Turkey so dry that I can’t speak
Brussel sprouts boiled for a week
Roast potatoes burnt to a crisp
Inspired by Andrea’s contest but not written for it!
Copyright © JAN ALLISON
Now they say that girls are made of sugar
And spice, but good girls finish last my friend.
For there is one truth for all women kind,
Come hell or high water we will fight
For our right to indulge ourselves in
The need for perfections greatest
Yes we will take down that cookie
Puppet clown, dressed in blue,
For there is no fiercer monster known
To man, then a women who’s cookie
Faddish is left unsatisfied.
Peanut butter to chocolate chip,
Just pass the milk and watch out dude,
For women shall be the first to dip.
Call us the two fisted women of the
Raw dough generation, we don’t
Really care, just pass grandma’s old
Roll me down the bakery sweet,
No fragrance smells finer then freshly
Baked what ladies, COOKIES.
Sugar me sweet it’s the ladies favorite
Treat, by the bucket or truck load it can’t
Be beat, frosted or plain, it matters not,
But without Milk its sacrilege that is
Now chocolate maybe the vise five to
Seven days a month, but cookies rule
As the male race drools, because honey
There is no doubt women will take you
Don’t for what, lets all say it ladies around
The world, all together now, SAY WHAT
By the way did I tell you my favorite
Food in the world, of course it’s very
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
DEDICATED TO POET DESTROYER
And to all women
Copyright © cherl dunn
Thick or thin, it is the Friday night order in special,
Supreme or meat lovers delight, whatever toppings
You like it, does not matter for it’s
The all American favorite, Pizza!!
Roll out that dough, cover it with Italians specialty
Sauce, cheese me to please me, I’ll never get enough,
I’m simply addicted to this deep dish pan delicious stuff.
Cut me no single slice, for more, more, more,
Is the thunderous roar of my mighty hungering’s
Rumbling, within my tummy, for what Pizza!!!
Circled or squared, just roll that pizza cutter of
Portions pleasure, pick up your slice and allow
That thick cheese to pull apart naturally,
Then bite into Nirvana, for this is heavens
Perfection guaranteed by the slice.
Now the frozen microwave style may work in a pinch,
Delivery or the hot and ready special can satisfy
My personal hunger glitch, for that tasty pizza pie,
As long as can get it, I’m satisfied.
Oh grant me one pleasures sinful command to break
Dearest lord above, to indulge myself, and stuff
Myself with pizza, pizza until I burst, for gluttony is
One distractions fault I have dear father, when it
Comes to this circle food, as it spins on the nightly
Commensals boob tube.
Is it not against the law to hide messages within
Certain text, because I swear these advertisers
Know our fragile human weaknesses, late at night
For this delectable substance, called what
Pizza, if I haven’t mentioned it enough,
Yummy, yum, yum old chum.
It’s the party hardy mid-night special, on all
Channels of the United States of America,
There is no doubt of this, rock my world
In flavorful old time favorite, dude I’m
With you all the way, especially on a
This is my declaration of independence
Declared in Italian sauces redden stainy ink,
Give me Pizza or give me death, just kidding
Folks, by the way do you want that last
Pizza slice, I’m not quite full yet, lol.
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
Copyright © cherl dunn
Heavenly Meat Pies
Nostalgic memories -
An awesome aroma
And an unforgettable flavor of
Homemade mini meat pies.
Flaky, golden brown pastry crusts,
Filled with lots of love and stuffed with
Savory bite-size bits of tender beef,
Cubed potatoes, green peas, bell peppers,
Pungent garlic, garden carrots, celery, cilantro,
Madras Curry and other fragrant aromatic spices.
Popping one delectable meat pie into my mouth,
I tucked away another in my pocket for later.
Every magical mouth-watering morsel,
A taste of heavenly culinary delight…
In my great-grand auntie’s rustic kitchen.
Copyright © Pandita Sanchez
Nightmares tore her sleep with unseen teeth.
Her small thin legs in constant cramp from dream running.
She was only a child, but not the only child,
beside her, across a gap of oaken floor, in a matching bed I slept.
Whimpering brought me near,"Tell me good things," she'd say.
"Make me sweet dreams." And I would snuggle her close.
"Warm, small, cuddly kittens," I'd chant
and "chocolate bunnies to chomp."
The memories long gone, linger on.
