Poem: The Winter of Birds

The Winter of Birds

Birds do not sing in winter,

Cherubic tongues snowed in

By a desperate northern wind

The aftermath of a storm – debris

& broken wings.

In the silhouette of memories,

The tinge of dying light, fields

Of snow that clothed the ground –

They never croaked a sound,

Perhaps, they'll wait for spring.


                                        by Sally Delancy ©

Poem: Didactic Poem for Virus Days

Didactic Poem for Virus Days

Yup, one day at a time

they tell us but wait

what about all tomorrow’s problems

that i can worry about right now?

So what if maybe I’ll be OK

I don’t want to waste any anxiety.

I treasure all the terrible things

that can go wrong, even all at once.

This is better than disaster movies

and I’m the director and star.

Wanna struggle along with me?

It’s never too early to fret.

I like to get things done in advance

so let me be a victim right now

while I have the energy and the leisure

Or how about I first do the dishes?

                                                          By Tom Dow

Weekly Inspiration: Write, Write, Write

Inspiration:  Write, Write, Write:  My biggest problem in writing, I think—aside from the whole spelling and grammar thing—is that I’m a bit of a perfectionist. I feel every time I put pen to paper, or fingers to keyboard, the words I put down must be profound, moving, beautiful at the very start or they don’t deserve to be there. It doesn’t help that I know writers whose rough drafts are awe-inspiring.

My worthiest words come not from my writing prowess but because my muse sends me voices unhindered and demanding I write their story. And receiving such material, I begin revising, rewriting, and revising again. Moving words around, cutting tangents, filling holes. Spending hours, if not days, on a word or a phrase in hopes I give justice to the story given to me.

Every time I sit down, I wait for my muse to take over. When it doesn’t come, I give up, do something else, discouraged that I’ll never again write a decent word.  I do this knowing that those free-writers whom I admire have become admirable because they didn’t give up, they didn’t do something else. They wrote.

Writing this, I realize that if I want to write brilliantly each time I put pen to paper, fingers to keyboard, I need to, well, I need to write. I need to encourage my muse, not wait passively for her to show up. 

So, I ask myself, seeing the StoryADay challenge in a recent Writer Unboxed blog, why not now? Seems like this self-isolating, social distancing routine is going to go on for a while. And, I’ll enjoy writing, even if it is crap, more than cleaning my house ~  

Julie Duffy runs the StoryADAy project and offers prompts and encouragement along the way. Happily, she says there are no rules except to try to write 31 stories in the month of May.  Easy-peasy, right? 

Want to join me?  Here’s the rundown on Writer Unboxed

~ carol 

Carol Phillips

LIterary Happenings 4/29

Make Your Dialogue Work Naturally with Xhenet Aliu, A NC Writers' Network online class, May 20 at 7 pm.  Find out more here.

Some authors will be talking and reading this coming week: 

April 27, 7 pm: John Grisham and Stephen King are having a conversation.

April 28, 3pm:  Kristy Woodson Harvey (Feels Like Falling) at Readers Meet Writers with Authors Round the South Readers

April 30:           Garrett M Graff (The Only Plan in the Sky: An Oral History of 9/11)is with Avid Reader Press Virtual Book Cub

May 1, 12 pm:  Myla Goldberg (Feast Your Eyes) is joining Book Club Discussion at JJC Metro West

May 3, 2 pm:    Jen Gotch (The Upside of Being Down) is having a conversation at Brazos Bookstore

May 5, 7 pm:     Jennifer Weiner (Mrs. Everything) is having a kick-off event at Midtown Scholar Bookstore

May 7, 7 pm:    Emily Gould (Perfect Tunes)talks with the Avid Reader Press Virtual Book Club

Poem: God's Mind

God’s Mind

God’s mind is good

God’s mind is great

Enough for two thoughts

On his plate

Anger and pity

Doubt and belief

Thunder’s crack, a falling leaf

Laughter, tears

Yellow, blue

Music

Science

God made that too.

                                 by Jane Rockwell 

Poem: Haiku

bent grass tells of flood

spent before the morning sun

          frogs croak for their mate

                                           by Carol Phillps
                                            first published in Haiku Journal Issue #22

Poem: Flowers Mean May

Flowers Mean May

April’s rimless wet

                                wagers grief’s roulette. 

Blooms rattle,

                       frenetic mesh.

Prod imperfection;

                               spatter flimsy rosette:

desperate for a kindly set

                                         to count-off

and confirm us.

                            Hold dear.

