Reading, Writing, & Arithmetic Club

Old man in the dark, Rain whispers of lost loves past, Tears blend with the storm.

  You all make this world more fun!

Watch out, it's after midnight, the bottle's empty I've killed it, every drop.  But I've got a couple of thoughts left. Decisions, Decisions Someone's god appeared and said  you've been a bad boy  I tried to tell the truth when I could precisely, said the little god as for punishment you have two choices we tie you on an ant hill or tie you in front of the big screen TV at Les Schwab's with non-stop Fox News day after day mmmm.......... give me the ants I said with great relief. lol!

Dear Witty Wordsmiths and Literary Lumineers, Greetings from the abyss of my literary confusion! As I sit here, surrounded by the remnants of my deciphering of the latest mushroom manifesto, I find myself in a state of profound bewilderment. Alas, I must confess that I missed our last gathering where, rumor has it, fungi took center stage in our cerebral circus. As I reflect on the pages of the elusive mushroom tome, I am struck with the realization that I am now adrift in a sea of unread books, desperately in need of a literary lifeboat. It appears that my compass is malfunctioning, and I've been left to navigate the treacherous waters of the unknown without a single clue. A tragic tale, indeed! Now, my dear Bookish Bohemians, I implore your benevolent souls to extend a literary lifeline. What are we reading next? I fear I've become the unwitting protagonist in my very own novel of confusion, and I'm in dire need of a plot twist to set me back on course. In conclusion, my

 Lance and Michelle have mentioned ghosts in this blog.  Here's a ghost story, sort of. Orono Maple There's a maple in the backyard in Orono where my 7-year-old sometimes sits, head down hugging her knees, raining bitter tears on gnarled roots. In the spring I drilled a hole in the trunk of that old tree even went to the trouble to say I was sorry but I didn't stop the bleeding, instead I rejoiced in the slowly filling buckets of clear sweet sparkling sap born of rain and tears boiled on the wood stove to a frothing golden syrup the whole house warmed and sweetened. The tree didn't seem to be unhappy then but it's summer now and I'm not so sure as rain hisses through the big green leaves near the open window where I sleep. Is this a warning or just a haunting refrain meant for sleeping ghosts in the old house? Flailing branches pound on the screen, are they lashing out at me in anger? Could be, still I love that ancient maple in Maine watered by my young daughte

I'm not sure what this is. It started as a dream, I think. I wrote some words down about the feeling I had, about the character that appeared. I thought it might be a song, but no. It's just this: She wakes up at three AM, and blinks to clear her head There is no sound, the house is still and dark Silent, decisive foot steps - in seconds she's at the door Grabs her keys, her bag, doesn't bother to make the bed She hesitates on the back porch and looks out at the night Though shaking, she knows, she must, she has to go Lets the door close behind her, then she gets into her car And in a moment, the road ahead is an unknown life When there's nothing left to do, and no one left to blame Hard times are harder, when ya gotta make a change When there's just the sound of blue, you move to a whole new game. 'Cause no one ever remains the same. As she drives she thinks the way it was, for years she just made do Empty men, empty jobs, endless bottles of booze Can't