.There's a lot on this website. There is a few months from my grandmother's 1919 diary, when she was 18, and a few chapters from my Grandfather's book, Making and Tying the Dry Fly.There are tributes to my deceased brothers and to my long lost friends who made my life happier. And the ones still here in touch with me.To the summer camp and boarding schools I stayed at years ago, and I loved the pictures Dan took in Vietnam so share them here. (hoping no one steals them and win awards for them---well, I still have the originals as proof--). letters to American Family Publishers I acquire were really poignant and amazing--I had no idea that millions of Americans had the time and inclination to write , along with "please straighten out my account", "I haven't had meat in 3 weeks. A priest helped but he left. my son is driving me out some ground beef next week. May I please pay $3 a month?" Or "Dear Ed (McMahon) please let me win the 10 million dollars and I will share it with you..." and "here's a picture of me in a bathing suit in 1932" (encloses a snapshot of a beautiful young woman). If AFP got that much 'nut mail", every large publicly out-there company must.I put ssome 20 of them on this site. There's a lot of rambling as I make a poem out of a bad heart, fondly remember everybody I fondly remember in case they look me up after I'm dead, profile a movie, ask you to write a book, freek at the poverty one must sustain to qualify for Medicaid in Florida, freek at how deep it digs you, by and by. Speak my mind, but Jesus Christ was calling for a radical new way of living --I am not the radical here.Just someone with eyes. I give you guys stained glass put to church music for you conservative Christians and unpoliticked young people who love the musical part of church best.... I give Florida a reference for her stained glass, listing the artists of over 300 churches full of windows. Through scans of their brochures--I don't fool around. My site encourages people to make sites.To show off a little, be creative and open. Somehow (I didn't know I'd have problems with government-issued disability and medical) I became a voice of the lower class' struggle to live modestly instead of impoverished. it stands to reason: a benefactor can give $3000 to put sides ono my tarpaper house and $700 to get my wiring updated and save me $150 a month in electricity charges. Or I can go without, shampoo and laundry soap, something, always somethings, and never get my kids their school yearbooks, and never get sides on the house, til bugs and mice chew in, and the place becomes so delapidated of never a penny to put into repairs, that it is sold for the land, razed, and new developement brightens Tampa's future days, when I could have, should have been able to sell it myself, but you can't have over $2000 in the bank and keep Medicaid. So I am kept poor, unable to get a mortgage to pay for repairs, what a land of opportunity, yeah, right. I do give my two cents on my feelings about this idiocy. But mostly i am loving, I give you the focolare who live a Bible verse monthly all over the world in unity, and the sites of my friends' bands, who have by and large made music an intense part of my personal experience, for which I am grateful. It's threaded through the I of me like Internet Explorer through Windows 98. There are many mes -not mini mes, puleese I hear some of you guys laughing --these kids are cuter than I ever was--and I wrote some poems to this sie , put some art. My kids wrote their own poems, here and on their sites linked to from here. I would like to erase, delete everything on here about being (how embarasssing) poor. But then there'd be no voice for them - us, because we don't commonly have access to online website builders.We're either too disabled to do it, like near death, or we're working our behinds off every waking minute.I'm saying some of us had better starts than you are imagining, and through catastropic illness--one lady's 14-month old choked on a pretzel and has been secerely brain-damaged some decades hence, as an example of how it can happen to you--are trying to find a life inside what we've left--on $545 a month, still loving cable tv and emailing and movies and eating out and fishing and so much more we can no longer indulge in but we have a year or two alive. What do you do? Try to do something for you, something for others, recreation is part of each day or should be, must be. Maybe I can't write this century's Uncle Tom's Cabin or To Kill A Mockingbird, but i can try to reach out with words and persuade you guyss to hear me out. What am I saying? I guess that's why Me and Mary, we write poems. it's a lot to say. This was my anti-abortion statement. The nuns thought it was trash. i thought it was the perfect end to abortion. No one ever saw it. Nun Meter 1972 by Deanne Young It began when a young pregnant teen had an abortion because it had seemed impossible to explain the whole thing to minds naturally narrow. She then became sterile. People everywhere lamented, writers sat down and invented. In the middle they were converting speed freeks and pyschedelic susies to be zealous preachers and vigorous witnesses, and they used hypnotists. In the end the churches went, crumbling in the dust,. Sacrifices were in vain, Bibles all were meaningless. it was all over when they exposed the cover and found out that the Holy Ghost now always wears a rubber. |
I wrote this one at 18 and now I am my subject and it is discomfiting. The old lady , Violet , a fifteen-year-old Michigan runaway named Vicki stold a sheet off a clothesline and spooked , then got dope off on North A by Shea and Prange and Valencia Gardens. One spouse had been a sheriff, but transients knew she believed in ghosts. "For Vicki, I Guess" by Deanne Young, 1974 cardiac arrests and bags big enough to hold a week's groceries under your dying eyes Violet you don't realize you're nobody. When they put you in corrective shoes and kept you bundled against the showers and fed you paragoric and pea omelets and Quaker oatmeal What were they preserving you for? All you did was grow ancient and lonely; and you leaf through albums of rusted photographs and sit back in your broken rocker on your seconals ands whisper groggily about the time you joined the convent and were about to be wed to your Maker when your first husband came for you. Now you've outlived two and three, including one who always followed you around spitting "money, money, money" as he turned off the lights you left on. And you swallow your thyroid pills and nibble on ham geletin wondering why in the world they kept you alive when you only survived. Young girls knock on your door at night begging for emperin 3's or seconals and they say they're on the curse and you give them ten of each and they peck you on the cheek and go their way. And you rock yourself to sleep with penny postcards at your feet. |
Mary Myers, 2003 Everything vs. Fate Shakespearian Sonnet He'd lost her twice in a week and almost cried real tears; but she was meek and small, clutching at fears beyond her comprehension in the dark alone, like another dimension where love isn't enough to bone out life. In her mind she fought between fate and choice, the intertwined forces that bordered her gates. And but for him she'd never have seen hat in the end her decision was destined to be. |
"A complex rhyme scheme very nicely done!" this 14-year-old author's teacher writes atop it. It has no title. I would say, title it "Everything, everything, c" as it is written in ababc, dedec, fgfgc, hihic jkjkc Untitled by Mary Myers 2003 they always called me wierd, daring to whisper even right in front of me. But its somethnig that i've never feared come so bothersome on this eve. I found me riding under moonlight. tonight the stars were bright up there, and tonigt is the night when my lonliness grows until I start to begin to care and cold is biting at my toes as I run from invisible monsters tonight yes, I have these pointy ears and hands that heal at touch, but looking into still water mirrors I know I haven't changed as much as one might think; I'm right. They have laughed me out of town, flying fast, like sound after lightning strike. They have chased me off, put me down, rushed me without thought in mind and here I stand, it soon to be light. I realize now what must occur before my battle meets its end-- my path was dark, but now I'm sure-- those not "average" shall not bend, not while these stars still smile at night.. |
You like us? If you've found all 500 pages of this site and still want to know us, we ran out of room here a spell and are making our May 2003-on pages at this sitebuilder: http://mysite.verizon.net/freefolk and we can't add to this one so come by! |
Why is there an ass in stained glass in our living room? Mary's grandfather died with the lore in his scholar's brain.If anyone knows whose myth this is, a cat in a red toga with short curls and an ass, please tell us! |
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