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Viewing 1 - 8 out of 8 Blogs.


GRANDMAW ON THE WITNESS STAND
Posted On 08/10/2008 09:52:07
 

 

Lawyers should never ask a Southern grandma a question if they aren't prepared for the answer.



In a trial, a southern small-town prosecuting attorney called his first witness, a grandmotherly, elderly woman to the stand. He approached her and asked, "Mrs. Sanders, do you know me?"



She responded, "Why, yes, I do know you, Mr. Desmond. I've known you since you were a young boy and frankly, you've been a big disappointment to me. You lie, you cheat on your wife, and you manipulate people and talk about them behind their backs. You think you're a big shot when you haven't he brains to realize you never will amount to anything more than a two-bit, paper pusher. Yes, I know you."



The lawyer was stunned!  Not knowing what else to do, he pointed across the room and asked, "Mrs. Sanders, do you know the defense attorney?"



She again replied, "Why, yes, I do. I've known Mr. Cristofaro, since he was youngster, too.  He's lazy, bigoted, and he has a drinking problem. He can't build a normal relationship with anyone and his law practice is one of the worst in the entire state. Not to mention he cheated on his wife with three different women. One of them was your wife. Yes, I know him."



The defense attorney almost died.



The judge asked both counselors to approach the bench and in a very quiet voice said, "If either of you asks her if she knows me, I'll send you to the electric chair.”

 

Posted by Kinge

 

Tags: FUNNYOLD FOLKS


STUCK IN EVERY DAY
Posted On 07/07/2008 15:41:28

Stuck in Everyday

Set me down by the shores of the sea
And grant me some serenity
And time to break these shackles free
That choke my creativity.
 
Oh, I can deal with the paper chase,
The constant hurry, the daily race,
But somewhere in this maddening pace
A part of me has lost its place.
 
It seems to me there was a time
When all I had was peace of mind,
When boredom was my biggest crime,
But boredom now is hard to find.
 
And people pass me every day,
Scurrying frantically on their way
Like mice that run from a cat at play
As the timeclocks tick their lives away.
 
I’d like to tell them all to wait,
To take a moment to meditate,
But I don’t have time, it’s almost eight,
And I’m already running late.
 
And so with pre-recorded smiles
We drive each day our daily miles
To stack the hours in neat little piles
And tuck the weeks and years in files.
 
But somewhere, deep inside, it seems
There’s somebody still dreaming dreams,
Some little imp that plans and schemes
Escape routes from these stiff regimes.
 
Sometimes you’ll even see one there,
That tiny light behind the stare,
The playful spark or defiant glare
That lets you know they’re still aware,
 
Still holding on for Saturday,
Still working for the sake of play,
Still certain that they’ll find a way
To break free from the Everyday.
 

Tags: POEM


MOTHERS DREAM
Posted On 06/25/2008 16:55:36

 

I go to sleep;Im forty five.
With my five kids and spouse alive
We’re at our cottage by the lake.
We swim,we sail and then we take  
A boat ride to blueberry hill
Where we all pick for pies to fill.

 
The evening comes, the lake’s is like glass 
That cracks as loons and bevers pass. .
Then crickets start their nightly tune 
Which ends the day,oh far too soon.
It was a time of so much fun.
I wake alone; I’m ninety - one

POSTED BY KINGE           &nbs p;      

POEM WROTE -BY DOUG BARR.

BY DOUG  E.  BAR

Tags: POETRY


Don't Mess With Old People
Posted On 06/25/2008 07:16:32
HOW TO CALL THE POLICE WHEN YOU’RE OLD



George Phillips of Meridian, Mississippi was going up to bed

when his wife told him that he'd left the light on in the garden shed,which she could see from the bedroom window.

George opened the back door to go turn off the light


but saw that there were people in the shed stealing things.

He phoned the police, who asked 'Is someone in your house?' and he said 'no'.

Then they said that all patrols were busy, and that he should simply lock his door

and an officer would be along when available.

George said, 'Okay,' hung up, counted to 30, and phoned the police again.

'Hello, I just called you a few seconds ago because there were people stealing things from my shed.

