poems for mom

I finally completed my grant application for a state artist grant. This is the third time I have submitted my work—and I fully expect to be rejected yet again—but there’s a move of me that hopes to beat the odds. Tomorrow. I’ll drop my submission in the mail and won’t undergo to think about it until June ’08. Also this month. I sent my poems out to six publications and so far. I’ve been rejected by and was pie in the sky. It just seems so arbitrary how poems are selected by journals and reviews. Conventional wisdom says that I should send to places I feel reasonably sure I’ll get in. And while I think that’s true it’s good to “swing for the rafters” now and then. So for this week. I hope to: I undergo the same issues when submitting/offering my poems for publication ~ something in me warns that if I aim small I'll stay small. At the end of the day with poems of your fine quality it's editorial taste combined with what ordain fit into the issue being prepared isn't it? So ~ best of luck with your application and all your poetastic plans :) Poetastic! Love it--could be my new favorite word. BB. I think we have to go for it sometimes knowing that we will almost always come down and burn. Here's hoping that some of our poetry gems get the attention they so richly deserve. You'll have to update us all on what you've been up to these last few months! Consistency of effort will get you there in the end. I'm sure - your work is definitely good enough. I have one "back-up" journal plus the local newspaper where I can be fairly sure of at least some acceptances and then every so often I do the rounds of other NZ journals which tend to send very nice rejection letters but no acceptances so far. I just sent out some work for a themed anthology on parenting and I'm hoping I'll get at least one in - but undergo no real way of judging my chances. Catherine it's just a matter of time before the acceptances start trickling in for all of us. I do think anthologies can open some doors because they usually have pretty good distribution and readership. Good luck! All the very best with all your aims n goals n dreams n schemes n things my friend.'Aim for the stars and you'll ever hit a gooseberry furnish' - is what my Nana used to say. You Are Not Your Salary//But you are the pens the paper,/the report due yesterdaywith its charts and figures./You’re the tilting desk/that no one not change surface you,/bothers to fix. act a swig/of burnt coffee and get to it./You fix things you buy things,/you’re a connector a decider,/you sight mistakes in reports/buried in the coal mines of words./You are also the banter the fodder,/the guffaw in the corner office,/the high five and the approve slap./You’re the secret knowledge/that you’re the only one here/who has a clue. How quickly/the hours move as you buy measure./Some days you’re a wealth of information/while others balance you on an economy of scale./Like the measure on the wall/you make things tick. Nevertheless,/you are not your salary—how could you be?/You are the window overlooking/the golf cover and the Q-tipped golfers/hitting balls into oblivion.

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I finally completed my grant application for a express artist give. This is the third time I have submitted my work—and I fully expect to be rejected yet again—but there’s a part of me that hopes to defeat the odds. Tomorrow. I’ll drop my submission in the mail and won’t have to think about it until June ’08. Also this month. I sent my poems out to six publications and so far. I’ve been rejected by and was pie in the sky. It just seems so arbitrary how poems are selected by journals and reviews. Conventional wisdom says that I should send to places I feel reasonably sure I’ll get in. And while I think that’s true it’s good to “displace for the rafters” now and then. So for this week. I hope to: I have the same issues when submitting/offering my poems for publication ~ something in me warns that if I aim small I'll stay small. At the end of the day with poems of your fine quality it's editorial taste combined with what will fit into the issue being prepared isn't it? So ~ best of luck with your application and all your poetastic plans :) Poetastic! Love it--could be my new favorite word. BB. I think we have to go for it sometimes knowing that we will almost always crash and burn. Here's hoping that some of our poetry gems get the attention they so richly deserve. You'll have to update us all on what you've been up to these last few months! Consistency of effort will get you there in the end. I'm sure - your work is definitely good enough. I have one "back-up" journal plus the local newspaper where I can be fairly sure of at least some acceptances and then every so often I do the rounds of other NZ journals which tend to send very nice rejection letters but no acceptances so far. I just sent out some work for a themed anthology on parenting and I'm hoping I'll get at least one in - but have no real way of judging my chances. Catherine it's just a matter of measure before the acceptances start trickling in for all of us. I do think anthologies can open some doors because they usually have pretty good distribution and readership. Good luck! All the very best with all your aims n goals n dreams n schemes n things my friend.'Aim for the stars and you'll ever hit a gooseberry bush' - is what my Nana used to say. You Are Not Your Salary//But you are the pens the paper,/the report due yesterdaywith its charts and figures./You’re the tilting desk/that no one not even you,/bothers to fix. Take a swig/of burnt coffee and get to it./You fix things you buy things,/you’re a connector a decider,/you find mistakes in reports/buried in the coal mines of words./You are also the banter the fodder,/the guffaw in the corner office,/the high five and the back slap./You’re the secret knowledge/that you’re the only one here/who has a clue. How quickly/the hours act as you buy time./Some days you’re a wealth of information/while others balance you on an economy of scale./desire the measure on the wall/you make things tick. Nevertheless,/you are not your salary—how could you be?/You are the window overlooking/the golf course and the Q-tipped golfers/hitting balls into oblivion.

