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Eclectic Expressions

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S: Eclectic Expressions BC Williams

FC: B.C. | Eclectic Expressions | Williams | 2012

1: Eclectic Expressions A Collection of Poems & Family Muses by Beverly Callihan Williams

2: Copyright © September 2012 by Beverly Callihan Williams All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this work or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For more information contact the author BC Williams:

3: This little volume of poems is dedicated to all those who love the essence of a poem, who like me, look for a smile, a tear, or an emotion that even just for a moment, changes the reader. I hope you find enjoyment as you read through these pages. Bev | 3

4: Acknowledgments | David Williams, my wonderful husband, who believes in the power of the written word. J. Johnstone, who taught me the value of perfecting one's craft. My father, James Callihan, who faithfully laid aside every Thursday evening because he believed in my potential. My mother, Esther Buttermore Callihan, who passed her talents on to me. Doc C., who first told me I had writing abilities. T.H., who told me it's okay to be messy! | 4

5: Curious peers through sun-warmed glass with onyx eyes and a beak shrill sharpened. Her six toes hold the paint peeling ledge while a caterpillar slides toward a spot that harkens. Through madam's glass, sweet kindness abounds. Curious knows and remembers her seeds: millet, flax, wheat berries and rye and her, with slender hands that feeds. | Curious | 5

6: Table of Contents 5 Curious 9 PART 1 (God and Nature) 10 Scenes From a Distance 11 Waterfall 12 Of Olden Trees and Rural Scenes 14 Lullaby of Eventide 15 This Day's End 16 The Old Rocking Chair 18 Colorful Autumn Days 19 Author Quotes 21 PART 2 (Love and Romance) 22 A Brief Recalling 23 Buttercup 24 Garden of Love 25 Oh My Love 26 The Book 28 Perseverance 29 The Quest 30 I've Needed You 31 Thrice Indeed 32 Together, You and Me

7: 35 PART 3 (Miscellaneous) 36 The Head 38 Slow and Steady Wins the Race 42 The Rain Barrel 44 Bevie! 45 DEADBIRD . . . a true story 48 The Overthrow 52 Little Pete 53 It's Something You Grow!

8: 8 | PART 1

9: 9 | God and Nature

10: 10 | I linger neath an oak today searching horizon's patterned hues, and marvel at God's quiet voice in this perfect, dreamy view - of mountains tall that timeless stand, carved white and stippled in gray, then spilling forth in pristine glens where often, creatures play - and little dappled butterflies swoop-stall on seas of waving wheat, their wings beat songs of silent joy as they take their rolling seat. And looking on this loveliness where cotton clouds drift daftly by and sun rays split in quilted shapes before my languishing eye - I know our Father is near, orchestrating this wondrous play, watching o'er the grandeur of life in this awesome world He made. | S | cenes From a Distance

11: 11 | I find as I stand behind crystal drips 'neath falling water, the world withdraws and I'm alone to wander. Sound rings at stirrings near nitches of moistened shore, but to me it feels like quietness as I watch the swirling floor. Lichen thrive, bullfrogs croon and at the falls countless drops pound the pool in a steady, watery pall. Morning's rise illumes the falls ascending toward a misty rainbow. The trees sway in the breeze, nodding a slow, gentle hello. | W | aterfall

12: 12 | Oh I long to see the countryside, its freshness and its dew - so in my time I'll sit awhile and meditate with you. We'll reminisce together Love, of things so fine we've seen - of olden trees and rural scenes and wild things on the lea. Remember how the doe would leap and dance with butterflies - and blue winged birds played swooping games with clouds away up high. Recall the time we ran, my love, in the field where heather grew - How fine a thing those God-made scenes, His love for us imbued. And you, my Love, would sing so sweet of love meant just for me - and I'd confess to God above my dearest love for thee. Then touching lips of crimson hue, defiled by none before - I asked if you'd become my wife, for you, my heart adored. | Olden Trees and | Rural | Scenes

13: 13 | We'd often frolic in our youth, in the heather on the lea - and soon God blessed us with a child as pretty as could be. Our bonnie lass was wild and free as the purple fields we knew - but soon grew into womanhood, like you, my Love, like you. Well, the years that waxed with vigor yield a little slower now - and time on earth for us, my Love, is shorter than we know. But you, my Heart, are fairer now that time has blessed my soul - with the years of sweet companionship that you and I have known. Oh I long to see the countryside, its freshness and its dew - so in my time I'll sit awhile and meditate with you. For God Himself, will call us soon to roam in Jubilee - where there's olden trees and rural scenes and wild things on the lea.

