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Post by joew on Oct 14, 2006 11:39:06 GMT -5
Yesterday: planned talk, Carried a tune in my head. Tonight: GK. Yup.
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Post by mike on Oct 16, 2006 3:14:55 GMT -5
Yesterday: Planed wood, Buried a spoon in my head. Tonight: Throw up.
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Post by sisterbeer on Oct 16, 2006 11:08:26 GMT -5
Saturday: popped wood Buried it inside, oh my! Sleep tight, Sailor. Mmmmm!
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Post by mike on Oct 16, 2006 15:28:51 GMT -5
Saturday: popped wood Buried it inside, oh my! Sleep tight, Sailor. Mmmmm! Today: Wrote several quickies Had to censor myself, a lot Tonight: do it again
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Post by carolion on Oct 16, 2006 15:31:46 GMT -5
Saw you over in Gather, Mike - and Susan and PTC as well. Anybody else from here writing over there?
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Post by liriodendron on Oct 16, 2006 20:49:29 GMT -5
Today: Wrote several quickies Had to censor myself, a lot Tonight: do it again I never realized quickies were something one could write.
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Post by mike on Oct 17, 2006 3:55:30 GMT -5
Today: Wrote several quickies Had to censor myself, a lot Tonight: do it again I never realized quickies were something one could write. That's why they call it... creative writing!
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Post by sisterbeer on Oct 17, 2006 14:34:06 GMT -5
Or, a quickie could be something to drink.
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Post by mike on Oct 17, 2006 15:20:26 GMT -5
I'll drink to that!
Correction: I'll drink that!
Bartender, another round of quickies... and keep 'em coming!
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Post by sisterbeer on Oct 17, 2006 16:43:28 GMT -5
Yeah, keep'm coming, boo-boopie-doop!
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Post by Gracie on Oct 19, 2006 19:30:25 GMT -5
Time for some more....I wrote this after visiting Ground Zero in the spring of 2002, when my own heart felt just like it.
PHOENIX
She rises from the ashes blinded-- seared-- bitter tears in her eyes, bitter taste in her mouth.
She stands-- no longer curled around her pain, embracing/releasing it in a single motion.
she lifts her hands to the angry sky in supplication-- knowing there are no answers here, at least not now.
She straightens her spine, throws back her hair. She settles the tatters of her clothing, and dashes away the final tears, impatiently.
She surveys smouldering wreckage, and looks beyond, seeking cooling waters and fragile new growth.
She strides forward into healing. She does not look back.
4-29-02 (happy birthday to me, in New York City....alone.)
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Post by mike on Oct 20, 2006 6:36:35 GMT -5
There were pineapple friends Singing till the end Dancing to the Motown hits... Then one of us, got Pregnant Wasn't a guy, what had to, Deal, With it it Dance with that, Mr. Gentleman
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Post by mike on Oct 24, 2006 7:12:15 GMT -5
Have I killed this thread? Has vodka and orange juice, done it again? Dance not, sing a lot Remember the monkey Sir Lancelot!
Wouldst... that I talk like a naive Better yet, Should I not, Behave? How many times must I say? Shake your booty!
I'll let this one time, Slide Clyde... BTW, where's Bonnie But, never get cheeky -- bobo 'cause we can't run And, we don't hide
Happy in-be-tween!
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Post by slb2 on Oct 24, 2006 9:28:58 GMT -5
Happy in-be-tween what? The sheets?
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Post by joew on Oct 24, 2006 10:09:42 GMT -5
Permit me just to say, The time called "in-be-tween" Runs from Columbus Day Till dusk of Hallowe'en.
The clues for this are the form, "Happy …," a holiday or seasonal greeting, and the "ween" ending.
Mike is wishing us a good mid to late October.
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Post by slb2 on Oct 24, 2006 10:22:11 GMT -5
joew, if you just made that all up, you are a very clever man who writes nice little ditties.
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Post by joew on Oct 24, 2006 13:36:26 GMT -5
[bows deeply] Aw, shucks; thanks, slb.
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Post by mike on Oct 26, 2006 2:44:18 GMT -5
[bows deeply] Aw, shucks; thanks, slb. Joe, I notice that you've got 14 of them there Karma points... and I've only got 13 . what's your secret?
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Post by mike on Oct 26, 2006 3:50:10 GMT -5
Let's have a poem for every occasion A poem that's one size fits all A poem that rhymes with all our emotions Like a hula girl who's riding a wild surf wave We all become a surfing' surf slave A poem that make us feel, The oceans sea-sick motions Like laying on the beach, at Waikiki Covered with coconut lotion ...this ain't no silly sally notion
A poem that shoots into outta space Nothing short of healing, The human race Poetry that runs as fast as we can read We need Poetry that deals with pain and more pain To deny these feelings Is hard to explain, like the rain, it Never stops, it never starts, it Never says never
Words that flow, words that fly Something that will fill the void When the unbelievable people in our lives die And, when a newly born kitten mews Spread your wings Read the news -- if you need the blues Eat an apple, eat the core But for goodness sake Stop keeping score -- stop Fighting a war
Well, that's my poem to end all poems To join us all To make us think -- before we sink Teach yourself to love your fear Death only comes once, twice maybe Make it all worthwhile And then with a sense of style, Smile It's a long mile And the trip is an individual thing With many a friend by your side Friend...
