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The Mets have gotten their leadoff batter on only once this inning.

quote by Ralph Kiner
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Mets-moi dessus la mer d'où le soleil se lève

Mets-moi dessus la mer d'où le soleil se lève,
Ou près du bord de l'onde où sa flamme s'éteint ;
Mets-moi au pays froid, où sa chaleur n'atteint,
Ou sur les sablons cuits que son chaud rayon grève ;

Mets-moi en long ennui, mets-moi en joie brève,
En franche liberté, en servage contraint ;
Soit que libre je sois, ou prisonnier rétreint,
En assurance, ou doute, ou en guerre ou en trêve ;

Mets-moi au pied plus bas ou sur les hauts sommets
Des monts plus élevés, ô Méline, et me mets
En une triste nuit ou en gaie lumière ;

Mets-moi dessus le ciel, dessous terre mets-moi,
Je serai toujours même, et ma dernière foi
Se trouvera toujours pareille à la première.

poem by Jean Antoine de Baif
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The Original Wrapper

I was sittin home on the west end
Watchin cable tv with a female friend
We were watchin the news, the worlds in a mess
The poor and the hungry, a world in distress
Herpes, aids, the middle east at full throttle
Better check that sausage, before you put it in the waffle
And while youre at it, check whats in the batter
Make sure that candys in the original wrapper
Hey, pitcher, better check that batter
Make sure that candys in the original wrapper
Reagan says abortions murder
While hes looking at cardinal oconnor
Look at jerry falwell louis farrakhan
Both talk religion and the brotherhood of man
They both sound like they belong in teheran
Watch out, theyre goin full throttle
Better check that sausage, before you stick it in the waffle
And while youre at it better check, whats in the batter
Make sure that candys in the original wrapper
Hey, pitcher, better check that batter
Make sure that candys in the original wrapper
White against white, black against jew
It seems like its 1942
The baby sits in front of mtv
Watching violent fantasies
While dad guzzles beer with his favorite sport
Only to find his heroes are all coked up
Classic, original, the same old story
The politics of hate in a new surrounding
Hate if its good and hate if its bad
And if this all dont make you mad
Ill keep yours and Ill keep mine
Nothing sacred and nothing divine
Father, bless me, were at full throttle
Better check that sausage, before you put it in the waffle
And while youre at it better check that batter
Make sure the candys in the original wrapper
Hey, pitcher, better check that batter
Make sure that candys in the original wrapper, hey, hey
I was born in the united states
And I grew up hard but I grew up straight
I saw a lack of morals and a lack of concern
A feeling that theres nowhere to turn
Yippies, hippies and upwardly mobile yuppies
Dont treat me like Im some dumb lackey
cause the murderer lives while the victims die
Id much rather see it an eye for an eye
A heart for a heart, a brain for a brain
And if this all makes you feel a little insane
Kick up your heels, turn the music up loud

[...] Read more

song performed by Lou Reed
Added by Lucian Velea
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Mars Landing Party

Embrasse - moi, mets ton doigt dan mon cul,
Embrasse - moi, mets ton doigt dan mon cul,
Une prsence ambige,
Une prsence inconnue,
Jusqua ce que jen peux plus,
Embrasse - moi, mets ton doigt dan mon cul,
Embrasse - moi, mets ton doigt dan mon cul,
Une prsence ambige,
Une prsence inconnue,
Jusqua ce que jen peux plus,
Embrasse - moi, mets ton doigt dan mon cul,
Embrasse - moi, mets ton doigt dan mon cul,
Une prsence ambige,
Une prsence inconnue,
Jusqua ce que jen peux plus,
Translation
Kiss me, put your finger up my arse,
Kiss me, put your finger up my arse,
An ambiguous presence,
An unknown presence,
Until I cant take it anymore,
Kiss me, put your finger up my arse,
Kiss me, put your finger up my arse,
An ambiguous presence,
An unknown presence,
Until I cant take it anymore,
Kiss me, put your finger up my arse,
Kiss me, put your finger up my arse,
An ambiguous presence,
An unknown presence,
Until I cant take it anymore,

song performed by Placebo
Added by Lucian Velea
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At The Minor's Field

The Li'l Leaguer's now in uniforms,
And the ball game is ‘bout to begin.

My young hero in position one,
For the Orioles against the Indians;

Kevin stepped on the pitcher's plate,
"Go! Orioles, " the parents cheered.

"Batter's in, " the umpire yelled,
He pitched, the ball went wild.

