Marie She was a tall willowy woman With stringy straw hair to match. Alone she would come and go. Her face carried a sadness deep Within her bark colored eyes. This pain was her shield against Further attack but didn't expect The way it made her appear--as A weak, manipulating soul. No pity or mercy was bestowed. And this tall willowy woman With stringy straw hair would Come and go by herself. Alone.

A Friend is Phil A friend is one with whom I'd like to be While listening to my favorite symphony, Someone who takes my hand and silently Walks with me through new worlds of melody, Where notes collide in friendly harmony, And strangeness is an unknown entity. A friend is one who understands the thrill Of unleashed timpani---a friend is Phil. A friend is one I like to be beside Upon a rock that overlooks the tide, To stand and watch the seagulls take a ride Upon the wind---how silently they glide! Someone who takes my silent tears in stride, And makes me feel all singing-warm inside. A friend is one who understands the thrill Of racing each new wave---a friend is Phil. A friend is one who knows the gentle pain Of hearing some too beautiful refrain, Or watching waves rebel against the rain, Or wondering why the snowflakes can't remain, Or when I need too much, and can't explain, A friend will know, and dry my tears again. A friend is one with whom my heart is still, And love is not required---a friend is Phil.

what a nice tribute, Charlotte....do come back again (and again)

Whisper Willow bent to rinse her leafy hair Henna'd by the sunset's chic salon In the mirror lake, she checked the shade, and Sighed her disappointment in the hue. "Perhaps a gentle silver's more your style", Enticed the twilight moon. "Oh yes!", Willow Replied. "But shhhhhhh....don't tell the sun."

Special Friends Some friends will take your garbage out, Some friends will mind your mail. Some friends will take your one phone call And bail you out of jail. Some friends will turn your sprinklers on, And some will mow your grass. Some friends will drink your Zinfandel And neatly wash their glass. Some friends will baby-sit your kids--- The angels and the brats--- But only very *special* friends Will mind your seven cats!!

luv them! keep em coming!!

Well...since you insist. :) THE BALLAD OF MARTHA'S GOAL The score was tied at seven, The Dragons ached...a lot. It was halfway through third period, Will the Psychlones win it? NOT! The Captain eyed her teammates; Snowman skated toward the net; A signal passed between them: "This game ain't over yet!" The Psychlones eyed their goalie; "It's over now, relax." And while they were relaxing Martha sneaked behind their backs. The Snowman's shot was dead on, But it met their goalie's stick, And bounced back, straight to Martha, Who just slapped it in...so slick! The tie was finally broken, And the fans were on their feet; Then Frithie sealed the victory With his fifth goal. It was sweet! So next time you see Martha, Say you've heard of her team's fame, And make her tell the story Of the goal that won the game.

oh, i insist!

Ok. One more, then I'll let someone else have the microphone. :) The Waterboy He slithered in so silently, With neither scream nor squeal, That there were some who didn't even Think that he was real. He wore his suave down-under charm Like a cloak against the chill, And none who met him could resist The urge to do his will. Though each of us would rather read, Or play monopoly, He dragged us out, from bar to bar, Until we could not see. He made us play this crazy game Where sticks and pucks collide; We never got a minute's peace With this guy at our side. But now that he's about to leave, We find, to our surprise, That life will be much emptier When we've said our goodbyes. His name is Rohan Fuhrman, And he's an Aussie swank, But he'll not soon forget the ones Who let him be a Yank!

girl! you are talented.....the mike is always open so come back anytime (please do, don't make this wolfie beg)

*applause*

*bow*

loved 'em Charlotte! MORE MORE MORE!

