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Lemonade Ladies poetry collection....welcome home

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Christy Arnold is a proud Lemonade Lady and writer of poetry. When you first meet Christy, she is quiet, and appears to be shy. Once you get to know her, you find out how loving, and caring, she is. She has a great sense of humor, when you listen carefully to what she says, you will chuckle at her quick wit. This is her second poem dedicated to the Lemonade Lady collection.

Her poem speaks to us regarding the fact that you can never go home expecting things to be the same. The hallowed halls she writes about is the emptiness you feel inside as you realize everything as you knew it, is gone. She expresses through the rotten swing that the pains of the past have been replaced with hope as she hears the song of the birds. She talks about strolling off the beaten path, which echoes that life is not a straight line; it takes us places we never expect to be. She ends her poem by honoring our memories, but reminds us not to live in our past, but to live in the now.

Christy’s poem reminds us that our problems stem from two things:

  1. We can’t let go of something in our past.
  2. We are living in fear of something that may or may not happen in the future.

When we worry about the past, or the future, it is a major stumbling block when we are trying to control negative thoughts. If you can practice locking your thoughts in the present, you have more control over them, and can stay more positive. The present is about healing the chatter within our heads; it is about life; about enjoying the moment, rather than just being.

Welcome Home

By Christy Arnold

Going to the old home site, poking around,

seeing if the bones are bleached on the ground.

Breathing in deep, and smelling the honeysuckle

that warps around the missing door.

Hallowed halls of what was, is no more.

Scared remnants of cherished moments

rusting away, as the rain drips down,

red as blood, springs trickling stain.

The Crow’s Grass white flower,

warns of death every spring.

As the birds sing sweetly, setting above

the rotten tire swing.

Strolling off the beaten path

to see if the lilies are standing in

a huddled mass.

Stones throw away, the pond should be full.

The turtles easing in while the fish are bold.

Skipping the flat flint three times maybe four.

Rippling the water of memories of stories

no longer told.

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