วีดีโอ

Thank you George for the St. Johns County spotlight. Such a great opportunity and so much talent.

I'm a poet i know it. Haiku to you❤😂

A lovely evening. We greatly enjoyed these works.

Thank you Christina M. Rau, and the Walt Whitman Birthplace Association for offering this video. I am planning to enter an Ekphrastic poetry competition, and this video is an amazing resource! I feel much more confident in attempting one of my own, and that I learnt a great deal. Thank you again for this amazing gift - I am looking forward to watching some of the other videos on this channel :)

Greetings!, Your content is very Nice. Some Specific reasons your videos are not getting Enough Views.. I have Some Information that will help to grow your Channel Organically to gat More Views . if you want I can discuss it.

Kings Quest

❤thanks Dan

at stony brook is there a local algonquin dialect taught?

Great time! Thank you, George. Thank you, Everyone.

Introduction Robert Savino, Walt Whitman Birthplace 0:00 Introduction: George Wallace, 1:11 Florence Poets Intro:Tommy Twilite 5:18 Howie Faerstein 15:52 Edward Bruce Bynum 27:30 Introduction 2 George Wallace 37:56 Kansas City Poets Intro Shawn Pavey 41:00 Jason Ryberg 41:32 John Dorsey 54:36 Shawn Pavey 1:00:58 Introduction 3 George Wallace 1:05:24 Colombia Poets Intro Maria del Castillo Suceraquia 1:07:55 Miguel Iriarte 1:09:54 Anabel Marzo 1:24:20 inal Comments George Wallace 1:36:44

Don’t feel like you’re crazy when you see the hand of GOD in everything. You’re not seeing things.

Intro 0:00 Robert Savino 1:20 George Wallace Romanian Diaspora 5:20 Claudia Serea 14:18 Andrei Codrescu 1:38:28 Carmen Firan New Mexico 25:05 John Roche 28:30 Anna Martinez 38:47 John Macker 47:07 Catherine Strisik 55:00 John Roche South Florida 1:04:18 Lenny Dellarocca 1:05:55 Marci Calabretta Cancio-Bella 1:16:38 : Michael Mackin OMara 1:25:50 Denise Duhamel 1:33:15 Lenny Dellarocca Final Comments 1:44:56 :George Wallace

Intro 0:00 Robert Savino 0:53 George Wallace, Walt Whitman Birthplace Rutherford NJ / Red Wheelbarrow 4:58 Anton Yakovlev 7:15 Don Zirilli 18:27 Frank Rubino India 30:43: Pankhuri Sinha 41:05 Prasanna Kumar 46:35 Ratan Ghosh San Luis Obispo Ca 1:02:55 Kevin Patrick Sullivan 1:10:02 Benjamin Lawless 1:14:34 Diane Sousa 1:21:15 Kevin Clark Final Comments 1:28:51 George Wallace

Introduction Robert Savino, Walt Whitman Birthplace 0:00 Introduction: George Wallace, 0:53 Boricua Poets Intro:Vincent Toro 5:56 Ana Portnoy Brimmer 7:27 Malcolm Friend 15;32 Vincent Toro 24:31 Introduction 2 George Wallace 34:39 Costa Rica Poets Intro Maria del Castillo Suceraquia 36:48 Luissiana Naranjo Abarca 38:48 Nidia Martina Gonzalez 49:07 Marisa Russo 56:23 Introduction 3 George Wallace 1:04:00 Brevitas Poets NYC Intro Ron Kolm 1:06:45 Austin Alexis 1:09:14 Karen Neuberg 1:14:58 Amy Holman 1:20:37 Final Comments George Wallace 1:27:10

Thanks for the cool video. Question: where was the mysterious “stone fort” sign?

p̳r̳o̳m̳o̳s̳m̳

Interesting project. May well have commercial viability, if copyrights could be paid for and utilized. Hearing the first young woman playing guitar and singing beautifully, gives hope to the notion, as complex and meaningful lyrics fade in contemporary music, in the proper handling, those that already exist in the words of Whitman and others, could be easily mined and thus reborn.

Stunning, mesmerising, so hauntingly beautiful. Brava Ms. Lyons and Maestro Hagen.

Matinecock people are alive and well.