I remember her wet cheeks
and sheets of woe night after night,
until the wee girl began to grow,
to shield with the only things she knew food,
with food for thought and form sated
sleep came easier.
She grew through the nightmare of longing
our home, she grew to and past me
little mother, big mother,
she sang the songs of love to dolls,
to kittens, to stray dust-motes
Too sweet to linger in the lost land
where battles must be found and fought.
Too dear to go through life alone,
need...garnered, family formed
upon the rack of sustenance
and the twist of genetic curdling's
she blooms still.
Barricaded at intervals from the nightmares,
cramped with too large a soul in too fragile
a form, sister mine, friend of all.....
Copyright © Debbie Guzzi
You are far away now
Off in fields of gold
Dappled with evenings hot velvety light
90 degrees of separation has dulled the sword
eased the pain
The grasshoppers chirp in unison to your labors but they no longer ache in your solar plexus
What sweet sorrow is loss and gain
I now walk down the very paths I have always so longed for
the dark rich peat paths of happiness
contentment oozes from these fingertips as I write and I wonder if happiness is poetry
Or does it preclude it all together
The night sky fills with stars
The stars fill with fire flies that burst out of them like infinitesimal lightning bolts
jettisoned to my soul
he and I chase storms on decks swirled in smoke
We banter and bay at one another
you are in a field of gold somewhere
a river bed
The smell of the wet earth of shore beneath you reaches me… but momentarily
dismissed as the ash of the bonfire of a week ago fire or the grill of last night’s
unbelievably tasty ribs he concocted from air for me and me alone
but then we shared with so many
Lingers on my lip tips…the bottom edge
I kiss him and mean it with all I am
Super beings are we
and our colors wash
upon the canvas of my life
melding into one great magnificent us
Spectacular are we
the creatures who so love life
we give our only begotten selves to each other
and never ever forsake
Copyright © Ingrid Showalter Swift
The birdfeeder hung on a narrow limb,
away from deck rails, discouraging squirrels.
No problem for the little robber
who raided the feeder day by day.
Repeatedly, he climbed onto a tender branch,
inching forward until it bent, riding it down.
Each trip, he leaned off and dropped freestyle,
disappearing inside with only a furry tail visible.
He emerged with both cheeks bulging ,
and sunflower seeds scattering below.
On a continuous march of palm-less thievery,
the brassy chipmunk mouthed his loot home,
adding to his cache.
Copyright © Cona Adams
We said our goodbyes in June,
and the months since blur into mist.
At unexpected moments, awareness
of loss hits; tears spill unbidden.
Family gathering, Christmas Eve
as usual . . . minus one.
We quietly exchanged gifts,
found flowers from her funeral
crafted into hand-made jewelry,
kaleidoscopes, treasured mementoes.
I cooked grapes today, dark muscadines.
I extracted seeds and peelings,
and measured life-sustaining juice
through the metal funnel she used
from the day of her marriage.
It came to me dented and bent,
like her body had been at 93.
I still taste those fresh-from-the-oven
chocolate rolls after school,
garden tomatoes warmed by the sun,
hot biscuits with apple jelly,
squeezed from the peelings after
she baked crisp slices in cinnamon-rich pie.
I'm glad I didn't know then,
about being allergic to Cinnamon.
Copyright © Cona Adams
Apple pie, fresh from the oven
cools on a rack, whiffs of cinnamon-nutmeg
aroma rise through the pastry vent
then drifts out through
the kitchen window opened an inch or so
mingling with a hint of moulder on the breeze.
The apple peelings still lay on newspapers
on the counter, deep crimsons mottled with yellow, green
mirror fall leaves of brilliant hues.
Is this a coincidence? Perhaps - but perhaps not -
possibly nature intends apples such colours
as a reminder autumn is close at hand.
The pastry, free-formed into an irregular shape,
rustic, like nature. Trees, some now partially stripped
of leaves, expose gnarled limbs twisting and turning
madly off in all directions. Showing its imperfections
yet is beautiful in its own way
silhouetted against an October deep azure sky.
