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Let me climb the intellectual bandwagon of Chamara Sumanapala of the Sunday Nation in Sirilanka, to recognize a world literary fact that Taras Shevchenko was the grandfather of literature that paid wholesome tribute to Ukrainian nationalism. In this juncture it has to  be argued that it is ideological shrewdness that has taken Russia to Crimean province of Ukraine but nothing like justifiable law and constitutionalism. Let it also be my opportune time for paying tribute to Taras Shevchenko, as at the same time I pay my homage to Ukrainian literature which is also a cultural symbol of Ukrainian statehood. Just like most of the European gurus of literature and art of his time, Taras Shevchenko received little formal education. The same way Shakespeare and Pushkin as well as Alexander Sholenystisn happened to receive education that was clearly less than what is received by many children around the world today.
Like Lucanos the Greek writer who wrote the biblical gospel according to saint Luke, Taras Shevchenko was Born to parents who were serfs. Taras himself began his life being a slave. He was 24 years a serf. He spent only one fourth of his relatively short life of 47 years as a free man. The same way Miguel Cervantes and Victor Marie Hugo had substantial part of their lives in prison. Nevertheless, this largely self-educated former serf became the headmaster, the guru and fountain of Ukrainian cultural consciousness through his paradigmatic literature written basically in the indigenous Ukrainian language. He was a prototype in this capacity given that no any other writer had made neither intellectual nor even cultural stretch in this direction by that time.
And thus in current Ukraine of today, Taras Shevchenko is a national hero of literature and collective nationalism. But due to the prevailing political tension between Ukraine and Russia, his Bicentenary on March 9, 2014 was marred by hoi polloi of dishonesty ideology and sludge of degenerative politics. For many us who derive pleasure from literature and diverse literary civilizations we join the community of Ukrainians to remember Taras Shevchenko the exemplary of patriotism, Taras Shevchenko the poet as well cultural symbol of complete state of Ukraine.
There is always some common historical experience among the childhood conditions of great writers.  In the same childhood version as Wright, Fydor, Achebe, Nkrumah, Ousmane and many others, Shevchenko was born on March 9, 1814 in Moryntsi, a small village in Central Ukraine. His parents were serfs and therefore Taras was a serf by birth. At the age of eight, he received some lessons from the local Precentor or person who facilitated worshippers at the Church and was introduced to Ukrainian literature, the same way Malcolm X and Richard Wright learned to read and write while in prison. His childhood was miserable as the family was poor. Hard work and acute poverty ate up the lives of the family, and Tara’s mother died so soon when he was nine. His father remarried and the stepmother treated Taras very badly in a neurotic manner. Two years later, Taras’s father also passed away. Just in the same economic dint poverty ate up Karl Marx until the disease known us typhus killed her wife Jenny Westphelian Marx.
The 19th century Russian Empire was largely feudal, Saint Petersburg being the exception, just like the current Moscow. It was the door and the window to the West. Shevchenko’s timely and lucky break in life came when his erratic landlord left for Saint Petersburg, taking his treasured serf with him. Since, Taras had shown some merit and knack as a painter, his landlord sent him to informally learn painting with a master. It was fashionable and couth for a landlord to have a court painter in those days of Europe. However, sorrow had to build the bridges in that through his teacher, Shevchenko met other famous artists. Impressed by the artistic and literary merit of the young and honesty serf, they decided to raise money to buy his freedom out of serfdom. In 1838, Taras Shevchenko became a free man, a free Ukrainian and Free European.
As it goes the classical Marxist adage; freedom gives birth to creativity. It happened only two years later, Taras Shevchenko’s collection of poetry, Kobzar, was published, giving him instant fame like the Achebean bush fire in the harmattan wind. A kobzar is a Ukrainian string instrument and a bard who plays it is also known as a Kobzar. Taras Shevchenko also enjoyed some literary epiphany by coming to be known as Kobzar after the publication of his collection.
He was dutifully speaking of the plight of his people in his language, not only through music, but even poetry. However,  there were unfair and censuring restrictions in publishing books in Ukrainian. But lucky enough, the book had to be published outside Russia.