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Post by joew on Oct 26, 2006 9:03:14 GMT -5
Mike, you have accumulated 13 karma points with 79 posts — about one point for every six posts. I have 14 points for 288 posts, or one per every 20 1/2 posts. You're doing 3 1/2 times better than me. What's your secret? Actually, I think I know: it's all those great poems, like the one you just posted. Plus, you flirt more than I do.
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Post by mike on Oct 26, 2006 14:09:11 GMT -5
Mike, you have accumulated 13 karma points with 79 posts — about one point for every six posts. I have 14 points for 288 posts, or one per every 20 1/2 posts. You're doing 3 1/2 times better than me. What's your secret? Actually, I think I know: it's all those great poems, like the one you just posted. Plus, you flirt more than I do. Joe, my goodness, you did the math! I'm still looking for a porch on which to drink that beer with you. Suntory will not be a problem, they make a premium malt beer that is very delicious.
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Post by joew on Oct 26, 2006 14:18:54 GMT -5
Actually, I was thinking of Suntory whisky — tastes sort of like a cross between Scotch and Irish, maybe a bit closer to Irish, but it's a long time since I've had any, so memory may have faded a little. Suntory beer will be fine.
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Post by hartlikeawheel on Oct 26, 2006 15:30:22 GMT -5
A bit of nonsense from Edward Lear:
Cold are the crabs that crawl on yonder hills, Colder than cucumbers that grow beneath, And colder still the brazen chops that wreathe The tedious gloom of philosophic pills! For when the tardy film of nectar fills The ample bowls of demons and of men, There lurks the feeble mouse, the homely hen And there the porcupine with all her quills. Yet much remains - to weave a solemn strain That lingering sadly - slowly dies away. Daily departing with departing day. A pea-green gamut on a distant plain When wily walruses in congress meet - Such is life -
It cracks me up and yet. . .
"How pleasant to know Mr. Lear!" Who has written such volumes of stuff! Some think him ill-tempered and queer, But a few think him pleasant enough. -------------------------------------------- -------------------------------------------- -------------------------------------------- He reads, but cannot speak, Spanish, He cannot abide ginger beer: Ere the days of his pilgrimage vanish, How pleasant to know Mr. Lear!
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Post by hartlikeawheel on Oct 26, 2006 15:56:44 GMT -5
And something Halloweenish from me:
The Sad Tale of The Death of Siamese Twins
Woozy and Queasy went sick to the bed Said Woozy to Queasy, "I need help for my head." Said Queasy to Woozy, "Not one more drop So it looks for awhile that sick here we'll flop."
Then one of the wives arrived loaded for bear She'd noticed with wrath Not a chore done out there.
"Oh sheesh," quoth the wife "we won't won't do this again." And she whipped out her pistol And cured both the men.
With two in one body 'Twas a one bullet deed. She, frugally grateful, For less mouths to feed Kept her eulogy brief While she pulled the gold teeth.
There were words to the one who was her chosen spouse, "If you should return and repeat this, you louse, You can go waste good bullets at the other wife's house."
So if if you're gonna marry It's worthy to note That conceal and carry May be worth a vote.
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Post by slb2 on Oct 27, 2006 23:28:47 GMT -5
Mike, you have accumulated 13 karma points with 79 posts — about one point for every six posts. I have 14 points for 288 posts, or one per every 20 1/2 posts. You're doing 3 1/2 times better than me. What's your secret? Actually, I think I know: it's all those great poems, like the one you just posted. Plus, you flirt more than I do. Did anyone take a look at ThoS? He had nearly two for one posts to karma points. I think he deserves it.
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Post by slb2 on Oct 27, 2006 23:31:54 GMT -5
"How pleasant to know Mr. Lear!" Who has written such volumes of stuff! Some think him ill-tempered and queer, But a few think him pleasant enough. -------------------------------------------- -------------------------------------------- -------------------------------------------- He reads, but cannot speak, Spanish, He cannot abide ginger beer: Ere the days of his pilgrimage vanish, How pleasant to know Mr. Lear! I adore Edward Lear. My youngest has a nice compilation of his poetry and silly stories. It's a delight to read poetry with Carl.
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Post by hartlikeawheel on Oct 28, 2006 0:09:51 GMT -5
And Lewis Carroll! I love the lugubrious tone of "The Walrus and the Carpenter." But it's too long to post and I can't cut and paste.
I can't cut I can't paste The only thing about me Is the way that I waste Paper.
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Post by mike on Oct 28, 2006 4:44:55 GMT -5
My friend brought me A sweet red tomato She sliced it thin With a very sharp knife
My friend brought me A sweet red tomato What better gift Than a gift of life; it's so nice
In a world, where things are so, Complicated Educated and digitized We're so despised
A simple sweet red tomato Says so very much to me Everything else is so inflated So sad, that, That's the way it has to be
So, there it is
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Post by mike on Nov 1, 2006 4:39:15 GMT -5
The F'n Poem
Fumbling through a state of, Frequent fast forward Fingers poised over the key of "F" Pouring a glass of France's finest The bitter dregs is all that's left
Fearsome forty year olds are, For me fortuitous children They've got their own version of "F" They feel free to feel free on the free four Best left when they walk for the front door
Fill the glass, with sassafras Shakin' not stired... they furred A wink to Sissy, the Sassy Frassy A hell of a bird Never mixes her Fs, with her words
Forever yours Frosty the freeloader
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Post by slb2 on Nov 2, 2006 1:32:38 GMT -5
Michael, your poetry shines lately. What you drinkin', boy? I'm loving the way you've opened up. Red tomatoes I'm fortythree.
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