Reminiscences of baking apple pie
snapshots in an album in the mind's eye
retrieving them, recollecting that day will sustain
when December's snowflakes flutter about,
when January's winds wail and
when February's blizzards drift high against the doors
Copyright © Carol Fillmore
For several thousands of years
you upheld the sacredness of Nature
avoiding wanton destruction
of plant and animal life
taking only what you needed
since their sacredness was
just as important to you
as the sacredness of humanity
When harvesting wild rice for food
you let some fall into the water
to produce crops for the future
Surrounding a pack of wild sheep
while hunting in the mountains
you let a male and female escape
so by their reproductive process
they would ensure the
continuation of their species
You saw yourself as part of Nature
living in harmony with it
and not plundering it with greed
Your religion was to respect Nature
viewing all plants and animals
as parts of its magnificent fabric
Abuse of a part of it was
an abuse of the whole
Your way of life
provides valuable lessons
that can teach mankind how
to deal with today's ecological crisis
that threatens the survival
of all life on the planet
You were the genuine
Guardian of the Environment
I have always admired the way of life of the Native American Indians living in harmony with Nature before the advent of the Europeans. By extension, this applies to all indigenous peoples including the Amerindians and Polynesians. This piece is dedicated to them.
Copyright © john beharry
Ana's taught me to count
not in numbers but calories
with a yolk-yellow calorie handbook.
The calories pulse with a heartbeat.
They are not dead and number-flat;
they whisper and breathe, real and alive.
A pebble-heavy potato = 105.
She's grey-gaunt, spinning herself thin,
this mirror woman staring back at me,
anaemic-pale and flower-frail.
But fat silently seeps, oozes greasily
beneath jutting hips, contaminating,
expanding like some monstrous child.
Consumed by the rituals of chew-and-spit -
food without guilt and regret, no threat,
no unctuous slippage of calories down the throat.
But hunger escapes from the body's bone-cage;
my tongue tingles for texture and taste,
craves chocolate's dark velvet melt.
"Eat," my body pleads.
"Resist." Ana stabs my ear with a knife twist.
Eat. Resist. Eat. Resist. Eat. Resist.
The fading scar on my left wrist
where I tried to cut out calories
is the silvering slash of a grin.
And Ana's still smirking, skewing reality,
sneering "You'll never cut yourself free from me."
3 a.m., bloating in the bathroom's mirror-bright gaze,
one pound gained; the scale's needle
jabs hard into catastrophe's red haze.
Ana's on her knees beside the toilet, guilt-goading me,
forcing unforgiving fingers down my throat.
My heart flutters like a flickering bulb,
stutters like my tongue
searching for words to voice a lie.
Ana tightens the puppet strings,
pulls my marionette mouth
into shapes that say: "I'm not hungry."
"I've already eaten today."
Her voice is snake-hissy
slithering into my ear:
"How many calories? How many calories?"
Insistent, scratching my bone china mind,
screeching like nails down a windowpane.
Drifting dizzily through pangs and pains,
giddy with the headiness starvation brings,
air-light and feather-floaty.
My thoughts could take off like birds.
The Arctic gusts in
and I'm blown to bone.
My arms are winter branch brittle;
wrists could snap with one tap.
I wobble on frangible twigs
that barely pass for legs.
Ketosis: a sour apple smell
clinging acidic on breath and skin.
Hair strands are falling: spider web threads,
wisps and glints of coppery red;
autumn filaments floating off into empty space...
I'm tubed and taped -
the needling invasion like soul rape.
A fattening elixir
of nutrients and glucose is cannula-fed
into my winter-blue veins.
Ana's jabbering on the end of the bed,
swinging matchstick legs,
her bone-brittle voice word-jabbing me:
disgusting, pathetic, obese.
They've stuffed me with Prozac,
fed me Diazepam,
in a desperate bid to turn her volume down.
Gauzy morning, a hollow dawning:
I must play the hunger game,
consume just enough to gain.
Discharged, I'll count my days
not in numbers but calories,
guilt-grubby and grubbing
for the killing crumbs,
spinning myself thinner
till Ana frees or kills me.
Copyright © Charlotte Jade Puddifoot
The wind swept across the fields of wheat
The breeze curled around each head of grain
Waves would ripple through the fields
Looking like the waves of an ocean lapping to shore
As the sun beat upon these heads of grain
They turned from green to a golden color
They now have become prairie gold
The harvest in the fall has truck loads of wheat
Taken to the elevators for shipping to the coast
From the coast wheat goes world wide
To feed the hungry and give man bread
From the wind swept prairie's
Where the farmer makes his bed.
