On my tour of places where wonderful poetry is proffered by extremely talented poets, I find myself in the Northwest United States where this incredible transplanted New York poet prefers to pose her purple penned poetry in Portland, Oregon. Her screen name (if you haven’t guessed) is “purplepeninportland”, but we know her as the incredibly gifted and prolific poet, Sara McNulty.





After taking two short story writing classes at NYU, I concentrated on that genre of writing for several years. One day, in 2009, I came across Robert Brewer’s, Poetic Asides in Writer’s Digest. A purple pen ignited in my head, and I knew all I wanted to write was poetry. Five years later, I still love reading and writingpoetry. When Creative (Poetic) Bloomings came along, started by two poets I greatly admired, Walter Wojtanik and Marie Elena Good, I found a new garden in which to grow. I am a Poetic Sites Addict, but am trying to cut down. I have gained confidence, support, and great virtual friends.

Voices in Verse is a poetry group that meets at a local library once a month. Memberships is growing, and we all take turns reading. They are a diverse, wonderful group of people.

My work has been published in: The Avocet; Poetic Bloomings; Brevitypoetry; Underground Voices; Flashquake; Still Crazy; Writers Digest 79th Annual Poetry Competition; Fifth Annual Writer’s Digest Poetry Awards; Poetsespresso; Melisma; and The Oregonian.

On a personal note, My husband and I, both born and bred in Brooklyn, New York, have now been living in the Pacific Northwest for five years. We love the life here, and wish all our east coast friends would join us. We share our home with two rescue dogs, one from New York of unknown breed, and one from
Portland, a dachshund with issues. In June, my husband and I will be married for 35 years, after knowing each other two months. You never know!



The color and timber of our expressions are what makes our poetry sing. We give life to our words, sometimes in a very human way. We give feelings and emotions to inanimate objects, painting wonderful new portraits, the vignettes of our muse.

Use the device of Personification (examples: Love Waits or Time Flies…) Make this the title of your poem and write what it means to you.




A sad lament sent forth
from deep in the bowels,
are the shrieky howls of my heart.
It started when the recently departed
moon crept between the reaching branches;
twiggy fingers pointed skyward and the melody
heard in whispers and whistles betwixt the thistles.
Love decided to hide inside the boisterous beating ballad
of that cardiac crooner and the sooner it was through
it would have a clue; my heart can’t carry a tune.

(C) Copyright Walter J Wojtanik – 2014




Peonies puffed out their chests,
roses nodded royal heads,
and pansies pranced,
smiling at attendees
as the dance began.
Violets in their velvet coats
remained bunched together,
too shy to glide
onto the dance floor.
When bluebells
rang in a waltz, three kind
camellias came to the rescue,
slowly fanning out around
the stiff violets, coaxing them
onto the floor. Sunflowers
scattered seeds of confetti.
The dance was a success.
Violets now eagerly await
the next Flower Ball.

(C) Copyright Sara McNulty – 2014

We welcome Sara McNulty as our co-host this week and invite you all to plant your poems here!



    and cumulus
    are accumulating,
    racing to see which one can climb

    copyright 2014, William Preston

  2. My tea pot like a portly host
    Of her I will most gladly boast
    She cannot clearly speak
    She calls me with a shriek
    Then graciously serves tea with toast

  3. Time Flies

    Slips from under your feet
    Like a rug
    Like a plug
    Until drained

    Time flies
    With a thousand eyes
    Like a bug
    With an axe to grind
    But hard to find
    At times
    To smash with a rug

    Times flies
    Like a hummingbird
    At times
    Hovering and sipping nectar
    While you sense the beat
    Of simmering wings

    Time flies
    Like a bat out of hell
    For blood with fangs
    Too difficult to quell

    Time flies
    In rhythm
    Like a butterfly
    Fresh out of prison
    Of enjoying springs wings
    For the first time

    Time flies
    As the paint dries
    The temperature
    And you need
    A fresh coat of patience

    Time flies
    Like a bumblebee
    Back and forth
    Numbing thee
    Right in the kisser!

    Time flies
    Like a daughter
    Happily to college
    Even though you’ll miss her

    Time flies
    In disguise
    Like 007 spies
    But you’re largely unaware
    They’re there
    Until you’re robbed
    With no time left to spare


    (Try and guess what personal item this is)

    We need to talk…
    I’ve suffered your hips
    Long enough…

    Yer walks.
    Yer strides.
    Yer moving side to side.
    All yer belly achin’
    And all yer rodeos put together…
    Have GOT to go.

