Blood, Sweat, and Tears

"Writing styles are not easy to come by, they are forged by fire, they are cooled by the tears of ones own eyes, and they are oiled by the authors own blood; sheathing that style is an entirely new level of pain." - Shy willow

Monday, September 1, 2014

What's Happening this Month? September 2014

September 2014


Daily Observances

1st Monday of the Month - Labor Day
4th - Teachers Day
5th- Be Late for Something Day
6th- Fight Procrastination Day
11th- Patriot Day
16th- Stay Away from Seattle Day
19th- Pow/Mia Recognition Day
22nd- Elephant Appreciation Day

Week Long Observances

National Payroll Week
Suicide Prevention Week
Singles Week
Banned Books Week
Deaf Awareness Week
Dog Week
Tolkien Week

Month Long Observances

Childhood Cancer Awareness Month
Gynecologic Cancer Awareness Month
Thyroid Cancer Awareness Month
Honey Month
Fall Hat Month
Subliminal Marketing Month
Kids with Good Manners Month

Piano Month
Chicken Month
Autumn fun Month
Classical Music Month



Birthstone: Sapphire
Flower: Forget-me-not, Morning Glory, Aster
Zodiacs: Virgo and Libra


Interested in some current events? Check out September 2014.




And because I couldn't Help it...

September 1913
by W. B. Yeats
What need you, being come to sense,
But fumble in a greasy till
And add the halfpence to the pence
And prayer to shivering prayer, until
You have dried the marrow from the bone;
For men were born to pray and save;
Romantic Ireland's dead and gone,
It's with O'Leary in the grave.

Yet they were of a different kind,
The names that stilled your childish play,
They have gone about the world like wind,
But little time had they to pray
For whom the hangman's rope was spun,
And what, God help us, could they save?
Romantic Ireland's dead and gone,
It's with O'Leary in the grave.

Was it for this the wild geese spread
The grey wing upon every tide;
For this that all that blood was shed,
For this Edward Fitzgerald died,
And Robert Emmet and Wolfe Tone,
All that delirium of the brave?
Romantic Ireland's dead and gone,
It's with O'Leary in the grave.

Yet could we turn the years again,
And call those exiles as they were
In all their loneliness and pain,
You'd cry `Some woman's yellow hair
Has maddened every mother's son':
They weighed so lightly what they gave.
But let them be, they're dead and gone,
They're with O'Leary in the grave.

~ Thanks for Stopping by!!
~ Jenn aka. Mom

Special Thanks to listings in WikipediaDaily & Monthly HolidaysButler Webs

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