Copyright © Phyllis Babcock
rice fields look the same except
for this one; this one who knew me
before i was born… and lying on her
fertile belly, she remembers how
the moon would lift its anklets
to flutter in light ballet steps,
tossing our mist of evening’s bamboo
for drops of rain to moisten skin
of gentle beasts.
through incantations for creatures
gathering in a bonfire of
twitters and jousts,
a carousel of birds wheels
in a rhapsody, then takes flight
along hems of air whisking
tiny lanterns near the shore,
while eggs of rivers crawl
on amber clay: how beautiful
can she be! her crown heady,
full of starlit winds
that which closes and bares
i must have twirled with her
on a cradle of blushing petals
swirling oh so feathery,
as if in a womb of constellations
only she can dare name
and bequeath grained glory
i wake up for some reason:
dusted flakes on my eyes collect
this one spectacle of tryst
with my rice field
where i have become different,
as my head ceased throbbing
in sweet surrender,
perhaps, claiming the very floor
of my navel in ripened harvest.
*thanks to Franco Gonza for this
Jared Picket's Collaboration Contest
nette onclaud and Franco Gonza
Copyright © nette onclaud
Onion of Passion (A Blitz Poem for Poetry Soup)
Start with an idea
Start with an onion
Onion on a cutting board
Onion from the crisper drawer
Drawer of firm vegetables
Drawer of future soup
Soup to feed the poet’s soul
Soup to cure the common cold
Cold days feeling uninspired
Cold nights feeling over tired
Tired of the same same same
Tired of this empty feeling
Hungry for a poem to come
Hungry for some hearty soup
Soup flavored with Whitman’s marrow
Soup that starts with his sort of rawness
Rawness of starchy emotion
Rawness of aromatic images
Images of stiff green celery stalks
Images of bright chunked carrot snips
Snips sautéing in olive oil (dash of salt!)
Snips of memory softening
Softening and blending into metaphors
Softening with those onions now translucent
Translucent as distant dreams
Translucent as childhood kisses
Kisses snuck behind the bushes or
Kisses from great grandma
Grandma gave this life recipe
Grandma said to let things simmer
Simmer with love like chicken stock
Simmer then add the bag of herbs
Herbs are like adjectives
Herbs like just the right verbs
Verbs of action rather than being
Verbs like heat and sear and cook and flavor
Flavor the soup
Flavor for sharing
Sharing is why
Why we cook these chunky poems
Why we cook anything
Anything at all
Anything with passion
Passion and heart
Copyright © Robert Keim
Sugar, sugar, butter, stir.
Whip it, whip it, whip whir.
Crack, crack, egg white crash,
Tap, tap, yolk splash.
Beat, beat, beat, repeat.
Sifting flour, mashed banana
Taste the batter, I bet you can-a.
vanilla splash, cinnamon sprinkle.
Oil sprayed pan starts to twinkle.
Beat, beat, beat, repeat.
Then we pour it in a pan and we wait, watching the bread rise.
Then we watch the bread rise and we wait, heating up highs,
Then it heats up and cooks and we wait with wanting eyes.
Then our eyes want it and we wait, wait, wait...
I want some now,
Banana smell escaping,
So good that scent,
My mouth is gaping,
Time as slowly went.
I want some now!
Until the pan has cooled and the butter melts on top.
A steamy hot piece on the cool plate has a plop.
I cannot wait anymore, the waiting has gone to my head.
I must I must I must, eat up all of this banana bread!
For Contest: Rhythm Poems
Date: January 07-2015
Copyright © Casarah Nance
When I think of the plight that children face all over the world
I just want to cry
Hunger starts and ends their everyday
As many of us continue to waste away
The scraps that we toss could save a child’s life
I’ll tell you the human race is nothing nice
We have no problem spending trillions on war
As children starve to death outside a millionaires store
They put locks on the dumpsters to keep them out
To greedy to give what they are throwing out
I watched a show just the other day
That showed Children just wasting away
Right there in their mothers arms
As I ate my giant bowl of lucky charms
Pirates raiding off the Somalia Coast
Because their children’s eyes are hollow as a ghost
If my Children were starving these words are true
Captain Hook wouldn’t hold a light to you know who
I think in the overhaul scheme of wrong and right
Mankind in general has lost all sight
Could you imagine kissing your child’s last breath?
