Re: Alliterative Assignment - (5) Sentences

 

• Curious cats crept through the clover. 
• The Siamese silently sat in the sunlight. 
• Puppies played like panthers.  
• Felines frolicked flipping fish in the forest.  
• Tabby toppled through the tall thyme.

Georgia

Five Original Similes

 

Regret is like a shadow walking with you day and night. 

Nostalgia is like the perfume you can no longer encounter.

Anxiety is like a radio, always on, never clear.  

Fear stayed over her head like a threatening storm.  

Hope settled in her chest like a candle in a dark room. 

 

Georgia

Things Don't Like Me - The Experience of a Benign Despot

 

When we were first married, my husband and I cautioned each other about our enormous collections of books. Prior to the official union of our libraries, we ordered four imposing bookcases, each seven feet tall and able to hold over five hundred volumes. This philanthropic commitment created a stable home for our diverse tomes, and I spent many happy hours introducing them to each other. As I attempted to establish this new literary community, I noted that only one single title had subsisted in both our collections. Catch 22 appeared as fraternal twins, one in hardcover and his brother in paperback. They were forced to clasp each other awkwardly amidst the teeming crowds of other titles.

My intent was to create harmony among the defiantly diverse subjects, align the authors and their titles into eclectic cliques of subject matter. Whether they were attired in leather, cloth, or paper, I strove to give them a sense of belonging and security. Delicate novelettes were safely bolstered by sturdy anthologies and regiments of reference materials. Strongly opinioned volumes were sequestered far enough from each other to establish distinctive camaraderie.

On the first two occasions when our household was relocated, the stoic wooden towers strode confidently into their new abode, re-welcoming their citizenry and re-establishing communities with few arrivals or departures of specific individuals or families. But our third exodus created a great upheaval; the contented literary community would be obliterated when we determined that the four loyal bookcases could not survive another relocation. The books themselves would also need to be thoughtfully examined and reduced in number - either incarcerated in storage, orphaned in thrift shops, or sacrificed at the local recycling center.

As I soberly considered this necessary triage, I noticed how quiet the books had become over the past several years. The security of place upon the solid shelves had made them both complacent and reluctant to seek my attention when I walked past; I realized that in bookstores, the titles seemed to shout at me; the colorful covers waved to get my attention and tempted me to peer deep within, pursuing their unique essence. The books that had been standing shoulder-to-shoulder on my own shelves felt a bit ignored and neglected. They also feared that going so long without a friendly flip through their pages had left them dry and brittle, at risk of injury if I handled them too roughly.

But no matter how benign a despot may be, a time will come when difficult decisions must be made. The most precious volumes were lovingly nestled into trusty cardboard “book

boxes” and carefully stacked in a climate-controlled facility. Books that were still eager to speak - to someone else, no longer to us - were gently released to local libraries and thrift shops. Bibliophiles may find the last matter a bitter one. Only those with a strong stomach and a fierce creative streak may appreciate knowing that assaults were conducted upon this last category of literature. Most of the remaining, unsalvageable volumes were twined for recycling. However, if they were determined to contain unique illustrations or passages, they were first vivisected before disposal of the remaining husk. During this surgical procedure, I reminded myself that the harvested treasures would one day serve to vitalize a journal, scrapbook, or artistic collage. Finally, only one bit of carnage remained: the destruction of the bookcases themselves.

We were unable to find anyone needing something to hold a collection the size of ours. We placed all four towers at curbside, on a night before the scheduled bulk pickup. When we returned the next day, only a few wooden shards lay scattered in the gutter. The kingdom had fallen, and the citizens dispersed. Over the next years, new lands welcomed the various survivors. In our home, a much smaller community found itself under wiser, more attentive rule.

Shelia S.

My Cell Phone

 

Ugh, a necessary evil. There’s no living without it anymore. My cell phone is both a lifeline and a leech—always in reach, always demanding attention. I use it for everything: endless surfing, learning strange and fascinating facts I never thought to wonder about, staying entertained, staying distracted. It’s a tool, a toy, and sometimes a trap. I even keep my old landline, just in case I misplace it—so I can call my cell phone from my home phone and follow the ring like a bloodhound. Isn’t that something? Technology ruling the day, but I still rely on the clunky relic from the past just to keep up with the sleek gadget of the present.

Georgia

Post-it Notes

 

Okay, this might sound a little silly—but I absolutely love Post-it Notes. They're one of those small-but-mighty things I simply can't live without. 

To tame my forgetfulness, I use these sticky wonders everywhere. I’ve got every color and size imaginable. I even have those tiny orange flag tabs to mark my place in books I mean to read (someday). 

You’ll find them on the fridge, the computer, inside books, on my cell phone, in the bathroom, stuck to the lamp, the window, my purse—honestly, if it has a surface, there’s probably a sticky note on it. I’ve even joked about putting one on my forehead or the cat’s tail (don’t worry, the cat is safe). 

Without these little lifesavers, I’d be wandering aimlessly, completely directionless. Sticky notes may be small, but for me, they’re mighty. 

Georgia

Thoughts on a Shel Silverstein Poem

 

HAPPY ENDING? (Every Thing On It)  

There are no happy endings.  

Endings are the saddest part,  

So just give me a happy middle And a very happy start.  

Georgia

Thoughts on the poem, "The Prophet" by Kahill Gibran

 

From the moment I read it, I have loved The Prophet by Kahill Gibran.  In particular, I’m completely drawn to a part of one of the poems that goes like this:

                  On Children

And a woman who held a babe against

Her bosom said, Speak to us of Children.

And he said:

Your children are not your children

They are the sons and daughters of Life’s

Longing for itself.

They come through you but not from

You,

And though they are with you yet they

Belong not to you.

 

You may give them your love but not

Your thoughts,

For they have their own thoughts.

You may house their bodies but not

Their souls,

For their souls dwell in the house of to-

morrow, which you cannot visit, not even

In your dreams.

You may strive to be like them, but seek

Not to make them like you.

For life goes not backward nor tarries

With yesterday.

 

To me, this is a poem that explains brilliantly how a child begins in the womb as an extension of its mother and they are one.  After leaving the womb, the child becomes its own person in many, many ways. 

This poem is also good advice for any parent who needs to learn about letting go of your child and letting them develop into their own unique individuals.

I marvel how a man, who never carried in the womb or gave birth could write about it in such a compelling style.  Maybe Kahill Gibran created this poem to demonstrate how he experienced letting go of his mother.

Ellen