Marine coco people are alive and well

Brief Bio: I’m Al Fogel born in 1945 and at an early age began writing poems. In 1962 I was introduced to a neighbor who just returned from Avatar Meher Baba’s “ East west” gathering and handed me a book titled “The Everything and the Nothing” that included brief but powerful passages by Meher Baba that touched me deeply and i became a “ Baba Lover” In 2010 while on Jane Reichhold’s AHA website workshopping poems I befriended a Chinese man who helped me perfect my Senryu and Haibun. I am now considered one of the nations leading authorities on Tanka , Senryu, and Haibun. Here are some examples of each of my specialties senryu ~ dentist chair the hygienist removes my Bluetooth ~ Internet argument all his words in CAPS hers in EMOTICONS ~ after the divorce he spends more time at the dollar store ~ damsel in distress clarke kent still searching for a phone booth ~ cauliflower ears once a contender now boxing vegetables ~ under the influence - moonshine ~ Audubon sale all variety of seeds. . . early birds welcome ~ Buddhist fortune cookie the unfolded paper reads “ better luck next birth!” ~ sudden downpour. . . the adults run for shelter ~ sidewalk cafe the birds and people tweeting ~ busy crosswalk the seeing eye dog leads the way ~ **senryu is usually humorous, but it can also be serious. For example, the following two of mine are horrific and heartbreaking ( dealing with the Holocaust): ~ cattle cars between the slats human eyes ~ stutthof - the stench of burnt hair from the chimneys ~ thrift store purchase inside the leather jacket a tarnished half-heart ~ deserted train depot a long line of rusted tracks leading nowhere ~~ return to my youth lit by the tracks of Lionel trains. ~ Tanka: returning home from a Jackson pollock exhibition I smear my face with paint and morph into art ~ crowded bus a young lady offers me her seat it seems like only yesterday I was offering mine ~ deserted train depot a conductor once shouted “ All Aboard!” but now it’s just a long line of tracks leading nowhere ~ Haibun: The Mathematics of Retribution “Karma is i fathomable,” I inform her It’s late and our conversation turns heavy “ Seems simple to me, “my girlfriend responds. “If I murder you, then it’s reasonable that I will be murdered in this or another life to balance the ledger.” “ Not necessarily so” I’m quick to rejoin. “What if you murdered me in this life because I murdered you in a prior life karmic debts and dues are now equalized.” “But what if I get caught and I go to jail for life. Where’s the equal payback in that?” “As I said, karma is unfathomable.” We continue discussing reincarnation and then add the possibilities of “group karma” to the mix Finally, at about midnight, we fall asleep Stutthof - the stench of burnt hair from the chimneys ~~ Mama There were days when I pretended to be too sick to go to school - - just for mamas loving embrace -her arms the heat of home Even with the onset of dementia, her cheerfulness was so contagious it was a joy being around her despite the illness. She made everyone laugh with her spontaneous unpredictable behavior. nursing home bumper wheelchair her favorite pastime Once a week I would whisk her away from the assisted-living facility and we would spend several hours together -grabbing a meal or frequenting some of her favorite second-hand stores where she loved to shop and donate clothes. When we drove to her favorite thrift in November, her dementia worsened. thrift store the dress mama donated she wants to buy On a cold December morn mama passed. The funeral was simple. There was a light drizzle as the family gathered at the gravesite. One by one, with eyes full of rain, we said our last goodbyes. autumn twilight - oh mama tuck me under hug me one more time ~ ‘Round Midnight It was a huge ballroom on the top floor of a building on Broadway --an important midtown crossroads in the heart of the Great White Way. My uncle still talks with reverence about how -in his heyday -he would travel by rail to the corner of Lenox and walk inside to the beat of jungle music. Who knew what to expect? One night you might be listening with rapt attention to Theloneous Monk and Dizzy Gillespie the godfathers of bebop in their signature beret caps, or the Nicholas Brothers flashing their wild acrobatic spins and splits, or enchanted by the sweet taste of Brown Sugar -with Bojangles out front. And when the Bird was in flight, even the moon was not high enough. But in 1940 the ballroom closed its doors to make way for a commercial housing development and another kind of night. new Harlem the a-train replaced by the bullet ~ Atlantic City New Jersey I had just graduated from high school I remember stopping for saltwater taffy -as evening journeyed slowly into night. Nearing curfew, we sat on a protruded sandy enclave--holding hands, looking out at the ocean, not saying much. In the distance the lights from an ocean liner flickered as the night kept coming on in... first “french kiss” under the boardwalk “over the moon!” ~~ All love, Al

