Classic poem of the day
I loathe, abhor, detest, despise,
Abominate dried-apple pies.
I like good bread, I like good meat,
Or anything that's fit to eat;
But of all poor grub beneath the skies,
The poorest is dried apple pies.
Give me the toothache, or sore eyes,
But don't give me dried apple pies.
The farmer takes his gnarliest fruit,
'Tis wormy, bitter, and hard, to boot;
He leaves the hulls to make us cough,
And don't take half the peeling off....
Member poem of the day
Sunday eventide, on the slope of the fire-hued mountain, owls emerge from the pines' shelter of boughs, I'm sitting by an open window, the peace of writing in the night. Hunters moon, so settled and goldenrod, the young days of autumn's presence, sipping cinnamon hot cider, baying hounds in the smoky valley, songbirds taking an evening vow of silence. Writing of bygone friendships, and gained faith, harvest of bittersweet recollections, surviving parent, a ghost of memories, of ......
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