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Sister Joan by Paul Gilmartin Sister Joan, age 42, ignores the desert sun, The stranded church bus smoking, no sign of anyone. Buzzards circle overhead, panic starts to set. The kids are getting restless, her habit's soaked with sweat. The minutes become hours, she wobbles in the heat. Then, a distant engine roars, approaching from the East. She squints through horn-rimmed glasses, her pure heart skips a beat. Snake McGinty's Harley Hog, parts the dusty heat. Black leather-clad from head to toe, his eyelids barely open, Sister Joan says, "Holy Ghost, please tell me that you're jokin'." He parks his bike, stands six foot four, then gives her a nod. Through leather pants his manhood shows, she rolls her eyes at God. "Havin' trouble?", he barely mumbles. "Yes sir", she replies. He pops the hood, takes off his shirt, she covers up her eyes. "Kids", she says, "Back on the bus. Everyone be good." Her fingers part, her eyes take in his reflection off the hood. She grips her rosary tight with guilt and stares down at her socks. Her mind protects her vows with God, but her body picks the locks. He bends to check the fan belt, her nipples say, "Hello". Her eyes climb up his leather chaps like a snail with vertigo. She shuts her eyes and shakes her head, her legs start feeling funny. "Lord", she says, "For work like this, I'm making lousy money." He shuts the hood, "My name is Snake, I'm wanted in five states." She says, "Snake you're my forbidden fruit, and I need a little taste." The kids look on in disbelief. The kisses slow, then faster. Cheering rocks the school bus, till she says "Snake let's ditch these bastards." As they left, the kids screamed "No", she turned around and waved. Her next confession killed the priest and lasted seven days. For years the scandal rocked the church, but she regained their trust. She still teaches Sunday school, but she doesn't drive the bus. |
:thumbsup:
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I've been trying to find a reading of The Dolly on the Dustcart, by Pam Ayres. It was my favourite poem when I was a kiddiwink.
Couldn't find it, but did find her doing a reading of a more recent poem but found an audio only reading of two of her best known: I wish I'd looked after me teeth & The voice at the foot of the stairs: (parents might find the second one quite funny) And a more recent one: Should have asked my husband |
Here is the poem I was trying to find a reading of:
The Dolly on the Dustcart, by Pam Ayres I'm the dolly on the dustcart, I can see you're not impressed, I'm fixed above the driver's cab, With wire across me chest, The dustman see, he spotted me, Going in the grinder, And he fixed me on the lorry, I dunno if that was kinder. This used to be a lovely dress, In pink and pretty shades, But it's torn now, being on the cart, And black as the ace of spades, There's dirt all round me face, And all across me rosy cheeks, well, I've had me head thrown back, But we ain't had no rain for weeks. I used to be a 'Mama' doll, Tipped forward, I'd say 'Mum' But the rain got in me squeaker, And now I been struck dumb, I had two lovely blue eyes, But out in the wind and weather, One's sunk back in me head like, And one's gone altogether. I'm not a soft, flesh coloured dolly, Modern chidren like so much, I'm one of those hard old dollies, What are very cold to touch, Modern dolly's underwear, Leaves me a bit nonplussed, I haven't got a bra, But then I haven't got a bust! Yet I was happy in that dolls house, I was happy as a Queen, I never knew that Tiny Tears, Was coming on the scene, I heard of dolls with hair that grew, And I was quite enthralled, Until I realised my head Was hard and pink.....and bald. So I travels with the rubbish, Out of fashion, out of style, Out of me environment, For mile after mile, No longer prized....dustbinized! Unfeminine, Untidy, I'm the dolly on the dustcart. There'll be no collection Friday. |
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Ima copy that for Momdigr.
__________________________________ An illustrated poem...'Woulda-Coulda-Shoulda' by Shel Silverstein: Attachment 39629 |
That's awesome
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Dana,
your poem reminded me of this song: |
Ha! I can see why it did.
I love it. That chorus is going to be going around my head for the rest of the day :p |
V, very nice :)
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That was pretty cool.
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Loneliness by John Matthew
I pause midway in the whirl, Of deadlines, things undone, And average the sadness and joys - There remains only loneliness, Of which I see no cure, No bitter palliatives, no anodyne. We remain in life’s journey, Like loners sitting depressed, On solitary park benches, or, Standing in balconies, staring, Loneliness gnawing at our minds, As hungry ants at a grain of food. Often in life’s vicious lanes, In lonesome moments, It’s our failures we ponder, Not trasient joys and victories, We do not remember other's courage, Only their faults, and habits. When in each passing lonely moment, I count the millions of joyous seconds, I was alive to witness this world, and, Hurtful mimetic thoughts that passed me by, My loneliness vanishes, I scream, “I live; I am alive this lonely moment.” |
God's Grandeur
by Gerard Manley Hopkins The world is charged with the grandeur of God. It will flame out, like shining from shook foil; It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod? Generations have trod, have trod, have trod; And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil; And wears man's smudge and shares man's smell: the soil Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod. And for all this, nature is never spent; There lives the dearest freshness deep down things; And though the last lights off the black West went Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs-- Because the Holy Ghost over the bent World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings. |
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good orthodoc. I love it too. I've been the bear and I've been the boy and both are blessings.
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Poppies in October
Even the sun-clouds this morning cannot manage such skirts. Nor the woman in the ambulance Whose red heart blooms through her coat so astoundingly ---- A gift, a love gift Utterly unasked for By a sky Palely and flamily Igniting its carbon monoxides, by eyes Dulled to a halt under bowlers. O my God, what am I That these late mouths should cry open In a forest of frost, in a dawn of cornflowers. -Sylvia Plath |
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