14: Lullaby of Eventide When I'm alone, I walk in fields at eventide as dimness looms in depth of swelling blur. Dream-like twilight drifts in pandemic veil, and at once I witness nature's stir. With stilling voice, her lovely calls are heeded, and I watch as innocents join her fold. Child-like playtime has come to an end and now, take rest in slumber's hold. In deepest night I give my thoughts to quietude and dream in a sleeper's breathy swing. I see sweet fledgling's stir in her fold, and hear the lullaby she sings: Now it is time to sleep, my love - nighttime will soon see its close. Rest little wild babe in mother's care, sweet rest of nighttime repose. | 14

15: We knew that nighttime rose from the deep, that above mountains the sky turned pink and below, this was pearlish darkness. Birds gave what they will, and folding heavy wings in sleep saved their thoughts for morning's flight. And we walked quietly across the slick dew-grass beneath tired feet, and listened for our soft bed calling across the evening for this day's end. | This Day's End | 15

16: I sat on my porch twenty years ago in my grandfather's old rocking chair. I pondered a few things while sitting there, just listening to Father in prayer. He said that He loved me and steadily had, regardless the failures I'd made. He said there was nothing to keep us apart for my debts had already been paid. The rocking chair slowed and I dabbed my eyes on the back of my rough, woolen sleeve. My heart was humbled by my Father words, but I found it so hard to believe. I thought of the times I'd been out on sin's path with nothing but pleasure to gain - no thought crossed my mind of what He'd think as I brought on myself so much pain. He'd given His only child's life for mine and bought me the right to His grace; I'd not known how precious that death was to Him, til He held me in loving embrace. | The Old Rocking Chair | 16

17: I thought of the times danger tried to take hold and questioned its great cost to me, that I'd lived like tomorrow might never come and marveled His love was still free. The old chair rocked on in labored creak but still kept good time with my lead. Its old wooden rungs had seen better days and I knew that the rocker agreed. Then one day we moved the rocker inside, it sits now in quite repose. Every so often I'll sit in the chair for the sake of old times, I suppose. I fondly remember that day long ago as my heart was so heavy with care, God used all the rocking to speak to me as I sat in that old rocking chair. | 17

18: I heard a small bird sing autumn's song, he sang: It won't be so awful long! A caterpillar slithered s-l-o-w . . . trailing rainbow's greenish gold. Then a leaf touched my outstretched hand and sighed shameless red. Colorful autumn days ahead, least that's what nature's whispering said . . .. | Colorful Autumn Days | 18

19: "Poetry can be a secret weapon that unleashes mountains of wizardry on an unsuspecting audience of innocent readers!" | "Writing poetry is an adventure many must miss- except those special souls with a knack for artsy wisdom; they should pack lightly and be on their way." | 19

20: PART 2 | 20

21: Love & Romance | 21

22: A Brief Recalling A flower shimmers on the wind, taking thoughts to travel trails of brief recalling . . . in a grove of old wood near a perfect noon, a picnic lunch is spread for me and you. Mid September days promised on sweet smelling apple breeze wafting autumn's crisp foretelling - and we lay there looking up - our bellies full as we count clouds flying free as airborne cotton wool. And when your turning finds my lips moist and longingly brave with loves precious voice, a flower does shimmer on the wind and I awaken, feeling a heat of a brief recalling. | 22

23: Buttercup I held a tiny buttercup below your trembling chin, it glowed palest golden against your silken skin. Truth revealed by childish scheme, a thing we surely knew, but love do we to prove again our enchanted love is true. | 23

24: 24 | Garden of Love In my quaint garden of steadfast affection, I wander, paying little mind of loves direction. Tending flowers in quiet solitude, my reflections of you are my own secret passion. I know I stand in chromatic dreams where purpose blushes, it often seems. For when I hear you saying what you mean, it is then my heart needs begin to gleam . . . and in my gleaming heart resides canterbells of varied colors and perfumed smells. If you listen close, the sound of glow's dwelling is livid with love-blooms swelling.

25: 25 | Oh my love, How swift I recall your lips counting memories sweet, the sound of persuasions swaying heartshine beams. My memory lingers over tingling words spoken as lover's pensive worries - thought strands, vulnerable as timorous doves. Morning's thrill, and I awakened slumbered well to caresses that bind hands and mind to your masterful tenderness. I'm hopelessly caught neath your command and without you, I would be as one stranded. I'm yours, to have and to be, oh my love . . ..