    And the one-pack beer belly is reaaallly startin’ to get to me.
    Its hard breathin’ under that caboose man!
    Wake up! What’s the matter with you!
    Get your ass on the treadmill!!

    You now I actually used to be a fine piece of leather in my day. Until now.

    You might’ve wore me down…
    But I’m crackin’ this whip now mister!



    under warming ground
    seeds break through their coverings

    when April rains fall
    living plant creatures think green
    and stretch their tendrils

    imagine God’s joy
    creating sparrow and rose
    out of air and dust

    a young man’s fancy
    propels him on flights of love
    old man’s fancies too

    he sings “April Love”
    voice smooth as maple syrup
    and frigid hearts thaw

    crows in the elm tree
    what do you observe up there?
    surely not straw men!

    what would April say
    if it had a mouth of words?
    “God bless the flowers!”



    Single rose,
    Last of summer,
    Pearls of dew
    Or your teardrops
    On petals
    Bright velvet-red?
    We share this lonely garden.



    April fools
    no one

    we wait for her
    to come
    with magic wand

    and wake from
    winter sleep
    the buried seeds

    clothe barren trees
    spread green

    reset lovers’ hearts
    to warm thoughts
    of love reborn


  8. I think I posted this before, but I’m not certain.

    The Last Rose of Summer

    The last rose of summer bent its red head,
    The petals scattered, drifting to the ground
    To lie in a heap of dull crimson…dead…
    The last rose of summer bent its red head,
    Unable to face the cold season’s dread,
    It withered and fell, died without a sound;
    The last rose of summer bent its red head,
    The petals scattered, drifting to the ground,
    Returning back to the earth whence it fed;
    The last rose of summer bent it’s red head,
    And, scarce noticed, lay there shriveled and dead,
    The last sign of summer’s death that I found;
    The last rose of summer bent its red head,
    The petals scattered, drifting to the ground…

    © Copyright Erin Kay Hope – 2014

  9. tomorrow waits…

    yesterday dead and gone
    yet the conscience dwells
    lingering far too long
    today comes full of promise
    full of plans and things to do
    but the mind is drawn away
    and wanders off to play
    the fingers type a merry dance
    and dreams fill the screen
    the eyes glaze over
    the mind is blank
    blocking out what should be done
    work to be finished
    still not begun
    tasks piling up and up and up
    like unread books are trophies
    of waste and willful self-distraction
    then comes a moment
    a burst of energy
    a decision made
    and something useful takes place
    the job not pointless but not of import
    fills the heart with a sense of action
    the evening fades
    and the bed unmade
    is entered into as though a pact
    to start early before the dawn
    to carry out the plans, fulfill the pledge
    the obligation
    no more abdication
    to steer away from mindless idling
    neglect the needless ironing and recycling
    and finally get on with the thing
    the thing that should long since have been complete
    the mind drifts off into dreams soft and sweet
    for tomorrow waits that is the motto
    that is each night’s refrain
    but truth be told
    tomorrow waits in vain.


  10. Both of mine are older ones and I can’t remember if I have posted them here before or not – if I have, sorry, my brain is like a sieve.

    Twisted Humor

    I survived, but just barely, Spring’s hateful twin,
    who spits out sleet and blows icy winds,
    who fashions chaos from water and air
    and send it hurtling with great deafening din,
    till finally finished, the tumult at end,
    she yields to her sister, conspirator and friend.

    “Sis, it’s been fun,” she said with a grin,
    “But I need a rest before I do it again.
    So, come tease these mortals while I catch my breath.
    Let the branch bud, the crocus peep through,
    a robin pull up a fat worm or two.
    Beguile them until they forget about me
    then I’ll rush back in for one final spree!”

    Yes, the twin’s twisted humor
    I barely survived
    and I didn’t rest easy till Summer arrived.

    (a shadorma)

    I first tried
    Bandaids and fixes
    of all kinds,
    pain remained.
    Months passed, seasons changed; my wounds
    are but faint scars now.

