Um... Is the rubdown for the model or for me?

For you, of course...the model can fend for herself!

Apparently, I've got nothing else to do...where did she go?

She is over here with me getting lessons on how to massage Barry with the velvet glove. I don't want to embarrass him when she does it, so wait up for me.

She wore bluuue velvet oh oh....

From a long-time friend of mine, an extraordinary individual I am privileged to have known for many years: I Don't Remember I don't remember Shakespeare I don't remember Milton I don't remember Coolidge Or even Conrad Hilton. I don't remember FDR The New Deal's just old news I had to learn that Memphis Was the birthplace of the blues. I don't remember Henry Ford Unless you mean the third. My lexicon lists "dodo" As a ninny, not a bird. To me, old Jimmy Stewart Was an actor, not a king. From history's perspective I don't know a goddamn thing. --by John Burnett

...and I met him a whole bunch of years ago, too.

and that goes for me, as well, john! thanks for posting it marcia!!

Wolfie, he sent me the above poem in Email and I fired one back asking for permission to put it here. He agreed and I sent back the URL where he could find it. The rest is history. He is a most welcome addition to our group.

indeed!

Thanks for the nice welcome, folks!

Here's a rather clever piece of cowboy doggerel sent to me by my uncle Lee (which I've edited for content and meter) The sky was dark, the moon was high and all alone was she and I. Her lines so soft, her eyes so brown her hair as smooth as eider down, her skin just right, her legs so fine I ran my fingers down her spine. I didn't know how but tried my best, I placed my hands upon her breast. I felt my fear, my beating heart, but slowly she spread her legs apart I had just overcome my shame when all at once the white stuff came. And that's the end, it's over now, the first time that I've milked a cow.

Ahhhh...only the finest kine for the Poetry conference...*grin*

*LOL*

Whooooopee! ;)

i loved it!!!!

You guys sure know how to milk this stuff for all it's worth.

Have an Oreo, Barry?

In case you missed it elsewhere, my "Whitman Sampler" Poem Parody A Well-Made Man By "Weird Walt" with apologies to W.W., (John Burnett, 1999) O God, I feel the rhythm of the concrete jungle from the clickety-clack clatter of the jackhammer and I observe its bone-weary operator his profusely perspiring person of gnarl'd, callous'd massive hands and sensual sinews that bridge the span of his inviting neckline from the resolute set of his mandibular muscles to the sloping scoops of his breastbone as he breathes with shoulders shuddering and the poignant pulsating pounding of his pectorals prominently puffing through the open window of unbutton'd plaid. O God, I am drawn as the unsuspecting moth to the proverbial flame of the candle as I drizzle slowly, deliberately, the melted waste of wax on the tableau of abdominals. I visualize the taste of the molten mix of perspiration and paraffin, the residue of saline lingering on my still-longing lips. O God, Adonis in button-fly five-oh-fives, I am but human and cannot but admire the curve of hard, lean buttocks, stretching and straining and yearning to be set free from the constraints of cotton, faded denim accentuating the musculature of well-made manhood. O God, I hear the mighty massive moan of the whistle steam streaming as the sound of blessed rest and relief bestows solace upon the mass'd minions of the construction site: the truckers of girders and rows of riveters, pourers of concrete and bearers of blueprints, the weary of welding and the jack of the hammers all live for the seventeenth hour. En masse, they move as if drawn by gravitational pull to a nearby tavern, where they fondle the serving wenches and regale the besotted barstool'd denizens with tales of unioniz'd derring-do financ'd in hourly increments by double-breasted Brooks Brother'd investment bankers. And I, O God, surreptitiously sip my Curacao from a custom pewter stein and await the alley door exodus of a well-made man.

*** APPLAUSE! *** that was lip-smackin' wonderful, john!

Thank you, Moon. Maybe it should be in "Drool." *SMILE*

Moon who is in Drool is Moon Dreams. She was the original. Nan, I think is just mooning you for the occasion *grin*

* blushing *

...Oooh, she is...and how becoming it is. Enjoy! (The other Moon is stuck in a hurricane bunker tonight riding out the storm with her laptop in tow. What a place to entertain oneself...Spring!

Spring all year round...

Nostalgolagnia I lounge in the old chaise and pine for the old days when my pain was a pleasure as best I could measure.

He's a poet and he don't know it.....(grin)

Fame How do we touch the sky? With game shows and fast action news reported on laugh-in prize winning television, late night shows, a gift from coffee cup gurus driving sleek cars fueled by royality seeking five minute famers rescued from anonynity by cable TV.

I suggest you search for the off button or unplug the thing...! (being facetious here...)

was that in relation to my poem? I do not have cable TV. It was just a social commentary. GRIN

Yes, it was, and I enjoyed your commentary...*smile*

Thanks Marcia!

