peoms

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Wendy//
 * //-Leaves are falling all over town drifting gliding right to the// **
 *  //the mornings are always chilly and bare telling us that fall is really here!

I wish for history. Never present day maybe for future no nothing good would come my way. The past was so simple. So much without fear I wish I was there Right now is gone

Is it ok if we add suggestive poets for others to look at? -Jelly(blackberry)

**

**Yes, of course you can! For instance Emily Dickinson is a phenomenal poet! **
Thanks, whomever suggested this. Here is a link to a place where you can read some of her poetry: http://www.bartleby.com/113/

Crisp, crunch, yum yum yum. In my tum it slides right down. Cereal tastes great.

¡Nefertiti! __//** What kind of cereal is the cereal in the poem? ~ Wendy **//__

hmmm... I don't know! Suggestions anyone? Maybe Cap'n Crunch... ¡NEFERTITI!

Mind and Body

When the mind is sick and the body is hurting nothing compares to a mug of chicken soup it’s like medicine that is good for you and your soul.

a warm blanket on a cold day whipped cream on hot chocolate an egg hunt during Easter a dip in the pool on a hot day in July popcorn at the movie theaters

when the mind is sick and the body is hurting nothing compares to a mug of delicious chicken soup, why chicken soup is medicine for the sick of mind and hurting of the body? No one will ever know.

( I’m writing this while under the influence of two eight hour tablets of Tylenol.) ~Wendy


 You always wore brown, the color craze of the decade, and I was draped in one of those capes that were popular, the ones with unicorns and pomegranates in needlework. Everyone would pause for beer and onions in the afternoon, and at night we would play a game called "Find the Cow." Everything was hand-lettered then, not like today.
 * Remember the 1340's? We were doing a dance called the Catapult.

Where has the summer of 1572 gone? Brocade and sonnet marathons were the rage. We used to dress up in the flags of rival baronies and conquer one another in cold rooms of stone. Out on the dance floor we were all doing the Struggle while your sister practiced the Daphne all alone in her room. We borrowed the jargon of farriers for our slang. These days language seems transparent a badly broken code.

The 1790's will never come again. Childhood was big. People would take walks to the very tops of hills** Our collars were high and our hats were extremely soft. We would surprise each other with alphabets made of twigs. It was a wonderful time to be alive, or even dead.
 * and write down what they saw in their journals without speaking.

I am very fond of the period between 1815 and 1821. Europe trembled while we sat still for our portraits. And I would love to return to 1901 if only for a moment, time enough to wind up a music box and do a few dance steps, or shoot me back to 1922 or 1941, or at least let me recapture the serenity of last month when we picked berries and glided through afternoons in a canoe.

Even this morning would be an improvement over the present. I was in the garden then, surrounded by the hum of bees and the Latin names of flowers, watching the early light flash off the slanted windows of the greenhouse and silver the limbs on the rows of dark hemlocks.

As usual, I was thinking about the moments of the past, letting my memory rush over them like water rushing over the stones on the bottom of a stream. I was even thinking a little about the future, that place where people are doing a dance we cannot imagine, a dance whose name we can only guess.

-Billy Collins** **(submitted by Yoshi) **