The old woman sat in her rocker, telling me, and all of my fellow siblings a story from her time. She told us of how she had met our grandfather and how handsome he was back then. I heard my sisters make gagging noises at that. I turned to hush them and told grandma to continue on.
She sat in the quiet rocker beside the window, gently allowing her body to move with the piece of furniture. She remembers how it felt to be seven years old, watching intently as her mother rocked in the chair; back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. As her eyes met the clouds, she wondered how her life had gotten to this point: sitting alone in the middle of New York City, with nothing but a rocking chair to keep her grounded.
The rocker was beautiful. Dark wood curled and twisted and perfectly balanced in an enticing offer to rest and rock. The seat and back woven in a beautiful tanned display of laced beauty with the open spaces as decorative as the woven strips that frame then. Wooden smiles curved into engineering miracles to lull the smart soul that says yes into a embrace of simple movement and peace.
I’ve always had a thing for rockers. The way that they make music seem to come alive and how they can make you feel any emotion they want is powerful and admirable. They are my weakness.
I knew a guy named rocco. He looks like a hippie. he’s making this chart with the political compass thing. all the people are like leftist libertarian people except Ryan. he’s all like crammed up against the right and it’s funny. Christian made a joke today. it was about liberal people. it had to do with the pen i got from my hippie Gramma. all these different people… I feel like a hippie.
She sat in the chair, rocking gently back and forth like an old tug on the water. Her fraying blanket covered her knees and she had tilted back her head. In the dying sunlight, she looked peaceful and quiet, though I knew that on the inside she was twisting and turning, a tornado eating up her brain.
A rocker, I am, though in subterfuge these days, as a quiet American citizen. People don’t expect it from one who is 66. Guess they’ll find out when they witness Keith, Mick, and the Rolling Stones ageless, relentless rock-n-roll extravangza…we are not going to the grave without a back beat. Boomers, rock on!
I live my life trying to make the fun and adventuresome choices so when I am an old lady, rocking in a rocker on a front porch somewhere, I will have great memories to think about!
“So you are a rocker?” i twisted my eyebrow, chuckling in a sarcastic way. Waiting for his shocking experience that seems humorous to me but i was wrong.
rocker in a glam rocking chair, varnish parched, ass-eroding sheen, squeaking back and forth until the fat man laughs, rocker with light stringy jacked hair, silver hair, like tongues of orchids, and like pampers shine.
The grandma sat by her window going back and forth. She looked out at the world and saw what she wanted, not a world of hate and crime, but a world where she had 3 grandchildren playing in the yard. The chair creaked no more.
It was in my great-aunt’s apartment, and now it’s in mine. Someone tried to buy it out from under me at a garage sale once. The seat is naugahyde and the stuffing is falling out underneath, but reupholstering it would make it not the same chair. I seldom sit in it. I don’t know why.
The old man sat in a rocker, near the window, watching the world go by outside. Most people thought he was content to spend his days this way, but inside his mind, another world was unfurling, stories and legends spilling out of his imagination, but never finding their way to the written word.
He always wanted to be a rocker, but it just never came together, there are certain qualities one needs to be a rocker, he didn’t have them. Let’s face it, balsa wood does not make a good rocking chair.
The rocker sat on the front porch. The old chair hadn’t seen any use in ages, but no one had the heart to get rid of it. The couple that lived in that house had been so nice, and they had always sat on their rockers together. Now they just sat there, collecting dust and rotting, and holding a lifetime of memories.
The baby swung back in forth in the rocker. The arms were rigid and mechanical, but with an artificial padding and heater to make it seem real. Her parents were screaming downstairs, unaware that she was going hungry.
A baby swings alone in a rocker, shaped like her mother’s arms. It even has artificial heating to make sure the child is incubated properly, and a hand to stroke it. Her parents are screaming downstairs, unaware the baby is going hungry.
John was off his rocker. He wasn’t crazy in the sense of the word but he was definitely not right. Some morning he would wake up and wonder why he was the way he was. “Am I just different” he thought to himself. “Maybe I am just off of my rocker”.
creaks in sinister fashion
the call to geriatric age
when turtles surpass us in years
and youthful looks
and lotion becomes a bane
and lotion models are scorned.
i don’t remember the last time the sun kissed MY skin.
As the sun set slowly over the fields that he had spent his life tending, he allowed himself the final pleasure of rocking back in forth in the old wicker rocker that once belonged to his wife. These days not even the fields were his responsibility, and in that old rocker, he found solace.