Shevchenko continued to write and paint without verve. Showing considerable merit in both. In 1845, he wrote ‘My Testament’ which is perhaps his oeuvre and best known work. In his poem, he begs the reader to bury him in his native Ukraine after he dies. Not in Russia. His immense love for the land of his birth is epitomized in these verses. Later, he wrote another memorable and compelling piece, ‘The Dream’, which expresses his dream of a day when all the serfs are free. When Ukraine will be free from Russia. Sadly, Taras Shevchenko came to his demise just a week before this dream was realized in 1861.
Chamara Sumanapala wrote in the Sirilanka Sunday Nation of 16 march 2014 that, Taras lived a free man until 1847 when he was arrested for being a member of a secret organization, Brotherhood of St Cyril and Methodius. He was imprisoned in Saint Petersburg and later banished as a private with the Russian military to Orenburg garrison. He was not to be allowed to read and paint, but his overseers hardly enforced this edict. After Czar Nicholas II died in 1855, he received a pardon in 1857, but was initially not allowed to return to Saint Petersburg. He was however, allowed to return to his native Ukraine. He returned to Saint Petersburg and died there on March 10, 1861, a day after his 47th birthday. Originally buried there, his remains were brought to Ukraine and buried in Kaniv, in a place now known as Taras Hill. The site became a symbol of Ukrainian nationalism. In 1978, an engineer named Oleksa Hirnyk burned himself in protest to what he called the suppression of Ukrainian history, language and culture by the Soviet authorities.
Abigail Shaw Dec 2014
12 in the dark, I sit awake by the window,
Across from Hyde Park, and the feel of the wind oh,
Sparking a bark, Nana's remarking from below,
Canine matriarch against the boy with no shadow,
Time's flickering by and I begin to rust,
Consumed, I'm high with lust just for pixie dust,
But to fly you must be robust and adjust,
And I can't, though I try, I just look with disgust,
Sitting on the sill, I think of him mournfully,
Hard as I try, I can't think of him scornfully,
Despite the fact that he talks so informally,
He says my name and I know I was born to be,
Part of the family, I think of them nightly,
Tootles, the twins, Curly, Nibs and Slightly,
Second star to the right, it shines so brightly,
Hope he might come back if I ask politely,
He doesn't apologize, he's immature and he's cold,
Lives in a land without rules so he can't be controlled,
But as soon as I saw him I knew I'd struck green-gold,
Peter Pan is a joke that just never gets old,
Don't smile at crocodiles down in Neverland,
And if you hear a ticking clock, hope the ships are manned,
Because there's a high demand for the taste of pirate band,
And if you're not hooked by now then Hook'll tell you first hand,
I flew here like a bird in a night-dress, frilly,
Scared, trying to fight stress, skin like Chantilly,
Found Peter and I confess that the boy's my Achilles,
Now I'm a lost girl treading on Tiger Lillies,
Acorns and thimbles are my idea of 'bases',
And sword fights with pirates are my ***** chasers,
Watching the boys as they fly and admiring Peter Pan,
But he's the boy who can't love here in Neverland,
I wanted devotion, to marry men who were charming,
So I repressed, left my emotion, I left Peter Pan snarling,
My own species no longer, just a common starling,
Caged by age at my window, I'm Wendy Darling.
Johnny Noiπ Aug 2018
Igor was torn  between casting
         the body of a girl
         or young woman,
         that was merely sexually attractive -
or whether to employ a procession
of young nubiles as       secretaries;
now that Natalia had thrown him over for Ivan,
he needed  a girl or young woman
who was sexually mature;
      possibly even suitable for marriage;
     sexually mature; sexually attractive,
desirable, ****, luscious; marriageable;
                  informally, beddable:
Ivan constantly surrounded himself
w/ a posse of nubile young women,
to forget,      that's what Eli needed to do;

mid 17th century: from the Latin nubilis
‘marriageable,’ from nubere,
                      to cover or veil
      oneself for a bridegroom;
     from the nubes  the ‘puffy cloud-like nips’
                     of a child bride;
                           [risqué]
                           photos of coeds of the
                                   fifties & those of
| ***-trafficked nubiles
           from last week; |
       glamour isn't glamorous;
as GMO skanks get injected
w/ female growth  hormones
                                    just in case they
                               decide to
        to be mothers someday
        slightly indecent or liable
to shock, especially by being sexually
suggestive; "risqué humor"  ribald,
rude, *****, Rabelaisian, *****, ****,
earthy, indecent, suggestive,
improper, naughty,   locker-room;
******, *****, ******, crude, adult,
coarse, obscene, lewd, *******;
blue, raunchy;             off-color
"risqué stories": mid 19th century: French,
                past participle of risquer ‘to risk’
George Krokos Dec 2016
I told you back then what it would be like
but you never really believed me,
by ignoring our love's demanding hike
instead you just tried to deceive me.