"Ball, " the umpire called. Again,
He pitched to the batter's shin.

Hit by pitch, the batter walks on base,
Still at first when the catcher missed.

"Ball, " 2 and 0, the umpire signed,
And some parents began to whine.

Bases are loaded but all walks,
And their slugger is up to bat.

Pitch by pitch, she tried to hit,
A foul, a tip, the third, she missed.

With one out on the score board,
The outfielders are getting bored.

The next batter, my neighbor's son,
He tried the same as hard as he can,

Swing after swing, he lost his chance;
The ball was caught, two out at once.

poem by Efren Petalver Carranza
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Sounds From The Baseball Field

Batter in the home place,
That was nobly done;
Try and get the first base-
Run!
Run
! RUN!
Ah, there, short stop, will you miss?
Hear the people cheer and hiss,
Hear them yell and shout.
Twinkling legs and flying feet-
(Oh, I wonder who will beat!)
Faster, faster, out!
Umpire, umpire, go along;
That was wrong, sir, that was wrong.

Pitcher pitches, four balls,
'Take your base, my man.'
Toward the second now he crawls-
'Steal it if you can.'
Oh, the ball has gone so high,
Can they catch it on the fly?
Ah, there is no doubt,
He will get his third, I vow-
Pshaw! the ball has got there now,
'Two men out!'
Umpire, umpire, that was wrong;
Go along, sir, go along.

One man on the first base,
Not a single run.
Boys are warming to the race-
Now look out for fun.
Pitcher's arm maybe is tired;
Batter sudden seems inspired,
Grounds the ball to win.
Run there, run there, run your best,
I am screaming with the rest
'Two men in!'
Umpire, umpire, go away;
Dead wrong, dead wrong, sir, I say.

What's the matter now, pray?
Taking breath, that's all;
But the restless people say
'Play ball, play ball.'
One ball, two strikes, two balls-'Foul.'
Umpire calls, and people howl:

[...] Read more

poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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A long inning

As mother had played long inning
She breathed her last in the evening
She knew in advance about the end
It was known to us from her feelings and trend

She would not mind about anything
She won’t ask for or call for something
It was her desire to see us well off
She never wanted us to offer any bluff

She was looking at ceiling
Even though for months she was ailing
She had all kind of satisfaction
Bright eyes reflected the same indication

She was lying on the cot
Life spent on various odds to be fought
It was her life time ambition
To be with us without any condition

She did not expect a single favor
She provided us full cover
We will go near to her and touch the feet
She would affectionately look at and greet

She was active till the last day
It was her life and with full sway
She acted dominant and had complete way
We too were afraid to go away

Such glorious inning was about to end
We informed all relatives and friends
It was her desire that all should remain her bedside
She had nothing to hide or confide

She breathed heavily and lost the control
Her body remained there without soul
It was left for heavenly abode
We watched silently with heavy load

She bore same innocence but with authority
It was her secret weapon and quality
She will not mind for our being defiant
She offered full explanation and very variant

She was not in pain at all
The life had ended with her call
She lived life at full length
That was only her strength

[...] Read more

poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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A turning gold

I fear of being called old
but in fact turning Gold
astute behavior and approach bold
head of the family and very nice hold

Calmness like sea and brightness like sun
family members would love and make fun
my try to win the race with stick walk run
children may point with small barrel gun

'Grandpa, your time is over'
we will give you cover
your inning should not last
as you are aging very fast

Don't leave us behind
where from we will find?
you are our dad's dad and very kind
we touch your feet as you are soft and mild

It turns me old when somethig I hear
“One time handsome may not remain dear”
He is loosing charm and wrinkles developed
Great show on stage is likedly to be floaped

I feel delighted when hear nice words
There is no fun to think of age and look backward
Any one may go for high jump when fully young
Alas! it is beautiful inning but not going to last long

Who can stop the blowing wind?
Who can clip the bird’s wing?
You may go high in the air
The game is considered to be very fair

It is the test of time that you spread the fragrance
The ability and young age is thing of presence
It may stay as long as you think it is in your reach
The birds may come down to find and search

Where do we find peace and shelter?
Where is our final destginy and cover?
Who will accompany us till the end?
The world has to be made as lovely abode and friend

The sun may shine hard and rain may cause the blow
The vigor and strength may develop cracks and go slow
The speed may slower and ri ver may stop the flow
The eys may loose the sight and face its glow

[...] Read more

poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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Waffle King