Well, you don't have to worry about them now because I just shot them.'

Then he hung up.





Within five minutes, six police cars, a SWAT Team, a helicopter, two fire trucks, a paramedic


and an ambulance showed up at the Phillips' residence and caught the burglars red-handed.



One of the policemen said to George, 'I thought you said that you'd shot them!'


George said, 'I thought you said there was nobody available!'



(True Story) I LOVE IT -
D on't mess with old people
clappinghands.gif picture by KINGE24
 
 
 
POSTED BY KINGE
 

Tags: FUNNYOLD FOLKS


INDIANS AND WOLVES
Posted On 06/24/2008 12:14:29

 INDIAN'S AND WOLVE'S     

It's not surprising that the Indian saw the wolf as a
significant animal. Both were hunters of which the
survival of their families depended. The Indian was
very aware of the many ways in which his own life
resembled those of the wolf. The wolf hunted for
himself and for his family. The wolf defended his
pack against enemy attack, as the Indian defended
his tribe. He had to be strong as an individual and
for the good of the pack. It was a sufficient system
of survival; and in the eyes of the Indian, no animal
did this as well as the wolf. The Indian worked to be
as well integrated in his environment, as he could see
the wolf was in the universe.

Tags: INDIANS AND WOLVES


FIRE ON THE HILL
Posted On 06/24/2008 11:56:17

 

 FIRE ON THE HILL

by Roertsion Jeffers

 

 

 

   

.

The deer were bounding like blown leaves
Under the smoke in front of the roaring wave of the brush-fire;
I thought of the smaller lives that were caught.

.

Beauty is not always lovely; the fire was beautiful, the terror
Of the deer was beautiful; and when I returned
Down the back slopes after the fire had gone by, an eagle
Was perched on the jag of a burnt pine,
Insolent and gorged, cloaked in the folded storms of his shoulders.

.
He had come from far off for the good hunting
With fire for his beater to drive the game; the sky was merciless
Blue, and the hills merciless black.

.
The sombre-feathered great bird sleepily merciless between them.
I thought, painfully, but the whole mind;
The destruction that brings an eagle from heaven is better than men.

 submitted by kinge

 

Tags: POETRY


POEM "YOUR BLUES AIN'T MINE
Posted On 06/24/2008 11:46:16

   sadface.jpg picture by KINGE24

Your Blues Ain’t Mine

 

Your murky blues ain’t mine to bear.
You droop proudly,
bearing your invisible cross and crown of spines,
thinking you’ve cornered the market on misery.

Your blues ain’t mine to fear.

You refuse to believe
that anyone else on this entire terrestrial canvas of our Creator could:
gasp at the sudden sharpness of hurt,
endure the dull ache of disappointment,
ignore the gritty discomfort of regret,
wince at the stinging burn of stigma,
feel the severed member of love lost.

Your blues ain’t mine to share.

But can’t you see how those encircling you recycle:
Hurt, into experience,
disappointment, into a friend’s life lesson,
regret, into a memory,
stigma, into a badge of courage
loss, into a silver lining?

Chile, your blues ain’t so rare.

 by Sandera E. Morris

 SUBMITTED BY KINGE

 


WHAT IS POETRY
Posted On 06/24/2008 11:32:04
 

 

 

 

 WHAT IS POETRY

 

ButterflyonPurpleFlowerBackground.jpg picture by KINGE24

 

 

 

 

 

 

 Poetry Is…

by Beth Hammontree Poetry is a window to the soul,
Transcends time and place,
Transforms the mundane and everyday
Into the mystical and enchanting.
Poetry invites intimacy,
It brings us together.
Poetry is art.
Poetry is life.
It is a gift that sits dormant
In the soul of everyone,
Waiting to be awakened.
Poetry is a way
To lose yourself to creativity.
Poetry paints a thousand pictures
Or is painted by them.
Poetry is breath.
Without it we are struck dumb,
Flailing in uncertainty,
Helpless to express our deepest emotions
Without losing control of them.
Poetry is thought,
Crystallized
Set in lines of ink
That blur before
Tear-filled eyes.
Poetry is the only magic left.
 
KINGE

Tags: POETRY





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