I gave you everything you asked of me
and all that I could give was given,
but our love was blind it just didn't see
on that road ahead it was driven.

We tried to make amends along the way
and continued living together,
but our love's seeking of us every day
was heading towards stormy weather.

We were exhausted with ourselves it seemed
and became distanced from each other,
we would soon get to know what our love deemed
when starting to look for another.

We then drifted apart to seek elsewhere
and went our separate ways in life,
wondering who else our love would forswear
to find fulfilment as man and wife.

It would not be again for a long time
that our lives crossed paths in a strange way,
perhaps it was the right season or clime
when we saw each other on that day.

We smiled and greeted then informally
asking each other how we had been,
and how there of all places came to be
that place we had each other last seen.

It was in love forlorn two hearts were bare
and placed inextricably apart there.
______
A difficult poem and subject. Written in 2016.
L T Winter Sep 2014
She is snowless-shadows
Overseeing vagabond centuries
And her smoothness--

Defies halcyon moons
Her hoplite eyes,
Breaks my golem
Heart.

This figurine beauty
Curves informally
With tinder-cove
Allergies.

'You know'

In hanging hands.
Amitav Radiance Sep 2014
Idea ignited incredible ideology
Introduced informally interested innumerable
Idiosyncratic individuals, isolated, ignoring ideology
Wack Tastic Nov 2012
The cornflower blue fields rolled to the edge of the town,
Held lavender and sapphire incense,
Absent produce just steaming scents,
Nestled in a vast valley,
Between pillars of countless smokestacks,
Churning out great sleepy coughs,
There was a place of milk and honey active consistency,
Where the lulled townsfolk dawdled,
The corners of their eyes and mouths thinned,
Within passing minutes and shifts,
From one scape to the next,
Predetermined and provincial,
As the sleepy smoke rose so did the passengers,
After a long and tired trip,
Leveled, gathered, proceeded on,
The machine's hum ringing in the air,

Slowly the air moved,
The townspeople gathered in their huts,
They barricaded themselves inside,
Imprisoned their own lives,
Content to be slow and easy-going,
They feared the one,
The One that they dare not acknowledge,
He strolled informally,
Chaotically, they say, he once lived in the fields,
The one greeted the sleepy folk,
But they didn't trust him,
Once he had been like them,
Until one day the One looked around and became hysterical,

No one know what to do with the one so they ignored him,
Day after day turned into year after year,
Soon the blue mist that rose from the fields turned navy,
It dyed the walls and the machines and even the people,
They became statues of alabaster,
Seeming to move now only slightly each day,
The one became a blur,
An invisible spinning, chanting, living, teraphim,
The one had lived a thousand years,
In a comparable minute to the townsfolk,
He only hoped that he could help,
But they couldn't see him,
Their slumped eyes had grown accustomed to the dream.
Mitchell Feb 2013
We've taken our breaks
Yet we see we need our
Hearts to even speak

The medallions glow
As the naked pines shiver
Winter leaves us now

Crying through midnight
But were learning to care more
Hear that hard rain pour

Dark eyed skinny frantic you
Bitter for no one
But your worthy self

When we are apart
Nights fall the sun still rises
Love's hard everyday

Petals of rose halo
Angels echo out-of-tune
You smile so true

Saying that to pray
Is to say hello to voice
Unknown shadows glow

Growing never was
So hard, but do not mind pain
All's said can be done

Brushing up at night
Dreams are never as good as
When I am with you

For you are what's real
My dove in the burned' sky
So please do not cry

Life is hard for you
Other pains will be hard too
But smile through the blue

Mist on blue refrain
Setting moon ritual croon
Pouring soul for you

Dear feelings too true
That come in the cracked leaves of
Autumns boring death

How embarrassed I
Am to love you like I do
I hide within you

Feed me the hatred
Engulf me in betrayal
Father I am not

God! What a namely
Name that works informally
Lingering blank names

Do you like to be told
What to do in this free world?
NO NO NO NO NO

Scientific farts
That cannot help themselves from
Being Animal

Struggle over rocks
Of resembling forefather's
Their faces old numb

Too dumb to tell scotch
From water and *******
Joining wine for brunch

But back to present
To New York through telescope
Orleans, if so?

