These random ramblings and author musings are designed to entertain, though they might drag you kicking and screaming through my daft indie publishing journey. If you are somehow inadvertently informed, or if you have discovered something useful within, well then . . . count that as a jolly coincidence. Thanks for reading! (header background - Sky_18 Free Texture #133 by Brenda Starr)

20150313

Word of the week: pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis - noun - (hear it!) - An invented long word said to mean a lung disease caused by inhaling very fine ash and sand dust. (And for those of you who know me . . . yeah, you were probably wondering when I'd reference this word. Lol!)

Word has it that the apple doesn't fall far from the tree.

Well, heck, I'm hoping to throw my offspring "apples" as far from me as I possibly can . . . to show off their talent!


May I present to you one Miss Emily Phish (eight years old) who's read a lot of Shel Silverstein and Redwall books, and one Master Link Maxwell (fourteen years old), who's read a lot -- period! My two writing progeny, who both have a wonderful way with words.





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Pants 
(a Shel Silverstein-esque poem by Emily Phish)

I needed more pants,
so I went to France.
They said they could sell me pants.
They were wrong;
they sold me France!



Autumn 
by Emily Phish

Autumn broke upon us;
the leaves turned gold.
Never heard, but then it settled here,
unknown.
It wanders on,
through the darkness,
through brightness,
through mist and morn.
Come back to me, come back to me,
and say my land is fair!




Winter
by Emily Phish

Winter turned his frosty head,
to look her in the eyes.
“My Autumn,” he said,
“you will be going by and by.
I can’t visit you;
I will ruin everything.
Step away from me, step away from me,
my land is not fair!”






A Nonsensical Pattern: A Tritina
by Link Maxwell

This poem does not make sense.
Make sense, this poem does not.
There is no sense that this poem does make.

A poem I decided to make.
But what fun is making sense?
So make sense this poem will not.

But random this poem is not.
A pattern it does make.
However, it still makes no sense.

This pattern did not make sense.  






Ode to Cheese
by Link Maxwell

Oh cheese, my favorite snack of all,
you never fail to make me smile. . . .

Swiss or cheddar, blue or cream,
I enjoy you all the while.
With mellow or with tangy taste,
creamy, crumbling, or paste,
you shall never go to waste.

False cheese food does not compare,
to a food that is so fair.
For imitations I do not care,
as tasty ones are very rare.
Fake cheeses do not have much flair,
and true cheeses top them there.

Cheese, my favorite snack of all,
from this position you shall not fall.
Mellow or sharp, short or tall,
of many types, I enjoy them all.