It took a lifetime, but I finally found
The perfect waffle recipe
Youll never find a batter any better in this whole stinkin town
One little bite and Im sure that youll agree
Your eyes roll back and your knees get weak
Aw, youre gonna lick your plate clean
People come from miles around just to study my technique
I make the best darn waffles this world has ever seen
Im the waffle king (waffle king)... yeah
Waffle king (waffle king)
Thats what they call me
Waffle king (waffle king)
Hey, Im the waffle king
Everywhere I go, the people cheer
I never have to wait in line
People say, right this way, sir... your moneys no good here.
Some day I betcha theyll build me a shrine
And everybody say, well, Im your biggest fan!
I seen your picture in people magazine!
Folks come from around the world just to shake my hand
If you dont believe in the power of the waffle lemme show you just what I mean
Im the waffle king (waffle king)
Make you want to scream and shout
Waffle king (waffle king)
Thats my name, dont wear it out
Waffle king (waffle king)
Make no mistake about it Im the waffle king... yeah
Roll out the red carpet, cause here I come
All you peons better scram
Out of my way, you worthless piece of scum
Dont you know who I am?
Hey!
I wanna see you grovel, you waffle-eatin fools
Everybody, on your knees
You wanna buy a waffle, youre playin by my rules
Go on, beg me... lemme hear you say pretty please
Cant you tell the universe revolves around me?
Dont you know you suckers owe me everything?
And cant you see that Im the highest form of life that there could ever be?
Everybody all around the world, stand up and sing
Come on know...
Waffle king
Hey, batter batter
Waffle king
Hot on your platter
Waffle king
Say, whats the matter
Dont you know who I am?
Dont you know who I am?
Tell em, girls

[...] Read more

song performed by Weird Al Yankovic
Added by Lucian Velea
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Annus Mirabilis, The Year Of Wonders, 1666

1
In thriving arts long time had Holland grown,
Crouching at home and cruel when abroad:
Scarce leaving us the means to claim our own;
Our King they courted, and our merchants awed.

2
Trade, which, like blood, should circularly flow,
Stopp'd in their channels, found its freedom lost:
Thither the wealth of all the world did go,
And seem'd but shipwreck'd on so base a coast.

3
For them alone the heavens had kindly heat;
In eastern quarries ripening precious dew:
For them the Idumaean balm did sweat,
And in hot Ceylon spicy forests grew.

4
The sun but seem'd the labourer of the year;
Each waxing moon supplied her watery store,
To swell those tides, which from the line did bear
Their brimful vessels to the Belgian shore.

5
Thus mighty in her ships, stood Carthage long,
And swept the riches of the world from far;
Yet stoop'd to Rome, less wealthy, but more strong:
And this may prove our second Punic war.

6
What peace can be, where both to one pretend?
(But they more diligent, and we more strong)
Or if a peace, it soon must have an end;
For they would grow too powerful, were it long.

7
Behold two nations, then, engaged so far
That each seven years the fit must shake each land:
Where France will side to weaken us by war,
Who only can his vast designs withstand.

8
See how he feeds the Iberian with delays,
To render us his timely friendship vain:
And while his secret soul on Flanders preys,
He rocks the cradle of the babe of Spain.

9
Such deep designs of empire does he lay

[...] Read more

poem by John Dryden
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M'Fingal - Canto III

Now warm with ministerial ire,
Fierce sallied forth our loyal 'Squire,
And on his striding steps attends
His desperate clan of Tory friends.
When sudden met his wrathful eye
A pole ascending through the sky,
Which numerous throngs of whiggish race
Were raising in the market-place.
Not higher school-boy's kites aspire,
Or royal mast, or country spire;
Like spears at Brobdignagian tilting,
Or Satan's walking-staff in Milton.
And on its top, the flag unfurl'd
Waved triumph o'er the gazing world,
Inscribed with inconsistent types
Of Liberty and thirteen stripes.
Beneath, the crowd without delay
The dedication-rites essay,
And gladly pay, in antient fashion,
The ceremonies of libation;
While briskly to each patriot lip
Walks eager round the inspiring flip:
Delicious draught! whose powers inherit
The quintessence of public spirit;
Which whoso tastes, perceives his mind
To nobler politics refined;
Or roused to martial controversy,
As from transforming cups of Circe;
Or warm'd with Homer's nectar'd liquor,
That fill'd the veins of gods with ichor.
At hand for new supplies in store,
The tavern opes its friendly door,
Whence to and fro the waiters run,
Like bucket-men at fires in town.
Then with three shouts that tore the sky,
'Tis consecrate to Liberty.
To guard it from th' attacks of Tories,
A grand Committee cull'd of four is;
Who foremost on the patriot spot,
Had brought the flip, and paid the shot.