I hope you don’t mind me sharing the following poem, one of my all time favorite meta poetic poems by a poet named “Howard Dull” titled “Suibhne Gheilt” that I recently chanced upon. When I read it, I became speechless. And most of my poetry friends consider this as one of their all time favorites. It was published in a 1970s anthology titled “ Open Poetry” and proves that once Poetry hits you in your heart, , you could be the worst nefarious scoundrel with kings and Empires at your command but you will be transformed and never again return to your previous Self. ~~ Suibhne Gheilt 1 He has haunted me now for over a year that madman Suibhne Gheilt who in the middle of a battle looked up and saw something that made him leap up and fly over swords and trees - a poet gifted above all others - 11 How could a proud loud mouth who yelled KILL KILL KILL as he plowed done the enemy - heads rolling off of his sword - be so lifted up ( or fly up as those below saw it - wings beating) be so suddenly gifted with poetry and nest so high in Ireland’s tall trees? Is there a point where all paths cross? And why am I so drawn to him that all my questions seem shot in his direction? “And they ran into the woods and threw their lances and shot their arrows up through the branches” What parallels could I ever hope to find - my refusal to fight ( weaseling out on psychiatric grounds)? my leaving my country behind? my poetry? “and my wife wept on the path below. . . Oh memory is sweet but sweeter is the sorrel in the pool in the path below” I fly down every night to eat 111 Sweeney like the rest of us would have been better off if he had never anything to do with women. But the point of it lies hidden in a pool of milk in a pile of shit for you to see when a milkmaid smiles Sweeney like the rest of us flies down and when she pours the milk into the hole her heel made in the cowdung Sweeney like the rest of us kneels down and drinks and dies on the horn the cowherd hid in it. So before you have anything to do with women remember Sweeney the bird of Ireland lying on his back in the middle of that path in the moonlight. 1V And on my way home this morning ( my wife waiting) my shadow racing up the path ahead of me I saw something ( a black stone?) thrown at the back of its head ducked and spun around so fast I almost fell down - it was a bird flying up into a tree V No good could come out of this war out of what burns in the heart of our highly disciplined John Q. Killer as a whole village bursts into one flame - the villagers streaming like tears towards the forest cover his helicopter’s blades blow the leaves off and and the flame towards. . . as we sit in front of our bubbles watching our president ( whose bubbletalk no one can escape and he is a little bit mad -calling the reporters in for an interview while he’s sitting on the bubble having a bubble movement) and first lady climb into their big bubble bed an Lucy, born of their own bubbles, crawls in between - “ Mah daddy has so many troubles turning the world into a bubble and sick of crossfire - the cries of the women and children flying over his head - he stumbled down to the riverbank and found, the wreckage twisted around the tree behind, his skull. . . Noises, there are noises, noises that can of themselves drive a man mad -NOISES! But last night the Stockhausen penetrated from the four sides of the auditorium, stripping each layer of feeling and thought until all that was left was something the size of a nut - so tiny, so hard, so impenetrable it was alone in the middle of an infinite space. . . -Howard Dull ~~ ps: Howard Dull was such an obscure poet that he never published a book and ( to my knowledge) never published another poem. But OMG, this was so brilliant that in my opinion it should be read and studied at the college level. All love in isolation from Miami Beach, Florida, Al