And even if everyday it’s there I still feel the same nostalgia running whenever I see it. All there’s left is this rocker with its bleak color as old as time. It even outlasted her. As I rock myself back and forth, memories come to life like an old roll of film playing backwards. I close my eyes as tears fall down. I miss her. No. I refuse to believe the rocker is all there is left. I have our memories. And as long as I have it, she lives. […]
An old man sat in his rocking chair looking out on his farm from his brightly reflected porch. He rocked back and forth and smiled, His life was complete. There was no need or care to continue.
when i was 5 i looked at the stars and wanted to be an astronaut – then i found out about black holes
when i was 7 i wanted to be a pop star – then i realised i can’t sing
when i was 10 i wanted to be a scientist – then i got a C in science
when i was 12 i wanted to be a lawyer – then i read a book about how sucked in you get into your job
now im 14 and my dream job is to be a writer for national geographic – i wonder whats going to come in my way this time.
someone who is in a rock band or is a fan of a rock band.that or someone who likes to throw rocks at people.not very polite but hey,you’re not perfect.
Are you off your rocker?Are you just letting life drift by, not caring too much about anyone or anything. What a complete utter waste of the gift that you have been given!
I do wonder as I sit here on my rocker, whether i could have done more in my life. And although I’ve always said, what would I do if I weren’t afraid, I was never able to work out what I was afraid of. My days are numbered now, I can feel it and
Leather and jean that’s made to look beat up but was probably custom made by a clean, lean French man. Maybe they’ve got the soul though, somewhere, tucked into a safety pin pocket.
I would like to think by the time I’m 90 that I would still be rocking in my old person’s rocker. Why? Well, first it’ll be like low impact exercise, bonus. And second, by at that point I’ll have to live those varied stories more vicariously. Plus it’ll remind me of good times past.
when I nursed each baby, I sat in a wooden rocker from my friend who had no children.
I sang and crooned to them at all hours wishing for a great morning and a great future.
I haven’t seen my friends in a decade or so.
She was off her rocker. Feral, mad, insane. Her eyes flirted between us, wild and wide with fear. She jumped, knife extended…
The old woman sat in her rocker, telling me, and all of my fellow siblings a story from her time. She told us of how she had met our grandfather and how handsome he was back then. I heard my sisters make gagging noises at that. I turned to hush them and told grandma to continue on.
Grandma silently rocked back and forth to the count of time in her rocker. She was reflecting on her youth.
She sat in the quiet rocker beside the window, gently allowing her body to move with the piece of furniture. She remembers how it felt to be seven years old, watching intently as her mother rocked in the chair; back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. As her eyes met the clouds, she wondered how her life had gotten to this point: sitting alone in the middle of New York City, with nothing but a rocking chair to keep her grounded.
The rocker was beautiful. Dark wood curled and twisted and perfectly balanced in an enticing offer to rest and rock. The seat and back woven in a beautiful tanned display of laced beauty with the open spaces as decorative as the woven strips that frame then. Wooden smiles curved into engineering miracles to lull the smart soul that says yes into a embrace of simple movement and peace.
I’ve always had a thing for rockers. The way that they make music seem to come alive and how they can make you feel any emotion they want is powerful and admirable. They are my weakness.
I knew a guy named rocco. He looks like a hippie. he’s making this chart with the political compass thing. all the people are like leftist libertarian people except Ryan. he’s all like crammed up against the right and it’s funny. Christian made a joke today. it was about liberal people. it had to do with the pen i got from my hippie Gramma. all these different people… I feel like a hippie.
She sat in the chair, rocking gently back and forth like an old tug on the water. Her fraying blanket covered her knees and she had tilted back her head. In the dying sunlight, she looked peaceful and quiet, though I knew that on the inside she was twisting and turning, a tornado eating up her brain.
Back and fourth, gentle and slow. Her perch for sleeping, eating, knitting, reading. Dying..
A rocker, I am, though in subterfuge these days, as a quiet American citizen. People don’t expect it from one who is 66. Guess they’ll find out when they witness Keith, Mick, and the Rolling Stones ageless, relentless rock-n-roll extravangza…we are not going to the grave without a back beat. Boomers, rock on!
I live my life trying to make the fun and adventuresome choices so when I am an old lady, rocking in a rocker on a front porch somewhere, I will have great memories to think about!
We all aspire to be one, somewhere in life. For most, the adolescent innocence of the teenage years is when it happens.
“So you are a rocker?” i twisted my eyebrow, chuckling in a sarcastic way. Waiting for his shocking experience that seems humorous to me but i was wrong.
rocker in a glam rocking chair, varnish parched, ass-eroding sheen, squeaking back and forth until the fat man laughs, rocker with light stringy jacked hair, silver hair, like tongues of orchids, and like pampers shine.
The grandma sat by her window going back and forth. She looked out at the world and saw what she wanted, not a world of hate and crime, but a world where she had 3 grandchildren playing in the yard. The chair creaked no more.
