Lawns Quotes

Authors: A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z
Categories: A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z
a-lot-parts-la-are-interchangeable-with-suburbs-in-joburg-very-big-ostentatious-houses-with-palm-trees-lawns-lawns-are-important-never-neill-blomkamp
yet-he-could-not-enjoy-walk-in-morning-especially-bougainvillaea-looks-handmade-lawns-are-always-lawns-it-is-true-indeed-that-dogs-smell-fear-cats-dont-say-douglas-woolf
i-had-not-seen-lawns-till-fifth-grade-big-green-lawns
with-upper-middle-class-lawns-theres-more-hidden-whereas-with-working-class-poor-lawns-theres-more-out-to-see-it-just-sits-right-out-there-very-honest-like-people
some-lawns-have-all-cheer-old-cemeteries-richard-brookhiser
somewhere-long-way-away-people-are-doing-sensible-things-like-mowing-lawns-digging-gardens-michael-palin
comfort-has-its-place-but-it-seems-rude-to-visit-another-country-dressed-as-if-youve-come-to-mow-its-lawns-david-sedaris
i-have-to-admit-that-ever-since-i-started-to-ripup-lawns-rich-people-i-have-felt-lot-calmer-andrew-james-pritchard
and-that-heart-which-was-wild-garden-was-given-to-him-who-only-loved-trim-lawns-and-imbecile-carried-princess-into-slavery-antoine-de-saintexupery
william-penn-would-be-great-pen-name-but-for-love-letters-to-manicured-lawns-trees-benches-best-name-would-be-nicholas-parks-jarod-kintz
some-ideas-like-dandelions-in-lawns-strike-tenaciously-you-may-pull-off-top-but-root-remains-drives-down-suckers-may-even-sprout-again-elizabeth-bowen
you-have-to-get-over-color-green-you-have-to-quit-associating-beauty-with-gardens-lawns-you-have-to-get-used-to-inhuman-scale-you-have-to-wallace-stegner
we-must-plant-trees-grow-gardens-instead-lawns-ride-bicycles-when-we-can-support-responsible-local-businesses-over-big-brands-bryant-mcgill
ill-toss-my-coins-in-fountain-look-for-clovers-in-grassy-lawns-search-for-shooting-stars-in-night-cross-my-fingers-dream-on-tracy-chapman
the-summer-night-was-settling-upon-neighborhood-like-dark-lace-veil-casting-dappled-shadows-on-roofs-sidewalks-lawns-victoria-kahler
forty-percent-united-states-drains-into-mississippi-its-agriculture-its-golf-courses-its-domestic-runoff-from-our-lawns-roads-ultimately-where-does-it-go-downstream-into-gulf
we-realized-that-version-world-our-parents-rendered-for-us-was-not-world-they-really-believed-in-that-for-all-their-caretaking-bitching-about-crabgrass-they-didnt-give-damn-about
we-dont-have-lot-churches-in-america-we-have-lot-really-nice-brick-buildings-on-finely-manicured-lawns-just-because-someone-says-they-are-church-paul-washer
its-just-as-easy-to-buy-12000-watch-in-east-hampton-as-it-is-to-pick-up-carton-milk-new-homeowners-are-impatient-that-they-landscape-their-front-lawns-with-mature-gardens-full-gr
the-castle-grounds-were-gleaming-in-sunlight-as-though-freshly-painted-cloudless-sky-smiled-at-itself-in-smoothly-sparkling-lake-satingreen-lawns-rippled-occasionally-in-gentle-b
i-wasnt-good-at-sciences-i-wasnt-good-enough-athlete-the-only-thing-i-could-do-was-mow-lawns-so-i-thought-that-writing-teaching-was-what-i-wanted-to-do
home-would-not-be-home-to-me-without-lawn-if-there-are-as-ive-recently-read-twentyfive-million-home-lawns-in-united-states-at-least-fifty-million-katharine-sergeant-angell-white
Despite an icy northeast wind huffing across the bay I sneak out after dark, after my mother falls asleep clutching her leather Bible, and I hike up the rutted road to the frosted meadow to stand in mist, my shoes in muck, and toss my echo against the moss-covered fieldstone corners of the burned-out church where Sunday nights in summer for years Father Thomas, that mad handsome priest, would gather us girls in the basement to dye the rose cotton linen cut-outs that the deacon's daughter, a thin beauty with short white hair and long trim nails, would stitch by hand each folded edge then steam-iron flat so full of starch, stiffening fabric petals, which we silly Sunday school girls curled with quick sharp pulls of a scissor blade, forming clusters of curved petals the younger children assembled with Krazy glue and fuzzy green wire, sometimes adding tissue paper leaves, all of us gladly laboring like factory workers rather than have to color with crayon stubs the robe of Christ again, Christ with his empty hands inviting us to dine, Christ with a shepherd's staff signaling to another flock of puffy lambs, or naked Christ with a drooping head crowned with blackened thorns, and Lord how we laughed later when we went door to door in groups, visiting the old parishioners, the sick and bittersweet, all the near dead, and we dropped our bikes on the perfect lawns of dull neighbors, agnostics we suspected, hawking our handmade linen roses for a donation, bragging how each petal was hand-cut from a pattern drawn by Father Thomas himself, that mad handsome priest, who personally told the Monsignor to go fornicate himself, saying he was a disgruntled altar boy calling home from a phone booth outside a pub in North Dublin, while I sat half-dressed, sniffing incense, giddy and drunk with sacrament wine stains on my panties, whispering my oath of unholy love while wiggling uncomfortably on the mad priest's lap, but God he was beautiful with a fine chiseled chin and perfect teeth and a smile that would melt the Madonna, and God he was kind with a slow gentle touch, never harsh or too quick, and Christ how that crafty devil could draw, imitate a rose petal in perfect outline, his sharp pencil slanted just so, the tip barely touching so that he could sketch and drink, and cough without jerking, without ruining the work, or tearing the tissue paper, thin as a membrane, which like a clean skin arrived fresh each Saturday delivered by the dry cleaners, tucked into the crisp black vestment, wrapped around shirt cardboard, pinned to protect the high collar.

