, and he was alone in the boxcar,<br />the train stalled beneath a sky wider<br /><br />than any he'd seen so far, the fields of grass<br />wider than the sky. He'd been curious<br /><br />to see if things were as bad somewhere else<br />as they were at home. They were—and worse,<br /><br />he said, places with no trees, no water.<br />He hadn't eaten all day, all week, his hunger<br /><br />hard-fixed, doubled, gleaming as the rails. A lone<br />house broke the sharp horizon, the train dreaming<br /><br />beneath him, so he climbed down, walked out,<br />the grass parting at his knees. The windows<br /><br />were open, curtainless, and the screendoor,<br />unlatched, moved to open, too, when he knocked.<br /><br />He could see in all the way through to the kitchen—<br />and he smelled before he saw the lidded<br /><br />pot on the stove, the steam escaping. Her clothes<br />moved on the line for all reply, the sheets,<br /><br />a slip, one dress, washed thin, worn to translucence;<br />through it he could see what he mistook for fields<br /><br />of roses until a crow flew in with the wind—<br />sudden, fleeting seam. By the time he got back to the train,<br /><br />he'd guessed already what he'd taken—pot<br />and all—a hen, an old one that had quit<br /><br />laying, he was sure or she wouldn't have killed it.<br />The train began to move then, her house falling<br /><br />away from him. The story ended with the meat<br />not quite done, but, believe him, he ate it<br /><br />all, white and dark, back, breast, legs, and thighs,<br />strewing the still-warm bones behind him for miles.</div><br /><br />Do you have a poem you love, and want to share? Inaugurated by the Academy in April 1996, <a href="http://www.poets.org/page.php/prmID/41">National Poetry Month </a>(NPM) brings together publishers, booksellers, literary organizations, libraries, schools, and poets around the country to celebrate poetry and its vital place in American culture. Thousands of businesses and non-profit organizations participate through.<br /><a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: 0px; BORDER-TOP: 0px; BACKGROUND: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; BORDER-LEFT: 0px; BORDER-BOTTOM: 0px" src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54487/58/3BECB1ECE133F2363C7F122ED55DBCE2.png" /></a> </div>Janhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13716690020687995783noreply@blogger.com0