Tactic of desire –

                             odd-numbered

to denote She Loves Me. . . .

I stroll the peristyle

                                 encircled

with springtime bouquet. 

                                          Piecemeal fragrance

to wilt all winter weed. 

                                       Appetite of delicate petals

on cue:

             summon like addiction. 

Snatch a daisy

                        off the edge,

eager to dissect our fate.

                                         Each casualty

may heal, while any sum

                                         must be forgiven –

abide pledge

                     as she may love me not.

                                                         
                                                     by Sam Barbee

Poem: The Media Circus

THE MEDIA CIRCUS

It’s Super Tuesday all through the land
National Media says it will be grand.
Just follow their lead
They’ll tell us how to think
As they make their bold predictions
With a subtle nod and wink.

Talking heads, empty thoughts, just puppets on a string
Prognosticating, prophesying, on each and every thing.
They tell us what is going to be
And how the vote will go.
Unless, of course, the polls are wrong
And then they just don’t know.

Hours and hours every day they ramble, rant and rave
The tell us what we’re supposed to do, and how we should behave.
Follow our lead, here’s how to act
No worry, bother or fuss.
But if the vote should go wrong
“You surely can’t blame us.”

We read the polls, we poked and pried, we questioned everyone
We even have opinions from the chauffeur’s younger son.
His daddy drives the candidate
To every campaign stop.
He surely has some real hot news
That no one else can top.

Where is the scoop, the nugget, the juicy little bit
Something that our network has, but no one else has hit.
It may be true, it could be false
We can’t take time to test.
We’ll just put it on the air
And hope it’s for the best.

If we should be mistaken, in a statement strong
We’ll just ignore the error for we cannot be wrong.
Pretend we did not say to you
Which candidate will win.
Our experts have informed us
That 4 plus 5 is ten.

Should Candidate X say black is white, and candidate Y says no
We’ll love that little argument, for we can make it grow.
We’ll twist their words, and mispronounce
Whatever they might say.
To keep our jobs requires we have
New stories every day.

Although we may not always be exactly true
We are National Media, no one would dare to sue.
So all day long we’ll tell you
Almost man to man
The things you have already heard,
And will shortly hear again.

Would not it be a strange little quirk
If these reporters really had to work?
If they dug a ditch, built a house
Saw how real workers fare.
It would do much for Global Warming
By eliminating much hot air.

                                                       by Al Manning,
                                                        aka: Resident Curmudgeon

Poem: The Eyes Have It

The Eyes Have It

No one will know if you flossed today, 
Corona has taken such close looks away. 
Teeth and gums are safe from inspections.
Now we cannot assess dental conditions.

Spinach or kale may lurk undetected,
all kinds of food could there be collected.
That mask hides lunch or dinner from view,
and those fragrant wafts of garlic too.

Yes, it’s good to be safe from virus infection,
but we miss what lips add to words’ inflection.
Lost are our own oral expressions; the spice 
that reveals if smiles be naughty or nice.

Now it’s the eyes, windows to soul and heart, 
that send out our feelings, while six feet apart.
Words muffled and filtered by cloth and fear.
We long for the day when again we draw near.

                                                                by A. KISSEL
                                                                04-2020

Poem: Tritina: Consolation

Tritina: Consolation

The dogwood scatters snowy petals on our path,

sacrificial carpet underfoot. Swept into the garden,

they decay there as summer subverts spring.

When your jaunty step loses its spring,

and you lose yourself wandering a vague path

with frozen thoughts, stiff bones, the garden

still will offer up its consolations. To garden

is to dig Ecclesiastes. So toil, till, ʼtil spring

negates your winter. Clear your own path

through the garden’s fading petals, a path to your next spring.

                                                           by Jeanne Julian

Poem: What I Remember

What I Remember

bout Rock Creek, West Virginia

in the summer, late 1940’s

is a porch-sittin of an ev’nin

wi Mamaw an Papaw,

aints, uncles, cousins,

neighbors a comin by

an ere’s talk a trucks

runnin good or broke down

an how to fix em,

corn knee high by

the Fourth of July

grinnin n laughin

teasin n singin

Papaw a blowin into

his ol pitchpipe “do so mi do”

women a harmonizin

an men a playin spoons

an clackin bones

Mamaw a stringin beans or

servin up sweet tea or lem’nade

us kids a playin un’er

‘at big ol weepin willah tree

or a swingin on ‘at air arn gate

an a sneakin gooseburries

a growin on at ol wahr fence

grinnin n laughin

teasin n singin

till Papaw‘d say,

“You younguns git up

onna porch now—

snakes’ll be comin’ out!”