  12. Pingback: Time Heals | echoes from the silence

  13. The Cup of Life

    My porcelain vessel hangs
    Behind router adorned wood door
    Hook securely grips handle
    It waits

    Water drips through filter
    Pot fills with goodness
    Red light finally goes out
    Time to release my cup

    Scent fills my nostrils
    Eyes flutter to focus
    Top it off with cream
    And drink

    From the cup of life
    Watch out world
    I’m awake now

    © 2014 Earl Parsons

  14. Good morning, all. Wonderful examples, Walt and Sara. Hello, Sara. It’s so good to see you at the head of the class, swinging your words like a metronome, waiting for us to “repeat after me.” 🙂 I only hope my efforts are as good as those already in evidence. Here goes.

    She Broods

    Lording it over
    Those who’ve crowded
    ‘round her feet.

    She hovers,
    Ready to explode,
    To lash out.

    She threatens
    Those who love her,
    As if through hate.

    She fumes,
    Smoking, rumbling murmurs,
    Ready to strike.

    Always pretentious,
    Vesuvius waits, Medusa
    Looking to turn her lovers to stone.

  15. Cottonwood

    By David De Jong

    Patriarch of the grove, standing tall,
    Stately on the hill, in view of all.
    Persuading the sun from nightly rest,
    Embracing her warmth, beyond the crest.

    Though life has left you, you hold it still,
    From fur’ed chatter, to downy quill.
    Your crown so inviting, sharing peace,
    All shed of calloused skin, soft as fleece.
    You hold the owl in wisdom’s reach,
    Echo his calling of midnight’s screech.
    The hawks and eagles cherish your loft,
    Matching your grace and visiting oft.
    Myriads of feather, sing your praise,
    Closer to heaven, their anthems raise.

    Scars of sacrifice, show their toll,
    Given so freely, a saintly soul.
    You pulled the lightning from storms that brewed,
    Coaxed the beaver, whittled what he chewed.
    Relentless winds are calling your name,
    Cutting your breath and attempting shame.
    As you clasp the air and hold its view,
    It penetrates your heart, through and through.
    Weaker from the age of seasoned time,
    Your branches ring in a ghostly chime.

    While ethereal blows claim their tokens,
    Your freedom speaks with words unspoken.

  16. Munching Cookies

    You think you have the drop on them,
    (not lemon drop, but anyway)
    they’re not quite what you might expect.

    See, every time you bite a gem,
    beware…because your ‘chip’ feast may
    quite suddenly become suspect.

    In fact, they might, in the A. M.
    or P.M., bite you or betray
    your taste buds. So, show some respect

    for oatmeal, and do not condemn
    the brownie bar on a buffet,
    and peanut butter? Don’t neglect

    or else, let’s say I have a hunch
    these cookies might munch you for lunch.


  17. Playtime Babes

    They exploded onto the scene,
    Cavorting beach bunnies at high summer,
    Shrieking laughter and piping calls,
    Encouraging all to partake of hijinks.

    Brunettes together, exposing sinuous
    Bodies to sun and spectator alike,
    Gambol along shoreline’s viewing stands.

    They’re on the hunt, teasing others with
    Their double-jointed movements, forever
    Looking for games played by one or many,
    Seeking others for frolic and water sports.

    Finally, tiring of such distractions,
    They race headlong into water’s depths
    To perform their ballet of twists and turns,
    Chasing each other in endless, willful joy;

    Siblings together in life’s liquid dance,
    Amused and besotted with living
    As only otters can express so well.

  18. Feeding Time

    With deluges doing the surging
    all the garbage and waste they are purging.
    The storm gutters grin
    as they suck it all in
    for them it’s a matter of splurging.

    Ellen Evans (c) Copyright 2014
    a “personification” poem for PB 2.23.14

  19. Contempt of Crows

    Heard their raucous cawing
    long before I spotted them
    perched high in the canopy.

    Pondering what (or who)
    they heckled, I imagine them
    cheering me on
    as I labor uphill
    hindered by heavy layers,
    spindly sticks straddling unwieldy shoes,
    while they look on, amused.

    With droll departing squawk,
    they levitate, slipstream the breeze,
    and leave me alone to lumber.

  20. One last fun one before I leave. This has been so much of a lark. I’ll be back later. Enjoy.

    Call of the Wild

    Spare some relief, please?
    Have a care; even dandies
    feel abuse when dished out.
    Tread not so heavily
    on me each day.
    Murderous attempts
    to poison me each year
    are doomed, for I will
    adapt, if only to cause
    you frustration.
    You’ve hacked at me,
    ripped me to shreds,
    and still, I roar back with
    lion-like ferocity.
    Face it.
    You’re exhaustible.
    I am dandelion!
    Watch me grow!