And our range has
No horizon if we will
It so in a wish

We will part for now
But we are always meeting
Spring our armor

I am forever
Falling through space heaven cloud
With you only you
Amelia Pearl Sep 2015
Till this day I still wonder why we don't make sense to eachother.
Our unending doubts with eachother caused us too much pain.
Our ego caused too much jealousy and sadness.

Was I supposed to look at you?
Was I supposed to stop on my tracks and lay eyes on such a perfect imperfection?
Was it supposed to be me or someone else?
I sometimes wonder what would I be now if I did not turn my head.

These months of challenges we face together.
This year if needed concentration on important exams.
Why did we meet this late?
Why can't you stay for another year?
So that I can know where exactly am I going with you.

But I realized.
You don't need another year.
This year is enough.
I've been in love with you for over a year and half of it we met so informally.

Rejections and lies that I seem to hold on to so dearly.
Why am I doing this to myself?
Why is my love stronger for you than anybody else?

I just need an explanation because you and I have such little time.
Either we are or we're not.
I fell for you first.
It's time you cut the rope or hold on to it.
Devon Brock Sep 2019
We got 6 bars and 6 churches,
each with similar congregations.
You might say we got that perfect
balance between grace and humiliation.

It doesn't end there, though.
We're run by a council of six,
if you include the mayor, Orin,
who lost the state election
because he couldn't represent
a cow if he had
crayons and construction paper.
He's got some creds,
if you take into account
he built a tractor museum
in a train depot
moved a half mile down
a minimum maintenance,
travel at your own risk road,
frequented by the hormonal.

But I digress. Oh yes,
we have a council of six,
each from one of the six
similar congregations,
each from one of the six
houses of libations.

However, every first Saturday,
they meet, informally so to speak,
under the torn tarp at Ernie's,
next to the beach volleyball pit
nobody uses, between the dumpsters
and the railroad tracks,
to discuss matters too urgent
for the formal published minutes.

They crinkle their Grain Bin cans
like phrenologists picking
out small crimes that paint
this town true, rural,
downwardly mobile,
cordoned off at the rim.

Few years back, they annexed
Bob Olson's back forty
for one helluva football complex
for our losing team. GO DRAGONS!
But we gotta have it.
Pay itself off in five years they said.
Rentals, events and all that claptrap.
Gloria walks her dogs on the track
everyday. Return on investment.
R O I.
At least she picks up the ****.

Third and Main got ripped up
a year ago last April.
Ain't been paved yet.
I suppose we're waiting
for those more appropriate
appropriations to accrue.

But that's alright,
we saved a fortune firing
our Andy and Barney PD
while Andy was in Afghanistan.
Don't know how they got away with it.
We get two hours of laws a day,
Deputy Dawgs, and meanwhile,
somebody's siphoning gas.
Pretty much sure it's that Keiser kid,
can't hold a job anyway.

I thought better of mowing the lawn today.
I looked at it a bit. Betty, across the street,
is giving me the side-eye as she sweeps
harvest dust from her shingles.
Well Bets, you fussbudget,
I'm working two jobs,
six days a week,
to live in this runt of a town,
so back the hell down.
You may be eighty and spry,
but you got five, count 'em five
courters with John Deere riders tending.

You see, here in the heartland,
where politic is a game played
with cheap beer and hard glances,
where the clapboard houses lose their paint,
where the new, polished surrounds
of seamless siding dictate appearance,
priority and expenditure,
where the churches and bars conspire
to define reputation and aspiration,
the manure-booted men
are denied the dignity of manure
for a sham - for a show
that barely covers the crust and wrinkles
of a town dying slow.
Onoma Nov 2014
...You don't have to come
anywhere near me...just
to dance our self-evidence.
I Am always dancing with
you informally...the
formalization of Our dance
is a realization Open to you...
pre-post-intellect.
Public opinion

Confusion reigns until his lordship explains
that our best interests are served by
remaining in service

no education for free for this
subject,
subject to decree from
her highness,
most royal majesty

Informally known as Lizzie.

His lordship is marking our card,
we must work very hard
get little pay
not too much noise
and
no *** on Sunday,

what a way to have to live
they take, take, take
and we try to live on
**** all
they live in a bigger hall
which still means **** all
to me.