The Millenium Bug (original author unknown, rewritten/edited by John Burnett) T'was the eve of Two Thousand, And all through the nation We awaited The Bug, The Y2K sensation. The chips were replaced In computers with care, In hopes that ol' Bugsy just might not stop there. While some people thought They were snug in their beds There were others with visions Of dread in their heads. My Ma with her PC, And I with my Mac Had just logged on the Net and kicked back with a snack. When over the server, arose such a clatter I called Mister Gates To see what was the matter. But he was away, So I flew like a flash To my bank's ATM To withdraw all my cash. When what with my wondering eyes should I see? My trusty old Mac looking sickly to me. The hack of all hackers Was looking so smug, I knew that he must be The Y2K Bug! His image downloaded in less than a flash, He whistled and shouted, Let all systems crash! Go Intel! Go Gateway! Now HP! Big Blue! Celeron, K6 and Pentium, too! All processors big, and all processors small, Crash away! Crash away! Crash away all! Air traffic control and all airplanes in flight All microwaves, railroads, and all traffic lights. As slowly I inhaled and turned back around, then out through the modem, He came with a bound. He was covered with fur, and slung over his back Was a sack full of viruses, set for attack. His eyes how they twinkled! His dimples--how merry! As midnight approached, though things soon became scary. He had a broad face and a round little belly, And his bag filled with viruses quivered like jelly. He was chubby and plump, and perpetually grinning, and he seemed overjoyed as my hard drive stopped spinning. With a wink of his eye, and a twist of his head, I started to know the true meaning of dread. He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work, He changed all the clocks, and then turned with a jerk. With a twitch of his nose, and a quick little wink, all things electronic soon went on the blink. He zoomed from my system, to others online. He caused such disruption, could this be a sign? Then I heard him exclaim, with a loud, hearty scream, "Happy Y2K all!" As I woke from my dream.

Today is the day That paranoids dread The day when computers Get sick in their head. It's the Ninth of September Of the Ninety Ninth Year. Horror and panic, unspeakable fear All programs will exit Of this we are clear. My code is not happy My code is not neat What else can I do But Control-Alt-Delete?

Bravo, Barry, and *lol* Apparently things went swimmingly (at least according to CNN - but they just tell what we "need" to hear, huh?!

That's not your fault. Weird Walt was not romantically partial to the female of the species. But he sure wrote beautiful poetry, and little of it was specifically homoerotically worded. Nowadays, that would change.

....ah, but then it would not be Walt Whitman. He was a creature of his time, I think!

No, He'd be Weird Walt, Weird Al's gay cousin!!!

Damn, I meant to bold, not italicize. Now I got to close this disgusting HTML tag. I may never get this right.

You only need bold for screwed's wild wallpaper and for shouting elsewhere. Bad form otherwise! You were right, after all!

Maybe, then, I need glasses.

At least for reading. Presbyopia begins almost alike clockwork around age 40.

What is that? Seeing Presbyterians??!!!!

The Star Trek Logo said it quite clear: To Boldly Go whilst drinking a beer. But I am not bold.. What can I say? So I'll just revert to plaintext today.

How clever, Barry.

In the Company of Boys 7/17/98 In the midst of the group smile lies the razor teeth of suppressed anger lurking inside the Medusa like hugs of greeting. Cardboard coffins presented lovingly in endless nights of camaraderie, High Life toxic waste festering like coral snakes wreathing... lovely to the blind eye while poison seeps out of rancid hearts. Immune to their own decay spewing it out on gentle souls as they fillet their rhetoric and garnish it with laughter to make it palatable to their own ears. Hopelessness, the main course sauteed in bitter herbs marinated in cheep beer, and pinup mentality. There is no truce invited to this gluttony of Narcissistic monologues which replays endlessly as white doves flail their wings in agony,Angles By Debra Tenney

For John: Deteriorata Go placidly amid the noise and waste, And remember what comfort there may be in owning a piece thereof. Avoid quiet and passive persons, unless you are in need of sleep. Rotate your tires. Speak glowingly of those greater than yourself, And heed well their advice, even though they be turkeys. Know what to kiss, and when. Consider that two wrongs never make a right, but that three do. Wherever possible, put people on hold. Be comforted that in the face of all aridity and disillusionment, and despite the changing fortunes of time, There is always a big future in computer maintenance. Remember The Pueblo. Strive at all times to bend, fold, spindle, and mutilate. Know yourself. If you need help, call the FBI. Exercise caution in your daily affairs, Especially with those persons closest to you - That lemon on your left, for instance. Be assured that a walk through the ocean of most souls Would scarcely get your feet wet. Fall not in love therefore. It will stick to your face. Gracefully surrender the things of youth: birds, clean air, tuna, Taiwan. And let not the sands of time get in your lunch. Hire people with hooks. For a good time, call 606-4311. Ask for Ken. Take heart in the deepening gloom That your dog is finally getting enough cheese. And reflect that whatever fortune may be your lot, It could only be worse in Milwaukee. You are a fluke of the universe. You have no right to be here. And whether you can hear it or not, The universe is laughing behind your back. Therefore, make peace with your god, Whatever you perceive him to be - hairy thunderer, or cosmic muffin. With all its hopes, dreams, promises, and urban renewal, The world continues to deteriorate. Give up! copyright 1975, National Lampoon

Thank you. If you remember, I sent that to you a few months ago and I see you posted it in your own topic. I love it, although I hardly consider them words to live by.

