Charlie


 * Poems That Were Written by Me:**

**Set Free to Heaven ** Do not wander from heaven’s might Silently, strafing and cautiously run Set free to heaven by a killer’s night Your scared so you flee from your awaiting light The rush of sanctuary is as nice as a nun Do not wander from heaven’s might

Love ones worry, and can’t feel alright They cry and wonder “Where is his son” Set free to heaven by a killer’s night

Lives are hurt and never right Some will wander, and are never done Do not wander from heaven’s might For some will not stand the sight of this time, where the killer has won Set free to heaven by a killer’s night This death is just life’s rite Grave eyes, coming from the devil’s gun Set free to heaven by a killer’s night We all lose the living fight

You continue on, from life you are shunned Do not wander from heaven’s might Set free to heaven by a killer’s night

**S**ometimes waiters will be the ones to undergo the **A**rduous work of making the **L**uscious-tasting **S**alsa using the salsa maker that is as awesome as a jet pack. **A**lways efficient, the salsa maker can give one so much joy that it will

**M**ake one scream “**A**celsior!” due to pure salsa making awesomeness. This beauty is known to **K**eep families together just by the sheer love. **E**verybody on Earth needs to be privileged by a salsa maker, for they **R**emain one of the world’s most amazing pieces of plastic on Earth.


 * 1) Once we started
 * 2) Our journey at sea
 * 3) Our minds were ecstatic ,
 * 4) Now we were free
 * 5) Our Journey at sea
 * 6) No boundaries or limitations,
 * 7) Now we were free,
 * 8) Life for us had just begun.
 * 9) No boundaries or limitations,
 * 10) We sailed on, saying goodbye
 * 11) Life for us had just begun.
 * 12) Now we were free
 * 13) Our minds were ecstatic
 * 14) Life for us had just begun
 * 15) Once we started.


 * Poem That Wasn't Written by Me:**

**Across the Bay** By Donald Davie A queer thing about those waters: there are no Birds there, or hardly any. I did not miss them, I do not remember Missing them, or thinking it uncanny. The beach so-called was a blinding splinter of limestone, A quarry outraged by hulls. We took pleasure in that: the emptiness, the hardness Of the light, the silence, and the water’s stillness. But this was the setting for one of our murderous scenes. This hurt, and goes on hurting: The venomous soft jelly, the undersides. We could stand the world if it were hard all over.

Birches by Robert Frost
When I see birches bend to the left and right Across the line of straighter darker trees, I like to think some boy's been swinging them. But swinging doesn't bend them down to stay. Ice-storms do that. Often you must have seen them Loaded with ice a sunny winter morning After a rain. They click upon themselves As the breeze rises, and turn many-colored As the stir cracks and crazes their enamel. Soon the sun's warmth makes them shed crystal shells Shattering and avalanching on the snow-crust--- Such heaps of broken glass to sweep away You'd think the inner dome of heaven had fallen. They are dragged to the withered bracken by the load, And they seem not to break; though once they are bowed So low for so long, they never right themselves: You may see their trunks arching in the woods Years afterwards, trailing their leaves on the ground Like girls on hands and knees that throw their hair Before them over their heads to dry in the sun. By I was going to say when Truth broke in With all her matter-of-fact about the ice-storm (Now am I free to be poetical?) I should prefer to have some boy bend them As he went out and in to fetch the cows--- Some boy too far from town to learn baseball, Whose only play was what he found for himself, Summer or winter, and could play alone. One by one he subdued his father's trees By riding them down over and over again Until he took the stiffness out of them, And not one by hung limp, not one was left For him to conquer. He learned all there was To learn about not launching out too soon And so not carrying the tree away Clear to the ground. He always kept his poise To the top branches, climbing carefully With the same pains you use to fill a cup Up to the brim, and even above the brim. Then he flung outward, feet first, with a swish, Kicking his way down through the air to the ground.

So was I once myself a swinger of birches; And so I dream of going back to be. It's when I'm weary of considerations, And life is too much like a pathless wood Where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs Broken across it, and one eye is weeping From a twig's having lashed across it open. I'd like to get away from earth a while And then come back to it and begin over. May no fate wilfully misunderstand me And half grant what I wish and snatch me away Not to return. Earth's the right place for love: I don't know where it's likely to go better. I'd like to go by climbing a birch tree, And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk //Toward// heaven, till the tree could bear no more, But dipped its top and set me down again. That would be good both going and coming back. One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.