Friday, January 8, 2016

A “Tom Girl”

“Somer, it time to go to Big Momma’s house!” shouted her baby brother. “Come on, it is
time to go!”
Every summer for two week, Somer and her baby brother would go to their
grandmother’s house in the country.
Somer loved spending time with her Big Momma in her garden, and sitting on the front
porch learning all about her family’s history.
“What was my mother like as a girl?” Somer would ask her Big Momma. “Did she look
and act like me?”
“She looked just like you,” replied Big Momma.
Early the next morning, Somer’s baby brother got up to go fishing with his friends. Now,
during the school year, Somer had to wear a pretty dress, but while at Big Momma’s
house, she wore blue jeans with holes in the knees.
“What do you call yourself doing?” asked Somer’s baby brother. “You can’t go fishing
with the boys.”
“And, why not,” said Somer. “I will catch a bigger fish than all of you boys put together.”
“You are nothing but an old Tom Boy,” teased Somer’s baby brother. “You will be afraid
to bait your hook with a worm, or even catch a fish.”
After retrieving a cane pole from the shed, Somer slowly walked behind the boys to the
"Hey, where are the worms!” shouted Somer.
Somer then went over to the can of worms and got a big juicy one out. She baited her
hook and tossed the line out in the lake. Some of her brother’s friends just stared in
About thirty minutes later, Somer’s pole was almost snatched from her hands. And,
with all of her might, she pulled straight up.
“I got a fish!” shouted Somer. “And, it is a big one!”
“Don’t lose it!” shouted Somer’s baby brother. “You have a catfish!”
Seconds later, the biggest fish Somer or any of the boys came sailing straight out of the
water. Somer reeled in her fish and took it off of the hook and into the bucket.
The other boys just stared in amazement.
“Somer, were exactly where you fishing?” asked the other boys. “Show me how you
cast in your line.”
Somer’s brother stood by the bank.
Eventually, Somer’s brother broke his silence, "Hey, sis, can you show me how to fish?"

Mr. Geary Smith
119 Kollman
Mexia, Texas 76667
(254) 562-2720

Wednesday, May 6, 2015

Greedy Boy - A short moral story for kids

Angry man wakingThere lived a twin brother called Sam and Tom! They were identical twins, even their mother found it too hard to differentiate between them during the initial months of birth. However, they were like two poles when it comes to everything other than their appearance. They neither agree with anything nor do they share even one single trait!
Sam had no friends, whereas for Tom the world was friendship. Sam loved sweets and Tom loved to eat spicy foods. Sam was mommy’s pet and Tom was daddy’s pet. While Sam was generous, Tom was greedy!
As they grew up, their father wanted to share his fortune equally. However, Tom did not agree and he argued that whoever is more intelligent and strong, will gain higher share of wealth than other.
Sam agreed. Their father decided to organize a competition between the two. And they ordered the two sons to walk as long as they can in and they should return home before the sunset. Whoever covers the longer distance and returns home before sunset will get huge amount of wealth proportionate to the distance they covered. They don’t carry watch to calculate time.
Both started to walk a long way during a sunny day. Sam walked slowly and steadily, while Tom urged to win over Sam started to run instantly.
The distance they cover until mid-noon will be equal to the distance they would reach home before sunset. It was mid-noon and Sam decided to return back as he could reach home on time.
However, Tom, with his greediness to earn more wealth, did not turn his way back home even after mid-noon. He walked two times longer distance that what Sam was covered and decided to return back before the sunset. He urged to return home as the Sun turned orange in the evening. Unfortunately, he could not even make half way to home and the moon rises.
He lost the race and was defeated because of greediness!


Tuesday, April 14, 2015


 Fanny Howe, 1940

Loneliness is not an accident or a choice.
It’s an uninvited and uncreated companion.
It slips in beside you when you are not aware that a
choice you are making will have consequences.
It does you no good even though it’s like one of the
elements in the world that you cannot exist without.
It takes your hand and walks with you. It lies down
with you. It sits beside you. It’s as dark as a shadow
but it has substance that is familiar.
It swims with you and swings around on stools.
It boards the ferry and leans on the motel desk.

Nothing great happens as a result of loneliness.
Your character flaws remain in place. You still stop in
with friends and have wonderful hours among them,
but you must run as soon as you hear it calling.
It does call. And you climb the stairs obediently,
pushing aside books and notes to let it know that you
have returned to it, all is well.
If you don’t answer its call, you sense that it will sink
towards a deep gravity and adopt a limp.

From loneliness you learn very little. It pulls you
back, it pulls you down.

It’s the manifestation of a vow never made but kept:
I will go home now and forever in solitude.

And after that loneliness will accompany you to
every airport, train station, bus depot, café, cinema,
and onto airplanes and into cars, strange rooms and
offices, classrooms and libraries, and it will hang near
your hand like a habit.
But it isn’t a habit and no one can see it.

It’s your obligation, and your companion warms itself
against you.
You are faithful to it because it was the only vow you
made finally, when it was unnecessary.

If you figured out why you chose it, years later, would
you ask it to go?
How would you replace it?

No, saying good-bye would be too embarrassing.
First you might cry.
Because shame and loneliness are almost one.
Shame at existing in the first place. Shame at being
visible, taking up space, breathing some of the sky,
sleeping in a whole bed, asking for a share.