By this, M'Fingal with his train
Advanced upon th' adjacent plain,
And full with loyalty possest,
Pour'd forth the zeal, that fired his breast.

"What mad-brain'd rebel gave commission,
To raise this May-pole of sedition?

[...] Read more

poem by John Trumbull
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A Given Batter Whipped

We all have our styles.
Tastes,
And approaches to life.
To rate them narrowly,
For the purposes to suit...
Choices of critics on pursuit,
To dilute...
The wide range of changing preferences,
Only scatters the patter.
Leaving it ultimately not to matter.

Eat it up,
Or give it up...
Or leave it alone.
A given batter whipped,
Has its own magic!

Eat it up,
Or give it up...
Or leave it alone.
A given batter whipped,
Has its own magic!

We all have our styles.
Tastes,
And approaches to life...
To appreciate or eliminate.
And...
A given batter whipped,
Has its own magic!

Eat it up,
Or give it up...
Or leave it alone.

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Meaningful games

The air of September has turned crisp and clean,

with a hint of past autumns remembered,

as I take the field with the rest of the team

to battle the other contender.

Just like a knuckleball released to the plate

Our season has seemed to meander

In May we seemed sure of a World Series date-

But now the blogs call us pretenders.

The lead we enjoyed in June and July

has steadily melted away.

bad luck and the heat had led to defeats

while our foes seem to gain every day.

The faces around me are a mix old and new.

Some friends have been traded away-

or waived on the wire, which was needed, no doubt.

I just hope these new call ups can play.

But there is no room for self pity or doubt

While our chance at the playoffs remains

There are so many players whose dreams are long dead

while we still play meaningful games.

[...] Read more

poem by John F. McCullagh
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Chanson d'Après-midi (Afternoon Song)

Quoique tes sourcils méchants
Te donnent un air étrange
Qui n'est pas celui d'un ange,
Sorcière aux yeux alléchants,

Je t'adore, ô ma frivole,
Ma terrible passion!
Avec la dévotion
Du prêtre pour son idole.

Le désert et la forêt
Embaument tes tresses rudes,
Ta tête a les attitudes
De l'énigme et du secret.

Sur ta chair le parfum rôde
Comme autour d'un encensoir;
Tu charmes comme le soir
Nymphe ténébreuse et chaude.

Ah! les philtres les plus forts
Ne valent pas ta paresse,
Et tu connais la caresse
Ou fait revivre les morts!

Tes hanches sont amoureuses
De ton dos et de tes seins,
Et tu ravis les coussins
Par tes poses langoureuses.

Quelquefois, pour apaiser
Ta rage mystérieuse,
Tu prodigues, sérieuse,
La morsure et le baiser;

Tu me déchires, ma brune,
Avec un rire moqueur,
Et puis tu mets sur mon coeur
Ton oeil doux comme la lune.

Sous tes souliers de satin,
Sous tes charmants pieds de soie
Moi, je mets ma grande joie,
Mon génie et mon destin,

Mon âme par toi guérie,
Par toi, lumière et couleur!
Explosion de chaleur
Dans ma noire Sibérie!

[...] Read more

poem by Charles Baudelaire
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Les vieux maîtres

