Date:         Sat, 6 Sep 2008 04:21:25 -0500
Reply-To:     John Rodgers <inua@CHARTER.NET>
Sender:       Vanagon Mailing List <vanagon@gerry.vanagon.com>
From:         John Rodgers <inua@CHARTER.NET>
Subject:      Re: aw,
              what the heck ... more Phrydaye stuff (some oldies but oldies). :)
Comments: To: joel walker <uncajoel@BELLSOUTH.NET>
In-Reply-To:  <001a01c90fdb$ade5e8f0$0101a8c0@gp207joel>
Content-Type: text/plain; charset=ISO-8859-1; format=flowed

So, Unca Joel,

You have found yourself with way to much time on your hands in the
middle of the night, and the Muse is upon you? So you have waxed poetic?

Know what?

Keep waxing.

Gives those of us in the sleepless set who are less literary something
light  to read at 4 AM in the morning when the night owls are going to
bed and the birds aren't up yet!

Enjoyed it.

John Rodgers
88 GL Driver

joel walker wrote:
>  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.
>
> -------------------------------------------------------------------------
>
>
>   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!!
>
> -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
>
>
>
>        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.
>
> ---------------------------------------------------------------------
>
>
>  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.
>
> ----------------------------------------------------------------------------
>
>
>
>  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.
>
> ---------------------------------------------------------------------------
>
>
> good night, Mrs. Calabash, wherever you are. :)
> unca joel
>
>