I've redone the Frost parody (even the title). I may try to resubmit it to some journal that likes humor for publishing. Stealing Words on a Frosty Evening by John Burnett (with apologies to Robert Frost) copyright 1999 Whose words these are I think I know His poems are on my bookshelf though; He will not see me typing here To steal his poem of woods and snow. The publisher must think me queer. I plagiarize without a fear. I purloin meter, pilfer rhyme, Take what I want and type it here. Don't care if I get caught this time Though plagiarism is a crime I'd write my own stuff if I could Instead of being thieving slime. This poem is awful, stiff as wood. I'll put it back; I think I should. And look to steal one twice as good. And look to steal one twice as good.

The original one was great. This one is even better... Surely it will be appreciated by Frostians all over the internet!

Nice edit, John! Good to see the original rhyme-scheme restored. I still prefer burgle to purloin though; I'll always take a certain scan over a neat alliteration. Line 2 could say: "He's buried in the graveyard though" ?? Just an idea.

You're a good editor.

Now I am looking for it parody, The Ballad of Yukon Jake which my Dad used to recite to me in his more pixillated moments...

THE BALLAD OF YUKON JAKE Begging Robert W. Service's Pardon OH THE NoRTH COUNTREE is a hard countree That mothers a bloody brood; And its icy arms hold hidden charms For the greedy, the sinful and lewd. And strong men rust, from the gold and the lust That sears the Northland soul, But the wickedest horn, from the Pole to the Horn, Is the Hermit of Shark-Tooth Shoal. Now Jacob Kaime was the Hermit's name In the days of his pious youth, Ere he cast a smirch on the Baptist Church By betraying a girl named Ruth. But now men quake at "Yukon Jake," The Hermit of Shark-Tooth Shoal, For that is the name that Jacob Kaime Is known by from Nome to the Pole. He was lust a boy and the parson's joy (Ere he fell for the gold and the muck), And had learned to pray, with the hogs and the hay On a farm near Keokuk. But a Service tale of illicit kale, And whisky and women wild, Drained the morals clean as a soup tureen From this poor but honest child. He longed for the bite of a Yukon night And the Northern Light's weird flicker, Or a game of stud in the frozen mud, And the taste of raw red licker. He wanted to mush along in the slush, With a team of husky hounds, And to fire his gat at a beaver hat And knock it out of bounds. So he left his home for the hell-town Nome, On Alaska's ice-ribbed shores, And he learned to curse and to drink, and worse, Till the rum dripped from his pores, When the boys on a spree were drinking it free In a Malamute saloon And Dan Megrew and his dangerous crew Shot craps with the piebald coon; When the Kid on his stool banged away like a fool At a jag.time melody, And the barkeep vowed, to the hard-boiled crowd, That he'd cree-mate Sam McGee- Then Jacob Kaime, who had taken the name Of Yukon Jake, the Killer, Would rake the dive with his forty-five Till the atmosphere grew chiller. With a sharp command he'd make 'em stand And deliver their hard-earned dust, Then drink the bar dry of rum and rye, As a Klondike bully must. Without coming to blows he would tweak the nose Of Dangerous Dan Megrew, And, becoming bolder, throw over his shoulder The lady that's known as Lou. Oh, tough as a steak was Yukon Jake- Hard-boiled as a picnic egg. He washed his shirt in the KIondike dirt, And drank his rum by the keg. In fear of their lives (or because of their wives) He was shunned by the best of his pals, An outcast he, from the comradery Of all but wild animals. So he bought him the whole of Shark-Tooth Shoal, A reef in the Bering Sea, And he lived by himself on a sea lion's shelf In lonely iniquity. But, miles away, in Keokuk, Ia., Did a ruined maiden fight To remove the smirch from the Baptist Church By bringing the heathen Light; And the Elders declared that all would be spared If she carried the holy words From her Keokuk home to the hell-town Nome To save those sinful birds. So, two weeks later, she took a freighter, For the gold-cursed land near the Pole, But Heaven ain't made for a lass that's betrayed- She was wrecked on Shark-Tooth Shoal! All hands were tossed in the Sea, and lost- All but the maiden Ruth, Who swam to the edge of the sea lion's ledge Where abode the love of her youth. He was hunting a seal for his evening meal (He handled a mean harpoon) When he saw at his feet, not something to eat, But a girl in a frozen swoon, Whom he dragged to his lair by her dripping hair, And he rubbed her knees with gin. To his great surprise, she opened her eyes And revealed-his Original Sin! His eight-months beard grew stiff and weird, And it felt like a chestnut burr, And he swore by his gizzard, and the Arctic blizzard That he'd do right by her. But the cold sweat froze on the end of her nose Till it gleamed like a Tecla pearl, While her bright hair fell, like a flame from hell, Down the back of the grateful girl. But a hopeless rake was Yukon Jake, The hermit of Shark-Tooth Shoal! And the dizzy maid he rebetrayed And wrecked her immortal soul! . Then he rowed her ashore, with a broken oar, And he sold her to Dan Megrew For a husky dog and some hot eggnog, As rascals are wont to do. Now ruthless Ruth is a maid uncouth With scarlet cheeks and lips, And she sings rough songs to the drunken throngs That come from the sealing ships. For a rouge-stained kiss from this infamous miss They will give a seal's sleek fur, Or perhaps a sable, if they are able; It's much the same to her. Oh, the North Countree is a rough countree, That mothers a bloody brood; And its icy arms hold hidden charms For the greedy, the sinful and lewd. And strong men rust, from the gold and the lust That sears the Northland soul, But the wickedest born from the Pole to the Horn Was the Hermit of Shark-Tooth Shoal! EDWARD H. PARAMORE, JR.

