Weekly Contest
No contests this week.
Classic poem of the day
Since the Men from a Party, or fear of a Frown,
Are kept by a Sugar-Plumb, quietly down.
Supinely asleep, & depriv'd of their Sight
Are strip'd of their Freedom, & rob'd of their Right.
If the Sons (so degenerate) the Blessing despise,
Let the Daughters of Liberty, nobly arise,
And tho' we've no Voice, but a negative here.
The use of the Taxables, let us forebear,
(Then Merchants import till your Stores are all full
May the Buyers be few & your Traffick be dull.)
Stand firmly resolved & bid Grenville to see
That rather than Freedom, we'll part with our Tea
And well as we love the dear Draught when a dry,
As American Patriots,—our Taste we deny,
Sylvania's gay Meadows, can richly afford,
To pamper our Fancy, or furnish our Board,
And Paper sufficient (at home) still we have,
To assure the Wise-acre, we will not sign Slave.
When this Homespun shall fail, to remonstrate our Grief...
member poem of the day
Squirrels darting, dead of night.
Vivid velvet curtains of mist indistinguishable from city fog adorned, a courageous jogger, Addison.
Marsh light mirage appeared to beckon to canvass of the mind
“I’ll find myself deep within one day or precisely one night.”
Addison, was a jogger who could be imagined by the most colourful imaginations.
A person who ran, jogged, sprinted with crystalline clear visions.
“Ironic, I must connect somehow in every environment.”
Her slim svelte surging figure aptly attired for a wetland plagued by a city scape of habitats.
Just on the fringe of a sizeable town entering a 2025 empowerment.
Yet she seemed ostracized for whatever
reason quaintly excluded.
“My issue seems that I have been evaluating all around me.”
Addison tribe, circles, connects were many.
Yet the dimensions of personal constellation etc would taunt a canvass painter.
Weekly Contest
No contests this week.
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