The word of the month for September is . . .

Hi everyone,
David from 417 Magazine
Another month, another opportunity to stretch with some word play. I just returned to the list of words provided by you half a year ago and selected this one: FORGOTTEN. It feels ripe with possibilities. How did that old song go, “Try to remember the kind of September?” Let’s see what we remember and what we have forgotten.

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6 comments on “The word of the month for September is . . .

  1. of course, the first thing that comes to mind is that Ben Franklin couplet: ‘If you would not be forgotten When you are dead and rotten…”

  2. ‘Old times there are not forgotten,’
    So says the old and hoary song
    True – e’en with a memory turned spotty & rotten,
    I remember my mother singing
    To five-year-old me, crying over a banged-up knee,
    The phone number we had when I was ten,
    But not that for which I went downstairs
    Until I go back up then down again
    And not the name of one I just met:
    ‘Pleased to meet you….uh…I forget!
    Your name just went out, with a slam
    Of the screen door at the back o’ my head –
    What was it that you just said?
    But I call to mind the red dress I wore
    On the first day of first grade,
    My name embroidered on the pocket.
    Saved like a picture in a silver locket,
    Along with my mother’s song,
    Where old memories belong.

    • Oh for heaven’s sake, Cheryl. Between you and Jane I’m feeling the pressure to produce something soon before all the fun ideas are taken! Thanks!

  3. Because We Have Forgotten

    In this Denmark of the decade
    All that is rotten seeps upward,
    infesting the body politic
    with those things best left forgotten.
    Little bits of acid, words, ideas
    that we should have outgrown
    and haven’t, fester in the dark.

    And now a spark has set them aflame.
    In this old card game, kings and aces high,
    we are trumped by
    our old misgivings, fear of others,
    tribal once again as the lights
    go out on the glorious city
    that once guarded our hill.

    Send the Lady with the Lamp
    home, that old immigrant
    in her stone skirts and silly crown.
    Led her wade the plastic ocean.
    We need not remember
    her guidance any more.
    Dim that damned uncomfortable light.

    Let us sit happy here in our own cold night.

    ©2016 Jane Yolen all rights reserved

    • Oh my! I seem to have chosen a word imbued with haunting reflections. Thank you, Jane. Have you all seen Bryn’s poem about Alzheimer’s under W.O.M.? So poignant.

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