Enjoyed your reading and poems that engaged me throughout. And your unique word choices enhanced the emotional impact and kept me engaged throughout. I, too, am a poet specializing in Japanese forms: haiku, tanka, haibun, kyoka, senryu. I hope you don’t mind me sharing a tanka and my haiku tribute poem to Matshuo Bashō’s frog with short but in depth commentary by the late AHA founder and poet Jane Reichhold who considered my haiku among her 10 favorite haiku of all time! What an honor. Here’s the Bashō poem with Jane Reichhold’s insightful commentary: Bashō’s frog four hundred years of ripples At first the idea of picking only 10 of my favorite haiku seemed a rather daunting task. How could I review all the haiku I have read in my life and decide that there were only 10 that were outstanding? Then realized I was already getting a steady stream of excellent haiku day by day through the AHA forum. The puns and write-offs based on Basho's most famous haiku are so numerous I would have said that nothing new could be said with this method, but here Al Fogel proved me wrong. Perhaps part of my delight in this haiku lies in the fact that I agree with him. Here he is saying one thing about realism-ripples are on a pond after a frog jumps in, but because it refers back to Basho and his famous haiku, he is also saying something about the haiku and authors who have followed him. We, and our work, are just ripples while Basho holds the honor of inventing the idea of the sound of a frog leaping is the sound of water As haiku spreads around the world, making ripples in more and larger ponds, its ripples are wider-including us all. But his last word reminds us that we are ripples and our lives ephemeral. It will be the frogs that will remain. ~~ And my tanka: returning home from a Jackson Pollock exhibition I smear my face with paint and turn into art ~~ -All love in isolation from Miami Beach, Florida, Al

Enjoyed your reading and poems that engaged me throughout. I, too, am a poet specializing in Japanese forms: haiku, tanka, haibun, kyoka, senryu. I hope you don’t mind me sharing a tanka and my haiku tribute poem to Matshuo Bashō’s frog with short but in depth commentary by the late AHA founder and poet Jane Reichhold who considered my haiku among her 10 favorite haiku of all time! What an honor. Here’s the Bashō poem with Jane Reichhold’s insightful commentary: Bashō’s frog four hundred years of ripples At first the idea of picking only 10 of my favorite haiku seemed a rather daunting task. How could I review all the haiku I have read in my life and decide that there were only 10 that were outstanding? Then realized I was already getting a steady stream of excellent haiku day by day through the AHA forum. The puns and write-offs based on Basho's most famous haiku are so numerous I would have said that nothing new could be said with this method, but here Al Fogel proved me wrong. Perhaps part of my delight in this haiku lies in the fact that I agree with him. Here he is saying one thing about realism-ripples are on a pond after a frog jumps in, but because it refers back to Basho and his famous haiku, he is also saying something about the haiku and authors who have followed him. We, and our work, are just ripples while Basho holds the honor of inventing the idea of the sound of a frog leaping is the sound of water As haiku spreads around the world, making ripples in more and larger ponds, its ripples are wider-including us all. But his last word reminds us that we are ripples and our lives ephemeral. It will be the frogs that will remain. ~~ And my tanka: returning home from a Jackson Pollock exhibition I smear my face with paint and turn into art ~~ -All love in isolation from Miami Beach, Florida, Al