26: 26 | My days on this earth are as pages in a book, I read to discover myself and my meaning. In stillness, this my life rests in the palm of my hand, these pensive words and its time intervening. I remember my childhood, how lean were the days. So long, long ago, yet it still makes me cry. Hard to face the revelations from the pages of my past, but I continued, for words makes me wise. In soft crease, time unfolded in the leaves of my journal and I began to notice patterns of darkness and light. I saw that first through a pallid window I peered, but as I grew in knowledge, clearer grew my sight. I read that while days progressed and years wandered, I lingered in a vacant state of reality - living well, humbly availing myself to others, but to myself had not, thus sealing fate in loveless finality. | The Book

27: 27 | At this place, the pages fluttered as tremulous breath and my eyes broke for something seemed remiss. I looked and felt and dared to touch what might be real and off the pages came one's love, his healing kiss. Into myself this love gathered needs momentum - amazing its simplicity and utterance of love's croon. Love's spirit is my completion, the other half of me eddying through my parched soul a crystal pool. The book tumbled, closing pages momentarily and into a dreamy state I saw past and future collide. I knew the crossroads, every hill and vale rolled back - words vanishing on wings of reason, then my mind subsides. Lifting the warn book squarely I cradled keenly it's pages. Heat of inflictions rose up, the creep of life's indecisions. Effectual, this space of ones great valley of thought . . . and then there was no question, I embraced my love's blossoming conviction.

28: 28 | I turned and saw a butterfly sipping dew and realized it was you kissing words. How gently you lapped at the liquid writing, each nuance more pleasing than fine calligraphy. You told me once that your thoughts were freshly delicate, like chest held poppies from lucent, old southern fields, and I believed, and brought you more to behold. Together, we read Angelou and Frost, Dickerson and Seuss and sighed, and as if poets had no bones in their bodies, we folded them up like origami and hid them away in our enchanted hearts. | PERSEVERANCE

29: 29 | I looked under cool rock's calm green velvet and trod swollen streams freshened with dew, then peeked neath flora's morning birth and didn't find even a hint of you. Chartreuse veils of clever, roping vines assigned clues assumed to trip, but I didn't listen – instead, chased afterthoughts quietly slipping from yesterday's lips. Even the trees tried to fool me, trapping apparitions of reason that advised me you'd gone, left some time before, but I knew in my heart the trees lied. You were there alright, the arch of your patient brow lingered playfully in a grassy side glance, waiting for just that perfect moment when heart songs start to prance. | The Quest . . .

30: 30 | I've needed you and will always need you until at last, this life my breathe departs. I will rest my need Dearest, in your palm. I've needed you and will always need you. Your voice is like silken roses; a psalm,your dulcet tones sweet headiness imparts. I've needed you and will always need you until at last this life my breathe departs. | I've Needed You

31: 31 | 'I love you!' seems so open and freeing to say, don't you think, my needful heart? (though I know you tremble at love's reflection.) For eons, I isolated myself from love's part, thinking I didn't deserve it or others wouldn't agree. But then, my heart, I saw that you too needed love's healing. I find David all encompassing! I can say that now - for me, that when he loves me with his smile, I feel, oh my heart, your womanish blush - I feel that exquisite adrenalin rush. He touches me carefully; like a song thrush kissing wind with joy and hope. And you my heart . . . drenched in love's entire scope, we three: you, my David, and me, have become whole. | Thrice Indeed!

32: 32 | Together we will sail the sea, together you and me. In a boat of dreams and lover's might the two of us will flee. To Timbuktu we might just sail and beyond as headwinds blow, but together we will chart our course along vast shores unknown. | Together, You and Me

33: 33 | Explorers we, to soon embark on waters crystal clear. We have not reservation one, we haven't a single fear. Might heave the sea and our wee boat roll toward shadow spreading wings, but bravely, we will hold the bow and our love will set us free. Together we will sail the sea alone, just you and me . . .

