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Tuesday and Time

28 Aug

A couple of years ago, I had made a commitment to write a short poem everyday for a hundred days in a row. I love giving myself a challenge. I thought it would be difficult, but just like daily blogging, I found it exhilarating. The title of each day’s poem was so profound and creative. See for yourself. Here is the first poem…

DAY ONE

When time escapes its awful fate

The sand pours to the ground

Trees will fall as echoes call

But no one hears a sound.

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Monday Montage: A week in a Peek

26 Aug

Another week flew by at “warp speed,” for all you sic-fi fans. So here’s a peek at my week. Thanks to all my friends out there, especially the ones I’ve never met in person, but are special friends, none the less.

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Wednesday: Words of Wisdom

14 Aug

“Although no one can go back and make a brand new start, anyone can start from now and make a brand new ending.”
― Carl Bard

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Photo courtesy of the fabulous photographer Seth Johnson. Sharing and pairing.
http://sethsnap.com/2013/08/11/your-story-then-now/

Shattered Past

Broken windows, shattered past
Those golden days that never last
When things were new, and life was good
The years flew by misunderstood
With panes all broken, and bricks now grey
The happy memories fade away
But time moves on, as people do
There’s still that chance to start anew.

Toni Andrukaitis

Saturday Satire: A Bird in the Hand and Other True Stories

6 Jul

We have a couple of hanging flower baskets in the backyard. Every time I would water one of the plants, a bird would fly out and the dogs would bark and go nuts. Then, one morning, after the bird flew off, I heard little chirping noises. When I tilted the basket, I saw two tiny beaks chirping for their momma. I didn’t want to scare the occupants of the nest, so I just took my camera and aimed randomly inside for the video. What a smart mamma bird. A hanging haven filled with beautiful flowers to safely shelter her young. Unfortunately, the flowers are now dying because this momma is afraid of drowning or harming the babies, but that’s OK. We mothers have to stick together.


The safety of the baby birds made me think of one of my watercolors that I painted a while back. The satire or irony of the painting, in my artistic depiction is, the dove is clutched in a hand. The hand is making a peace sign. Is the bird safe, or going to be crushed all in the name of peace? Or is the dove, a symbol of peace safe and protected? It’s all in the eye of the beholder. Thought I’d share, you decide. Let me know what YOU think.

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A BIRD IN THE HAND

Don’t let it be said
When shove comes to push
That a bird in the hand
Is worth two in the bush.
A bird is not free
If he cannot fly
There clutched in your palm
A free bird will die.
Toni Andrukaitis

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Friday Friends: Sharing and Pairing

6 Jul

Another collaboration with the talented photographer Seth Johnson. His photos have launched a thousand ships…well, at least a thousand words, and always inspire a poem from yours truly. We have never met, yet I feel like we are friends. Sometimes life, art and the world amazes me. Ain’t it grand!!!

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Sethsnap.com

MORNING MIST

Pausing in the morning mist
A silhouette is seen
Nibbling grass the dew has kissed
Guarded glances in between.
With silent dawn, a gentle breeze
A cloak of fog’s embrace
The sun protruding through the trees
She leaves without a trace.

Toni Andrukaitis

Friday Friends: Sharing and Pairing

15 Jun

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Photo: sethsnap.wordpress.com
Sharing Seth’s beautiful photo and my original poem. His photos are most inspirational.

Sunlight peeks through emerald trees
Twinkling golden with each breeze
Shadows play along the walk
And echo smiles as people talk
Spring reveals her timeless veil
Upon the earth with colors pale
Rustling leaves dance in the sky
While songbirds chant their sweet reply.

Saturday: Cityof Broad Shoulders

9 Jun

My brudder wuz gonna go ta da store, so he axed if I wanded ta come with. He goes, “Wanna go grab some brewskis and some pop bafore da game?” We cut true the gangway an seen a couple two tree guys from da old neighbahood at da Jewels, over by dere. Now, day don’t know we seen ’em, so don’t go sayin’ nothin’ if’n youse see ’em on da street. We don’t want no trouble. We ain’t got no extra brahts er Polish. Jeeze, da Sox er playin’ da Cubs in da Crosstown. So, shud up already, willya?

My last day in Chicago. (Sigh!) If you can’t read the paragraph above, den you ain’t from Chicago. The Windy City, Chi-Town, Second City, or the City of Broad Shoulders, any way you look at it or any name you give it, it’s “My Kind of Town.”

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photo: smart destinations.com

Chicago
BY CARL SANDBURG
Hog Butcher for the World,
Tool Maker, Stacker of Wheat,
Player with Railroads and the Nation’s Freight Handler;
Stormy, husky, brawling,
City of the Big Shoulders:

They tell me you are wicked and I believe them, for I have seen your painted women under the gas lamps luring the farm boys.
And they tell me you are crooked and I answer: Yes, it is true I have seen the gunman kill and go free to kill again.
And they tell me you are brutal and my reply is: On the faces of women and children I have seen the marks of wanton hunger.
And having answered so I turn once more to those who sneer at this my city, and I give them back the sneer and say to them:
Come and show me another city with lifted head singing so proud to be alive and coarse and strong and cunning.
Flinging magnetic curses amid the toil of piling job on job, here is a tall bold slugger set vivid against the little soft cities;
Fierce as a dog with tongue lapping for action, cunning as a savage pitted against the wilderness,
Bareheaded,
Shoveling,
Wrecking,
Planning,
Building, breaking, rebuilding,
Under the smoke, dust all over his mouth, laughing with white teeth,
Under the terrible burden of destiny laughing as a young man laughs,
Laughing even as an ignorant fighter laughs who has never lost a battle,
Bragging and laughing that under his wrist is the pulse, and under his ribs the heart of the people,
Laughing!
Laughing the stormy, husky, brawling laughter of Youth, half-naked, sweating, proud to be Hog Butcher, Tool Maker, Stacker of Wheat, Player with Railroads and Freight Handler to the Nation.
Source: Poetry (March 1914).