Two mistypings from place I pasted it: First stanza, line 7 should read "But the wickedest born, from the Pole to the Horn" second stanza line 9 should read "He was just a boy and the parson's joy"

If there is a poem known to the Internet (and 4 search engines came up empty on Yukon Jake) try this URL http://www.zoomnet.net/~petecol/poemlist.html

Two see two of my lighter poems published in _Poetry_Now_ e-zine, click on URL http://www.poetrynow.org/Volume%20II%20poetry.htm

You love pretzels almost as much as I do, apparently. Bravo! (I know a published poet!!! Yippee!!!)

...and anyone reading them will immediatley think you gay. Do you ever get feedback from that web site on what you publish?

So what. Nobody there (or here even, except you) knows me.

You brought it up the first time you let me read your poem...and I KNOW you are NOT gay!!! Gadzooks! That you can put in the bank and count on for your old age.

Does not your being published qualify as a media appearance of a Springeur? It needs to be posted on Porch Conference!

Suppose so.

I'm not worried about what anyone who doesn't know me thinks. What those who do know me think, however, is sometimes more important.

Shall I paste your post from above or shall you? Terry would like it on Media Appearances...and I am your Ichiban fan...I will be honored to do it for you... (I am pretty sure I know you know what I think of you *benevolent smile*)

Of course, thank you.

oh, i got the hint so i'll go right way and create a service topic!

Did you like the Ballad of Yukon Jake? I could not believe it when I found it on the 'Net. Now I know there is a God in Heaven and all is well with the world! (You have been busy in this conference tonight! That is so good to see! *hugs*)

thanks *blush* actually, will go back to read, but while doing my hosting duties, i scan and pick up stuff and then go back *grin*

...and I must to volleyball...*sigh* (I'll miss y'all...!)

have fun, dear!

Oh, I did. Did not much enjoy the game, but afterward John and I exchanged hugs, and you cannot believe what a great hugger he is. Not only that, he is solid muscle under that shirt. Very nice, indeed! *grin*

*sob* it has been a long time since I was hugged by John - or posted here... The lost Dr. Seuss Book: I Love My Job. I love my job, I love the pay. I love it more and more each day. I love my boss; he is the best. I love his boss and all the rest. I love my office and its location. I hate to have to go on vacation. I love my furniture, drab and gray, and the paper that piles up every day. I love my chair in my padded cell. There's nothing else I love so well. I love to work among my peers. I love their leers and jeers and sneers. I love my computer and its software; I hug it often though it don't care. I love each program and every file, I try to understand once in a while. I'm happy to be here, I am, I am; I'm the happiest slave of my Uncle Sam. I love this work; I love these chores. I love the meetings with deadly bores. I love my job -- I'll say it again. I even love these friendly men, these men who've come to visit today In lovely white coats to take me away.