Brief Bio: I’m Al Fogel born in 1945 and at an early age began writing poems. In 1962 I was introduced to a neighbor who just returned from Avatar Meher Baba’s “ East west” gathering and handed me a book titled “The Everything and the Nothing” that included brief but powerful passages by Meher Baba that touched me deeply and i became a “ Baba Lover” I continued writing poems and in 2010 while on Jane Reichhold’s AHA website workshopping poems I befriended a Chinese man who helped me perfect my Senryu and Haibun. Subsequently I am now considered one of the nations leading authorities on Tanka , Senryu, and Haibun. Here are some examples of each of my specialties senryu ~ dentist chair the hygienist removes my Bluetooth ~ Internet argument all his words in CAPS hers in EMOTICONS ~ after the divorce he spends more time at the dollar store ~ damsel in distress clarke kent still searching for a phone booth ~ cauliflower ears once a contender now boxing vegetables ~ under the influence - moonshine ~ Audubon sale all variety of seeds. . . early birds welcome ~ Buddhist fortune cookie the unfolded paper reads “ better luck next birth!” ~ sudden downpour. . . the adults run for shelter ~ sidewalk cafe the birds and people tweeting ~ busy crosswalk the seeing eye dog leads the way ~ **senryu is usually humorous, but it can also be serious. For example, the following two of mine are horrific and heartbreaking ( dealing with the Holocaust): ~ cattle cars between the slats human eyes ~ stutthof - the stench of burnt hair from the chimneys ~ Tanka ( I already posted the Jackson Pollock one about painting his face but here’s another Tanka ~ Here is another Tanka: thrift store purchase inside the leather jacket a tarnished half-heart ~ Haibuns The Mathematics of Retribution “Karma is i fathomable,” I inform her It’s late and our conversation turns heavy “ Seems simple to me, “my girlfriend responds. “If I murder you, then it’s reasonable that I will be murdered in this or another life to balance the ledger.” “ Not necessarily so” I’m quick to rejoin. “What if you murdered me in this life because I murdered you in a prior life karmic debts and dues are now equalized.” “But what if I get caught and I go to jail for life. Where’s the equal payback in that?” “As I said, karma is unfathomable.” We continue discussing reincarnation and then add the possibilities of “group karma” to the mix Finally, at about midnight, we fall asleep Stutthof - the stench of burnt hair from the chimneys ~~ Mama There were days when I pretended to be too sick to go to school - - just for mamas loving embrace -her arms the heat of home Even with the onset of dementia, her cheerfulness was so contagious it was a joy being around her despite the illness. She made everyone laugh with her spontaneous unpredictable behavior. nursing home bumper wheelchair her favorite pastime Once a week I would whisk her away from the assisted-living facility and we would spend several hours together -grabbing a meal or frequenting some of her favorite second-hand stores where she loved to shop and donate clothes. When we drove to her favorite thrift in November, her dementia worsened. thrift store the dress mama donated she wants to buy On a cold December morn mama passed. The funeral was simple. There was a light drizzle as the family gathered at the gravesite. One by one, with eyes full of rain, we said our last goodbyes. autumn twilight - oh mama tuck me under hug me one more time ~ ‘Round Midnight It was a huge ballroom on the top floor of a building on Broadway --an important midtown crossroads in the heart of the Great White Way. My uncle still talks with reverence about how -in his heyday -he would travel by rail to the corner of Lenox and walk inside to the beat of jungle music. Who knew what to expect? One night you might be listening with rapt attention to Theloneous Monk and Dizzy Gillespie the godfathers of bebop in their signature beret caps, or the Nicholas Brothers flashing their wild acrobatic spins and splits, or enchanted by the sweet taste of Brown Sugar -with Bojangles out front. And when the Bird was in flight, even the moon was not high enough. But in 1940 the ballroom closed its doors to make way for a commercial housing development and another kind of night. new Harlem the a-train replaced by the bullet ~ Atlantic City New Jersey I had just graduated from high school I remember stopping for saltwater taffy -as evening journeyed slowly into night. Nearing curfew, we sat on a protruded sandy enclave--holding hands, looking out at the ocean, not saying much. In the distance the lights from an ocean liner flickered as the night kept coming on in... first “french kiss” under the boardwalk “over the moon!” ~~ All love, Al

