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The Move On the last day of June 2011, I was finally finished packing and ready for our move to Baltimore. Poet Deep had left early that morning to come pick me and the children up. I was both excited and saddened all in one. I was excited because we were moving to be with my love and be amongst a community that I assumed was ideal. I was excited that I was going to be around “conscious” sisters who I had assumed viewed life the way I did, and had values and practices very much analogous to mine. The feelings of sadness came from me having to depart from my dad and mom. We arrived in Baltimore early July 1st. Poet Deep and I had been saving money prior to the move. With the money we saved, Poet Deep went ahead and made
In her article, Quindlen delivers her position to the massive mixed audience of the New York Times, drawing in readers with an emotional and humanizing lure; opening up about her family life and the deaths she endured. Later presenting the loss of her brother's wife and motherless children, Quindlen use this moment to start the engine of her position. Quindlen uses her experiences coupled with other authority figures, such as, the poet Emily Dickenson, Sherwin Nuland, doctor and professor from Yale, author Hope Edelman, and the President. These testimonies all connect to the lasting effects of death on the living, grief. She comes full circle, returning to her recently deceased sister-in-law; begging t...
Leslie Carter, Carter’s sister, died in 2012 because of drugs and alcohol. Since Carter had dealt with the same addictions and won he couldn’t “shake the feeling that Leslie would have found some truth, hope and direction” in his book “and that it might have helped save her life” (Carter 4). Carter was blamed for his sister’s death because he was never there for his sister. Instead of helping his sister get over some of the same struggles he suffered with, he was furthering his own career. Carter began to think that he was the cause of his sister’s death and that in some way he could have prevented it.The overwhelming feeling of guilt in Carter’s life intensified when he didn’t attend the funeral of his sister because he was afraid that his family members would blame him for Leslie’s death as well. The last time him and his sister spoke they did not end on good terms, which added to his feeling of shame. To appease his guilt, he wrote his autobiography so that hopefully other people could find guidance through his struggles and past mistakes. Walls’ first memories were those of poverty, but when she grew older she became successful and provided a good life for herself. Walls now lives in an apartment in New York City but she “could never enjoy the room without worrying about [her] Mom and Dad huddled on a sidewalk grate somewhere” (Walls 4). At the same time she “was embarrassed by them, too, and ashamed of [herself] for wearing pearls and living on Park Avenue while [her] parents were busy keeping warm and finding something to eat” (Walls 4). Walls has conflicting feelings: she feels embarrassed at the way her parent’s chosen lifestyle but at the same time she feels guilty for feeling this way. No matter how hard she tries, her parents will not accept her help because they took pride in
Her family life is depicted with contradictions of order and chaos, love and animosity, conventionality and avant-garde. Although the underlying story of her father’s dark secret was troubling, it lends itself to a better understanding of the family dynamics and what was normal for her family. The author doesn’t seem to suggest that her father’s behavior was acceptable or even tolerable. However, the ending of this excerpt leaves the reader with an undeniable sense that the author felt a connection to her father even if it wasn’t one that was desirable. This is best understood with her reaction to his suicide when she states, “But his absence resonated retroactively, echoing back through all the time I knew him. Maybe it was the converse of the way amputees feel pain in a missing limb.” (pg. 399)
Many folks go their whole lives without having to move. For them it is easy; they know the same people, have loads of friends, and never have to move away from their families. As with me, I was in a different situation. I grew up my entire life, all eighteen years of it, in a small town called Yorktown, Virginia. In my attempt to reach out for a better life style, my girlfriend and I decided we were going to move to Shreveport, Louisiana. Through this course of action, I realized that not two places in this country are exactly alike. I struggled with things at first, but I found some comforts of home here as well.
Nikki Giovanni and Linda Hogan both wrote poems in the 1970s about their grandmothers that seem totally different to the unaware reader. In actuality, they are very similar. These two poems, Legacies and Heritage, express the poet’s value of knowledge passed down from grandmother to granddaughter, from generation to generation. Even though the poems are composed and read very differently, the underlying message conveyed is the same, and each are valid first-hand accounts of legacies and heritages.
When Willy and Linda purchased their home in Brooklyn, it seemed far removed from the city. Willy was young and strong and he believed he had a future full of success. He and his sons cut the tree limbs that threatened his home and put up a hammock that he would enjoy with his children. The green fields filled his home with wonderful aromas. Over the years, while Willy was struggling to pay for his home, the city grew and eventually surrounded the house.
