12-24-2007, 01:43 AM
Yellow - 03-03-2008, 12:22 PM
Yellow's the colour of happiness
Cheeriness and joy
It's the colour of a rubber duck
Or perhaps a brand new toy
Yellow's the colour of roses
It's the colour of the Simpsons
But not me and you
It's also the colour of sunshine
And newborn baby chicks
It's the colour of tulips
And hot oven chips
Tehee, I made it up in class the other day.
03-15-2008, 08:08 PM
this pome has alot of meaning to me
~*Open my eyes*~
i wont to open my eyes
but i dont want to find out if this is all a dream
havin him there
thinking he got away from here
then finding out is not true would kill me
then find out that he really didnt get away from her
finding out that all that i know is a lie to me
the life that i had really wasnt the truth
i need to open my eyes to see if this is a dream now!
here is another one
calms me down when needed
it takes me to a calm place
Makes me feel as if im important to some guy
i feel as if no one can ever hurt me again
i get the shivers becuase of the safness feflt
when i get hugs i never want him to let go
i feel the safness fir that short time
all my pain is taken away from my body
my body gets weak and wants to just fall
i feel as if im free falling through the air
takes my breath away
makes me smile for the rest os the DAY
life seems so simple and peaceful
i want to close my eyes and open them to see if its all a dream
i never want to lose this feeling cause he means so much to me righ now in life!
What do you think? - 03-25-2008, 03:46 PM
I wrote this poem for my boyfriend Marshall, I'm thinking of writing it in a card & mailing it to him. but what do you think of it good idea or no on both?
Give me sometime & you'll see, what you mean to me.
Your eyes, your smile, you drive me so wild.
This hope I have for me & you, A love I know so true.
I wanna hold you, love you, touch you.
I was so hurt, but you help me deal, help me heal,
Everyday I pray this is GOD's will.
You hold my heart so becarefull what you do.
& always know, I'm with you.
Whats a good title btw?
04-13-2008, 08:14 AM
heres some poems about 5 i think.
roses are red
voiltes are blue
when i look at you
you look like a zoo.
my friend thought of that.
roses are red
voiltes are blue
your feet stink
and so do you.
heres one that i made up.
In my room by moi
In my room i sit alone
in a corner all alone
wondering what is like out there
in that BIG world out there.
In my room i have nothing to do
and i am differnt from the kids out there.
In MY room i only have 2 things to do
slit my self and cry till i die.
here is my last one for my grandma when she died
I wish you didnt died.
I miss you ever day.
Oh grandma why did you have to died.
I go to my room and cry me tears out.
and when i go to call you i forget you in heaven.
I wish that there was a number to heaven so i can call you.
oh grandma i miss you oh very so much.
Yeh,I said it watchagonna do?
Imaginery man of mine - 05-17-2008, 10:50 PM
Imaginery Man of Mine by Prune Blossom
No, I did not see him,
This imaginery man of mine,
Who would save me from the atrocity of this world.
No, I did not see him.
This poem is one of my favorite from the few poems that I wrote. Please give me some feedback.
Something to think about. - 05-22-2008, 10:21 PM
The Old Man and the Dogby CatherineMoore
"Watch out! You nearly broadsided that car!" My father yelled at me."Can't you do anything right?"
Those words hurt worse than blows. I turned my head toward the elderly man in the seat beside me, daring me to challenge him. A lump rose in my throat as I averted my eyes. I wasn't prepared for another battle."I saw the car, Dad. Please don't yell at me when I'm driving." My voice was measured and steady, sounding far calmer than I really felt.
Dad glared at me, then turned away and settled back. At home I left Dad in front of the television and went outside to collect my thoughts. Dark, heavy clouds hung in the air with a promise of rain. The rumble of distant thunder seemed to echo my inner turmoil.
What could I do about him?
Dad had been a lumberjack in Washington and Oregon. He had enjoyed being outdoors and had reveled in pitting his strength against the forces of nature. He had entered grueling lumberjack competitions, and had placed often. The shelves in his house were filled with trophies that attested to his prowess.
The years marched on relentlessly. The first time he couldn't lift a heavy log, he joked about it; but later that same day I saw him outside alone, straining to lift it. He became irritable whenever anyone teased him about his advancing age, or when he couldn't do something he had done as a younger man.
Four days after his sixty-seventh birthday, he had a heart attack. An ambulance sped him to the hospital while a paramedic administered CPR to keep blood and oxygen flowing. At the hospital, Dad was rushed into an operating room. He was lucky; he survived.
But something inside Dad died. His zest for life was gone. He obstinately refused to follow doctor's orders. Suggestions and offers of help were turned aside with sarcasm and insults. The number of visitors thinned, then finally stopped altogether. Dad was left alone.
My husband, ****, and I asked Dad to come live with us on our small farm. We hoped the fresh air and rustic Atmosphere would help him adjust. Within a week after he moved in, I regretted the invitation. It seemed nothing was satisfactory. He criticized everything I did. I became frustrated and moody. Soon I was taking my pent-up anger out on ****. We began to bicker and argue. Alarmed, **** sought out our pastor and explained the situation. The clergyman set up weekly counseling appointments for us. At the close of each session he prayed, asking God to soothe Dad's troubled mind. But the months wore on and God was silent. Something had to be done and it was up to me to do it.