I hope you don’t mind me sharing the following poem, one of my all time favorite meta poetic poems by a poet named “Howard Dull” titled “Suibhne Gheilt” that I recently chanced upon. When I read it, I became speechless. And most of my poetry friends consider this as one of their all time favorites. It was published in a 1970s anthology titled “ Open Poetry” and proves that once Poetry hits you in your heart, you could be the worst nefarious scoundrel with kings at your bidding and Empires at your command but you will be transformed and never again return to your former Self. ~~ Suibhne Gheilt 1 He has haunted me now for over a year that madman Suibhne Gheilt who in the middle of a battle looked up and saw something that made him leap up and fly over swords and trees - a poet gifted above all others - 11 How could a proud loud mouth who yelled KILL KILL KILL as he plowed done the enemy - heads rolling off of his sword - be so lifted up ( or fly up as those below saw it - wings beating) be so suddenly gifted with poetry and nest so high in Ireland’s tall trees? Is there a point where all paths cross? And why am I so drawn to him that all my questions seem shot in his direction? “And they ran into the woods and threw their lances and shot their arrows up through the branches” What parallels could I ever hope to find - my refusal to fight ( weaseling out on psychiatric grounds)? my leaving my country behind? my poetry? “and my wife wept on the path below. . . Oh memory is sweet but sweeter is the sorrel in the pool in the path below” I fly down every night to eat 111 Sweeney like the rest of us would have been better off if he had never anything to do with women. But the point of it lies hidden in a pool of milk in a pile of shit for you to see when a milkmaid smiles Sweeney like the rest of us flies down and when she pours the milk into the hole her heel made in the cowdung Sweeney like the rest of us kneels down and drinks and dies on the horn the cowherd hid in it. So before you have anything to do with women remember Sweeney the bird of Ireland lying on his back in the middle of that path in the moonlight. 1V And on my way home this morning ( my wife waiting) my shadow racing up the path ahead of me I saw something ( a black stone?) thrown at the back of its head ducked and spun around so fast I almost fell down - it was a bird flying up into a tree V No good could come out of this war out of what burns in the heart of our highly disciplined John Q. Killer as a whole village bursts into one flame - the villagers streaming like tears towards the forest cover his helicopter’s blades blow the leaves off and and the flame towards. . . as we sit in front of our bubbles watching our president ( whose bubbletalk no one can escape and he is a little bit mad -calling the reporters in for an interview while he’s sitting on the bubble having a bubble movement) and first lady climb into their big bubble bed an Lucy, born of their own bubbles, crawls in between - “ Mah daddy has so many troubles turning the world into a bubble and sick of crossfire - the cries of the women and children flying over his head - he stumbled down to the riverbank and found, the wreckage twisted around the tree behind, his skull. . . Noises, there are noises, noises that can of themselves drive a man mad -NOISES! But last night the Stockhausen penetrated from the four sides of the auditorium, stripping each layer of feeling and thought until all that was left was something the size of a nut - so tiny, so hard, so impenetrable it was alone in the middle of an infinite space. . . -Howard Dull ~~ ps: Howard Dull was such an obscure poet that he never published a book and ( to my knowledge) never published another poem. But OMG, this was so brilliant that in my opinion it should be read and studied at the college level. All love in isolation from Miami Beach, Florida, Al

Very much enjoyed your interview and poems from your many online sites that kept me engaged throughout. I, too, am a poet ( and also a fiction story writer which I’ll elaborate shortly ) but for now let me say I write mostly Japanese format poems i.e. haiku , senryu, tanka/kyoka, haibun etc. I hope you don’t mind me sharing a Tanka and a haiku dedicated to Matshuo Bashō’s frog with added insightful commentary by the late AHA founder and poet Jane Reichhold who considered my haiku among her 10 favorite haiku of all time! What an honor. Here’s the Bashō poem with Jane Reichhold’ insightful commentary: Bashō’s frog four hundred years of ripples At first the idea of picking only 10 of my favorite haiku seemed a rather daunting task. How could I review all the haiku I have read in my life and decide that there were only 10 that were outstanding? Then realized I was already getting a steady stream of excellent haiku day by day through the AHA forum. The puns and write-offs based on Basho's most famous haiku are so numerous I would have said that nothing new could be said with this method, but here Al Fogel proved me wrong. Perhaps part of my delight in this haiku lies in the fact that I agree with him. Here he is saying one thing about realism-ripples are on a pond after a frog jumps in, but because it refers back to Basho and his famous haiku, he is also saying something about the haiku and authors who have followed him. We, and our work, are just ripples while Basho holds the honor of inventing the idea of the sound of a frog leaping is the sound of water As haiku spreads around the world, making ripples in more and larger ponds, its ripples are wider-including us all. But his last word reminds us that we are ripples and our lives ephemeral. It will be the frogs that will remain. ~~ Now the tanka: returning home from a Jackson Pollock exhibition I smear paint on my face and turn into art ~~ Finally, the fictional story that I alluded to earlier. It not only should appeal to Afro-Americans but all individual and groups that experience racial discrimination. It is based on a true incident that took place in the 1950s when racial prejudice was rampant. My story has an unexpected heartwarming ending that coincides with my own belief akin to Dr Martin Luther King’s in a non-violent approach and resolution to racial injustice Titled “ Eloise , Edna And The Chicken Coop” ELOISE, EDNA & THE CHICKEN COOP There was once a Black lady named Eloise who inherited from her grandmother a parcel of land in the suburbs of Compton California at a time when there was strong racial prejudice against women of color-especially those Black women who owned property in predominately white neighborhoods. It happened there lived adjacent to Eloise’s land a white woman named Edna who did not like the fact that this Black woman owned land next to hers. Eloise would try to be friendly because she believed Jesus when He said “Love Thy Neighbor” and to Eloise that meant even if your neighbor was unfriendly. But whenever Eloise saw Edna, Edna would turn her back in disdain. In fact, ever since her husband died a decade ago, Edna became mean and unfriendly to everyone in the neighborhood. But to Eloise, she was so hateful and full of animosity that one night when all the lights in Eloise home were off Edna went to her own backyard where she kept her chicken coop and gathered up all the manure and dumped it on Eloise land and upon her tomatoes and her greens and everything she was growing, in an attempt to destroy it. And when Eloise realized the next morning that there was all this manure, instead of becoming angry, she decided to rake and mix it in with the soil and use it as fertilizer. Every night Edna would dump the manure from her chicken coop litter box and Eloise would get up in the morning and turn it over and mix it. This went on for almost a month until one morning Eloise noticed there was no manure in her yard. Then one of the neighbors informed Eloise that Edna had fallen ill. But because Edna was so mean and unfriendly , no one came to see her when she was sick. But when Eloise heard about Edna’s condition she picked the best flowers from her garden, walked to Edna’s house , knocked on her front door and when Edna opened the door, she was in complete shock that this Black Woman who she had been so cruel to, would be the only neighbor to visit her and bring flowers. Edna was deeply moved by Eloise kindness. Then Eloise handed the flowers to Edna who said, “These are the most beautiful flowers I’ve ever seen! Where’d you get them?” Eloise replied, “You helped me make them, Edna, because when you were dumping in my yard, I decided to plant some roses and use your manure as fertilizer.“ This genuine act of kindness opened the floodgate of Edna’s heart that had been closed for so long. “When I’m feeling better, I would love to have you over for tea,” Edna told Eloise. “Thank you, “ Edna replied, assuring her she would come. And then added, “I will pray for your speedy recovery every night.” And with those words Eloise departed. It’s amazing what can blossom from manure. There are some who allow manure to fall on them and do nothing. But then there are others-like Eloise -who “turn the other cheek” when abused or in this case “turn over the soil” to make something new like those bevy of beautiful red roses that opened a white woman’s heart. ~~ -All love in isolation from Miami Beach, Florida, -Al

