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Writer Waiting

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Oh this shiny new computer…

There just isn’t nothing cuter.

It knows everything the world ever knew.

And with this great computer

I don’t need a writing tutor,

‘Cause there ain’t a single thing that it can’t do.

It can sort and it can spell,

It can punctuate as well.

It can find and file, underline and type.

It can edit and select,

It can copy and correct.

So I’ll have a whole book written by tonight

Just as soon as I can think of what to write.

Shel Silverstein

Keeper of the Garden

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This used to be a garden

A sunny, happy place

Where someone pruned and planted, with a smile on her face.

 

I remember Hanna’s patience and all the love she gave

I remember Hanna’s laughter, as I passed and gave a wave.

 

A gentle rain would fall

The wind would softly blow

And that’s what made the garden a place where things would grow.

 

Now, the keeper of the garden must rest her weary back

For time has taken over, the weeds are growing fast

She pulls the covers close and dreams of flowers past.

 

For Hanna

 

Winter-time

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Winter-time

Robert Louis Stevenson (from A Child’s Garden of Verses, 1885)

Late lies the wintry sun a-bed,

A frosty, fiery sleepy-head,

Blinks but an hour or two, and then,

A blood-red orange, sets again.

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Before the stars have left the skies,

At morning in the dark I rise,

And shivering in my nakedness,

By the cold candle, bathe and dress.

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Close by the jolly fire I sit,

To warm my frozen bones a bit,

Or with a reindeer-sled, explore,

The colder countries round the door.

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When I go out, my nurse doth wrap,

Me in my comforter and a cap,

The cold wind burns my face, and blows,

Its frosty pepper up my nose.

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Black are my steps on silver sod,

Thick blows my frosty breath abroad,

And tree and house, and hill and lake,

Are frosted like a wedding cake.

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