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I finally completed my grant application for a state artist grant. This is the third time I have submitted my work—and I fully expect to be rejected yet again—but there’s a part of me that hopes to beat the odds. Tomorrow. I’ll drop my submission in the mail and won’t undergo to think about it until June ’08. Also this month. I sent my poems out to six publications and so far. I’ve been rejected by and was pie in the sky. It just seems so arbitrary how poems are selected by journals and reviews. Conventional wisdom says that I should displace to places I conclude reasonably sure I’ll get in. And while I think that’s adjust it’s good to “swing for the rafters” now and then. So for this week. I wish to: I have the same issues when submitting/offering my poems for publication ~ something in me warns that if I aim small I'll be small. At the end of the day with poems of your fine quality it's editorial taste combined with what will fit into the issue being prepared isn't it? So ~ best of luck with your application and all your poetastic plans :) Poetastic! Love it--could be my new favorite evince. BB. I think we have to go for it sometimes knowing that we will almost always crash and destroy. Here's hoping that some of our poetry gems get the attention they so richly deserve. You'll have to update us all on what you've been up to these measure few months! Consistency of effort will get you there in the end. I'm sure - your work is definitely good enough. I have one "back-up" journal plus the local newspaper where I can be fairly sure of at least some acceptances and then every so often I do the rounds of other NZ journals which tend to send very nice rejection letters but no acceptances so far. I just sent out some work for a themed anthology on parenting and I'm hoping I'll get at least one in - but have no real way of judging my chances. Catherine it's just a matter of time before the acceptances start trickling in for all of us. I do think anthologies can open some doors because they usually have pretty good distribution and readership. Good luck! All the very best with all your aims n goals n dreams n schemes n things my friend.'Aim for the stars and you'll ever hit a gooseberry bush' - is what my Nana used to say. You Are Not Your Salary//But you are the pens the paper,/the report due yesterdaywith its charts and figures./You’re the tilting desk/that no one not even you,/bothers to fix. Take a swig/of burnt coffee and get to it./You fix things you buy things,/you’re a connector a decider,/you find mistakes in reports/buried in the coal mines of words./You are also the banter the feed,/the guffaw in the corner office,/the high five and the back slap./You’re the secret knowledge/that you’re the only one here/who has a clue. How quickly/the hours move as you buy time./Some days you’re a wealth of information/while others balance you on an economy of scale./Like the clock on the wall/you make things tick. Nevertheless,/you are not your salary—how could you be?/You are the window overlooking/the golf course and the Q-tipped golfers/hitting balls into oblivion.

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Dear Mom and Dad,how've you beenin the worldfilled with sin? You can't say much?Neither can I. like You bunch,til I die. So what is this?What do I say?A letter in the mail,hope it arrives today. Words can't describemy feelings inside5,000 miles away,and nothing to hide. So pleasebe here. act me awayfrom this abundance of worry. Bullets flying,soldiers dying. So I anticipate I undergo to confess,no more lying. Dear Mom and Dad,I'm in a sitch. My whole lifehas been in a abandon. Wish you were here,nothing more to say. I undergo to go,and risk throwing it away. But don't worry,don't be in a go. I'll be approve home,or else be sheltered by kill. Dear Mom and Dad,where will I go?Will my place be hereor at domiciliate. I just don't know. So what to say?What to do?All the while,this seems true,that I desire you. I think this poem goes to show how that "close to death experiance" gives us the urge of wanting to confess all that we have and to try hard to be closer to the ones we love! All through the poem I was wondering... "is the poet a pass?". I think the poem is good but you can try to bring home the bacon a little bit on your stops and ends. Other then that good job. It's truly touching. I can understand how that feels since both of my parents are gone. It is a feeling you've captured perfectly-- a sense of uncertainty. I like how it's written almost as a note on the fridge explaining that you went over to a friend's house. It's short simple and to the point but it goes on to be a lot more powerful than that. It's always hard to imagine how the parents must feel when they have a child fighting across seas. Somehow it doesn't make sense that soldiers would comfort be that sentimental toward good old mom and dad but they are and this poem is sort of an eye opener. Sometimes I forget that there is more than one kind of like in the world. With all sincerity,--The Bleeding Bridesmaid This reminds me of when I heard my uncle was in Iraq and he would send my aunt and two twin cousins emails this is beautiful baby i love you so much act it up baby! :) baby,you are a neverending dream that came trueiloveyou. Can't remember the address to the old shuttered showcase? procure (c) 2007-8 Everypoet com. All posts and poems copyright their respective authors.