This video is way underrated... Thank you for this Video, i really enjoyed it... ❤️

I am so proud to be related to Walt!!

Awwwwwwwwwwww

My wife is retired Air Force and taught military ethics, and aesthetics, at the Air Force Academy, and we much appreciated all the references to Memorial Day and the readings relating to the Civil War. We also live near Washington D.C., where Whitman, of course, lived for a while. Lot of connections that made this particular video much appreciated by us. It reminded us a bit of that fantastic video series Whitman, Alabama. I happily became of member of the WWBA after seeing the video. Thanks again to all the people who made the video possible.

Bravo Great job everyone-Loved Giana's art-over her mom's reading!! Could listen to Romey Smith read the phone book-all day long!

Grateful to be part of this. Thanks for a wonderful celebration!

Happy Birthday Walt Whitman! Happy to be part of the celebration. Thank you Caitlyn for letting my film take part in the presentation.🦋

Kudos to everyone involved...a truly enjoyable celebration of Walt on his b'day!

I could listen to Rommi Smith all day!

Wonderful presentation, sharing on my FB for all to enjoy...

Happy to be a part of the celebration! Happy Birthday Walt Whitman.

This has been great. Thanks to everyone for making this happen.

Happy birthday fellow Gemini!

This is making me homesick for LI for the first time in 25 years 🤠

Wunderbar!

Thank you for joining us! Happy Birthday, Walt!!

Happy 202nd homeboy

Happy Birthday, Walt Whitman!

Five minutes to premier...

love this! An enjoyable fusion of poetry and music.

Congratulations Editor, Gayl Teller, Walt Whitman Birthplace, and all the talented poets who contributed to this most important historical record about the Covid Pandemic 2020-21--- delighted to be included in Corona, an Anthology... Rita B. Rose

Really enjoyed watching this. Thank you.

A treat to see and hear my old hometown neighbor doing what he loves!