Oh Nuts

  For all of my knitting buddies A NIGHTMARE BEFORE CHRISTMAS ‘Twas the night before Christmas and all around me was unfinished knitting not under the tree. The stockings weren’t hung by the chimney with care ‘cause the heels and toes had not a stitch there. The children were nestled all snug in their beds, but I had not finished the caps for their heads. Dad was asleep; he was no help at all, and the sweater for him was six inches too small. When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter, I put down my needles to see what was the matter. Away to the window I flew like a flash, tripped over my yarn, and fell with a crash. The tangle of yarn that lay deep as the snow reminded me how much I still had to go. Out on my lawn, I heard such a noise, I thought it would wake both Dad and the boys. And although I was tired, my brain a bit thick, I knew in a moment it must be Saint Nick! What I heard then left me somewhat perplexed-ed, for not a name I heard was what I expected. “Move Ashfor...

This is what happens when you are bored and decide to write a goofy poem on the color purple . Photo by  Sarah Kothe  on  Unsplash From lovely lilac to somber eggplant. There is nothing quite as sweet as the color purple. Bruises. Nails. Hair.  Purple. Long and flat. Paper. Short and fat. Flower. Purple. Rainbows. Frosting. Paints. Cupcakes. Purple

The other night, while at work, I was scrolling through my phone trying to find a poem generator that I liked. The reason that I was looking for it is because one of the characters in the story that I am working on writes a goofy poem. But I didn't like any of the poem generators that I found. In my searching, I can't remember if it was yesterday or today, I came across a song generator that I liked. Here is the song that the generator came up with titled: "How Much Does He Love Gnomes?" He gets on with life as a spy, He's an optimistic kinda chap. He likes rowing boats on Sundays, He likes playing chess in the week. He likes to contemplate tall people. But when he starts to daydream, His mind turns straight to gnomes. Oh oh oh! Sometimes I look at him and I look into his eyes, I notice the way he thinks about gnomes with a smile, Curved lips he just can't disguise. But he thinks it's tall people making his life worthwhile. Why is it so hard for him ...

Back in November I started writing a poem I called " Foggy Night ," but I had only written the firs two stanzas, even though Amanda said that I needed to finish it. Well I didn't follow her advise until yesterday when the thick fog we had in the morning inspired me a bit to finish it. So here is the completed poem of "Foggy Night." It was a foggy night And things were hidden From sight. Frosting up windows with dew. Hard to see But easy to hear. Thickly rolled the fog. Through the fog things appeared. When they appeared  they quickly disappeared from sight. As the fog rolled though People stayed in, and few bravely ventured out into the late night fog. By mornings light the fog slowly started to disappear. In the afternoon light the fog has disappeared from sight never to return.

It was a foggy night And things were hidden from sight. Frosting up windows with dew. Hard to see But easy to hear. Thickly rolled the fog. ------------------------------------- That is the only part of a poem that I started writing a week ago. I started writing it after I came home late from work one day and had to drive through some really thick fog. There was supposed to be more to the poem, but I ran out of ideas and then forgot about it. Since we moved into town and out of the country, I liked the fact the I wasn't driving through thick fog in complete darkness to get home. Even though the street lights helped some, it was still really foggy out. Although I did have the help of streetlights all the way home I still don't like driving at night in fog, or rain/wind. The very first time I had to drive through thick fog at night was a few days after I first got my license and I was the designated driver for when Amanda, Yavi and I went to choir practice on Mo...

This is an original poem that I wrote and wanted to share on here. It's not the greatest thing ever written, but I hope you enjoy reading it. Searching high, Searching low, Turning left and right. What is it That I seek? Does it have a name? Surrounded by everything, But always alone. Somethings in the air, And ready to be found. Ready to find What can't be seen. Searching in circles I go round and round. Sight, smell, sound, taste, touch. With all five I search, For what I can't see. Does it have a name? Will I know what it is When I find it? No one knows and No one seems to care. Blindly I search, Until I can search no more. When I stop I hope to find What it is that I have Been searching for.

The idea for this popped into my head one night while my family was praying the Rosary together and because we have a couple birds currently living inside the chimney of our house. It's not the greatest but let me know what you think. Birds in the fireplace. It's what they call their home From Spring until Fall. From darkness into light they fly. And from light to dark they return, Flying between walls of brick and stone. In their choice of nest, Birds in the fireplace are heard. Bickering back and forth They speak in a language all their own. Inside their home of darkness and soot, They speak while flying to and fro. Constant chatter and flying they use. Hardly stopping while in their nest. Day or night they fly about. Either sky high or or darkness and soot, Hardly slowing down as they do. At Summer's end they prepare. When the leaves start to fall, The birds prepare to move on. Soon the birds leave their fireplace home. As the weath...