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Take our short survey and tell us. The poets and photographers were not in touch during this process, though the poets did record themselves reading their works. The audio was integrated into the project. With summer waning and a holiday weekend in the United States, it seemed a good time to read poetry and flip through photos. Below are two of the pieces, highlights of the images and some reflections from the photographers. For more from the photographers, click here. This drive along the road the bend the banks behind the wheel I am called Mommy. My name is Mommy on these drives the sand and brush the end of winter we pass.

You in the rearview double buckled back center my love. A hut in a field lone standing. The thatched roof has caught spark what flew from walls the spark apart from rock from stable meaning. Large car steady at the curve palest light driest day a field of rocks we are not poor sealed in windows.

You hum in the back. I do not know what to say how far to go the winter near dead as we drive you do not understand word for word the word for you is little. But you hear how it feels always. The music plays you swing your feet. And I see it I Mommy the edge but do not point do not say look as we pass the heads gold and blowing these dry grasses eaten in fear by man and horses.

Harvey said. In our cars we are our own planets. I ask questions. She says things.

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I search the rearview mirror for gestures and expressions. Sign up here to get future installments delivered to your inbox.

The Internet Movie Script Database (IMSDb)

Next month new dirt and seed will fill holes, grass will sprout and all will be as it once was. So it must be as tulips bloom in Auschwitz. Listen to the sigh of leather breath compressed, the law books that hold the gripes, slights, and accusations of generations. Thus began the legal game of huckle-buckle-beanstalk, find the deep pocket, figure out who set it all in motion, show the jury what was first careening down the tracks.

Helen, whose name would recur endlessly in legal briefs, Palsgraf v. Echoed voices in the night. I imagine she pens them by hand, even in her sleep; while mere mortals only dream, she is alive in the past and present — sculpts Cleopatra In admiration or pity, she brings life to voices she hears clearly, intimate conversations she shares with her readers, plants them in pages, the rich earth she cultivates in her garden of truths; they sprout and blossom, these voices that remind us we are all human, that what we preserve makes the world more beautiful.

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Annie Hall Script at IMSDb.

I walk the path of life aching for reality-- grasping only its shadows. I walk the path of life hoping for peace surrounded by chaos. I walk the path of life needing love, never sure of its definition. I walk the path of life crying for answers carrying an endless list of questions. I walk the path of life wrestling for meaning.

Love Poems for Her

Then in faith I step off into the Abyss and fall into the mystery of the Eternal. Last Season Polly Brody The tulip poplar bears its bounty of salmon and lemon timely in its season, after four-pointed leaves have opened their green palms to May. Exotic and surprising it always seems, to see the tall tree come to flower, not an ornamental shrub cultivated and cosseted in my garden. And how spendthrift it is, the rich petals cast down to litter in pastel profusion my patio stones a scant week after blooming.

The tulip poplar does not know this is its last season. Men are scheduled to mount its great mast, crampons and ropes securing them. Chain saws will chew, limb after limb, from top to base severing the laddered arms from trunk. Each will topple with sighing foliage to the final grounded thump.

The nude, stout torso will be sectioned, length by length sky-reaching tree made pygmy, brought down to stump. The tulip poplar blooms as ever now; it does not know this is its last season. Will you look upon me kindly for the years I was here. What did I accomplish within my span of time. Was I a good man to the folks I left behind. Take me home to rest in that graveyard by the sea. Near the chapel at Saint Johns, where the bells will ring for me. Do not send me flowers nor shed yourself a tear - gather round my old friends and celebrate with cheer.


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Sing my favorite song then lower me in the ground - cover me with good earth, no more to make a sound. Needing strength and courage. Sweet Jesus hold my hand. Help me through the journey. To your promise land.

My favorite best picture Oscar winner: Annie Hall

As I say my last good-bye, I would be so glad - if you smiled upon the memory, of those yesterdays we had. It could be the reason the leaves are off all the trees, the pine needles as well, the evergreens green no more. Maybe there is no moon because there is no moon. Could I have slept through the screams and all the other sounds of ripping and crashing politicians sucking wind, wind howling classical and country music, Miley Cyrus on her wrecking ball hitting the bricks on the way out of the Galaxy. All my lost keys and books and socks, the high school yearbook, the Christmas card list whooshed away in a blink.

Just stuff is what it is, or was. All I miss and wish I had in my mug right now is sugar and cream or some chariot swinging sweet and low. The fewer and older priests face us robed in apologies. Shrill tailors of God's message. Costumed nuns have died away replaced by off the rack laity. The churning suits and dresses That draped across the pews have worn thin and sparse.

And churches are cast off Like Good Will overcoats. And strictures are raggedly observed.


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Yet some of us still wear faith, Displaying hand-me-downs in a church no longer fashionable. We're not dressed as we were, and unsure of holy style, but hopeful of our future ensemble. Through the picture window, Long Island Sound is choppy today, more black than blue, hitting the rocks with a white that foams into firecracker snakes on Independence Day. Water boils, but there is no whistling to battle the sound of breaking waves.

Cars woke me this morning, but the horn of the gull lulled me back, introducing my new day with light and song.

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Misjudging the curves of the pan, I spill when I pour, wishing I had labeled all the boxes. I walk to the window, tea in hand, waves recede, snap back over. Outside it is below freezing, but inside, the sun heats my new home with light carried in by the song of crying gulls. As though anyone, you included, could stop the ache in the knobbed fingers of the woman who hunched hours over the cloth knotting fringe and straightening filaments born from the captive diligence of mulberry silkworms to rest neatly whorled on your shoulders and ring your neck without a thread other than elegance.

The path narrow, the path led Through the woods, of roots Of rock, bush and birds red; One may search of the expected, Yet find another of love's method. The trail came round to the ledge, A great out-crop to view the falls; For here a nature blooms well-bred, For here the verdant does so pledge, As trees green, strong, adorn the edge. Modest he pined for lovers' presence, And shied when found them embraced; For this is the place of such an essence, For this land of favor is calm, quiescent, Yet does portend of another pleasance. He hiked now by the high fair ridge, Where paths cross, flowers greet; Down through pines, over the bridge, To an opening, now grown over and hid, Where he heard children's laughter bid.

Searching long did he for these, The impish young lads and lasses; They giggled and ran, played with glee, Surely they hid behind the great trees, Yet not seeing, he knew just of the breeze. There it stands as a beacon of fine simpler times, Alone with not a wall, or window or floor as friend; A forest-house stone chimney, errant and bare, climbs Towards the sky, as to ever to witness that here, sublime, A family lived of generations; the loved children grew kind. The Birches I awoke this warm summer morn As usual to sun's reaching thorns, And cast my eyes out to the field To find a drowsy apparition yield!

Surely these queenly trees have come To honor the oak, are yet to walk home, Perhaps they are to stay in this mist, For they seem to firm, and not to list, To grace this land ever not in tryst; I must with haste go greet them now, For to give carriage below wiling boughs And be blessed beneath leaved shroud, Will be as to live within heaven's crowd. I entreat thee lithe birches, Stay on forever, within my blithe verses.

I named him Moses for his red jauntiness, the good part when he split the Red Sea, not the bad part wandering the Sinai for 40 years. Moses, his eager snips at bits of food dropped into his bowl; the whiff of Sunday morning in his smile. I see his empty bowl each day on the kitchen counter and say a prayer for Moses, put on my red sweater, dance my fishy dance.

For a time I had it all.