I'm voting
one way or another
I'm voting

boring into the dead wood

Breadcrumbs.
I am Hansel and Gretel being
dead good.

Liz gets down to the business of queening,
cleaning the silverware'
getting rid of the peasants who get in her hair
tending to Phil
having her fill of kedgeree
and sod all for the likes of me,

She's off my Christmas list

if we were a republic

A peasant? revolting,
his lordship puts the boot in
but
the fault's in the system
we all need rewiring.

I'm going to Grimsby
that place will suit me
fish, chips and a
mug of tea
bye bye your majesty
don't wait up
I'll be home late.

Dilemmas may take the role to commit anything;
either an error; a mistake; finally in a sin ending;
May be it will end up in a discussion or in a debate;
Yet, you emotions will take up forward either to create
Or to motivate; or will come back as a subject of delicate;
With an intention by colleagues informally to recreate;
This will drive you towards an endless road of mishaps;
Or walk to cross the meadows of beautiful landscapes.  
*
BY
WILLIAMSJI MAVELI
[email protected]
www.williamsji.com
www.williamsmaveli­.com
www.williamsgeorge.com
From MICROTHEMES, a collection of short poems, written by WILLIAMSJI MAVELI
betterdays Apr 2016
framed in driftwood
we stand, gathered informally
standing on sand, at the waters edge
with blue sky and sun behind

father, mother, son.
zinced but still pinked
by the day, on the beach
smiling, carefree

intertwined by love
and history,
the gene pool, strong.
hair blonde and curly
the feet, long toed
and the clefting dimple
on chin, the slight turn of nose

we are held for posterity
together,
for this moment
of memory.
smiling, laughing, loving.

as the tide recedes,
as the sun sets,
as the sand is blown hither.

we will remain......family....
Napowrimo2016bd
Chase Elsner May 2016
Bang!!!!!
Another silent gunshot falls on deaf ears
Draining one man of his life and another of his humanity
It’s a good thing it was a fair trade

The theory of equity dictates that only objects of equal value can be traded
This is proven in the taking of a life

When a gun is fired the one who shoots loses himself inside the bullet
Putting his soul into the destruction of another
The soul is then used to cancel out the soul of another

A soul for a soul is fair
The theory of equity is not

Will’s theory of contract law is a theory that dictates a contract can be made if both parties agree
If one party is a gun and the other the shooter then a contract is offered
The offer consists of one party carrying a soul in order to decimate the shell of the holder
When its terms are carried out a soul and a squirming carcass are found broken like shards of crystals

A soul for a shell is fair
Will’s theory is not

The theory of an implied contract is that an agreement can be formed informally and swiftly where both parties understand the terms without them being expressly stated
If a person is involved in gang related activities then they know that when a rival gang appears no one will walk away
The offer is swift and signaled by one of the parties drawing the .45 caliber firearms and it is accepted when the other group fires

A gang for a gang is fair
Implied contracts are fair

It’s a shame life isn’t
The theory of life is that **** happens and you’re supposed to go on like nothing else matters
The theory of life is that we stand by as obligatory witnesses to events that destroy the people who we are and who we were
The theory of life is that no matter what happens we are not allowed to bend the rules around the only two truths that we have or will ever experience
The theory of life is that we will also have to live with the theory of death

Why is it that the theory of life is the same as the theory of death?
Because they are equitable they must be of equal value
Because we either breathe or not we have agreed to one
Because no one will explain what either one is, it is implied

The theory of life and death is that in the end there is nothing left
The theory of life and death is that you can exist freely in either
The theory of life and death is that you can never exist in both
The theory of life and death is that you are nothing if you’re seen from the other plane
The theory of life and death is that you are nothing

The truth of nothing is that we have no control
The truth of nothing is that we are nothing

Bang!!!!!
Another silent gunshot falls on deaf ears
Draining one man of his life and another of his humanity
It’s a good thing it was a fair trade
Amanda Mandez Jul 2016
A permanent commitment of growth
Strength knowledge and wisdom waxed and positively twisted into the main stream.

Unique & rare is what you are to society. Bold and brave is what you stand for.
A lioness leading this jungle like world, marking her presence to protect not harm.

Informally blindsided by you. You remain loyal to your pack as I roam searching to return to mine and be home.
momma mia man date
comb the second Sunday during month of May
can be traced back to ancient Greeks and Romans
festivals held

     to honor mother goddesses Rhea and Cybele
setting precedent for Mother's Day
     where early Christians fancied festival
     known as “Mothering Sunday.”