  21. Okay, the snow finally reached the upper Pacific Northwest. (but is forecast not to stay) Just four inches, wet and flakey. 2PM out time, Sunday. 🙂

    two, three,
    flakes drifting down,
    seeking resting spot.
    Steady, silent workers
    laying a deep white blanket
    shielding sleeping garden where the
    crocus, daffodil, tulips bide time
    dreaming of the advent of spring’s warm sun.
    Snow workers melt to quench the bulb’s thirst,
    softly calling them to awake
    flex promising flowered core
    for the spring’s morning call,
    “Push your leaves up from
    ‘neath blanket, see
    snow diamonds
    in the

  22. Hay(na)ku

    fire burns
    on the grate

    steady warmth
    to winter hours

    flickering lights
    against darkened days

    sparks from
    deep scalding core

    empty heart
    with lingering memories.

  23. Pingback: Ocean Loves | Metaphors and Smiles

  24. Ocean Loves

    Forever bounding
    bountiful blue,
    Ocean loves.
    Her love is perfect,
    it’s pure
    its proof echoes-
    wave after lovely wave
    on our shores,
    in our hearts
    but we…
    we’re all together ignorant
    to the depths of her ardor;
    we return her nurturing kiss
    with a toxic blackened breath,
    love is stained by the touch
    of our human hands.
    Well intentioned beings
    have lost true blue,
    the authentic connection
    with the soul
    of the broad abundant Sea.
    Oh, if she could only reach
    with strong cerulean fingers
    and bring us epiphany-
    the icy realization
    of so many missed-steps;
    show us our blatant disregard
    for our opulent Ocean-
    for our place of birth,
    the collective watery womb.
    Ocean loves.
    Forever bounding
    bountiful blue,
    Ocean loves.

    Copyright © Hannah Gosselin 2014

  25. So many great poems, with so many perfect embodiments of character and life. Mine was written in 2011, but I found it met the prompt somewhat.
    The Mosquito Sings

    I did the job
    that I must do
    with one abdominal thrust…
    for I was made on purpose
    just to do the job I must.

    I chose a pore
    in which I plunged
    my proboscotic tool
    and there I placed a parasite
    according to the rule.

    I took the blood,
    a fair exchange,
    though fair is not the thing.

    Instead, because
    the Maker gave
    me purpose, I must sing.

    A call divine by Maker
    to an insect insignific
    is part now to a story,
    yes, a pivot in an epic.

    I did the job
    like millions more
    who sing in humans’ ears,
    “It is because
    my Maker calls
    that I am biting here.”

  26. And another oldie…from way back in 2000…one of my “Walking Songs.”
    The Moon is a Spoon

    The moon is a spoon of blue ice cream
    in a night of bright festoon
    but soon the sun
    will ruin the fun
    in pursuit of a noble noon.

    His reign will roll and take a toll
    of saint and sacred fool
    until he sets
    with his fears and frets
    and the cool night ends his rule.

    Then the moon will rise in the starry skies
    and the party start anew
    when sparkling lights
    and comet flights
    celebrate my love for you.

  27. Sorry to bring out so many old ones. Heres my last I’d like to share. From a fishing moment long ago. (And Walt, someone must tell me how to put leading spaces in our posts, as they are part some of my verse.)
    On the Water

    It is good
    to be on the water
    when the world wakes up,
    when it yawns a bleary fog from its eyes
    and squints because of the glint
    on every wave
    from the sun’s slow rise.

    It is good to be on the water
    when the night lies down
    and every ripple sighs with a whispering sound,
    and silver reflections rest at the moon’s request
    while it rolls down and away,
    big, white, round.

    An un-bothered bittern
    standing on a log
    winks his golden eye.
    He knows I love this place between the
    water and the sky,
    and he and I would be here as long as we could be
    to watch the long lingering kisses
    between now and eternity.

    We would watch them in love exchange their
    lives and dreams,
    holding hands somewhere between what is and what seems.

    We would watch them forever in this moment,
    day, and night,
    the gold-eyed bittern and I,
    as they give and take
    in this time that isn’t time,
    between a listening sky and a waiting lake.

    We would watch them pull and yield,
    in a gentle dance,
    in a soft embrace,
    as a crowd of wondering birds, frogs, and fishes
    witness in murmuring awe
    from forest, lake, and field.

