Storytime Tapestry Newsletter

The newsletter devoted to spreading love and cultural awareness around the world.

September 19, 2006

Today’s announcements

A hearty congratulations goes out to Michael T. Smith is has become out newest senior writer for Storytime Tapestry.

Now onto the good stuff!

Today’s Queue Stories

~**~**~

The Fall of Life

Michael T. Smith

            The nights grow longer, the air cooler, leaves change color and migrating birds

make their way south - fleeing winter. Fall is almost here - my favorite time of year. A

walk through the forest - a trip to an art gallery. The trees compete, each a work of

nature’s glorious art.

            A canopy of color shades me, as I stand under them. I look up and see sunlight

streaming through the branches. It strikes each leaf. They reflect it with an un-imaginable

brilliance. 

            In the quiet of the forest, I hear a small snap, and a single leaf floats delicately

to the ground. A light breeze stirs the branches - a multicolored snow storm. The colored

flakes land on my head and shoulders. They cover the seeds and nuts the trees dropped

earlier in the year, some with small sprouts already reaching toward the sky.

            The seeds of new life are soon buried under a cover of delicate and dying leaves,

a cover provided by the tall trees standing over them. The leaves protect the future from

the cold winter soon to follow. In spring, the leaves will decompose and provide rich

nutrients to nourish the young - insuring a new generation.

            A week later I’m back, trying to enjoy the season before it is gone. The leaves

rustle under my feet. The air is scented with the odor of dampness and decomposition, as the leaves begin to decay - a pleasant smell. I shuffle along, pushing the leaves in front of

me. They part and swirl around my feet like the water on a beach. My heart is heavy.

Another year is gone.

            At home, I look in the mirror. There’s a hint of grey at my temples. I notice a few

more in the whiskers on my chin and a few chest hairs are following suit. The hair on the

top of my head, like the leaves, are mostly gone. I’m in the fall of life. Can winter be far

off?

            I sat in my chair, trying to watch a game on television, but I couldn’t focus.

Where did my spring and summer go?

            My son walked by. He is a tall, healthy, and good looking young man. “See ya,

Dad. I’m going to work.” The door closed behind him.

            I thought of the trees, the seeds and nuts, the leaves, my children and

grandchildren. Like the trees, I spread my seeds and protected them as they grew from

seeds, to sprouts, to tall, strong saplings.

            The trees and I have weathered many storms. We swayed and bent under their

force, but we stood over our young, sheltered them, and covered them when they were

cold.

            My heart felt lighter. Fall is not the beginning of the end. It is the past protecting

the future. One day, a storm will blow in and we’ll topple over - winter. The young we

sheltered, free of our shadow, will take our place to protect the next generation - our job

complete.

Michael T. Smith

mtsmith@qwestonline.com

To read my stories or to sign up
to receive my weekly story, go to:
http://archives.zinester.com/86758/

~**~**~

Poetry Section

~**~**~

CHOICE

Written in dialect by

A Bronx Boy 

David Wainland

If you want to, youse can

Escape with a plan

And visit the place of your choice

Just grab a clear bag

I know it’s a drag

And empty the things from your poice

On the plane, they serve drinks

Maybe not what youse thinks

And it’s got to be better than woise

Or youse could stay home

Afraid and alone

And wind up with a ride in a hoise

So let it be simple

Take no meds for that pimple

And remember they gives you a choice

Since I know you of all people will understand, here is my limerick of the day.

David Wainland

David@davidwainland.com

~**~**~

THOUGHTS ON WRITING

A Limerick

By David Wainland

A few things require a plan

and a measured attention span.

Writing is one,

although when you’re done,

it’s crumpled and thrown in a can.

David Wainland

David@davidwainland.com

~**~**~

 “I am close to the thought that My servant has of Me, and I am with him whenever He recollects Me. If he remembers Me in himself, I remember him in Myself, and if he remembers Me in a gathering I remember him better than those in the gathering do, and if he approaches Me by as much as one hand's length, I approach him by a cubit. If he takes a step towards me, I run towards him.”