34: 34 | PART 3

35: 35 | Miscellaneous

36: 36 | Over Madam's shoulder . . . the knife traveled like cool Derringer lead, entering quickly the bald, solid head. A shriek, then a plasma like streak rolled as snails from the table's edge, finding the slick back of a cat to dredge. “That'll teach ya, cat, ta muck round my kitchen, today!” cried Madam Miserable, unaware that on her table, a pierced head lay. “John . . . John,” she uttered in monotone song, “be needin' wood brought ta the larder, John. Tomorrow's wash day, ya-know-John. Be needin' lots a water from the well, John, fer all yer dirty shirts, John. Oh JohnJohnJohn?” she droned on . . . . Madam Miserable, at the stove then, shoved her apple shaped derrière low in haste. She peered deep in the bowels of the oven and gave the plump, crispy bird a baste. Then rolling pin in hand, she turned toward the table to persevere, but Lordy, what had happened here? "Cat, look what you've made me hull off and do?” the Madam boomed. The speared appendage, like a pendulum, moved; perhaps something in the sheer quake of M.'s going on caught in the thing's marrow, and it moved. Madam realized . . . this was a head of John's her eyes gazed upon! | the Head

37: 37 | She pulled and tugged the knife, twisting it like cruel hari kari deeperdeeper, and the knife became buried. "Bloody hell!" she sounded, winging it round and round - hoisting the injured high, then higher, and with a quickish snap o the wrist, FFFFFT! The once impaled through the atmosphere sailed on a sea of dry air - past four painted chairs - faster than her eyes could blink - the thing landed in the sink . . . curTHUMP! “Oh, mercy me!" Madam shouted, a jerk to her jump. "Such a fresh head from John Miserable's garden plot . . . dandy for cabbage rolls for morrow's stew pot!”

38: 38 | I knew the moment our heads turned we'd seen this all before, this lanky, swelled-head boy was here to level a score. With pomade in one pocket and a fancy comb in the other, the kid really was something, his pompadour grease smothered. The other boy stood 4 foot 6, wearing glasses wire rimmed. He wore a red headed crew cut he'd had just freshly trimmed. Black Keds, short sleeved shirt, jeans with a wide rolled cuff - the boy was not a ruffian, but then, he sure wasn't fluff. Pompadour looked smug as he shot 'the Crew' a thumb, then Annie Moretti got between and handed them gum. "There's two rules boys," she said, slinging a blond, fallen curl, "I'll tell em to the both of you before you give this a whorl: "No pushin', no shovin' - no touchin' to hurt - this is a rule. That's the first one boys, no acting a fool. Second rule is simple: may the best man win! Ain't no room for vanity boys - for vanity's a sin." | Slow and Steady Wins the Race

39: 39 | The two got at it, slipping the slick wad between smacking lips and started chewing the bubble gum quick. "The idea is to blow a bigger bubble than your head and be the first one to do it!" the blondish curl said. Pompadour pursed his pretty lips, chewing hard his cud. He held his breath and chomped real fast and he looked like a silly lug! The gum was tough, so he worked in spit and a swipe of hair pomade. He was hoping he'd look 'better', so the Crew would be afraid. Now Crew took a milder approach, more laid back and keen - he relaxed and crossed his arms as if he were a younger James Dean. 'Slow and steady wins the race', his daddy would often say, so he used his tongue and teeth to push, and the toughness went away. Pompadour began to blow and blow with all his might, while Crew held to it steady, making sure his gum was right. Pomp got a doubled bubble blown nearly BIG as his huge head, but then the thing just fell in two and laid on his chest quit dead. | Continued ~>

40: 40 | Now Crew might not be a big boy, and Crew might not be as cool - but there's one thing certain that you should know: Crew had a special tool. He's been a member of swim team for the best of the last two years, and his lungs are better than most guys, so it's Pomp who now should fear . . . . Blow, blow, slowly blow - the Crew's gum was like well kneaded dough, and little Annie watched with starry eyes, so amazed her pupils glowed. Pomp was furious, for he'd lost his girl and he wanted a new wad of gum. He had such a high opinion of himself, he demanded she give him some!

41: 41 | "I don't THINK so," she squealed! Then turned to see Crew's head overshadowed by the biggest gum bubble she'd every seen any one boy blow! Then Pomp cried, "It's not right! It's JUST not right, his head's not as big as mine!" Well, it was hard for the Pomp to realize that he was not going to win this time. If he hadn't such a big head, he might have been a good competition for the Crew. But no, he believed he was much better and more capable, in his own vain view. Somebody shoulda told that boy long ago, that to be like others is no disgrace - and like the Crew's daddy often said: "Slow and steady, my boy, wins the race . . . ." | The End

42: 42 | Like a bat with a rudder - a cat, eyes glistening slits in green, swoops: rooftop - top of door atop a red-paint milk can landing silent behind Buttermore's barn. Then a girl's inner voice speaks: prepare ye now the rain barrel, for consider this - creatures of the pen and barn, they too Esther, fall short of the glory of God. Concurrently, cousin Ula Mae holds up barn walls and practices rewriting new testament stories, “John of the Desert,” she elegizes, "cried!" she dramatizes, “'baptizing good and right in the name of Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego.'” The cat sighs . . . and Esther, the paled daughter of Pastor Buttermore shudders, her fingers reaching to still lips from further desecration and prays, “Almighty God, savest this Thy seven-year-old, whom Thou knowest!, knowest not what she saith.” With an earful of grinning almighty God winks . . . | The | RAIN | BARREL

