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Auntie Rae's Sewing BasketAuntie Rae's wicker sewing basket
is filled with odds and ends and fabric bits,
nestled between needles and ribbons
and a jar filled with antique buttons,
Yellow satin, blue cotton, red silk,
ends of ribbons unused, saved with care,
each awaiting their place of honour
adorning blankets and teddy bears.
Spools of thread, cotton and nylon string,
black thread used to mend her garden gloves,
clear thread for finishing quilted pillows,
countless hues, all ready to sew.
Under a piece of tartan, a tomato sits,
made of fabric and struck through with straight pins,
each ready to hold a cloth in place
while swift fingers create tiny stitches.
A pair of black framed reading glasses
sits at the very top of the basket's contents,
waiting to be placed on Auntie Rae's
round face before she starts to sew.
Auntie Rae hums as she sews her quilts,
a tune from a long forgotten movie from her youth.
Her niece sits at her knee, enamoured
by the flash of silver in the lamplight.
Up, down, up, down, goes the
HomeIs it the place you remember the most?
A town born from the call of gold?
The sidewalks here are made of wood,
And the nights are long and cold.
Or is it where you were born?
A town between two lakes,
A place you don't quite remember
And it makes your heart just break.
I guess you could say I'm homesick,
Longing for a place to land,
But over the years, I've eased my fears
Of not knowing where I stand.
You see, I've started to be aware
That while life is short and fleeting,
It's the people in your life
That make the memories worth keeping.
They say home is where the heart is,
A place to lay your head,
But yet the only place I really belong
Is with the people that I've met
I've traveled near, I've traveled far,
I've seen so many places,
But yet the feel of home resides,
In family, friends and faces.
The Parlour IncidentOne day in July, I believe it was, I found myself sitting with several acquaintances in Christopher's parlour. It was one of those deliciously lazy afternoons which only the summer in her full glory can bring. The room had a wan, listless light to it, relaxing the other guests and myself as we languidly chatted over tea and crumpets. The air was also sluggishly heavy, dulling the senses to a slowly-blended calm engendered by the heat of St. Othniel's southerly climate.
At length, after much stimulating conversation, Christopher stood, producing a book of sheet music.
"What do you all say to a bit of music?" he asked.
"Certainly," I answered.
"Oh yes, please do darling!" Tabitha exclaimed, "he's quite the maestro."
Christopher laughed, shaking his head.
"Now, now love, I'd not go that far."
He strode over to the piano as the other guests urged him on. Ida entered the room bearing a merrily steaming teapot and more crumpets.
"More tea sirs?" she inquired, shooting sideways glances at her
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Lilyas has dedicated herself to making our community a brighter place with her vibrant artwork and infectious enthusiasm for interacting with others in our community. It has certainly paid off, as many deviants flock to her page on a daily basis to let her know how much of an inspiration she is. We absolutely agree, and couldn't let all that hard work go without recognition, so it's with great pride that we bestow the Deviousness Award for March 2014, to ... Read More