Naked self pic of girls in maine


15-Jan-2020 16:21

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At the base of each shack, hay bales, cut in the golden salt marshes of late summer, rotted into relentless mood shifts of the ice. but there were no smelts running, there was no action, there was nothing but deep booms and moans from under an aching ice, bruised ice heaving from a rising tide, anxious ice from a nervous breakup of a tilting earth. But the pink granite of Penobscot Bay, the resonant slow thunk pulled me back to the high rounded nubs leapfrogging across it, Schoodic, Cadillac, Megunticook, my hips molding more easily around the archipelago protecting the Passagassawaukeag, Naskeag and Brooklin, my blade recognizing the Upper West Branch rills, Chesuncook, and the long flow out to Isle au Haut. Were I to identify with that mythological transmogrification it’s again the distinction of the scent of the air in the distant sea, for whale & sailor alike, & air above land for moose & his trek from the Merrimack, which I’ve trekked along, & his migration all the way up to the forests of Maine.

Pulsing inside each shack, rusted iron wood stoves crackled hot with dry white pine and beech. “February’s poem, a Valentine poem, is a group poem by the poets at Spindleworks, a wonderful community of artists at the Spindleworks workshop and gallery in Brunswick. We give you a yellow parrot with a green beak singing “Beak! “In the early 1990s I spent two years co facilitating, with Julie Johnson, a weekly drop-in writing group at the Preble Street Resource Center in Portland. I take a deep breath, where both earth and sea air circulate, give thanks to Thoreau for recording that story, & guiding me back to Port.

Follow Gary as he shares poetry from Mainers of all backgrounds.

Poems will be released monthly in I love the library I love the library Every day I love the library when we are there I love the library You love the library I love the library We all love the library Every day I Love I love the wind that blows through the trees I love the pretty flowers, they smell oh so fresh I love the river I love all the life in the World If ‘namvets were ancient shamans now would be the moment we’d choose to give you shelter from the coming storm But we are merely survivors of suburbs and cities not forest nor mountain Modern men offering you our silences our words to guide you going out on your own Yet we have known for years now that the silences of our fathers will not do And we have known that words alone cannot bleed you free of your raging doubts So listen up to what we have found between silences and words: Open up your fists Watch women move Scorn uniforms Don’t march Dance “Mary Dowd is a poet and doctor in southern Maine.

Gary Lawless, who was awarded the 2017 Constance H.

Sharif has twice read at Gulf of Maine Books for our ‘Hummus and Poetry’ evenings. I speak for the thousand girls who want to speak but don’t have a voice. When I was a little girl I used to cry but only in silence never showing my parents my tears not even my siblings, or peers because they told us if you showed people your tears, it meant you were afraid it meant you were weak, it meant you were powerless Yes I was young, but I knew I wasn’t weak, and I knew I wasn’t powerless I had and still have a weapon A Voice A voice that once it’s heard, demands attention A voice that doesn’t only speak, but repeats So I will speak so they can be heard. I speak for the thousand children of Darfur because they can only speak in silence. “When Naomi Shihab Nye gave a reading in Augusta in April, she was asked who her current favorite Arabic poet was. Whiskey blunts the edge, the edge of exposure, the feeling every day that comes from having no doors on your heart, no roof on your mind. He had lived with Down Syndrome for 63 years, but was not defined by it.

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He was a weaver, painter, sculptor, poet, singer, clown, mime, and a great friend to everyone. He loved us all, from the bottom of his heart.”“Elizabeth Coatsworth came to Maine in the early 1930s and lived at Chimney Farm in Nobleboro until her death in 1986.During that time she published over 125 books of children’s literature, poetry, adult fiction, and memoir. In quiet music a sleeping head leans into me and awakens herds of stars that spray like droplets as a horse runs across a stream. Spinning in my thoughts are valleys laden with rocks rolling down with rivers in their beds.



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