One summer afternoon I came home and found all the umbrellas sitting in the kitchen, with straw hats on, telling who they are.
...
The umbrella that peels the potatoes with a pencil and makes a pink ink with the peelings stood up and said, "I am the umbrella that peels the potatoes with a pencil and makes a pink ink with the peelings." ...
The umbrella that runs to the corner to get corners for the handkerchiefs stood up and said, "I am the umbrella that runs to the corner to get corners for the handkerchiefs."
...
"I am the umbrella that holds up the sky. I am the umbrella the rain comes through. I am the umbrella that tells the sky when to begin raining and when to stop raining.
"I am the umbrella that goes to pieces when the wind blows and then puts itself back together again when the wind goes down. I am the first umbrella, the last umbrella, the one and only umbrella all other umbrellas are named after, first, last and always."
When the stranger finished this speech telling who he was and where he came from, all the other umbrellas sat still for a little while, to be respectful.
Tags: whimsy
To work hard, to live hard, to die hard, and then go to hell after all would be too damn hard.
Carl SandburgAfter the sunset on the prairie, there are only the stars
Carl SandburgI see America, not in the setting sun of a black night of despair ahead of us, I see America in the crimson light of a rising sun fresh from the burning, creative hand of God. I see great days ahead, great days possible to men and women of will and vision
Carl SandburgCome and show me another city with lifted head singing so proud to be alive and coarse and strong and cunning...proud to be Hog Butcher, Tool Maker, Stacker of Wheat, Player with Railroads and Freight Handler to the Nation.
Carl SandburgTags: chicago
Poetry is an echo asking a shadow to dance.
Carl SandburgTags: poetry
Our lives are like a candle in the wind.
Carl SandburgTags: life
Blowing,Blowing
The gray slabs
Will lose you
the winds will flick you away
In a whiff
I've written some poetry I don't understand myself
Carl SandburgTags: poetry
The shovel is brother to the gun.
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