Dans les bouges fumeux où pendent des jambons,
Des boudins bruns, des chandelles et des vessies,
Des grappes de poulets, des grappes de dindons,
D'énormes chapelets de volailles farcies,
Tachant de rose et blanc les coins du plafond noir,
En cercle, autour des mets entassés sur la table,
Qui saignent, la fourchette au flanc dans un tranchoir,
Tous ceux qu'auprès des brocs la goinfrerie attable,
Craesbeke, Brakenburgh, Teniers, Dusart, Brauwer,
Avec Steen, le plus gros, le plus ivrogne, au centre,
Sont réunis, menton gluant, gilet ouvert,
De rires plein la bouche et de lard plein le ventre.
Leurs commères, corps lourds où se bombent les chairs
Dans la nette blancheur des linges du corsage,
Leur versent à jets longs de superbes vins clairs,
Qu'un rai d'or du soleil égratigne au passage,
Avant d'incendier les panses des chaudrons.
Elles, ces folles, sont reines dans les godailles,
Que leurs amants, goulus d'amours et de jurons,
Mènent comme au beau temps des vieilles truandailles,
Tempes en eau, regards en feu, langue dehors,
Avec de grands hoquets, scandant les chansons grasses,
Des poings brandis au clair, des luttes corps à corps
Et des coups assénés à broyer leurs carcasses,
Tandis qu'elles, le sang toujours à fleur de peau,
La bouche ouverte aux chants, le gosier aux rasades,
Après des sauts de danse à fendre le carreau,
Des chocs de corps, des heurts de chair et des bourrades,
Des lèchements subis dans un étreignement,
Toutes moites d'ardeurs, tombent dépoitraillées.
Une odeur de mangeaille au lard, violemment,
Sort des mets découverts ; de larges écuellées
De jus fumant et gras, où trempent des rôtis,
Passant et repassant sous le nez des convives,
Excitent, d'heure en heure, à neuf, leurs appétits.
Dans la cuisine, on fait en hâte les lessives
De plats vidés et noirs qu'on rapporte chargés,
Des saucières d'étain collent du pied aux nappes,
Les dressoirs sont remplis et les celliers gorgés.
Tout autour de l'estrade, où rougeoient ces agapes,
Pendent à des crochets paniers, passoires, grils,
Casseroles, bougeoirs, briquets, cruches, gamelles ;
Dans un coin, deux magots exhibent leurs nombrils,
Et trônent, verre en main, sur deux tonnes jumelles ;
Et partout, à chaque angle ou relief, ici, là,
Au pommeau d'une porte, aux charnières d'armoire,
Au pilon des mortiers, aux hanaps de gala,
Sur le mur, à travers les trous de l'écumoire,
Partout, à droite, à gauche, au hasard des reflets,
Scintillent des clartés, des gouttes de lumière,

[...] Read more

poem by Emile Verhaeren
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Meaningful Games 2

Meaningful games

The air of September has turned crisp and clean,
with a hint of past autumns remembered,
as I take the field with the rest of the team
to battle the other contender.

Just like a knuckleball released to the plate
Our season has seemed to meander
In May we seemed sure of a World Series date-
But now the blogs call us pretenders.

The lead we enjoyed in June and July
has steadily melted away.
bad luck and the heat had led to defeats
while our foes seem to gain every day.

The faces around me are a mix old and new.
Some friends have been traded away-
or waived on the wire, which was needed, no doubt.
I just hope these new call ups can play.

But there is no room for self pity or doubt
While our chance at the playoffs remains
There are so many players whose dreams are long dead
while we still play meaningful games.

This poem may be about the 2008 New York Mets. Certainly the title was inspired by a statement made by Mets owner, Fred Wilpon. The speaker may be David Wright. It is also possible that this poem is using the baseball season as an extended metaphor.

poem by John F. McCullagh
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Taking Dad to a Game

The Polo Grounds, when the Field’s first seen
are a most magical shade of green.
Hand in hand, me and my Dad
head for our seats in the right field stands.

It’s the Cincinnati Reds in town
to play the New York Mets.
There’s a double header scheduled,
How much better could it get?

Cincinnati took the first game
by a score of three to nil.
My hot dog was delicious
Dad had a beer to swill.

The nightcap was a wild affair
The Mets won thirteen- twelve.
You could look it up, as Casey said,
if you should care to delve.

We rode the subway home that night
side by side, me and my Dad.
We reminisced about the game
Like the most knowledgeable fans

The Q44 from Flushing took us
up Queensboro Hill, ,
past Carvel and Booth Memorial,
I remember it well still.

My father turned to look at me
as five decades creased my brow.
Making us the self same age
What he was then, so I am now.

Thirty years, about, its been
Since last I saw my Dad.
The dead don't get to baseball games,
Which I think is rather sad.

They can't enjoy a summer night
on the wrong side of the grass.
And an ice cold beer is greatly missed-
They can't pour themselves a glass

In memory, we still can walk
With those who came before.
So I took my Dad to a baseball game
What was I waiting for?

poem by John F. McCullagh
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The Seven

From the time his boy could stand
The Dad had brought him on the Seven.
To see the Mets they both would go,
before he'd even learned to throw.

All through his childhood and past his teens.
They'd entrain to their field of dreams.
Their Mets found many ways to lose-
most years they had godawful teams.

So soon it was his time to go.
Children grow (Time flies they say) -
His son now has his place downtown
A few short miles and a world away.

