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Connecticut Writer's Corner Submissions

Submission by: Cam Rea - Counting the Coins

Counting the coins of crack acting snakes.A touch of the leg and sweat pours.A turn table sings as birds pray on lines of thought and it rains a million rymes and a million crimes.Follow and belive run! my little one a doted paper line and a cramp cry is my way to shine.Thus spoken God and the rivers cry when nations are dry so begins temption to lay down and die.

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Cam Rea

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Submission by: Timothy M. Clark - The White Vase - 10/27/97

A Flower to fill it would make it complete
No dime store phony, the lady has class
She's the friend who gave it
Show's she care's when I the impaired one
confesses I love her and she understands
When my soul needs a glowing
her voice mail of direct conversation
is a phone call away

Never did I abuse her
except my running alone
her help is in friendship developed
through each and every storm
God Blessed me with the angel
I may never know exactly why
the White Vase, a memento of our moments
that weed not be hidden and not talked about

Proud am I to have met her children
on Chousey's stomping grounds
A picture of their mother and her love
is somthing I am sure they will carry inside
thruoghout their lives
I have a duty to take care of the vase
the beauty I fill it with
I hope will show the love I have for life...

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Submission by: William C. Fox - Flashes of Thought


A seed dropped in the soil grows,
Dirt around nature's toes.
First a stalk and then the leaves,
The solid base of a plant to be.

The flower blossoms sweet and mild,
Develops slow, an innocent child.
Corrupted by a world gone wrong,
Sour notes in a sweet love song.

Next year another bloom,
Stronger now, escapes its doom.
There it stands sweet but strong,
Ready for what the world brings on.

A bumbling bee with blossom mates,
Drinks the nectar, nature's fate.
But in his moment of paradise,
Sweet nectar here does not suffice.

Determined to find the source of taste,
He digs but deeper in clumsy haste.
Outside to him remains unseen,
Petals drop onto the green.

The heart is reached, but flavor lost,
Truth is found, but at what cost.
Determined on his valiant quest,
The bee has lost what he loves best.

Without sweet nectar the bee is doomed,
To exist in a world full of gloom.
His spirit withers, his soul decays,
A miserable state he lives out his days.

Weak and old he does exist,
Full of none but emptiness.
What a waste, perfection disappeared,
The sad result of unfounded fears.

The Sculptor

The clay is cut.
Earth takes form.
A soul inspirited fresh and clean.
The clay is wet.
The world adorn,
Molded slowly, an animate being.

A journey starts,
Fresh on its way,
Great adventures yet unseen.
Living art,
God's own to play,
A tiny piece of the great machine.

Time moves on,
A constant chore.
Life's sweet juices slowly lost.
A sweet young fawn,
A weathered boar.
Transition slowly at great cost.

The clay is dry.
The figure stands.
There unchanging never more.
In the eye,
A wise old man.
Pieces strewn across the floor.

The journey done.
Juice no more.
The maker satisfied.
The clay cracks.
The figure breaks.
Empty now inside.

Ode to a City Boy

I wish I were an old wise man
With a great and long beard
And great, strong, soft hands
A great ability to hear.

I would live in the mountains
With my wife or alone
I would live like a Sultan
By the streams of my home.

I would grow my own food
With bread, beer, and berries
And hunting would be good
Killing when necessary.

But instead I live a life
Of talk, time, and money
With distress and strife
With the code of society.

Too bad for me
For I love trees
The cackling streams
Stars we see
A calm, cool breeze
Rains do please
As so do seas
That is where I'd like to be
Old, wise, and free.

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Submission by:Mary Ann Carrado