Fast forward to the early
     twentieth century 1908 when
Ann Maria Reeves Jarvis (a social activist then,
and community organizer

     during American Civil War) era to quieten
grief fraught entrapment also cited
     as informally memorializing her mother,
     who begot said noble men

     touring daughter
     paying homage to woebegone
lachrymose role with accolades
     to endure tragedy and loss put upon
child bearing women,

     this event held (rain or sun)
at St Andrew's Methodist Church
     in Grafton, West Virginia, which did quicken
in subsequent decades to formal fete,
     where poets (like me) did open

the special occasion with ranked midshipmen
commercialization cropped as ken
be expected by the early 1920's imbolden
greeting card companies such as Hallmark gen
er rated a market (money making of course) even

though Jarvis believed companies sought profit
NOT prophet, thus misinterpreting
     and exploiting idea of Mother's Day and met
aforementioned founder, who tried to jet

tis sin the ****** appetite of the ole mighty dollar,
     but her lofty ambition did get
thwarted by mass marketing
     the quaint idea,
     plus she feared going in debt

and though the industry
     (initially proposed entailed low key
acknowledgement, the originator
     (Ann Marie Jarvis) still esteemed re
formed unsanitary living conditions with zee

less ness and aplomb
set a course where greater longevity doth hum
all because, she sought to regale "mum."
dean evans Jan 2015
In dreams I think about this life, and my place upon this Earth
The most part being heart and mind, and soul for what it’s worth
The cosmos stretches far above, although my eyes can see
These thoughts that haunt my mind at times extend out…
endlessly.

Mentation turns to destiny to what the future holds
And back again to legacy, and the gifts I feel I must bestow
Upon those left behind me, to instill within their minds
When finally the Universe and I are gently intertwined

To think that I may one day see my spirit thus transversed
Against the awesome paradise where God and I, softly converse
To witness what this life has shown, that now is torn apart
Beguile anguished felicity, and so appease my tattered heart.

Although my hope remains suspect, that somehow hopeless dies
Far too many questions, too few answers to where comfort lies
Though I suppose simplicity awaits the ones who grieve
Patiently anticipating those who seek to so believe.

It seems I have no hope of prolonged years in soft repose
My eyes must blink you see... but I have seen, and I suppose
That time is just a cruel mirage shimmering, as light
Then pulls away and so reveals the truth of things, there…
In the night.

But still I dream about this life, and what awaits us all
When time and understanding finds us lost, what will we recall?
About these moments spent together, so informally
Listen… to the sound,
and the Whispers of Eternity.

Dean Evans
6-28-14
(20 minute poetry)

Getting off on the wrong foot wearing odd socks and this is what knocks me for a six.

Can't concentrate in this narrow strait, too much shipping, feels like it's slipping away.

Only the coffee is hot today.

I cooled in the breeze of a Southern night to wake in the morning
cold and goose bumped

No cats on this tin roof.

It sorts itself out and I do too
on the wharf where the stevedores sing.

Plimsoll lines are fine if you're not wearing them, I wore
tropical palms and drank coconut milk for tea.

amusing myself by abusing the truth

no cats on this tin roof.

Informally normally but not always so  or so the thesaurus informs me and though centrally located I relate to the suburbs.

They call this the bullet as it pulls through the tunnels under the streets where you walk,
but they talk some **** don't they?

if it meant we could fly we would,
most hit the pavement wondering why
there are no cats on the tin roof

truth hurts more at thirty two feet per second per second.
Momma mia man date
comb the second Sunday
during month of May
can be traced back
to ancient Greeks and Romans
devotional festivals held
to honor mother goddesses Rhea and Cybele
setting precedent for Mother's Day
where early Christians fancied festival
known as “Mothering Sunday.”