43: 43 | Barrel | Then zealful girls gather animals lined up two by two in makeshift pews for soul saving. One by one, the two by two's bank along the river cylindrical, a strong, young voice reprieves: “Be thou dead to thy sins, in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.” The ducks, being first, are instinctual and quack-laugh. But both bovine refuse, stomping hooves and mouthing crass bellows. Sadly, two chickens drown, for they, being chickens, take breathe while too long under. And the cat swishes and sways through ankles baptized damp, unknowing its destiny changes today - from sinner to saint.

44: 44 | Far and away in days past I had a sister to call me a name - a name that was silly, well to me at least, she'd croon, "Bevie!," and to her it was a game. I'd fist both hips and scowl and scream, "I'm not 'Bevie', I'm BevAnn and I have always been!" but it never ceased: like a spoon-clanged pan, a high pitched, cat scratched-glass of a voice bellering, "BEVIE, supper's on. Come get washed up!" And I had to go, it was mother's cablegram sent through my elder sis who went headlong my given name to reinvent . . .. | Bevie!

45: 45 | DEAD BIRD . . . a true story

46: 46 | Years ago, mom and I visited an inside aviary looking for a blue parakeet. It had to be "sky" blue to match dad's parakeet, Sam, who'd just been eaten by the cat that morning! We were scrambling to replace dad's beloved friend before he got home from work! Arriving at the aviary, we entered a massive room filed with every kind of bird imaginable. The proprietor left us alone to wander quietly, and look. Mom searched one side of the long room and I the other, listening to the bird's pleasant chirps and cooing. Then someone said, "Com'ere." I looked around for another customer, but there wasn't any. "Did you say something mom?" "Hummmm?" Mom was a bit hard of hearing. I continued searching, but a few minutes later, I heard it again, "Com'ere!!" Again, mom didn't hear a voice, so I began looking around. I'm glad there wasn't another customer in that place. Going from bird to bird, I got perturbed that none would speak to me. Then as I hurried down the back wall, a Macaw said, "Com'ere."

47: 47 | Aw, I'd finally found the little stinker! "Did you call?" He cocked his head and studied me for a bit, then in a shrill voice screamed, "SHUT UP!" ### Mom and I were nervous when Dad got home that night. Would he notice this bird was not the same one he'd left that morning? Holding our breath, we watched him go to the cage and speak to "Sam" in his deep, rich voice that birds love. It worked! Dad talked to Sam for a couple of minutes then went to the living room to relax before supper. Triumph quickly came to a heart thumping stop though. We heard a scuffle coming from the living room. I peeked around the doorway and saw dad on his hands and knees looking under an end table. He craned his head sideways, glancing toward mom and said, "Esther, did you know there's a dead bird under this table?" | The End

48: 48 | A few years ago, my four baby roosters grew up and started fighting each other over their two sisters. It was evident daily, that SOMETHING had to give. This is a “what if” scenario, at best, but more than likely, it's just the product of my over active imagination! I have often wondered what it would be like to be Dr. Doolittle ... Characters: Rooroo: my 7 year old Rooster Annie: this was Roo's first wife - the mother of his children Little Nell: one of Roo's daughters | P | reface

49: 49 | ~*~ The Overthrow ~*~ There was a stand off yesterday around supper time. RooRoo, the patriarch rooster, came knocking at my front door. I could see the others through the full glass, gathered in a tight line behind him, their brutal faces pressed together in conspiracy. My throat pounded with a throbbing pulse, but I stumbled to the door and let it creep open, allowing the tribe of them in. Little Nell was the last to skip through the door. I spose she couldn't help it, but she flutter up a foot and nailed me on the thigh with her beak. It was quick and probably hurt her more than me. Yup, these chickens were upset with me. The dogs were hiding behind my bed (as instructed). The tribe made their way through the foyer, into the dining room and stopped at the bottom of the table next to the vining plants. Roo lifted his right wing and retrieved a small note pad and cleared his craw . . . "We, the chicken family living at 96384 Twp. Rd. 393 S.E. Corning Ohio, 43730, telephone number 740-394-2634, ID numbers: 32,34,37,45,78,102, and,” he had to looked down at his own ankle band, “and 378, want the following demands addressed by five(5) am tomorrow morning, February 10: | 1 - Fresh cracked corn (warmed slightly in the oven) available by 5 am every morning. 2 - Silk sheets for the laying boxes for the females. 3 - Fresh grit mixed with ground cherry flavored Pop Tarts. 4 - Bottled water. 5 - Store bought Earth worms twice a week.