The next day I sat down with the phone book and methodically called each of the mental health clinics listed in the Yellow Pages. I explained my problem to each of the sympathetic voices that answered. In vain.
Just when I was giving up hope, one of the voices suddenly exclaimed, "I just read something that might help you! Let me go get the article." I listened as she read. The article described a remarkable study done at a nursing home. All of the patients were under treatment for chronic depression. Yet their attitudes had improved dramatically when they were given responsibility for a dog.
I drove to the animal shelter that afternoon. After I filled out a questionnaire, a uniformed officer led me to the kennels. The odor of disinfectant stung my nostrils as I moved down the row of pens.
Each contained five to seven dogs. Long-haired dogs, curly-haired dogs, black dogs, spotted dogs all jumped up, trying to reach me. I studied each one but rejected one after the other for various reasons: too big, too small, too much hair.
As I neared the last pen a dog in the shadows of the far corner struggled to his feet, walked to the front of the run and sat down. It was a pointer, one of the dog world's aristocrats. But this was a caricature of the breed. Years had etched his face and muzzle with shades of gray. His hipbones jutted out in lopsided triangles. But it was his eyes that caught and held my attention. Calm and clear, they beheld me unwaveringly.
I pointed to the dog. "Can you tell me about him?" The officer looked, then shook his head in puzzlement.
"He's a funny one. Appeared out of nowhere and sat in front of the gate. We brought him in, figuring someone would be right down to claim him. That was two weeks ago and we've heard nothing. His time is up tomorrow." He gestured helplessly.
As the words sank in I turned to the man in horror. "You mean you're going to kill him?"
"Ma'am," he said gently, "that's our policy. We don't have room for every unclaimed dog."
I looked at the pointer again. The calm brown eyes awaited my decision. "I'll take him," I said.
05-22-2008, 10:22 PM
I drove home with the dog on the front seat beside me. When I reached the house I honked the horn twice. I was helping my prize out of the car when Dad shuffled onto the front porch.
"Ta-da! Look what I got for you, Dad!" I said excitedly.
Dad looked, then wrinkled his face in disgust. "If I had wanted a dog I would have gotten one. And I would have picked out a better specimen than that bag of bones. Keep it! I don't want it" Dad waved his arm scornfully and turned back toward the house.
Anger rose inside me. It squeezed together my throat muscles and pounded into my temples. "You'd better get used to him, Dad. He's staying!" Dad ignored me. "Did you hear me, Dad?" I screamed. At those words Dad whirled angrily, his hands clenched at his sides, his eyes narrowed and blazing with hate.
We stood glaring at each other like duelists, when suddenly the pointer pulled free from my grasp. He wobbled toward my dad and sat down in front of him. Then slowly, carefully, he raised his paw.
Dad's lower jaw trembled as he stared at the uplifted paw. Confusion replaced the anger in his eyes. The pointer waited patiently. Then Dad was on his knees hugging the animal.
It was the beginning of a warm and intimate friendship. Dad named the pointer Cheyenne. Together he and Cheyenne explored the community. They spent long hours walking down dusty lanes. They spent reflective moments on the banks of streams, angling for tasty trout. They even started to attend Sunday services together, Dad sitting in a pew and Cheyenne lying quietly at his feet.
Dad and Cheyenne were inseparable throughout the next three years. Dad's bitterness faded, and he and Cheyenne made many friends. Then late one night I was startled to feel Cheyenne's cold nose burrowing through our bed covers. He had never before come into our bedroom at night. I woke ****, put on my robe and ran into my father's room. Dad lay in his bed, his face serene. But his spirit had left quietly sometime during the night.
Two days later my shock and grief deepened when I discovered Cheyenne lying dead beside Dad's bed. I wrapped his still form in the rag rug he had slept on. As **** and I buried him near a favorite fishing hole, I silently thanked the dog for the help he had given me in restoring Dad's peace of mind.
The morning of Dad's funeral dawned overcast and dreary. This day looks like the way I feel, I thought, as I walked down the aisle to the pews reserved for family. I was surprised to see the many friends Dad and Cheyenne had made filling the church. The pastor began his eulogy. It was a tribute to both Dad and the dog who had changed his life.
And then the pastor turned to Hebrews 13:2. "Be not forgetful to entertain strangers."
"I've often thanked God for sending that angel," he said.
For me, the past dropped into place, completing a puzzle that I had not seen before: the sympathetic voice that had just read the right article...Cheyenne's unexpected appearance at the animal shelter. . .his calm acceptance and complete devotion to my father. . and the proximity of their deaths.
And suddenly I understood. I knew that God had answered my prayers after all.
Life is too short for drama & petty things, so laugh hard, love truly and forgive quickly.
Live While You Are Alive.
Tell the people you love that you love them, at every opportunity.
Forgive now those who made you cry. You might not get a second time.
And if you don't send this to at least 4 people - who cares?
But do share this with someone. Lost time can never be found.
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