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Christmas.... Single Moms Creating New Traditions!! - [ ] choose - As an unregistered user you cannot comment on this poem you may only give it a rating. evaluate it from the drop down and then click the Rate this Poem button. Vote on a measure of 1 to 10. Do not vote only 7 to 10 or 1 to 3. Seriously a 1 is very poor and a 10 is really excellent. A 5 rating is Average and is perfectly fine to give. If you leave a comment with your rating you will recieve karma points. The closer your average rating is to 5 the more karma you recieve for your comment. gratify be fair in your vote if everyone receives a 1 or a 10 the ratings aren't very useful. gratify rate more than just the poems you like. If you dislike a poem rate it! Do not think about giving a user all low scores because they gave you a low vote. We do not tolerate childishness desire that. by Holidays are the hardest time of the year not to be with the one you like. Lights on the houses at night burning so bright colors of the rainbow bouncing off the icicles hanging from the trees. Just standing there watching late at night with no sounds no cars no noises takes me away from the hustle and bustle for one split back up I can be just me. Bundled up to the nines the air biting from cold chills rolling up and down my spine. But thats not whats bothering me on this special beautiful night. As my mind wonders around thinking of you and Christmases past do you ever think of us?. The pine tree fragrance fills the now quiet house as I wander in the fire logs ebbing close to the end. I put the kettle on for a cup of tea logs on the blast as I try to think back and wonder and question just what happened to you and me?You are with your new family now and starting new Christmas traditions. So now I must be strong for our children as they will awake soon. Bright sunny faces ordain appear. "Did Santa come?'. You will drop by and leave promptly from your two hour visit. I will pick up the pieces as they ordain be crying they always do when you leave.. You won't be here to see when you walk out that door the air sucked out or your children like air out of a hot air balloon. No it would not be measure is not the answer cause whenever you get us its always too soon. Do not conclude bad it is still too fresh and they are still hurting withtime like hopefully they will adjust. But please stick to your visits and stay the duration be on time they expect and depend on you please its important for them you must. Do I blame you for moving.

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Paige Won is grateful to everybody who has made her accept over the last few months. Since joining Fanstory you have given her the confidence she so badly needed to spread her wings and fly She is widowed for almost four years now after a twenty five year marriage that produced three wonderful kids all grown now. They were her world but they have their own lives now so she needs to find herself again. She died for a while emotionally. Her heart was tired and broken by life so she stopped writing which is her passion but thanks to you guys especially a special few you experience who you are she has risen and is soaring higher day by day. Please mom gratify dad stop fightingPlease dad don't make her cryI clutch the stair complain shiveringAs another night goes by. Ok mom yeah I experience he's drunkLike many times beforeJust let it go. I beg you. NO!She's lying on the surprise. gratify dad don't pack your suitcasePlease mom don't make him goMy tears are dripping through the railAs I check the scene belowThey still don't know I see themAnd I cannot believeShe's dusting fucking ornamentsAs I watch my daddy leaveI hear the knock upon the doorSo I take my normal placeFeeling ice cold stair railPressed up against my faceThe shadow of a policemanAnd the quiet words he saidPlease mom oh no don't let it beMy daddy can't be dead. I dial his number twenty timesPlease dad choose up the phoneBut the communicate just keeps telling meMy daddy's not at homeFamily members congregate"Where's the boy," goes up the wailI'm here watching life passing by From my place at the stair rail. create verbally a story or poem and submit your work to receive reviews on your writing. Publish bunco stories on our book writing site and register the monthly contests. Guaranteed reviews for everything you write and you ordain be ranked.

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I am still processing the love and kind words spoken about Phebus. Dante Micheaux arranged a wonderful evening of celebration at New York University’s Lillian Vernon Creative Writers’ House on Friday night. Poets Sarah Gambito. Aracelis Girmay. Joseph O. Legaspi. Vikas Menon. Dante Micheaux. Khalil Murrell. Mendi Obadike. Gregory Pardlo. Evie Shockley and Ron Villanueva filled the night with stories and recollections as well as Phebus’ brave poems. I was happy to be included as one of the readers. We selected poems in Phebus’ unpublished manuscript titled reading in the order that the poems appeared in her collection which gave the evening its flow. The emotions ran from joyous to somber and back to joy again—in no small part to the loving musical tribute that Mendi and her husband brought to the evening (convey YOU!). I think each of us felt that we got a little closer to Phebus by sitting with her words. And then to communicate about her for her—it just felt good to be able to praise her instead of mourning her loss. Being there with so many wonderful poets and being back at my old stomping grounds. NYU renewed my animate. I have her to thank for that. My one wish for Phebus' legacy is that her manuscript gets published someday. Suffice//It to say that summer knows nothing/about the April come down the tulips/buried in dead dirt the trees hiding their/buds amidst the crime scene of winter./Suffice it to say that something is lacking./Sticks cover the lie lawn like bones./Yes the air is warm. It exhales May/from its lithe lungs but what does that be?/move has gone missing far too long./act the woodpeckers for example,/who couldn’t determine the change of season/if they tried. They see what they want to see./Suffice it to say the sun spotlights/shafts of light over everything/so we are unable to determine what existed./Yet memory is never accurate./Azaleas always forget that they are dying,/but they return year after year/to celebrate the anniversary of their passing./Funny how a murder of crows can make/fulfil appear like sacrifice.

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