The rich get richer as they starve to death
So as you all tuck your kids into bed tonight
Kids all over the world will lose their fight
They will simply lie down and die
To hungry to fight to weak to cry
Shelters that feed the Hungry are in every
town, when was the last time that you gave
something. No person is any greater than the
depth of their compassion. To give is to receive
for there is no greater blessing in this life. Keep
what you need and give the rest and the Lord will
make sure you never run out. God Bless, MJ
Written for Sami's contest
Copyright © Michael Jordan
My coffee, my house,
cinnamon and hint of clove
in a full bodied french roast...
acrid, bitter, pungent deliciousness
wafts thought the air
before even the eyes are open
the buzz of conversation over
the tinkling of spoons stirring
the clanking of cup on saucer
the shooshing of steamy cream
a lush, rich aroma,
with the feeling of rightness
around the edges
like a cozy blanket of comfort
wrapping around your shoulders
Sipping in silence,
watching the sunrise,
simple serenity to start the day.
Copyright © Trudy Diane Rider
I take firm grasp of the handle
My goal reflected in the steel of the knife,
I put the knife to its green face
Its' checkered skin;
I flex my bicep, grimace with thirst
I remember the day’s troubles,
The day’s triumphs, And I cut
The blade breaks the rough surface
Shatters the smooth oval,
And sinks deep into the soft redness beneath
Juice flows over my hands, and I forget my thoughts,
I reach in and take firm grasp of its heart
I wrench it out with red dripping fingers
Slobbering it into my mouth
The sweetness of the watermelon sends my heart racing with joy
And I reminisce that I had forgotten the plate.
P.S, for those who may not know, the sweetest part of the watermelon is the heart (hence
reaching for the heart)
© Samir Georges
Copyright © Samir Georges
Have you ever had sweet strawberry wine?
Delicious fruit from straight off the vine
The heady taste….a love of mine
Delicate and tempting me
Of summer sun and free
Have a glass and see
Shimmers of light
Of that crimson berry
Two chilled glasses-you and me
The heady taste….a love of mine
Delicious fruit from straight off the vine
Have you ever had sweet strawberry wine?
I call this form Reflection
Lines go from ten syllables down to one then one syllable back up to ten
With a rhyme scheme of aaa bbb ccc dd ccc bbb aaa and the first three lines
Are the same as the last three lines.
Inspired by Mr. Michaels original form contest
Copyright © Christie Moses
Young, tender and succulent
Smothered in cream
Yellow fluffy omelets
Garnished with herbs
Eve's pudding bathing in custard
- temptingly -
-a gourmet delight -
Served with green salad
plus chips and icecream!
A glass of white wine - Pinot Grigio
- decadence -
Madness sets in - slowly
I imagine how happy I'll be when I'm slim
A young flirty lover
With lips made of chocolate
Just waiting for kissing
Delicious and sweet
Courting my taste buds
- disgracefully -
Copyright © Liz Walsh
Broken fruit stacked forward, with
their tender lip-soft skins
scuffed among her unspoiled sisters.
Lonely is the unripe peach
hoping to be chosen,
turning her sun side out, beckoning,
longing to be washed and tasted, and
not knowing of her immature bitterness.
They always reach back
for the fresh loaf of bread
at the back of the shelf.
its not the same for fruit.
Copyright © Rickie Elpusan
there once was a flying monkey who didn't know what to eat. so he ate the old scraggly poop hanging from his butthole. His friends thought he was weird but i didnt. i do that all the time. it tastes good.
Copyright © Matt Poopenheimer
I will NOT be satisfied with the crumbs
That fall from your banquet table of love
I’m here to have a gluttonous feast
Don’t….Don’t insult me with tiny morsels
You throw my way
I’m to sit at the head of the table
My rightful place
And eat and drink to my fill
To satiation’s upper limit
My heart and soul, YES, my BODY nourished
S A T S F I E D
With the eclectic fare of delicacies
For is that not
The kind of feast
You are used to having from me?
I slave away for days on end
To prepare and offer to you, my King
The most scrumptious repast
And you leave MY banquet table
With the decadent savor
Of my sweetness in your mouth
No, this will not do
Until you tempt my appetite
With the fairest of delights
Don’t you dare think
That these mere crumbs will do
Eileen Manassian Ghali
Copyright © Eileen Manassian
My mind sighs blackberries
and a moonstruck melody
plays along my spine
as I soak up the fruited juice
of I love you coloring your lips.