    Yes, it’s good to be on the water,
    to sense what God might reveal–
    to see the day wake up
    and hear the night lie down,
    a tranquil loving trade between the light and dark
    that makes forever seem so real.

  28. I just wanted to say how much I enjoy everyone’s talents here. I try to read everything, but due to some technical issues, once the thread reaches a certain length, I am having trouble interacting with the poems and comments. No one is ignored on purpose! LOL Thanks for letting me play in the dirt here.

  29. The River’s Crusade

    Carnassial claws plunder the rushing water
    The mighty river quivers, reluctant to release its treasure
    Roars as the fowl bandit rips riches from its depths
    Waves slap the feathered beast with intense fury
    Fresh tears fall, overflowing its swollen banks
    Defeated, the river ceases its coursing

  30. I cannot seem to get here on the day of. Lucky to get here at all. Enjoyed reading more about Sara. I’ll return to read the rest later. Cheers to all.


    Look up! Fleecy clouds baa, grazing in sky
    spread like a cat-bed blanket, thick and high;
    beneath lambs drifting, rests a world of blue
    tucked in and snoring (metaphoring too).
    A breath of wind shepherds away the flocks;
    I search horizons, bleat: they’ve turned to socks.

  31. Sickness Perches

    (I wrote this at we write poems, thought it would apply here as well)

    (A Haiku)

    When sickness perches;
    And spreads her wings with fever,
    Its a toilsome bird.


  32. Today Is Torn
    Today is torn between sun and cloud
    Ripped apart and put together
    For the coming of the new moon

  33. February Speaks
    February speaks
    with a love dipped in mercurial highs and lows,
    playing in clouds and lurking in shadows,
    rolling frozen carpets and melting wrinkled skin,
    riding angry waves and softening some feathers–
    exposing us
    to all kinds of love—

  34. The Blessed Anthem of Spring

    The Slumbering garden
    Athirst for lasting bloom
    Finds it loom soon
    In toothsome magnolias
    Spreading pink spry blossoms
    Fetching spring

    They summon
    Creeping phlox to sashay
    The garden floor with red velvet
    Carpet in fancied anticipation
    For the Queen of hearts
    Strolling majestic Rose of Sharon
    Robed fine in high feathers

    The Queen shakes
    Her pristine glory but a moment
    Escapes her own crown
    Petaled dress and thorn
    To seize a stare
    At hidden hostas
    Basking in shadow
    Astray from pelting heat of day
    And pomp of the Queen

    The fair plume grass
    Sports a laugh
    Bellows hard towards the open sky
    Crowded lanky lavenders snicker in awe
    As they flap in the open wind
    The Petunias cheesing
    Quickly clean their grins

    Myriads of wild flower
    Douse the countryside
    Against the sprawling meadows
    But do not know the fair of the Queen
    Flurries of dandelion populate
    The open field as peasants teem
    But are ignorant of solemn majesty

    Peonies prance
    Like ponies in peace
    Keeping to self
    All conflict ceased
    Without care to the world
    Like lilies of the valley
    Full of a spirit of meekness
    With no aim to please
    A dying soul

    Honey’s bumbling butlers
    Drift to and fro
    Lapping nectar smoothies
    Flying low to the ground
    Enjoying the drinking season’s
    With open ears

    Curious climbing Clematis
    Scurries anxiously
    Up a fence in a hurry
    Twisting and turning
    While churning out
    A cluster of his fair blooms

    The Queen of Sharon
    Quivers her petal-wings
    Adjusts her particular stem
    Signals the clanging cymbal team
    And stately Gladiolus trumpets
    To sing the blessed Anthem of Spring

    She directs the garden symphony
    With a twirl
    And all living things scream with joy
    And all living things thoroughly enjoy the sound of Spring

  35. Jot and Tittle


    The flow of the pen
    Resides under the will of
    The writer’s own hand

    Each jot and tittle
    Carefully crafted demand
    Inked and set in stone

    Each stroke of the wrist
    Slightest fiddle of finger
    Conforms to art

    The most powerful
    Documents ever written
    Flowed down through the pen

    From the heart of men
    Who inscribed history’s tome
    From the hands well-known


    The terms we use can be deceiving.
    This one would have us believing
    asphalt is to blame when tempers flare.

    What power does an on-ramp wield
    to force a driver not to yield,
    then cause the Interstate to glare?