50: 50 | 6 - One hour a week of The Animal Channel (with popcorn). 7 - Some new females for my four boys and me - he looked at his two daughters and shrugged, they cast their forlorn chickie faces to the ground and . . . smiled. 8 - A free vacation to the Canary Islands. He looked almost embarrassed at this request. He threw his head back and crowed loudly, a centurion belch that lasted fifteen seconds before he thrust his head forward squeezing out the last of it. Six pictures fell to the floor at the sheer rumbling magnitude, then he stared at me directly - rooster to human steward. "You've always been good to me and my own," he said, searching my face empathetically, "and I have so appreciated the attention you've given us, especially my dear departed Annie." A tear threatened at the corner of my oculus, but I jammed it back with a quick blink and spoke evenly, "Rooroo, you and I have know each other for a few years now. I've always respected you, even that time I caught you and Annie . . . well, you know - not in front of the children," I whispered. The boys got a befouled look on their faces, the girls clucked and shuffled a bit, and their father blushed the color of candied apples . . .. "Anyway," I continued, "I'm just rather surprised at this dramatic display . . . doesn't seem your style at all, Roo." He toed a little nearer, "Let's discuss this privately, may we?" .

51: 51 | “When Annie disappeared a few months ago, I was so lost and unsure of myself,” I thought he was going to cry, but he didn't, and continued as he looked out the window behind me. “ The children were always her department . . . ah well yes, I did my part protecting them, comforting my daughters in that special way. (I don't think Annie cared for that, but she never told me so.) Now that she's gone, they want things I'm not able to provide little things their mother always attended to . . ..” He jumped off the hassock and began toeing an imaginary line in front of me. I leaned forward a bit, “Why didn't you come to me with this before, Roo?” He stopped pacing, turning his sad gaze upon me, “I didn't want to bother you with my troubles, dear. The children planned an overthrow last night, and I suggested we approach you with a list of requests. They are the ones that wrote up that list, not I.” He continued then, a perfectly straight line pacing toe to heal toe to heal. I reached down and scooped him into my arms to sit like a stuffed toy on my lap. Roo leaned against me, the worries of these past months draining quickly from him as I stroked the back of my beautiful, old friend. “They're brats, you know Roo. Kids are different now days, always demanding more, even when you've given all you're capable of.” He cooed softly, a sound I'd heard him use many times with Annie. Then and there, my old friend and I came to a deeper understanding of one another. I hoisted him onto my shoulder and we went to confront the brats together. The End

52: 52 | Little Pete, don't bit my feet! Don't steal my socks, nor eat those rocks. Little Pete, don't dig no holes nor tear up your poppy's leather soles. Little Pete, you've been so bad you know you make us aw-fu-lly mad. Little Pete, go take a seat till you simmer down sometime next week. Little Pete! drOP those sneakers now! You know in the laundry you're not allowed! Little Pete, I'll tan your hide if you drag that throw rug outside! Little Pete, come over here, sit at my feet why don't you dear? Little Pete, I love you so even if . . . WHOA . . . LITTLE PETE! Don't bite my feeeeet! hahahahahaha! | Little Pete!

53: 53 | To rhyme or not to rhyme is not always the question. To make poems happy or sad, large or small is one's own discretion. To write in perfect meter, with verbs all in a row doesn't grow great poems. Is that what you were told? Elements slip from stealth fingers; near rhyme ends and enjambment lingers like bees beneath rose noses' there's lots in poetry that's not presupposing. You can chose your style, make your way clear and decide to the "forms", you'll adhere. You may write sonnets of sailors speaking Portuguese or a 5 line Tanka about cats called Burmese. You itch for that quatrain plus one; a poem quintet . . . but you type on and instead, write a Septet! You might get upset and fret about being inept for you've no more to say than a two line couplet. or: In passiveness , one line fains Haiku. oh FOO! Well, sometimes poems just happens like that - you think it's a winner, have it written down pat but you realize shortly, it isn't always so, for poetry isn't something you just know . . . it's something you grow! | It's Something You Grow!

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  • Title: Eclectic Expressions
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