Fast forward to the early
twentieth century 1908 when
Ann Maria Reeves Jarvis
(a social activist then,
and community organizer
during American Civil War) era to quieten
grief fraught era also cited
as informally memorializing her mother,
who begot said noble men
touring daughter

paying homage to woebegone
lachrymose role with accolades
to endure tragedy and loss put upon
childbearing women,
this event held (rain or sun)
at St Andrew's Methodist Church
in Grafton, West Virginia, which did quicken
in subsequent decades to formal fete,
where poets (like me) did open
the special occasion with ranked midshipmen

commercialization cropped as ken
be expected by the early 1920's imbolden
greeting card companies
such as Hallmark generated a market
(money making of course) even
though Jarvis believed
companies sought profit
NOT prophet, thus misinterpreting
and exploiting idea
of Mother's Day and met

aforementioned founder, who tried to jet
tis sin the ****** appetite
of the ole mighty dollar,
but her lofty ambition did get
thwarted by mass marketing
the quaint idea,
plus she feared going in debt
and though the industry
(initially proposed entailed low key
acknowledgement, the originator

(Ann Marie Jarvis) still esteemed,
fêted, lionized, revered re:
formed unsanitary
squalid living conditions with zee
less ness and aplomb
set a course where
greater longevity doth hum
all because, she sought to regale mum
(mine) deceased after rigor mortis
immediately thereafter her sole son
found himself saddened severely glum,
and uncomfortably numb.
Momma mia man date
comb the second Sunday
during month of May
can be traced back
to ancient Greeks and Romans
devotional festivals held
to honor mother goddesses Rhea and Cybele
setting precedent for Mother's Day
where early Christians fancied festival
known as “Mothering Sunday,”
the other three hundred
and sixty five or six,
when leap year occurs,
especially Jewish mothers smother
also manifest courtesy
eldest sister or brother.

Fast forward to the early
twentieth century 1908 when
Ann Maria Reeves Jarvis
(a social activist then,
and community organizer
during American Civil War) era to quieten
grief fraught era also cited
as informally memorializing her mother,
who begot said noble men
touring daughter

paying homage to woebegone
lachrymose role with accolades
to endure tragedy and loss put upon
childbearing women,
this event held (rain or sun)
at St Andrew's Methodist Church
in Grafton, West Virginia, which did quicken
in subsequent decades to formal fete,
where poets (like me) did open
the special occasion with ranked midshipmen

commercialization cropped as ken
be expected by the early 1920's embolden
greeting card companies
such as Hallmark generated a market
(money making of course) even
though Jarvis believed
companies sought profit
NOT prophet, thus misinterpreting
and exploiting idea
of Mother's Day and met

aforementioned founder, who tried to jet
tis sin the ****** appetite
of the ole mighty dollar,
but her lofty ambition did get
thwarted by mass marketing
the quaint idea,
plus she feared going in debt
and though the industry
(initially proposed entailed low key
acknowledgement, the originator

(Ann Marie Jarvis) still esteemed,
fêted, lionized, revered re:
formed unsanitary
squalid living conditions with zee
less ness and aplomb
set a course where
greater longevity doth hum
bull all because, she sought to regale mum
(mine) deceased after rigor mortis
immediately thereafter her sole son
found himself saddened severely glum,
and uncomfortably numb.
Momma mia man date
comb the second Sunday during month of May
can be traced back to ancient Greeks and Romans
festivals held

     to honor mother goddesses Rhea and Cybele
setting precedent for Mother's Day
     where early Christians fancied festival
     known as “Mothering Sunday.”

Fast forward to the early
     twentieth century 1908 when
Ann Maria Reeves Jarvis (a social activist then,
and community organizer

     during American Civil War) era to quieten
grief fraught era also cited
     as informally memorializing her mother,
     who begot said noble men
     touring daughter
     paying homage to woebegone
lachrymose role with accolades
     to endure tragedy and loss put upon
childbearing women,

     this event held (rain or sun)
at St Andrew's Methodist Church
     in Grafton, West Virginia, which did quicken
in subsequent decades to formal fete,
where poets (like me) did open

the special occasion with ranked midshipmen
commercialization cropped as ken
be expected by the early 1920's imbolden
greeting card companies such as Hallmark gen
er rated a market (money making of course) even

though Jarvis believed companies sought profit
NOT prophet, thus misinterpreting
     and exploiting idea of Mother's Day and met
aforementioned founder, who tried to jet
tis sin the ****** appetite of the ole mighty dollar,
     but her lofty ambition did get
thwarted by mass marketing
     the quaint idea,
     plus she feared going in debt

and though the industry
     (initially proposed entailed low key
acknowledgement, the originator
     (Ann Marie Jarvis) still esteemed,
     lionized, revered re
formed unsanitary living conditions with zee
less ness and aplomb
set a course where greater longevity doth hum
all because, she sought to regale "mum."

— The End —