The memories always start with lots of flour. The beauty of my granny gave me the power. Of expressing the years gone by.
By Cathy Deslippe2 years ago in Poets
Intoduction This is a wander round Settle as a Plagiaristic Poem. The original concept for this is shared at the end of this poem after the location links that exist.
By Mike Singleton 💜 Mikeydred 2 years ago in Poets
Mother Combs said: I would also like to encourage my readers to share ten Christmas Facts about themselves with us. It can be whatever you want, as long as it concerns the Christmas season.
By Denise E Lindquist2 years ago in Poets
On Christmas Eve night, Krampus and Santa * Got together As brothers do to visit. **** **** **** **** They talked
By Mother Combs2 years ago in Poets
You pushed me deep into the ground. You taught others how to do so. They watched and stood silent. But I've been growing down there.
By Neeklo2 years ago in Poets
I watch all the walking silhouettes on the horizon against a back drop of sky transitioning from jean blue to vibrant orange.
By simplicity2 years ago in Poets
The cafeteria of my elementary school is now a shoebox - a diorama made with paint that never fades. The scene is set with dried glue: Cinco de Mayo
By Erin Latham Shea2 years ago in Poets
Can I get the ingredients The measurements of how much I should put in and how much I shouldn't an indication on how to fight my battles
By valencia mokgothu2 years ago in Poets
my mother has a stream of mixed up photos she likes her christmas trees white and sparse, empty of memories, with only white ornamentals to make up for aesthetics
By Grace Genet-Allen2 years ago in Poets
Behold the wondrous beauty of this Kyoto night, Where light and darkness mingle in perfect sight, The sky, a hue of purple, so divine,
By Zenny2 years ago in Poets
Oh, how I love, this time of year the Christmas movies, the love the cheer family gatherings, decorating the tree kids all wondering, what their presents may be
By Paula Rowlands2 years ago in Poets
What’s the meaning of the birth of the babe who was Christ Swaddling clothes and the stress of spending everything we have
By Thomas Terry2 years ago in Poets