The cherry blush of breathless,
And a smile amid the wash
Of blueberry eyes, should indicate
My intended reply.
Copyright © maggie flanaganwilkie
life should be about
nothing more than
swirly upside down rides
and blue cotton candy
for in the end
pasts can’t be taken back
and the truth is
I’d rather live
with my blue tongue
with the past’s
on my lips.
Copyright © Ra Oremraeh
With pure delight
Placing you in my mouth
A subtle seduction
In the heat
Of my oral orgasm
An indulgent treat
So succulence and sweet
An addiction or temptation?
Seduction of the senses
All I can have, in this moment!
The wetness of my tongue
Searching, my sugar sweetened lips
For the ever lasting remnants
Of a 'Hershey Kiss'
Copyright © Amy Rose
Well what should I write about tonight?
Should I write about what I did today?
Should I write about my shoelaces?
Should I write about doing laundry?
Or Should I write about what I'd like for breakfast tomorrow?
Maybe I should ramble about how the school day went.
Maybe I should complain about my room being dirty.
Maybe I should name off the food in my kitchen.
Or Maybe I should just talk about my hair.
I wanna talk about what I'm learning on guitar.
I wanna speak out about my inner issues.
I wanna yell a crazy rant.
I just wanna blow off some steam.
I wish I could take a bath with a girl right now.
I wish I would've finished my homework.
I wish I could shoot ice from my finger tips
I just wish I had some soda to quench my thirst.
There are so many things I could say right now!
But I just can't seem to decide.
I'd probably get some pretty weird looks
If I told you what's all bottled up inside.
I'm everywhere and nowhere in my head
Ideas and thoughts bouncing left and right.
Too bad I can't seem to think of anything.
I was really wanting to get some feelings out tonight.
Do I need to shave in the morning?
Should I go to the music store after school?
Why didn't I grab matching socks?
What does the weekend have in store?
I wish I had something to write about.
Eh, I'll think of something tomorrow night.
Copyright © Captain Dan
Hope built upon the sand
as castles before the waves.
Heart filled with Puppy love
and hymns sung beneath
Daddy's watchful eye.
Nothing Holy remains
Happy a forgotten word.
Love drowned in Jack and coke
before he was thee years old.
No harmony in that house
that house not a home.
Her health a poor excuse to stay
a good excuse to leave him home.
Praying no one would see.
My hand on fire as it closed
on the frozen food.
Filling my pack ~ without looking
Hungry doesn't care
as long as it's fed.
A starving beast~ wild
Anything a feast
after three days.
Afraid of getting caught.
Pride a terrible thing.
It always grows before the fall.
Tonight we eat like a king
in a land of milk and honey.
Pigtails and peas with rice.
Never knowing he knew
till the end. ~ Grateful
that he understood.
wishing I could change things.
Ashamed of my actions.
Sometimes sand castles fall.
Holding a feverish hand I
laughed until I cried.
I should have thrown down
that foolish pride. I could have had
steaks and chops too.
I still have the old key
He passed to me.
I hold it in my hand sometimes.
The old freezers long gone.
I Hold on to it remind me.
Sometimes Sand castles fall.
There isn't much a parent
misses. Hidden in our eyes.
Remember that and remember too
that The good stuff is locked away
But that Daddy shares with all!
Copyright © Patricia Sawyer
The special today,
is Tom's Stew,
more than enough,
for all of you.
with garlic, and chives,
real butter without calories,
dripping from the sides.
heaping with cream,
fresh from scratch,
right out of a dream.
Eat all you want,
get happy, and stuffed,
take some with you,
he insist you have enough.
Open all night,
his lights always on,
place your orders,
before it is all gone.
Copyright © Christy Hardy
Never much money did my grandpa have,
but love, yes love, was all around,
his weathered skin, and calloused hands,
showed the world, he was a hardworking man.
With a tired old mule, he plowed his fields,
planting his crops, so all could have meals.
No Food Stamps way back then,
just neighbor helping neighbor, time, and again.
All the children had chores to do,
before the rooster crowed, before they left for
Five little children, their hair so white,
walking down a dirt road, imagine the sight.
Copyright © Christy Hardy