December 0

Blog Archive

Thu, 24.09.2009

WHEN MAHALIA SINGS by Quandra Prettyman.

We used to gather in the high window of the holiness church and, tip-toe, look in and laugh at the dresses, too small on the ladies, and how wretched they all looked-an old garage for a church, for pews, old wooden chairs.
It seemed a lame excuse for a church.

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New Poem Each Day

Poetry Corner

Whose children are these? Who do these children belong to? With no power to look over, He look at them sleeping, Exhaustion overwhelming hunger, barely Protect with burlap from the cold Cabin.... WHOSE CHILDREN ARE THESE? by Gearld Barrax.
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