It was in my great-aunt’s apartment, and now it’s in mine. Someone tried to buy it out from under me at a garage sale once. The seat is naugahyde and the stuffing is falling out underneath, but reupholstering it would make it not the same chair. I seldom sit in it. I don’t know why.
The old man sat in a rocker, near the window, watching the world go by outside. Most people thought he was content to spend his days this way, but inside his mind, another world was unfurling, stories and legends spilling out of his imagination, but never finding their way to the written word.
He always wanted to be a rocker, but it just never came together, there are certain qualities one needs to be a rocker, he didn’t have them. Let’s face it, balsa wood does not make a good rocking chair.
The rocker sat on the front porch. The old chair hadn’t seen any use in ages, but no one had the heart to get rid of it. The couple that lived in that house had been so nice, and they had always sat on their rockers together. Now they just sat there, collecting dust and rotting, and holding a lifetime of memories.
The baby swung back in forth in the rocker. The arms were rigid and mechanical, but with an artificial padding and heater to make it seem real. Her parents were screaming downstairs, unaware that she was going hungry.
Rocker, you said.
To me one day,
I only wanted, you to stay,
What even does this rocker mean?
My heart I gave to you, all of me
Rocker,
Come on,
You can do better than that,
Does it mean I’m crazy?
Does it mean I’m mad?
Rocker, you said.
To me one day,
I only wanted, you to stay,
What even does this rocker mean?
My heart I gave to you, all of me
Rocker,
Come on,
You can do better than that,
Does it mean I’m crazy?
Does it mean I’m mad?
Rocks are cool. Geologists study them. We mine them. yay rocks
Julian Casbalancas was a rocker. He sweated. He sweared. He sung. He sexed. He salavated.
A baby swings alone in a rocker, shaped like her mother’s arms. It even has artificial heating to make sure the child is incubated properly, and a hand to stroke it. Her parents are screaming downstairs, unaware the baby is going hungry.
John was off his rocker. He wasn’t crazy in the sense of the word but he was definitely not right. Some morning he would wake up and wonder why he was the way he was. “Am I just different” he thought to himself. “Maybe I am just off of my rocker”.
creaks in sinister fashion
the call to geriatric age
when turtles surpass us in years
and youthful looks
and lotion becomes a bane
and lotion models are scorned.
i don’t remember the last time the sun kissed MY skin.
As the sun set slowly over the fields that he had spent his life tending, he allowed himself the final pleasure of rocking back in forth in the old wicker rocker that once belonged to his wife. These days not even the fields were his responsibility, and in that old rocker, he found solace.
And even if everyday it’s there I still feel the same nostalgia running whenever I see it. All there’s left is this rocker with its bleak color as old as time. It even outlasted her. As I rock myself back and forth, memories come to life like an old roll of film playing backwards. I close my eyes as tears fall down. I miss her. No. I refuse to believe the rocker is all there is left. I have our memories. And as long as I have it, she lives. […]
An old man sat in his rocking chair looking out on his farm from his brightly reflected porch. He rocked back and forth and smiled, His life was complete. There was no need or care to continue.
when i was 5 i looked at the stars and wanted to be an astronaut – then i found out about black holes
when i was 7 i wanted to be a pop star – then i realised i can’t sing
when i was 10 i wanted to be a scientist – then i got a C in science
when i was 12 i wanted to be a lawyer – then i read a book about how sucked in you get into your job
now im 14 and my dream job is to be a writer for national geographic – i wonder whats going to come in my way this time.
someone who is in a rock band or is a fan of a rock band.that or someone who likes to throw rocks at people.not very polite but hey,you’re not perfect.
Long hair to round leg chair, a lifetime of lifestyle, momentum, movement, moments
Are you off your rocker?Are you just letting life drift by, not caring too much about anyone or anything. What a complete utter waste of the gift that you have been given!
The boat gets rocked again, in a storm, and it’s wonderful.
I do wonder as I sit here on my rocker, whether i could have done more in my life. And although I’ve always said, what would I do if I weren’t afraid, I was never able to work out what I was afraid of. My days are numbered now, I can feel it and
she’s off her rocker!
meaning, she’s crazy.
i love her anyway
man, i’m so sleepy.
i’m so bored.
i would like a sandwich.
Leather and jean that’s made to look beat up but was probably custom made by a clean, lean French man. Maybe they’ve got the soul though, somewhere, tucked into a safety pin pocket.
I would like to think by the time I’m 90 that I would still be rocking in my old person’s rocker. Why? Well, first it’ll be like low impact exercise, bonus. And second, by at that point I’ll have to live those varied stories more vicariously. Plus it’ll remind me of good times past.
when I nursed each baby, I sat in a wooden rocker from my friend who had no children.
I sang and crooned to them at all hours wishing for a great morning and a great future.
I haven’t seen my friends in a decade or so.