It happened again last night

It happened again last night. Coming home late from work, I left my shoes at the door and padded through a cold deserted house. As I headed for the dark basement, an icy chill ran through my veins. Like someone in a bad "B" horror movie, I knew the terror I was I was sure to find lurking down there. But I had to face it--I had no choice. And there it was. At the bottom of the stairs, almost grinning up at me.
The stacked washer and dryer.
With a soft clunk that was almost too quiet, I slowly pulled open the dryer door. Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh! A pile of still warm underwear tumbled down on my head like a white downy avalanche, enveloping me in a soft cloud of cotton. But that wasn't the worse part. When I gathered the skin I had jumped out of, cleared the undie rubble, folded and fluffed, I noticed--oh this is the really scary part--I noticed three socks missing!!!
Now socks can be very personal things. You don't just go up to someone and ask if they want to see your socks--that takes commitment. You can get attached to a favorite pair that goes on like a pair of old shoes. And don't forget all the effort you put in, searching through that grungy sale bin for the puce pair to match your chartreuse suit. It's not easy finding puce. And then, one day, one of the pair skips town.
How does it happen? I studied the scene, three single socks stared up at me, mended toes set in a grim expression, accusing me of neglect, blaming me for the loss of their partners. I thought I saw a toe wiggle. Feeling like a real heel, I backed against the dryer. It just smiled open-mouthed in triumph.
Is there some sock stealing fairy who sneaks in during the middle of the spin cycle, floating on a cloud of link? Does it take the socks like Robin Hood, passing them on to the sockless of the world? Perhaps it just peddles them to the highest bidder. I bet there is a whole colony of these fairies, living in high-rise condos made entirely of single socks.
Or maybe there is a little secret door at the back of all of the dryers of the world that opens up into a land of lost socks, a perfect haven of peace and sock happiness--sort of a sock Shangri-La. But I have my own theory.
I know there must be some greedy fat guy known as "The Collector." As we speak he sits on his couch under a pile of TV remotes, 20 pairs of lost glasses on his nose, lost keys dangling from his ears and single socks hanging from his nose--all held on by the rubber bands you THOUGHT were waiting in your junk drawer.
My friend Kathleen assures me that sometimes the single socks do come back, but I had my doubts. She once smugly held up a specific sock for example that had reappeared two years after it was lost. I think that it must have been an impostor spy sent to secure new recruits, but Kathleen pulled its match from a drawer and the couple was reunited. She closed the drawer for their privacy.
I have my own single sock graveyard as a basket in the laundry room. Every few washes, almost ritualistically, I take out the singles and try to pair them up. Sometime I cheat but pairing a navy blue sock with a black sock, but I'm not fooling anyone. Sometimes I even resort to making hand puppets for my cat.
Scientific research money is misdirected. Finding a cure for the common cold (the number one cause of colds, of course, is walking around sockless) would be simple compared to finding out the mystery of the lost socks. Leonard Nimoy are you listening??? Somewhere under the heel of stretched cotton and the warmth of the dryer, lies the meaning of the universe.

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Submission by: Roberta Martin


When I look into your eyes, I see your soul.. Your soul in search of freedom, Freedom from the lonliness thats inside you!

When I listen to your voice,
I hear the anticipation of whats in your heart..

Searching for that special someone to make your heart beat,
To make life exciting again...

You are searching for that someone who makes you smile, someone who makes you laugh,
Someone who makes your day bright, and your nights warm.
Someone who is full of love,
Some one with strong hugs and soft kisses,
Someone who can love and be loved,
someone who can share and be shared,
Someone who can take and give what life has to offer, someone who can make your life complete,

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Submission by: Sherri A. Belisle

The Drifter - 9/25/97

Like a leaf I drifted, with no control of my own.
I started out with roots, thou not healthy, they
held on.
I weathered many storms, holding tight in
fear of loose the fight.
one day I had no strength left
the winds were strong and my roots were
weak .
I held on with all my might, but I lost the fight.
I watched my home , standing firm, drift out of sight.
I hit the ground, sure to die
I laid victim to the air and ground
as I drifted helplessly, flying around
I tried many time to grown roots of my own
ever time I was ripped from my home.
I saw others wither and die, not strong enough to try.
I saw the world and all it's evils.
I felt the pain and shed the tears.
I fought with all my heart to grown, stand tall and
not be torn apart.
it was along journey
I have many scares.
but, today I have roots buried deep in the earth.
I own a small corner of the word, called home.
when the winds blow and the rain beats me down.
I remember the days I drifted, cold and alone.
deep down inside I will always remember it all, but,
This time I know I will not fall.

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Submission by: Courtland B. Kimble

Somethings Wrong With My Faucet

Turn on some feelings
Fill up my sink
Draining my soul.

Clear as water
Thick, bloody for my daughter
Thick, bloody for my sons
Digest my inner thoughts-
Tasteless, no chemicals
For everyone else.

Pour hate
Hot down my back
You boil
Since I lack
All you're pipe dreams
Of what I should be
So you scream.

Forcing love with a lump of coal
Down my throat
Wrap your arms
Around me
Crush my hope
And whatever I have to say.

My tears pour in drain
Faucet broken
To a sob-stammer
So you can't hear it anyway.

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Submission by: EMM

Time Unkind Withers The Rose - 11/24 and 11/29/97

Time unkind, withers the rose,
drains it's beauty and it's repose.
Endless as this life may seem,
to live forever is just a dream.

Make the most of every moment,
live life to the fullest, and not in lament
of not doing the things of which you've dreamt.
Say the things you wish, even those that are not meant.
Once your moment in time has come and gone,
there is no returning to finish that which is left undone.
When time has run it's course and the Angel of Death
has come, you will have nothing to regret.
You will have made your peace with those you love,
to make ready your path to God and Heaven above.
In silence, you'll follow the bright light on the wings of
a Snow White Dove, into the arms of the God we love.

Time unkind, withers the rose,
drains it's beauty and it's repose.
Endless as this life may seem,
to live forever is just a dream.

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