Bob Thurber
despite-icy-northeast-wind-huffing-across-bay-i-sneak-out-after-dark-after-my-mother-falls-asleep-clutching-her-leather-bible-i-hike-up-rutted-road-to-frosted-meadow-to-stand-in-
Have you ever wondered What happens to all the poems people write? The poems they never let anyone else read? Perhaps they are Too private and personal Perhaps they are just not good enough. Perhaps the prospect of such a heartfelt expression being seen as clumsy shallow silly pretentious saccharine unoriginal sentimental trite boring overwrought obscure stupid pointless or simply embarrassing is enough to give any aspiring poet good reason to hide their work from public view. forever. Naturally many poems are IMMEDIATELY DESTROYED. Burnt shredded flushed away Occasionally they are folded Into little squares And wedged under the corner of An unstable piece of furniture (So actually quite useful) Others are hidden behind a loose brick or drainpipe or sealed into the back of an old alarm clock or put between the pages of AN OBSCURE BOOK that is unlikely to ever be opened. someone might find them one day, BUT PROBABLY NOT The truth is that unread poetry Will almost always be just that. DOOMED to join a vast invisible river of waste that flows out of suburbia. well Almost always. On rare occasions, Some especially insistent pieces of writing will escape into a backyard or a laneway be blown along a roadside embankment and finally come to rest in a shopping center parking lot as so many things do It is here that something quite Remarkable takes place two or more pieces of poetry drift toward each other through a strange force of attraction unknown to science and ever so slowly cling together to form a tiny, shapeless ball. Left undisturbed, this ball gradually becomes larger and rounder as other free verses confessions secrets stray musings wishes and unsent love letters attach themselves one by one. Such a ball creeps through the streets Like a tumbleweed for months even years If it comes out only at night it has a good Chance of surviving traffic and children and through a slow rolling motion AVOIDS SNAILS (its number one predator) At a certain size, it instinctively shelters from bad weather, unnoticed but otherwise roams the streets searching for scraps of forgotten thought and feeling. Given time and luck the poetry ball becomes large HUGE ENORMOUS: A vast accumulation of papery bits That ultimately take to the air, levitating by The sheer force of so much unspoken emotion. It floats gently above suburban rooftops when everybody is asleep inspiring lonely dogs to bark in the middle of the night. Sadly a big ball of paper not matter how large and buoyant, is still a fragile thing. Sooner or LATER it will be surprised by a sudden gust of wind Beaten by driving rain and REDUCED in a matter of minutes to a billion soggy shreds. One morning everyone will wake up to find a pulpy mess covering front lawns clogging up gutters and plastering car windscreens. Traffic will be delayed children delighted adults baffled unable to figure out where it all came from Stranger still Will be the Discovery that Every lump of Wet paper Contains various faded words pressed into accidental verse. Barely visible but undeniably present To each reader they will whisper something different something joyful something sad truthful absurd hilarious profound and perfect No one will be able to explain the Strange feeling of weightlessness or the private smile that remains Long after the street sweepers have come and gone.

Shaun Tan
have-you-ever-wondered-what-happens-to-all-poems-people-write-the-poems-they-never-let-anyone-else-read-perhaps-they-are-too-private-personal-perhaps-they-are-just-not-good-enoug
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