Oh, the heart-poundin thrill

a sneakin down them steps

one

at

a

time

then a racin out into

at ere snake-infested yard

an back agin fast as yer legs’d go,

laughin n squealin like li’l piggies

Later, hauled up inta somebody’s lap

an lulled by the swayin

of a glider or a rockin cheer,

last a the sun a disappearin

behind the hills,

skeeters an moths

drawn ta the porch light,

moon-lit Creek down b’low

water a rushin over rocks,

night songs uh the katydids

an crickets an folks’ voices

all a comin together

in a low hum

softer an fainter alla while 

yawnin an’ fightin

to

stay

awake

                                                                             

                                            by  Jeannie D’Aurora

Inspiration: Narrative Medicine

Inspiration: Narrative Medicine

 "When we write about what we know and about what we don't know, we encounter mystery."  (Aimee Mepham, 2020)

Ever hear of Narrative Medicine?  I hadn’t until recently.  Narrative medicine combines close reading of literature and reflective writing to help healthcare providers deal with the stress of medicine and develop sympathy for their patients. The writing can be of any genre—fiction, poetry, or creative non-fiction.  

The idea of including a patient’s experience within the scientific practice originated in the 1910 Flexner Report, a book about healthcare in the US and Canada.* In the last part of the twentieth century, the concept morphed into curriculum at medical schools. Columbia University offers a Master of Science Narrative Medicine that broadens the scope of the field to include patients writing their own stories.  

I discovered narrative medicine after taking “Narrative Medicine: Stories of Illness & the Power of Reflective Writing” with Aimee Mepham, a graduate of Columbia’s Masters program, during NCWN’s Cabin Fever Conference this past weekend.

Mepham said reading guidelines when practicing narrative medicine, include

·         Observing: what sensory details are provided?

·         Recognizing the perceptive: doctor, nurse, patient, all three?

·         Identifying the form: fiction, non-fiction, poetry

·         Recognizing the voice: the point of view

·         Identifying the mood: how do you feel after reading the piece?

·         Observing the motion:  To what place does the story take you?

These guidelines are good for close reading, whatever the reason.  And, to keep in mind with our own writing. 

She left us with a couple of prompts: 

    “I felt anchored when…”

    “The hospital corridor was dimly lit…”

Would you like to write about your experience with the pandemic, the self-isolation, or other loss, grief, or illness you have experienced?  If you do, and would like to share it, send it to me (Carol) as a .doc, .docx, or .rft. and I’ll post on the WMO Blog. In line with blog postings, please keep it under 300 words.

by  Carol Phillips

*Published by Carnegie Foundation for the Advancement of Teaching, the book had a huge (and, in my opinion from my limited understanding, not all together good) influence on how and by whom medicine is practiced today.  However, Flexner did introduce the notion that not only did a doctor need scientific knowledge but also insight into, and sympathy for, the human condition

Literary Happenings 4/22

Upcoming:  Not much folks.  If you hear of anything, please let me (Carol), or Rick know.

Poem of the Day:  Celebrate Poetry Month by sending a poem to me, Carol, so I can post it on our blog.  Remember, it will be considered published.  Not a poet?  Visit the blog daily to read what your fellow writers are up to.

NCWN Online writing class:  "Revealing Character Through Dialogue" with Xhenet Aliu, assistant professor of Creative Writing at the UNC-Greensboro. This is the Network's first offering in their 2020-2021 series of online classes $35 members; $45 non-members. 

Creative Nonfiction Online Class: Self-Guided Course: Writing the Tough Stuff (April-May)".  This self-guided four-week course will present strategies for strong creative nonfiction writing about  loss, trauma, or other major life changes. Each week will include a written lecture, specific reading recommendations tied to the lecture, and a writing assignment. $24.99

Poem: Requiem for a Lay-Z-Boy

Requiem for a Lay-Z-Boy

The Lay-Z-Boy chair sits at the curb today

Broken down into two pieces for garbage pick up

Rain falling, man and dog mourning its demise.

It was a relic of his bachelor days

Blue plaid arms spread wide in welcome home,

A throne’s embrace for a working man.

A wife brought children who claimed it for their own

Leaving video game and sleepover detritus

Of cheesy chip crumbs and spilled soda behind.

Still, the man would shrug off the missing arm cover

And crank up the foot rest, snoring on an upholstered island

While family life and a succession of dogs swirled about him.

