It was coming home that night from the poet tree jam that I felt that my cup was runningith over, like it says in the GOOD BOOK. It was runningith over so much, it was runningith over and spilling onto the table and from there runningith onto the floor and sweeping out the door onto the front porch and runningith out onto the whole world.

The heart of the storm Ofeeleea was a bit farther down then where we was but as a caution many things (schools, daycare centers, banks, and etc.) closed. The extra rain and wind knocked the butterflies off whatever course they were supposed to be on. I was standing out in the rain -- which my granma BettyLou says I don't have enuf cents to come out of -- and giving them littel butterflies sugar water whenever they blow down to my feet.

The first place went to this guy who adopted a girl who had been burned when a crack lab blew up (not his), and second was a Dad who made lunches for homeless kids, and dressed up as Santa. Third place was a Dad who had adopted his dead sister's kids even though he had five of His own.

For this poetry contest first a person had to go through the local contest, then if you win locally you are supposed to be given a menter. It is the cool thing to pretend you don't need help, but I'm too Trailer trash practical for that silliness. I've never stayed in one spot long enough for any outside career count sling, and small religious schools tend to tell guys to be missionaries & girls to merry well.

"Ships are safe within the harbor, but is that what ships are for?" (Unknown -- at least by me)

Be4 the poetree reading Me and Richard was going to a Botanical garden with 85 aches. I was really excited to have the chance of taking Pictures. Perhaps I will find a poem there. Also there is a Greek Festival going on for the 20th anniversary of a Greek church-that was burned down and then raised from the Dead. Just like Laz are us. Some part of the original building is still there. There will be a Greek block party with food, and costumes and Greek dancing.

Richard the Third is the son of our paster Dick Butts -- his daddy calls him Dickie but Richard doesn't think that's dignified nuff for a future spiritual leader. His grandaddy was Dick Butts too, so, Richard the Third it is! Tho i mostly jus call him The Third.

i have a faithful decision to make ... and at the same time i'm writing my poem!

But it was this poam that I wrote into a contest entry given by a poet tree group that they liked so much they vited me to come down an read some of my poetree to em. So I guess the moral is Talk to every stranger you meet. (Except the ones with long teeth and big ears and dressed in your Granma's smock, Little Red.)

... just like Jessica Rabbit says in the movie "You don't know how hard it is being a woman like I am. I'm not bad. I'm just drawn that way."