The author uses imagery, contrasting diction, tones, and symbols in the poem to show two very different sides of the parent-child relationship. The poem’s theme is that even though parents and teenagers may have their disagreements, there is still an underlying love that binds the family together and helps them bridge their gap that is between them.
When you are a military spouse, moving frequently is common, which makes finding a place to call home difficult. Colorado was where I was born and raised. However, Texas was home to me. I enjoyed the warm weather, and how I was only a fourteen hour drive from home. While living in Texas, I learned a lot about myself and grew as a person. I had a great career opportunity managing a 240 unit apartment complex, I had good friends and enjoyed everything Texas had to offer.
Many writers use powerful words to portray powerful messages. Whether a writer’s choice of diction is cheerful, bitter, or in Robert Hayden’s case in his poem “Those Winter Sundays,” dismal and painful, it is the diction that formulates the tone of the piece. It is the diction which Hayden so properly places that allows us to read the poem and picture the cold tension of his foster home, and envision the barren home where his poem’s inspiration comes from. Hayden’s tumultuous childhood, along with the unorthodox relationships with his biological parents and foster parents help him to create the strong diction that permeates the dismal tone of “Those Winter Sundays.” Hayden’s ability to both overcome his tribulations and generate enough courage
My 1st book of poetry – Good Times, published in 1969 was names as one of the 10 best books of the year by the New York times in 1969, and talked about the small joys of being an African-American family in poverty. In this selection, I had a special writing style, and I removed all punctuation and Capitalization from my poems while only using simple words and short phrases. I used this style to write my poems to focus the reader’s attention on the importance of the words that I used and their meaning.
Ferguson, Margaret W. , Mary Jo Salter, and Jon Stallworthy. The Norton Anthology Of Poetry. shorter fifth edition. New York, New York: W W Norton & Co Inc, 2005. print.
Have you ever had a day that you never wanted to end? The soothing sound of waves slowing crashing on the beach, the sweet smell of the salty pacific, freezing cold water nipping at your toes. That’s my paradise. Tampa Florida has been part of my life growing up, my grandparents have always lived there during the snowy winter months in Michigan. My family always travels to Florida to visit them over spring break and we always have an amazing time. But the spring break of 2012 was by far the best. Trekking to the beach every morning and soaking up the sun, playing volleyball and swimming with my family, venturing to new places and just exploring the city. I could not think of a more perfect vacation.
The shrill cries of my alarm echo across vermilion painted walls, stirring my consciousness into an aware state. It is precisely eight o’clock on a warm summer Monday; the distant cries of mockingbirds can be heard above the soft whirring of cars passing our genteel residential street. My ears scan the house; it is quiet – barely a sound other than the tinkling of tags as our pets navigate the living room. The still morning air brought realization, with no children running around Mother must have already left for work. Never leaving my lax position I stretch and sigh, it is nice to not have to baby-sit my sister’s kids – my nieces and nephew – but I do miss the mornings where my mother would still kiss me goodbye.
In 2014, at 6:20 in the morning my family and I were getting ready to ride to Atlanta to the airport. We were on our way to Las Vegas, Nevada. Everyone was happy and ready to leave Phenix City. The flight was about 5 hours. Everyone got their tickets and were ready to board the plane. Everybody got on the plane and fell into a deep sleep. About 4 hours later, the flight attendants came around with the snacks. When we arrived in Las Vegas everybody was hungry and ready to grub at an expensive restaurant. Omg!! How can you go to an expensive restaurant and the food looks good and smells good but it’s horrific. No one was expecting that.
Everything seems like it’s falling out of place, it’s going too fast, and my mind is out of control. I think these thoughts as I lay on my new bed, in my new room, in this new house, in this new city, wondering how I got to this place. “My life was fine,” I say to myself, “I didn’t want to go.” Thinking back I wonder how my father felt as he came home to the house in Stockton, knowing his wife and kids left to San Diego to live a new life. Every time that thought comes to my mind, it feels as if I’m carrying a ten ton boulder around my heart; weighing me down with guilt. The thought is blocked out as I close my eyes, picturing my old room; I see the light brown walls again and the vacation pictures of the Florida and camping trip stapled to them. I can see the photo of me on the ice rink with my friends and the desk that I built with my own hands. I see my bed; it still has my checkered blue and green blanket on it! Across from the room stands my bulky gray television with its back facing the black curtain covered closet. My emotions run deep, sadness rages through my body with a wave of regret. As I open my eyes I see this new place in San Diego, one large black covered bed and a small wooden nightstand that sits next to a similar closet like in my old room. When I was told we would be moving to San Diego, I was silenced from the decision.