TRULY ONE OF MY OWN

    My Own September Poem :

 *IN MEMORY OF LABOR DAY WEEKENDS*

Wild, warm September!

Let me dance at your knee!

An amber waltz still rustling

Sweet leaves yet to fall;

Tanned hands gathering

Baskets of vibrant

Pink cone-flowers hidden

Behind an umber-brown

Barn bearing apples.

Placid water spouts

Take a spin on earth's 

Third carousel of seasons;

Swans salute copper-colored 

Currents, as they drift by

Continuously, through the

Languid bliss of

An aging summer and

Its humid afternoons.

Rustic, red wheelbarrows

Pair their rusty palette with

Melodious wind chimes and

   Faint whispers of gathering storms...

As the sun gently strains

To kiss your forehead,

You wipe away the sweat

Of many labors lost;

It's high time to breathe

In the heavy morning mist

And simple sunsets.

This, before life's pending

Frosts arrive

And the Wintry Winds

Accost...

Poem written by Lisa Porter-Grenn

Did you know that...

THAT APPEARS TO HAVE BEEN...

THE EXACT PHRASE I WAS LOOKING FOR!

phrase

     /frāz/

noun

1. a small group of words standing together as a conceptual unit, typically forming a component of a clause.

verb

2. put into a particular form of words.

"it's important to phrase the question correctly"

 "unprocessed grief and rage"

The above phrase was voiced by MSNBC journalist Nicolle Wallace as a way to "put in plain words" the underlying impetus and motivation behind the continuing BLM protests.

Those of us with abundant empathy have absolutely no problem understanding the BLM movement, even if we are not a person of color... moreover, our president is a racist (yes he is).

I would add to Nicolle's assessment that the word "unresolved" is key to understanding this movement, as well.

I am so sick and tired of bigotry and ignorance...and, I might add, those of you who refuse to change: you know who you are!!  

HOMEWARD BOUND, NOW AND FOREVER

You might still imagine

 Never 'falling in love' with a home,

 With "hooked on houses"

   Folly, a mere foolish tome...

Yet when evening flaunts its camouflage

Of moon-dusted, Saturnine showers,

Brilliant stars beckon road warriors

To "stay awhile" and "smell the flowers".

See those window boxes full of

Pinks, Whites and Greens?

That quaint oval window?

That tidy porch swing?

You've sampled life's rainbow,

So precious and clear; Homeward you're

Headed... to those you hold dear.

Still think that one could never

'Fall in love' with a home?

That hearts prefer transience

As sure as one roams?

That's not a right statement;

It's simply not true...

If asked if 'I' love them,

I DO!!! Yes I DO!!!

*****

SOME ANNIVERSARY DATES ARE PAINFUL TO REMEMBER; yet, in this case, good riddance!

       Whatever the price of such abject servitude:

         Sweet consequences never flowered blissfully,

         Nor did the saccharine of young innocence

         Grow fonder or more perfect by this tumult...

And 'he' who took his life;

Embalmed in the darkness

Of fading fantasy

And sordid grandiosity,

Forever stands at the entrance to anguish;

The dreams that haunt him shall never cease:

Retribution murmurs relentlessly...

So very, very relentlessly,

[Exactly as it should].

                                                   Poem written by L.P.-G.

              Post-script: You enablers are worse than pond scum!

Dirty Dershowitz stammers: "I Kept My Underwear On During Massage At Epstein's Mansion"... Oh ! There are surely plenty of skeletons in your closet, you depraved, aging, dirty-lying sociopath !!!!!!!!!!!

11 YEARS AGO, TODAY

5-1-1929 __ 7-24-2009

                                                                                   

When Great Trees Fall

 by Maya Angelou

When great trees fall,


rocks on distant hills shudder,


lions hunker down


in tall grasses,


and even elephants


lumber after safety.



When great trees fall


in forests,


small things recoil into silence,


their senses


eroded beyond fear.



When great souls die,


the air around us becomes


light, rare, sterile.


We breathe, briefly.

Our eyes, briefly,


see with


a hurtful clarity.


Our memory, suddenly sharpened,


examines,


gnaws on kind words


unsaid,


promised walks


never taken.


And when great souls die,


after a period peace blooms,


slowly and always


irregularly. Spaces fill


with a kind of


soothing electric vibration.


Our senses, restored, never


to be the same, whisper to us.


They existed. They existed.


We can be. Be, and be


better... For they existed.