--Allah

(Bukhari’s Book of Hadith)

Thursday, July 06, 2006
From Your Cappuccino Slave

Umara Saleem

I’ve always had dirty skin
Not white nor brown, not even cream
Still, You always loved me

My favorite parts about my life
Are the little surprises You left
Thinking I wouldn't notice
Or in my astonishment forget You
No Dear God
I always fell to the floor
Not because the things were beautiful (they were),
But because You remembered to care

I remember swimming in a sea of black
Trying to get away from you
You see, I didn't understand what was Love
And doubted it at every corner

When I found little children in there with me
I climbed to the shore, taking them
You didn't ask any questions
But were waiting for me, the same

It took a while for my opaque shell to crack
I was waiting to be killed by the sharp poisonous wedges
The edges turned out blunt and smooth
Perhaps, that's when I began to love You

The road was easy from there
Thank You for not putting me on a straight stifling path
I get to choose my journey in gardens or rivers
The road is always clear when my aim is You

I want to be a pink parrot on Your throne.
I know you said the color was green
but I want to be the exuberant one
That loved You and died for You

I didn't think you'd remember me
but then You did tell me
"I am with those of My servants that remember Me"
And You ran miles when I put forth a toe

Love isn't like that though
I was expecting a 50/50 duty
I talk to You, You talk to me
But even when I don't talk You talk to me
And even when I don't walk, you walk with me
I know I'll never understand this or You
Because You love me an infinite times more than I love you

I'm so happy that I've found the perfect Love
Of course you can only have the Perfect Love with The Perfect
I'm still going to find a way to surprise You, Allah
Until then, I'm Your Cappuccino Slave

All praise is to You Allah, All praise be to You

Umara Saleem

us2103@columbia.edu

August 25, 2006

~**~**~

Readers Feedback

Hart - The unlovely Armadillo does not reside in Maine either .  We’ll manage without.  We have our own unlovely beasts.  Thank you Hartson Dowd for your research.  I had no idea.            Louise

Senior Writers

Chief writer: Sharon Bryant

Chief researcher/historian: Hartson Dowd

Agee, Vance; Apted, Violet; Baker, Kathy; Batt, Al; Berry, Nell; Blaine, Pamela; Boda, Ginger; Booher, Paula; Buhagiar, Victor; Cassady, B.J.; Costner, Joan Clifton; Cavalera, Robyn; Crider, Mark; Dees, Mary; Deming, Barb; Doherty, Maria;  Dowd, Hartson; Dowd, Helen; Gilbert, Robert, Jr.; Gold, Ron; Goodier, Steve; Grisham, Mary-Ellen; Braun-Haley, Ellie; Harris, Kathy Anne; Henry, Linda Ann; Hunt, Sharlett; Hymes, Christina; Jacobson, Gary; Kiser, Roger Dean; Kerens, Claudia; Kevin, Tim; Jenkins, Pamela; Liles, Norma; Lily Jodi Flesberg; Lock, Joyce; Marlor, Janice Bumbalough; Mazzella, Joe; Meeks, Carol; Mizrany, Mary Carter; Morris, Deepak; Ojeibge, Georgewaters; Petry, Dianna Doles; Roberts, Susan; Shiveley, Debra; Shaw, Bob; Sims, Richard; Smith, Michael; Streidel, Saskia; Swarner, Ken; Vaknin, Sam; Verhoeff, Jan; Walker, Bill; Walker, Joe; Warner, Gordon, K; Walsh, Sue; Weymouth, Barbara J.; Whirity, Kathy;

Wainland, David; Westerfer, Clara; White Robert;

Storytime Tapestry Staff

Carol Roach - Founder/publisher

Thelma Hartselle - Co-Founder, Moderator

Clara Westerfer – moderator

Bob Johnston - moderator