The children grew and left, the red hound died,

And a new little dog scratched and curled in the chair’s lap.

Gray duct tape levied the foam padding against leaks.

Finally, a spring day, washing pollen off the porch

Wiping down rockers and a little painted table,

Chimes tinkling, cushions airing, the man acquiesced.

He carried the old relic out, replaced it with the porch recliner

Sleek brown with plastic arms, a foot rest. No embrace,

But still, the patient understudy, waiting to serve.

That night, the little dog whined. The man took him out,

Considered bringing the chair back inside but a steady rain

Drenched it. He drove to work in the gray, depressed.

The Lay-Z-Boy chair sits at the curb today

Broken down into two pieces for garbage pick up

Rain falling, man and dog mourning its demise.   

                                                                                                                                                                                                                          by Cindy Brookshire 

                                                            2020

Poem: Lineage

Lineage
   

I have no child,
only a dead mother
and her Irish sweater.
I sink into its tight knit,
warm as her arms
around me.

She visits my dreams,
tells me her secrets—
my uterus is a tomb,
my child is madness,
voices I can’t reason away.

Her madness is my legacy.
Her thumbprint is forever stitched
on my brow.

I am my mother
I am my child

                             by Patty Cole

Poem: In Honor of the 168

In Honor of the 168

Hordes of reporters milling around,

Interviewing each other.

Desperately searching for an illusive scoop.

They can’t interview the 168.

National media provides blitz coverage,

Hourly, then by the minute.

Everything you don’t want to know.

What about the 168?

What did he say, what was he wearing,

What does he think?

As if this was important.

What about the 168?

Constant repetition almost makes him a folk hero,

A man admired for his stoicism.

He’s the hot news today.

What about the 168?

National media giving advice to the survivors,

Telling them how they are supposed to feel, to act, to think.

As if these national hotshots knew anything.

What about the 168?

Second by second, we hear how he died,

Eye-witness accounts are the Holy Grail.

Much ado about the demise of a killer.

What about the 168?

True justice would have been better served,

If no one bothered to attend.

He would have been exterminated, unnoticed.

And that would honor the 168.

                               By AL Manning

                                 June 11, 2011, Sixteen years, two months after

                                   the Oklahoma City Bombing 

Note:  Today is the 25th anniversary of Oklahoma City Bombing

Poem: The Writing Poem

The Writing Poem

Driving out the words--computer is on fire.
Plot twists so absurd--can't quench protag's desire.
No time for scene cards--mind races three steps ahead.
Killing adjectives--words by the score before bed.
Die bastard adverb--using all senses, yahoo.
Monstrously good verb--maybe I'll start book two.

Now, sit down, shut up and please leave me alone.
By Hemingway's ghost, I'm writing to the bone.

                                                               by Rick Bylina

Poem: Layers

Layers
first line is from “Onions” by William Matthews.

How easily happiness begins by dicing onions.

You dice. You cry. You get it out.

For a dash of drama, put the “Warsaw Concerto”

on the stereo. It pries open Sunday confessions.

The outer layers of the song like the onion

are strong. A torrent of spice and tears

runs wildly over my cutting board.

The heart is splayed open with the horns’ fortissimo.

When the onions are transparent and mellow,

the Concerto dwindles down to a soft, still voice,

the piano sings and the onions whisper in the pan.

                                                      By Patty Cole

                                                       from   A Way I Sing  

                                                       published by The Main Street Publishing Company

Poem: Jazz

Jazz

We didn’t just get a dog yesterday

We got LOVE walking

And jumping, and licking and snuggling

And tickling and – hey, watch out for that tail!

Humor in bold black and white

Her pointy ears catching everything

Even your breath.

Gangly and awkward, yet fitting in

All in a moment

Nothing subtle or gradual

She’s “plunk, plunk, plunk; plunk, plunk, plunk”

Like Jon Batiste on the piano or

Pied Pipering through the neighborhood,

Increasing us by one

Our joy by ka-jillions!

                                           by Jane Rockwell

Poem: Post Mortem

Post Mortem

You enter my front door

a big-bear unmade-bed of a man

your boundaries bristling

ready to fend off the attack

of desire, the generous impulse

or the moment of grace.

Fear makes you stingy

It’s the boy in you who’s in charge now

The boy is awkward, uncomfortable with

The woman you have chosen

so you retreat behind the boy shield

that I cannot penetrate with my sex

my will, or my caring.

I’m too powerful for the boy,

and his anxiety congeals the hot blood of your desire

You are no match for the boy, either

You don’t know this, but I do.

