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Daily Archives: July 12, 2014


                                                         babies are so young,they smile so sweet,they giggle and laugh they can’t just complete,tiny little bundles in your loving arms,they laugh and giggle with all there charms.                          ~                                                                  They touch your face,they touch your hair,they look at you with wonder and just stare,they crawl around with such speed,they try there hardest to suceed.  With the air of wonder and the power of love,they take there first step to reach above.                                                          With little wonders they may learn, the gift of love is in return,these are the joys of babies will bring,we hold out our arms to any thing. 

Fishing On The Susquehanna In July

I have never been fishing on the Susquehanna
or on any river for that matter
to be perfectly honest.

Not in July or any month
have I had the pleasure -- 
if it is a pleasure --
of fishing on the Susquehanna.

I am more likely to be found
in a quiet room like this one --
a painting of a woman on the wall,

a bowl of tangerines on the table --
trying to manufacture the sensation
of fishing on the Susquehanna.

There is little doubt
that others have been fishing
on the Susquehanna,

rowing upstream in a wooden boat,
sliding the oars under the water
then raising them to drip in the light.

But the nearest I have ever come to
fishing on the Susquehanna
was one afternoon in a museum in Philadelphia,

when I balanced a little egg of time
in front of a painting
in which that river curled around a bend

under a blue cloud-ruffled sky,
dense trees along the banks,
and a fellow with a red bandana

sitting in a small, green
flat-bottom boat
holding the thin whip of a pole.

That is something I am unlikely
ever to do, I remember
saying to myself and the person next to me.

Then I blinked and moved on
to other American scenes
of haystacks, water whitening over rocks,

even one of a brown hare
who seemed so wired with alertness
I imagined him springing right out of the frame.
Billy Collins

The Color Wheel – promote yourself

wheel oooooooooooooooo

What color defines you?
Sometimes I’m yellow
Free and happy, trusting and caring
Sometimes I’m blue
Introspective, wanting only to think things through
There are times when I’m green
Greedy and spiteful, ready for a fight
The days where my heart is black are days
That I don’t want to discuss at all
They’re the ones I try my hardest to forget
But remember at all the wrong times
My red days are fun
I feel wild and free, ready to do anything, try anything
The problem is that I never know what color I’m going to awaken as

Or what color is going to try and combine with what color I already am
Just like a color wheel, not all colors match
Some set each other off so badly that it splits the seams of my day
And when the seams begin to spilt, I don’t have the strength 
To put them back together
My white days consist of nothingness.
It’s when I allow myself to be sucked down into the absence of all color
Colors that consist of friends, family, love, laughter, joy, peace
I hate the white days the worst, the worst, the worst
As long as I keep running and running the color wheel keeps spinning
And only when it spins am I living
Otherwise, I am sucked into the nothingness of white
And I must dig and crawl my way out
Don’t stop
The color wheel doesn’t choose you
You choose the color.
©Kelli Redfearn. Any unauthorized use or distribution without express written consent of the author is prohibited.

“Old Ironsides” is a poem written by Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr. – YOUR FAVOURITE POEM

Aye tear her tattered ensign down
long has it waved on high,

And many an eye has danced to see
That banner in the sky;
Beneath it rung the battle shout,
And burst the cannon’s roar;–
The meteor of the ocean air
Shall sweep the clouds no more.

Her deck, once red with heroes’ blood,
Where knelt the vanquished foe,
When winds were hurrying o’er the flood,
And waves were white below,
No more shall feel the victor’s tread,
Or know the conquered knee;–
The harpies of the shore shall pluck
The eagle of the sea!

Oh, better that her shattered hulk
Should sink beneath the wave;
Her thunders shook the mighty deep,
And there should be her grave;
Nail to the mast her holy flag,
Set every threadbare sail,
And give her to the god of storms,
The lightning and the gale!’

 On September 16, 1830, as a tribute to the eighteenth-century frigate USS Constitution. Thanks in part to the poem, she was saved from being decommissioned and is now the oldest commissioned ship in the world still afloat.

written by Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr


War is hell

A former shell Of the man I used to be

 I’ve seen it all Bullets, bombs, burning cars

 Sights to make you stop and stare

Now I’m back home, who seems to care?

Another bloke roaming round town

Searching rooftops, avoiding the shops,

Waiting for the enemy that’s there 

But there’s none to be seen,

Except in my dreams

On those long lonely nights back home

My fight is now over but the dreams

Wet the covers as I sweat through another re-run

Of the things I have done,

The sights and the wrong,

The troubles in my head I want gone

But you’ll never believe, unless you’ve been,

How horrible war can be…

Dan Fry

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