Loneliness feels so much like shame, it always seems
to need a little more time on its own.

Wednesday, April 1, 2015

The Dream

Love, if I weep it will not matter,
  And if you laugh I shall not care;
Foolish am I to think about it,
  But it is good to feel you there.

Love, in my sleep I dreamed of waking, —
  White and awful the moonlight reached
Over the floor, and somewhere, somewhere,
  There was a shutter loose, —it screeched!

Swung in the wind, — and no wind blowing! —
  I was afraid, and turned to you,
Put out my hand to you for comfort, —
  And you were gone!  Cold, cold as dew,

Under my hand the moonlight lay!
  Love, if you laugh I shall not care,
But if I weep it will not matter, —
  Ah, it is good to feel you there!

Edna St. Vincent Millay1892 - 1950

Tuesday, March 24, 2015


You do not do, you do not do
Any more, black shoe
In which I have lived like a foot
For thirty years, poor and white,
Barely daring to breathe or Achoo.
Daddy, I have had to kill you.
You died before I had time--
Marble-heavy, a bag full of God,
Ghastly statue with one gray toe
Big as a Frisco seal
And a head in the freakish Atlantic
Where it pours bean green over blue
In the waters off beautiful Nauset.
I used to pray to recover you.
Ach, du.
In the German tongue, in the Polish town
Scraped flat by the roller
Of wars, wars, wars.
But the name of the town is common.
My Polack friend
Says there are a dozen or two.
So I never could tell where you
Put your foot, your root,
I never could talk to you.
The tongue stuck in my jaw.
It stuck in a barb wire snare.
Ich, ich, ich, ich,
I could hardly speak.
I thought every German was you.
And the language obscene
An engine, an engine
Chuffing me off like a Jew.
A Jew to Dachau, Auschwitz, Belsen.
I began to talk like a Jew.
I think I may well be a Jew.
The snows of the Tyrol, the clear beer of Vienna
Are not very pure or true.
With my gipsy ancestress and my weird luck
And my Taroc pack and my Taroc pack
I may be a bit of a Jew.
I have always been scared of you,
With your Luftwaffe, your gobbledygoo.
And your neat mustache
And your Aryan eye, bright blue.
Panzer-man, panzer-man, O You--
Not God but a swastika
So black no sky could squeak through.
Every woman adores a Fascist,
The boot in the face, the brute
Brute heart of a brute like you.
You stand at the blackboard, daddy,
In the picture I have of you,
A cleft in your chin instead of your foot
But no less a devil for that, no not
Any less the black man who
Bit my pretty red heart in two.
I was ten when they buried you.
At twenty I tried to die
And get back, back, back to you.
I thought even the bones would do.
But they pulled me out of the sack,
And they stuck me together with glue.
And then I knew what to do.
I made a model of you,
A man in black with a Meinkampf look
And a love of the rack and the screw.
And I said I do, I do.
So daddy, I'm finally through.
The black telephone's off at the root,
The voices just can't worm through.
If I've killed one man, I've killed two--
The vampire who said he was you
And drank my blood for a year,
Seven years, if you want to know.
Daddy, you can lie back now.
There's a stake in your fat black heart
And the villagers never liked you.
They are dancing and stamping on you.
They always knew it was you.
Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I'm through.

by Sylvia Plath

Saturday, March 14, 2015

A Blue Valentine

For Aline

Right Reverend Bishop Valentinus,
Sometime of Interamna, which is called Ferni,
Now of the delightful Court of Heaven,
I respectfully salute you,
I genuflect
And I kiss your episcopal ring.
It is not, Monsignore,
The fragrant memory of your holy life,
Nor that of your shining and joyous martyrdom,
Which causes me now to address you.
But since this is your august festival, Monsignore,
It seems appropriate to me to state
According to a venerable and agreeable custom,
That I love a beautiful lady.
Her eyes, Monsignore,
Are so blue that they put lovely little blue reflections
On everything that she looks at,
Such as a wall
Or the moon
Or my heart.
It is like the light coming through blue stained glass,
Yet not quite like it,
For the blueness is not transparent,
Only translucent.
Her soul's light shines through,
But her soul cannot be seen.
It is something elusive, whimsical, tender, wanton, infantile, wise
And noble.
She wears, Monsignore, a blue garment,
Made in the manner of the Japanese.
It is very blue-
I think that her eyes have made it more blue,
Sweetly staining it
As the pressure of her body has graciously given it form.
Loving her, Monsignore,
I love all her attributes;
But I believe
That even if I did not love her
I would love the blueness of her eyes,
And her blue garment, made in the manner of the Japanese.
I have never before troubled you with a request.
The saints whose ears I chiefly worry with my pleas
are the most exquisite and maternal Brigid,
Gallant Saint Stephen, who puts fire in my blood,
And your brother bishop, my patron,
The generous and jovial Saint Nicholas of Bari.
But, of your courtesy, Monsignore,
Do me this favour:
When you this morning make your way
To the Ivory Throne that bursts into bloom with roses
because of her who sits upon it,
When you come to pay your devoir to Our Lady,
I beg you, say to her:
"Madame, a poor poet, one of your singing servants yet on earth,
Has asked me to say that at this moment he is especially grateful to you
For wearing a blue gown".

by Joyce Kilmer