I know the inaccessible come in many disguises,

yours the beguiling, impulsive, disheveled boy

eager to please, ready to disclose and reveal,

but afraid he won’t know where he stops and I begin.

Mother and father, both so distant, nurtured my radar for man-boys.

I always find them.

                                                             

                                                             by  Mirinda Kossoff

Weekly Inspiration: “Le mot juste”

As writers, we are all in danger or in hopes of becoming wordsmiths—the writer who seeks and finds le mot juste, the best, right word. The great French novelist Gustave Flaubert is said to have invented the phrase to describe his endless search for the right word, sometimes spending a day working on a single page of Madame Bovary. Mœurs de province.

Whether we aspire to that level of perfection we can hone our wordsmithing skills in a lot of ways. I subscribe to the Merriam-Webster Word of the Day service and challenge myself to define the word before I check their definition. Sometimes I’m spot on, and sometimes I’m off base. I recommend reading definitions in all their detail. Again Meriam-Webster offers the most detail online definitions, with etymologies, first date of use, and variants. And hog heaven for a logophile is simply to sit down with the authoritative OED (Oxford Dictionary of English) and devour a few definitions.

 A serious logophile loves old words and new—whether archaic and long abandoned, the most up-to-date slang, even gobbledygook. Words that are emerging to describe our changing world are especially interesting, even creative. The last few decades of computer advances have produced an avalanche of new words and terms to describe new technologies—just think of Twitter with its tweets that you make to your peeps, or of unfriending someone because they’d become a troll on your Facebook page.

 A recent article “How the Coronavirus Has Infected Our Vocabulary” by Karen Russell appears in The New Yorker magazine. It’s not as grim as you might expect, as she explores the language of the pandemic that most of us are now newly encountering. In addition, her own writing is an excellent example of beautifully chosen words. I hope it will inspire you to write a quick poem or paragraph—or go back to something you’ve already written—with a view to finding the best word—verb, noun, adjective—for your writing!

I confess, I wish she’d included the term “sheltering in place” which I find evocative, even haunting. My first thought was that it had a military origin, but it come from civilian quarters and is a warning to stay at home rather than to evacuate in the event of a biological threat or a shooter. I couldn’t find an earliest date of use, but 2003 is the earliest date given in footnotes. Wikipedia discusses the term here:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shelter_in_place.

I trust you will find Russell’s essay as enlightening as I do! Happy writing.

Judith Stanton 

LIterary Happenings 4/15

Good morning all. Just so that we are clear, there is no WMO meeting this Saturday, April 18^th, and let’s make sure every sentence is the best that it can be.

Upcoming Events:

Last Chance to Register!  Cabin Fever Conference:  The NC Writers’ Network is holding the first ever virtual Spring Conference, April 16-18, 2020—“630 minutes of high-quality, socially-distant instruction in the craft and business of writing.” This is a perfect opportunity for those of you who haven’t wanted to commit to whole day (or weekend for the Fall Conference) to see what you’ve been missing. You can sign up for one class, for two classes, four or the whole conference. Your choice.  Check it out.

Poem of the Day:  Celebrate Poetry Month by sending a poem to me, Carol, so I can post it on our blog.  Remember, it will be considered published.  Not a poet?  Visit the blog daily to read what your fellow writers are up to. 

VIrtual Story Time: children’s bookseller Johanna Banana is hosting virtual children’s storytimes Tuesdays and Fridays at 10:30am on @mcintyresbooks instagram stories.

Poem: Denali Daybreak

Denali Daybreak – Written at Polychrome Basin, Denali National Park


Morning as such
but not at all.
No sunset.
No sunrise.
A star travels
‘bout our heads
as a slow ring of fire.
Never leaving us.

Day breaks anew.
Life now stirs more.
 Birdcalls beckon us to rise.
Time to play the games of the day.
Souls stir & spirits soar,
with the Tarmigan we fly.

Caribou greet us with a curious eye.
Bear tracks tell of an evening visit.
Dall sheep peer from rocky perches.
All is as in slow motion,
No reason to hurry.

The world is at peace.
Life in balance
No good, no evil,
Only divine intention.
Our existence barely acknowledged.

Alone we are together,
Crowded by life around.
Our lives carry little meaning here.
Only life itself, important.
One world, by God,
for those who wish.
Eyes are opened,
Souls renewed and refreshed
and we see his master plan.
These are the important things.