    And when a lane and street converge,
    do fights break out when there’s no merge?
    Does one of them lay on the horn?

    At traffic lights when cars don’t halt,
    it’s not a piece of gravel’s fault
    and doesn’t justify the scorn

    we place on things that do not breathe,
    that never swear, or sit and seethe,
    or has an anger we can gauge.

    And so, to end this ode of mine,
    I’ll be so bold as to opine
    it’s time to call it Human Rage.

    © Susan Schoeffield

  37. this (I think) fits both hand held and personification but not sure if the keyboards need to be more active

    the keyboards, an ensemble of shackles
    wait to suck our individualities
    leaving only blank eyes and
    obedient fingers clicking away our futures
    every day another report for the betterment
    Of electronica is filed away in bites and bytes
    And the teeth only grow longer

  38. Pingback: Road Rage | Words With Sooze

  39. Wrapped Up in a Quilted Polar Vortex

    settles into your bones
    as you take time to adjust
    to inhaling ice crystals
    and being slapped by the wind.

    Just when you think you are use to the new normal
    winter and the meteorologist throw you a curve ball
    wrapped up in a scientific name, which causes you
    to scratch your head. Then the cold, like you believe
    you have never felt before, covers you like a frozen quilt
    and you don’t want to leave the house.

    Just when you think you can kick the polar vortex off
    and just have ice water in your veins instead of chunks of ice,
    she comes charging back and no one can hear your scream
    of frustration because it is muffled under the polar vortex quilt.


    Like the juice of a blood orange,
    the sun drips off the horizon
    Streaking the sky between striations
    of blue, it is melting into sunset

    Twilight swishes herself on-stage
    as soon as it seems decent to put
    in an appearance; with her layers
    of indigo, mauve and intimations
    of lavender, lilac and royal

    She hates to seem overly eager
    But considering how brief her
    stint is – once she’s on, she wants
    every ounce of time due her,
    it’s true

    Before evening arrives,
    towing all those bloody but
    magnificent constellations
    Spread like Swarovski crystals
    on actual velvet – not velveteen –
    interspersed with glowing planets
    – aligned and not – but impressive

    And God forbid,
    it should be one of Luna’s showy
    nights … well, twilight, dusk – call
    her whatever romantic name you will
    It doesn’t matter how wonderful
    her palette may be, it will
    never be quite memorable enough.

  41. I’m having fun with this prompt. Thanks – another expression

    Big Bertha Ruled

    It was love at first sight
    from the moment
    we saw her in the window
    She was a perfect for us
    luminous eyes, swooshy lashes,
    zooming feet
    thorough bred, broad-shouldered
    with a large heart
    and a gleaming girth
    We called her Big Bertha

    With the turn of a key
    she breathed in life
    and ruled our world
    She pedaled honey in our cruises
    steering in
    all kinds of adventures
    and classic fightings over songs
    that made us feel like rock stars

    She grew smells of
    lavender ketchup
    in soccer cleats
    as hushed laughter
    and wiggles
    filled her back seat
    She raised us
    from kindergarten Falls
    to high school blossoms
    like a proud mama
    keeping a watchful eye
    on her crew
    with an added turbo kick
    that kept us in line
    who knew
    that her doting, fragile heart
    would be brutally shattered
    and our world would crash
    in a split second
    All that would remain of her
    would be absorbed
    in the golden memories
    of our growing years——

  42. Hi Sara! So nice to see you here. I love personification–a bit late to the party, but here I am 🙂

    Morning Train

    On a bough of fir
    Sleepy atoms cuddled together
    Linked like train cars
    Sun shine lights, excites
    Sending atoms stretch-
    Fling winged things
    Black shapes coracoid
    Clouds scatter avoid
    Beakish Pierc-
    Sun pushes on horizon
    Lifts belly–golden
    And raises rays
    Dew grasps grass
    Tries to last
    Instead becomes gas
    ‘Ol Sol laughs
    While atoms climb together
    Aboard the Skyliner

  43. DAY FOUR….Sad to say,

    Memorial is planned
    at the abandoned beach chair
    for the well-known, but anorexic
    beach bum.

    ‘Viewing’ is made possible by Walt
    in “Photo Phocus”
    where cards and comments
    may be directed.

    Per the beach bum’s final request,
    all gifts
    will be given to the
    “Home for Abandoned Beach Chairs”

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