You are quite welcome! *smile*

Sorry about Barry's pain, though...I know the feeling...! Have any suggestions for easing your suffering?

I hear that in the tiny country of Butan, the government has set a goal of maximizing emotional well-being instead of wealth.

Let's all run for the border... But, if we do, we shall surely ruin it for the very people it was meant to help. I'd love to know how they will go about accomplishing this task...!

I don't know about Butan, but if Bill Clinton thinks he feels my pain, I'll put on the gloves with him and go three rounds. I guarantee you he'd feel my pain then!

Isn't it spelled Bhutan?

Since they write in "squiggles" (as a teacher of mine once said), it is hard to discern just how things are spelled in phonetic English...perhaps they have recreated the word for the kids now who cannot read and write, in any case?!

(BC has never felt anyone else's pain...! I'll hold him while you take your best shot!)

This seems as good a place as any to put this note: If you value Spring and the discussions herein (not to mention the venting going on), do you realize this is Terry's web site for which he pays all the bills? Please, it is time to help with any donation you can afford. He has some pretty big bills to pay and he needs your (and my) help to sustain all of the stuff we are posting. Think if he had to cut back and eliminate some of - or all of - the conferences?! Please! Send contributions to: Paul Terry Walhus The Spring 9011 Quail Creek Dr Austin, TX 78758

I will offer to ease the load at the Spring by hosting some of the conferences on spare equipment at MuseNet. If this will help, I'll be glad to discuss which conferences or subcommunities we can accommodate.

We need more conferences and more participants here, not less. But thanks anyway, Barry.

Oh Dear!!! I hope my message was not interpreted this way everywhere I put it. I wanted to encourage people to help increase the traffic here and the donations for its upkeep. *sigh* I'll try again. We NEED all of these diverse conferences to keep us mentally stimulated. Please help keep us from an early decline of mental faculties by donating to the fund drive at the above address (see post 242 ) Thanks and Mahalo!

If there is any way I can reduce your expenses by providing zero-cost resources, don't hesitate to ask.

no - not that way...Terry wants increase of traffic, posts and thoughts AND revenue. There are communities which exact a monthly fee from partakers. The least we can to is to contribute to its upkeep!

* dusting off the ole chaise... where have all the snoozers gone? * Here's a sort of couchy poem I just wrote -- thought it might make itself comfortable here: ONE SATURDAY IN OCTOBER I asked the Salvation Army to haul off that old armchair its seat lumpy and stained, tweed upholstery rough where the cat had been clawing it for five years. It was an ugly thing, but I was fond of it -- our legs could and did entwine across its great shabby brown arms, we two lost in love long ago on a winter afternoon. If we kept furniture in our lives like we're supposed to keep people what do you think would be the outcome? Would it break all the rules if we didn't throw out lamps and dented pans, or cart them off to the thrift shop to catch the eye of some ex-convict with 10 bucks in his picket to start a new life? Life is a mystery, I think, sitting carefully on my brand new loveseat covered in perfect pale opal-colored velvet. The cat dwells outside now and will have to stay there. I bought an aquarium instead, and watch neon tetras flash teal and red behind the glass, silent and cold and elegant.

Is there anyone out there this poem does not speak to? Looking around at the "stuff" we have accumulated in so many years, I know how lovely it would be to have the opal velvet love seat and a pristine fishbowl and orderliness...but the passion is missing - which is the point, I guess.

You got out of it what I put into it... (and I see I typo'd "picket" where I meant "pocket") -- glad it spoke to you, Marcia. :)

thanks for that piece! i do believe we can all relate. where does sentimentality and practicality change over?

(Marcia, you're right -- the passion was missing earlier. It's here.) --- PLAY ME We wake to the drumming of raindrops. It's easiest to stay in bed on such dark mornings seeking each other's light - your fingers tingling hundreds of tiny hairs on my arm - catching - trembling - your mouth open wet on my neck - tasting salt - exploring unlocking revealing caves I never mapped before - Moving down - you have no peer, my persian lover - oh god! - your tongue turns my belly to hot marmalade lapping langorous honey - lower - ah - there! - just let me breathe our fragrance forever - this - yes! oh! - wily spinning tumbling freefall thumping heart, tonguing the easiest tune we play.

dang, it's been awhile. who left the kitchen utensils in here?

don't mind the smell, it's the lysol i'm using.

what is this? it looks like.....old eggplant!

why, it's Ms Clean! (Opening the windows)... watch out for that old eggplant. *lol* last time I was in here I recall being ooched off the couch and landing on my knees...*grin*

Oh Nan....just found your poem. Passion?! It is incredible...and it not only spoke to me, it positively knew my name! Thank you for that...*hugs*