On a Sunday warm in Lafayette,The church bells quiet, the hour set,A father, Bruce, sank in his chair,While peace hung soft upon the air. His little son, just two years old,With hair like sunlight, bright and bold,Slammed his toy plane with fierce delight—“Plane crash! Plane crash!” through morning light. At first, Bruce smiled—just boyish play,But […]
One warm bright eve in seventy-four,In Old Westbury near New York’s shore,A doctor named Julian Kirchick sat,Beside his pool, relaxed and flat. A surgeon by day, with a life so wide,Four children, a wife always near his side.But this rare calm—this quiet bliss,Was a fleeting peace he didn’t want to miss. He leaned right back,
On a cold December evening, in nineteen eighty-four,Sixteen-year-old John Boulware stepped outside his door.His friends pulled up in a Jeep, their spirits running high,Rain fell from the heavens, clouds covered the sky. They laughed and they sang as the wipers kept time,Headed for a concert — Prince, in his prime.Their hometown hero, from Minneapolis fame,Was
On a cold January afternoon, the year was nineteen-oh-nine,Reverend John Carmichael left, his heart and suit divine.He kissed his wife, his children too, and stepped into the chill,His cloak wrapped tight, his mind set firm, to preach the holy will. Through Michigan’s white countryside, his horse began to glide,Nine miles away in Columbus town, his
Around midday in York, PA,On March 31st, a springtime day,Sat John Schmeer with his friends so tight,At Hooters, their clubhouse, their shared delight. Retired eye doc, his future secure,His buddies were wealthy, successful for sure.They laughed and they joked in their chosen spot,The “Orange Shorts Society”—a name they had brought. But John had a burden
On a crisp September morning in two-thousand-and-seven,Ashley Wallace awoke at dawn, the sky pale as heaven.Just twenty years old, in her dorm she prepared,For her first day of college, excited yet scared. She straightened her clothes, gathered notebooks with care,The mirror reflected a girl going somewhere.A knock at the door made her freeze where she
On July the fifth, two-thousand eight,David File approached his gate.In Bishopstoke, a village small,He lived alone—yet loved it all. The flats once thrived, alive with cheer,Now weeds and boards were all that’s here.Seventy-two homes stood in a line,But seventy-one were left to pine. Graffiti marked the broken wall,No neighbors’ footsteps in the hall.For eight long
One summer night in nineteen-oh-four’s glow,Anna Gray lay restless, soft and low.In a second-floor room at a B & B,her stomach churned from a mince-pie spree. The air was heavy, stale as old tin,no breeze to soothe the ache within.She tossed the quilt, she heaved a sigh,and at the sash she opened the sky. Fresh
In Edinburgh’s ward back in seventeen eighty-five,A woman lay writhing, barely alive.The Royal Infirmary, grand in its might,Yet her chamber was small, bare, and stark white. She clutched at the bed, her cries filled the air,Sweat poured down her face, despair everywhere.The nurses encircled, unsure what to do,For hours she labored, but progress was few.
At two in the morning, December’s cold air,Old Henry Hall climbed the lighthouse stair.Ninety-four years, yet steady and strong,Keeping the light, as he had all along. His comrades lay drunk, in slumber so deep,While Henry alone the night watch did keep.No modern bulbs, no wires in sight,Just candles aflame to guide ships by night. He
