Date:         Fri, 5 Sep 2008 23:47:33 -0500
Reply-To:     joel walker <uncajoel@BELLSOUTH.NET>
Sender:       Vanagon Mailing List <vanagon@gerry.vanagon.com>
From:         joel walker <uncajoel@BELLSOUTH.NET>
Subject:      Re: aw,
              what the heck ... more Phrydaye stuff (some oldies but oldies). :)
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  SONNET #43

     From the Portuguese Man-of-War
     By Lizzie Barrel Browning .50 cal.

  How do I drive thee? Let me count the ways ...
  I drive thee to the length and breadth and height
  My bumpers reach, when feeling, out of sight,
  For the ends of other Cars in parking space.

  I drive thee by the headlights glowing trace
  At Dawn, and Dusk, and yawning dead of Night.
  I drive thee slowly, in the lanes upon the Right;
  I drive thee quickly, when in Rushing Hour's Race.

  I drive thee with a verve I seldom choose
  In other cars, when out upon the Lanes;
  But then a Calm descends upon my Brain,
  And daily Woes and Worries oft I lose.

  So, all in all, I drive thee with a Smile,
  And shall but drive thee more, for years and miles.

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   SONNET #8,349.2  (Name Game)

   Sonnets from the Manganese
   by Lizzie Barrel Browning .50 cal.

   How shall I call thee? What shall be thy Name?
   The name of Roses matters not to those
   Who smell the Flowers' sweet Perfume and close
   Their eyes to fondly see a Face again.

   Should Names reflect some Memories of Olde?
   Or attributes of Strength, or Skill, or Dare?
   Or should I give thee Ancient Names to bear,
   Of People, Places, Things in Tales still told?

   Or should a Name be new, and picked from Now?
   A chosen Symbol of the Modern Times?
   Somewhere, Someone, Something - a Name that rhymes
   Our View of Life with all somehow.

   But thou art naught but steel, glass and rubber ...
   Eureka, that's it: thy Name is Bubba!!

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        Jabber-Jabber List
              by Screwloose Feral

  'Twas Frydaye, and upon the List
    Were Minds of fetid thoughts so bent,
  Toward Topics of the rankest Grist,
    That admins cringe, but Rules relent.

  "Beware the Jabber-Jabber List!
    "Of emails flowing without end!
  "Of Subject: Rust and Heat and Tires,
    "That like the Seasons come again!"

  He paused his fingers o'er the keys,
    In thought he lingered, half asleep ...
  Then slow and painful typed the words
    As came they bubbling from the deep.

  And from the keyboard, one by one,
    The clicking noise disturbed the Night,
  Drove out the Silence of the Lateness,
    Sounded like a cricket fight.

  Vee, Hay! Enn, Hay! Gee, Oh, Enn!
    The keyboard groaned beneath his strokes!
  Til grabbed he mouse and with one click,
    A message sent to email folkes.

  "And art thou finished yet, My Love?"
     Said Wife while filing on a nail;
  "About damned Time! Then go to bed!"
     But said Computer: You Have Mail.

  'Twas Frydaye, and upon the List
    Were Minds of fetid thoughts so bent,
  Toward Topics of the rankest Grist,
    That admins cringe, but Rules relent.

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  Depictus??
      by Billie Ernie Hindleg

  Under the bus that carries me,
    Black as the grease on CV balls,
  I thank whatever gods may be
    For my decrepit overalls.

  Smudges from axles, loosely gripped;
    I have not flinched nor cried aloud
  As blood from my knuckles (socket slipped)
    Has colored the surface of this shroud.

  Above these spots and greasy smears
    Are streak-ed paints of different shade,
  And stains of ketchup, mustard, beers ...
    I wear them proudly, unafraid.

  It matters not how loud the gripe
    From friends or neighbors, wives, et al ...
  I will not wash, though they be ripe,
    These funky stinking overalls.

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  Stopping by a Bus on a Snowy Evening
    by Robert Frostbitten

  Whose bus this is I think I know.
  His home is 'cross the river though;
  He will not mind me stopping here
  To watch his bus be topped with snow.

  My little bus must think it queer
  To stop each time we get so near
  To other buses that we see
  Parked at the malls or stores, like here.

  Its little engine idles rough
  To ask if I have had enough.
  The only other sound I hear
  Is wiper blades on snowy fluff.

  His bus is lovely, clean and bright,
  A pleasing note of all that's right.
  But I have traffic still to fight,
  And miles to go this winter's night.

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good night, Mrs. Calabash, wherever you are. :)
unca joel