The Sunshine Factor

where sunshine is a way of life

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Erik Andrulis

August 10, 2013

Erik writes:

I found this poem, “Warm from Cold,” in my notebook as dated 1/18/88.  However, I think the original version of this poem dates back to 1986.  The poem tells the story of a common occurrence when I was a child – my mother sending me out into the cold—out to play in the snow—only to have her welcome me back into the warm: in front of the fire, the warm hot chocolate, the warmth of her love.

” Warm from Cold”

Covered with a scratch wool scarf

an itchy wool hat,

(that the moths had never reached),

two unmatched mittens,

scritchy stretchy socks,

with sandwich baggies over them

(so my socks and toes wouldn’t get wet),

rubber golashes with metal clasps,

shoulder-strap ski pants,

and broken zippered jacket

held together by safety pins

(broken in by my brother),

my mother sent me out —

into the pouring snow,

to prance, to parade,

to frolic

in blissful pageantry,

to roll, to throw, to build

with eternal creativity—

only to return

to a state of time,

soaked and frosty

from head to toe.

She would then proceed

to peel off my layers,

wrap me in a warm blanket,

sit me down before

the crackling, sparkling, warming fire, give me graham crackers

and hot chocolate

with tiny marshmallows

served on that old wooden tray,

then sit down beside me

read me a book

tell me she loved me

thaw me close

and rock me to sleep.

This poem makes me want to go play in the snow!  I think a poem is truly successful when it brings the reader back in time where one can experience all their senses through the poem’s words, such as this one.  Thanks for guesting, Erik!  :)


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Tom Lucas

February 10, 2013


It’s Hard to Move Slowly

I was in Cape Canaveral driving

Headed to a housewarming

Not sure where I was going

The first time driving somewhere

Is always a bit irritating.

Silence, looking for the turn

GPS barks “turn right”

So I do. It’s not the

Right turn at all.

I turned right, but it wasn’t right.

It was some dead-end RV park

As dead as Cape Canaveral dreams.

Ratty metal boxes, and a single dirt road

I wanted out fast, but had to go slow.

Stupid 5 mph speed limit in the joint.

I can’t go 5 miles per hour.

I can’t even sit at 5 miles per hour.

So I didn’t. I needed to get back on track.

Then, from somewhere unseen

A voice yells, “SLOW DOWN!”

Dammit, really?

This is how you spend your day?

I’m not even supposed to be here.

This wasn’t my choice of destination.

Part of me wanted to stop the car and smack this guy.

Instead, I kept going and eventually

Made it out and to the party.

But I thought about that voice

And who was behind it.

A lone guardsman against perceived chaos.

Sitting deep in a sea of aging tin cans

Retirement plans choked by weeds

A sad dirt road winding through them

On a chair, staring at the blankness of it all.

I never want to be that guy.

by Tom Lucas


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Nesher Ehrman

April 7, 2013

 I asked myself the other day,
Why am I a writer, what made me that way?
That question’s ad hominem, it asks about me,
But it’s true of all writers, counting you thine and thee
Because when you sit, and examine that question
Writing’s more than a job, not just a profession
A person who writes, whether tiny or small
Is always unique, from the first word they scrawl
So now, let me see, we’ve defined some new terms,
A writer’s a creature, not a snail or some germs
But how do they form? Do they pass some hard test?
Or perhaps are they hatched, from an egg, in a nest?
Now I still don’t have an answer to the question I asked,
But now I have new ones, they are rising quite fast
Is there more than one kind, is it decided by age
Can a man be a writer if he’s not old and sage?
To answer all this we might have to digress
Because it is I who must also confess
I don’t have the answers, I don’t know who’s a writer
I just know that I am one, more than lover or fighter
And I don’t know you, I can’t tell if you are
I don’t know if you rhyme or your thinking’s bizarre
Yet one thing I’ll say, and this fact I ensure
If you think you’re a writer, then you are, to be sure
by Nesher Ehrman