Opening day is magical
once more it found them in the stands
Cheering loud, their voices hoarse,
as their team booked yet another loss.

After the excitement of the game
waiting on the platform for their trains
The two men hugged with obvious affection,
then entrained in opposite directions.

poem by John F. McCullagh
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A ma fille

O mon enfant, tu vois, je me soumets.
Fais comme moi : vis du monde éloignée ;
Heureuse ? non ; triomphante ? jamais.
-- Résignée ! --

Sois bonne et douce, et lève un front pieux.
Comme le jour dans les cieux met sa flamme,
Toi, mon enfant, dans l'azur de tes yeux
Mets ton âme !

Nul n'est heureux et nul n'est triomphant.
L'heure est pour tous une chose incomplète ;
L'heure est une ombre, et notre vie, enfant,
En est faite.

Oui, de leur sort tous les hommes sont las.
Pour être heureux, à tous, -- destin morose ! --
Tout a manqué. Tout, c'est-à-dire, hélas !
Peu de chose.

Ce peu de chose est ce que, pour sa part,
Dans l'univers chacun cherche et désire:
Un mot, un nom, un peu d'or, un regard,
Un sourire !

La gaîté manque au grand roi sans amours ;
La goutte d'eau manque au désert immense.
L'homme est un puits où le vide toujours
Recommence.

Vois ces penseurs que nous divinisons,
Vois ces héros dont les fronts nous dominent,
Noms dont toujours nos sombres horizons
S'illuminent !

Après avoir, comme fait un flambeau,
Ébloui tout de leurs rayons sans nombre,
Ils sont allés chercher dans le tombeau
Un peu d'ombre.

Le ciel, qui sait nos maux et nos douleurs,
Prend en pitié nos jours vains et sonores.
Chaque matin, il baigne de ses pleurs
Nos aurores.

Dieu nous éclaire, à chacun de nos pas,
Sur ce qu'il est et sur ce que nous sommes ;
Une loi sort des choses d'ici-bas,
Et des hommes !

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poem by Victor Hugo
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6-11 (true Story)

A softball game,
With two 7th grade teams.
In a open grass field kids play,
In the hot sun.
Along the first base line, were the moms
Cheering their girls on.
It was the top of the 8th inning,
No outs and Centrals down by one.
Junction City is up to bat,
Central out in the field.

It took four pitches to get the batter out.
Gale Anders is up next, strike one.
Turning to terror in the next swing of the bat.
The ball goes flying over the fence,
Missis all the moms, all but one,
Nursing her baby she didn’t see the ball coming.
The ball hits the baby in the head whose life has just begun,
Just three weeks ago ReBecca Purkey was born.

ReBecca’s mom rushes her to the hospital.
Where the doctors told her,
That she could go home after the MRI.
If anything happened within 24 hours call.
They called ReBecca’s mom with the MRI results,
They told her the ball shattered her skull,
Into something like a spider web.
But the skull repairs itself,
So not to be alarmed.

ReBecca lasted 23 hours then,
Her little brain just couldn’t take it anymore,
She started having seizures.
Taking her back to the doctor,
Her mom was scared and,
Didn’t understand what’s wrong with her baby,
That is perfect in every other way.

The doctors said that it’s unlikely,
ReBecca will ever walk, talk, or feed herself,
She will be a veggie.
If this child was to live.
Because she has a traumatic brain injury,
Which lead to the seizures,
And she has epilepsy.
Hard pill to swallow for her family.
One minute this baby was healthy and happy
The next doctors are telling them she will die.

P.S. My name is ReBecca Purkey this is the story of my life. we are not as medically advanced back then as we are today, We didn’t know as much about the brain that is why doctors sent me home. This shows you anyone can overcome anything. I am 18 and have now graduated from high school with a regular diploma and soon go to college, become an Autistic teacher. I will always have a brain injury and epilepsy but that doesn’t stop me from doing anything. I am ReBecca Purkey and this is my story, what’s yours?

poem by Mrs. Cynosure
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Mother! Oh Mother

Mother! oh mother!
Where are your children?
Where have they been?
Where have they lost?
Mother! oh mother
Am on you
Yet can't see you
Is you don't like me
Or you don't like us
Mother! your children
Some on edges
Many at peaks
Why are all not equal
Are all not your children?
Maa I understand you
You have lost your children
You are been polluted all over
Maa my mother
Please batter your creation
Batter and make it new
This is a humble request
From one of your children.

poem by Abhimanyu Kumar.s
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