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poem | Writing without a helmet

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Writing without a helmet. Posted by Hattie Wilcox. In memory of my mother, Elizabeth Douglas Moran. In the back of my file drawer I found a pair of socks. Left from the time my mother came to stay. The time when the music room was her bedroom. And everything she owned fit into two drawers. After a stroke, my mother remained her sunny self. And though she could no longer find words. She charmed the staff in rehab, shamelessly. Created her own clucking, gibberish language. At the same time she found out.

writingwithoutahelmet.com

poetry | Writing without a helmet

https://writingwithoutahelmet.com/category/poetry

Writing without a helmet. Posted by Hattie Wilcox. In memory of my mother, Elizabeth Douglas Moran. In the back of my file drawer I found a pair of socks. Left from the time my mother came to stay. The time when the music room was her bedroom. And everything she owned fit into two drawers. After a stroke, my mother remained her sunny self. And though she could no longer find words. She charmed the staff in rehab, shamelessly. Created her own clucking, gibberish language. At the same time she found out.

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Socks | Writing without a helmet

https://writingwithoutahelmet.com/2014/08/30/socks

Writing without a helmet. Email to my friend Dennis. Posted by Hattie Wilcox. In memory of my mother, Elizabeth Douglas Moran. In the back of my file drawer I found a pair of socks. Left from the time my mother came to stay. The time when the music room was her bedroom. And everything she owned fit into two drawers. After a stroke, my mother remained her sunny self. And though she could no longer find words. She charmed the staff in rehab, shamelessly. Created her own clucking, gibberish language. And th...

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death | Writing without a helmet

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Writing without a helmet. Posted by Hattie Wilcox. In memory of my mother, Elizabeth Douglas Moran. In the back of my file drawer I found a pair of socks. Left from the time my mother came to stay. The time when the music room was her bedroom. And everything she owned fit into two drawers. After a stroke, my mother remained her sunny self. And though she could no longer find words. She charmed the staff in rehab, shamelessly. Created her own clucking, gibberish language. At the same time she found out.

writingwithoutahelmet.com

dying | Writing without a helmet

https://writingwithoutahelmet.com/tag/dying

Writing without a helmet. Posted by Hattie Wilcox. In memory of my mother, Elizabeth Douglas Moran. In the back of my file drawer I found a pair of socks. Left from the time my mother came to stay. The time when the music room was her bedroom. And everything she owned fit into two drawers. After a stroke, my mother remained her sunny self. And though she could no longer find words. She charmed the staff in rehab, shamelessly. Created her own clucking, gibberish language. At the same time she found out.

writingwithoutahelmet.com

Dinosaurs | Writing without a helmet

https://writingwithoutahelmet.com/category/dinosaurs

Writing without a helmet. Posted by Hattie Wilcox. In memory of my mother, Elizabeth Douglas Moran. In the back of my file drawer I found a pair of socks. Left from the time my mother came to stay. The time when the music room was her bedroom. And everything she owned fit into two drawers. After a stroke, my mother remained her sunny self. And though she could no longer find words. She charmed the staff in rehab, shamelessly. Created her own clucking, gibberish language. At the same time she found out.

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Hattie Wilcox: Pie in the sky

http://hattiewilcox.blogspot.com/2009/02/pie-in-sky.html

Wednesday, February 18, 2009. Pie in the sky. The other day, the idiom "pie in the sky" popped into my head as the first line of a poem. I googled it today and found that it first appeared in a song! Here is the short story and song lyrics. A promise of heaven, while continuing to suffer in this life. Long-haired preachers come out every night,. Try to tell you what's wrong and what's right;. But when asked how 'bout something to eat. They will answer with voices so sweet:. You will eat, bye and bye,.

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courage | Writing without a helmet

https://writingwithoutahelmet.com/tag/courage

Writing without a helmet. Posted by Hattie Wilcox. In memory of my mother, Elizabeth Douglas Moran. In the back of my file drawer I found a pair of socks. Left from the time my mother came to stay. The time when the music room was her bedroom. And everything she owned fit into two drawers. After a stroke, my mother remained her sunny self. And though she could no longer find words. She charmed the staff in rehab, shamelessly. Created her own clucking, gibberish language. At the same time she found out.