                                              By Brian R. Langhoff (6/21/2003)

Poem: Come Spring

Come Spring

I saw a blue jay fuss a black snake
off its gnarled branch this morning.
A fox stole one of our chickens last night,
and in a cardboard box on the kitchen floor,
Kitty is nursing her babies.

Skull Camp Mountain is bearing again.
How the daffodils brighten every open space,
bending under warm winds; mountain laurel
and wild privet play peek-a-boo beneath a canopy
of maples, oaks, and sycamores.

I lean back in my rocker on the side porch,
sip hot tea, watch you fumble with the belt
on the riding lawn mower. We could say so much,
but you won’t look at me.

When the honeysuckle wouldn’t sing hallelujah,
I went to the woods to sing my songbird home,
but the melodies fell to the ground, scattering
like so many spiders crawling over Baby’s grave.

That hawk flies too close to the sun.
Its cry peels this mountain from the valley.

                                                        by Patty Cole
                                                           from  "A Way I Sing"
                                                           Published by The Main Street Publishing Company

Happy Easter! ~ No matter what our faith (or not), may the promise of this season--renewal and rebirth--unfold throughout the coming months ~  carol

Poem: Out of Darkness

Out of Darkness

A new day beckons.

The darkness of winter splits like the oak shattered by lightening.

Beneath winter’s grasp spring awaits liberation.

Arise.

The shroud is torn.

A patchwork of vibrant colors emerges,

Verdant foliage draped by soft violet pastels of wisteria.

Arise.

The fever breaks.

Airy breezes sweep away winter’s plague.

Warm rains remove the hovering fog of despair.

Arise.

Cleansing waters await.

Spirits soar like an eagle riding a thermal.

Below the earth, a canvas of hope and renewal.

Arise.

Better days approach.

Mourn the fallen, celebrate the brave.

Revel in the fresh tapestry that comforts.

Arise.

                                                             by Jan Rider

                                                             4/7/2020

Poem: One for the Dogs

One for the Dogs



Oh, why can’t I write solid verse?!?

Having no lyric gift is a curse!

Off the top of my head

Is what happens, instead.

If it weren’t for doggerel, my verse would be worse!

                                                    by Brenda Denzler

Poem: Haiku

a lone car passes

dust hangs in the hot, still air

    like our solitude

                               by Carol Phillips

Poem: Face Time With Corinne

Face Time With Corinne

Her flighty phone catches the sky,
A nest up high
That’s just been made –
I wouldn’t trade

This tour with her for anything,
This day in spring;
This child’s delight –
God, hold her tight.

This journey ‘round the happy yard,
A greeting card;
A little girl
Who loves her world.

                              by Jane Rockwell

Note:  This is a “Minute” poem (60 syllables)

Weekly Inspiration: Crazy Language

How do you start a story?  Jane Friedman, in a recent post, suggested five ways not to begin ~

    The waking up scene
    The transit scene
    The rocking chair scene
    The crisis scene
    The dream sequences

Read why here. But where does that leave us?  Perhaps Al Manning’s (aka:  Resident Curmudgeon) musings on the English language may provide some inspiration ~

English is a somewhat crazy language. As writers, we work in it constantly, but always need to be aware of what we are really saying. There are numerous cases where the same set of letters are used twice or more in the same sentence, but have entirely different pronunciations and meanings. Here are a few examples:

 The farm was used to produce produce.

 The dump was so full it had to refuse more refuse.

The bandage was wound around the wound.

He would lead if he could get the lead out.

A bass was painted on the head of the bass drum.

We must polish the Polish furniture.

When shot at, the dove dove into the bushes.

The insurance was invalid for the invalid.

They were sitting too close to the door to close it.

The buck does funny things when does are present.

To help with planting, the farmer taught his sow to sow.

Upon seeing the tear in the painting I shed a tear.

The wind was too strong to wind up the sail.

I had to subject the subject to more tests.

How can I intimate this to my most intimate friend?

And for a couple of wild ones:

The soldier decided to desert his dessert in the desert.

The is no time like the present, so it’s time to present the present.

Let’s face—English is a crazy language. There is no egg in eggplant; ham in hamburger, neither apple nor pine in pineapple.  We take it for granted, but if we explore more we find quicksand can work slowly, boxing rings are square and a guinea pig is neither from Guinea nor is it a pig. If you have a bunch of odds and ends and get rid of all but one of them, what do you call it? In what other language do people recite at a play and play at a recital? Ship by truck and send cargo by ship? Where a slim chance and a fat chance can be the same, but a wise man and a wise guy are opposites? Where your house can burn up as it burns down, and you fill in a form by filling it out?