Favorite Poem?

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Well-Known Member
Jun 26, 2007

by Ray Bradbury

And this is where we went, I thought,
Now here, now there, upon the grass
Some forty years ago.
I had returned and walked along the streets
And saw the house where I was born
And grown and had my endless days.
The days being short now, simply I had come
To gaze and look and stare upon
The thought of that once endless maze of afternoons.
But most of all I wished to find the places where I ran
As dogs do run before or after boys,
The paths put down by Indians or brothers wise and swift
Pretending at a tribe.
I came to the ravine.
I half slid down the path
A man with graying hair but seeming supple thoughts
And saw the place was empty.
Fools! I thought. O, boys of this new year,
Why don’t you know the Abyss waits you here?
Ravines are special fine and lovely green
And secretive and wandering with apes and thugs
And bandit bees that steal from flowers to give to trees.
Caves echo here and creeks for wading after loot:
A water-strider, crayfish, precious stone
Or long-lost rubber boot --
It is a natural treasure-house, so why the silent place?
What’s happened to our boys that they no longer race
And stand them still to contemplate Christ’s handiwork:
His clear blood bled in syrups from the lovely wounded trees?
Why only bees and blackbird winds and bending grass?
No matter. Walk. Walk, look, and sweet recall.

I came upon an oak where once when I was twelve
I had climbed up and screamed for Skip to get me down.
It was a thousand miles to earth. I shut my eyes and yelled.
My brother, richly compelled to mirth, gave shouts of laughter
And scaled up to rescue me.
"What were you doing there?" he said.
I did not tell. Rather drop me dead.
But I was there to place a note within a squirrel nest
On which I’d written some old secret thing now long forgot.
Now in the green ravine of middle years I stood
Beneath that tree. Why, why, I thought, my God,
It’s not so high. Why did I shriek?
It can’t be more than fifteen feet above. I’ll climb it handily.
And did.
And squatted like an aging ape alone and thanking God
That no one saw this ancient man at antics
Clutched grotesquely to the bole.
But then, ah God, what awe.
The squirrel’s hole and long-lost nest were there.

I lay upon the limb a long while, thinking.
I drank in all the leaves and clouds and weathers
Going by as mindless
As the days.
What, what, what if? I thought. But no. Some forty years beyond!
The note I’d put? It’s surely stolen off by now.
A boy or screech-owl’s pilfered, read, and tattered it.
It’s scattered to the lake like pollen, chestnut leaf
Or smoke of dandelion that breaks along the wind of time...

No. No.

I put my hand into the nest. I dug my fingers deep.
Nothing. And still more nothing. Yet digging further
I brought forth:
The note.
Like mothwings neatly powdered on themselves, and folded close
It had survived. No rains had touched, no sunlight bleached
Its stuff. It lay upon my palm. I knew its look:
Ruled paper from an old Sioux Indian Head scribble writing book.
What, what, oh, what had I put there in words
So many years ago?
I opened it. For now I had to know.
I opened it, and wept. I clung then to the tree
And let the tears flow out and down my chin.
Dear boy, strange child, who must have known the years
And reckoned time and smelled sweet death from flowers
In the far churchyard.
It was a message to the future, to myself.
Knowing one day I must arrive, come, seek, return.
From the young one to the old. From the me that was small
And fresh to the me that was large and no longer new.
What did it say that made me weep?

I remember you.
I remember you.

Jim Miller

Well-Known Member
Jun 15, 2008
From the songs of Tom Bombadil:

Old Tom Bombadil is a merry fellow,
Bright blue his jacket is, and his boots are yellow.
None has ever caught him yet, for Tom, he is the master:
His songs are stronger songs, and his feet are faster.

From Emily Dickinson:

A WORD is dead
When it is said,
Some say.
I say it just
Begins to live
That day.


possibly revolutionary
Apr 12, 2008
Resurrecting this thread, in lieu of making a new one.

I've just discovered (rediscovered?) the poetry of Adrienne Rich, and I'm loving it. Here's what I'm digging so far:

"A Valediction Forbidding Mourning"

My swirling wants. Your frozen lips.
The grammar turned and attacked me.
Themes, written under duress.
Emptiness of the notations.

They gave me a drug that slowed the healing of wounds.

I want you to see this before I leave:
the experience of repetition as death
the failure of criticism to locate the pain
the poster in the bus that said:
my bleeding is under control.

A red plant in a cemetery of plastic wreaths.

A last attempt: the language is a dialect called metaphor.
These images go unglossed: hair, glacier, flashlight.
When I think of a landscape I am thinking of a time.
When I talk of taking a trip I mean forever.
I could say: those mountains have a meaning
but further than that I could not say.

To do something very common, in my own way.

"Living in Sin"

She had thought the studio would keep itself;
no dust upon the furniture of love.
Half heresy, to wish the taps less vocal,
the panes relieved of grime. A plate of pears,
a piano with a Persian shawl, a cat
stalking the picturesque amusing mouse
had risen at his urging.
Not that at five each separate stair would writhe
under the milkman's tramp; that morning light
so coldly would delineate the scraps
of last night's cheese and three sepulchral bottles;
that on the kitchen shelf among the saucers
a pair of beetle-eyes would fix her own---
envoy from some village in the moldings . . .
Meanwhile, he, with a yawn,
sounded a dozen notes upon the keyboard,
declared it out of tune, shrugged at the mirror,
rubbed at his beard, went out for cigarettes;
while she, jeered by the minor demons,
pulled back the sheets and made the bed and found
a towel to dust the table-top,
and let the coffee-pot boil over on the stove.
By evening she was back in love again,
though not so wholly but throughout the night
she woke sometimes to feel the daylight coming
like a relentless milkman up the stairs.


♥ ɢrÃ¥тıтuɗɛ
Sep 30, 2012
jewel kilcher

I look at young girls now
in their tight crushed velour
skin tight sky blue
hip huggers with the baby doll
tank tops
and I think
I've been there.
God, have I been there.

Sixteen years old and
wrestling with an overwhelming
newfound sexuality.
Parading it in all its
raw and awkward charm.

I had a pair of vintage
burgundy velvet short-shorts
that laced up
the sides
from the 1920s
and I wore them
with a tight leotard
and plastic faux pearl

showing off all my lanky
leggy blossoming
youth on the verge
of womanhood for all the
free world to see
with no idea how to keep
a secret, especially my own.


Where is the Love?
Jan 28, 2011
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
By Robert Frost 1874–1963

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.


possibly revolutionary
Apr 12, 2008
I normally think of Erica Jong as a prose writer (her excellent "Isadora Wing" books being foremost in my mind--Fear of Flying, most notably), but I've been digging some of her poetry lately. She's not as skillful as, say, Anne Sexton, but I do enjoy some of her work.

"Aclestis on the Poetry Circuit"

The best slave
does not need to be beaten.
She beats herself.

Not with a leather whip,
or with stick or twigs,
not with a blackjack
or a billyclub,
but with the fine whip
of her own tongue
& the subtle beating
of her mind
against her mind.

For who can hate her half so well
as she hates herself?
& who can match the finesse
of her self-abuse?

Years of training
are required for this.
Twenty years
of subtle self-indulgence,
until the subject
thinks herself a queen
& yet a beggar --
both at the same time.
She must doubt herself
in everything but love.

She must choose passionately
& badly.
She must feel lost as a dog
without her master.
She must refer all moral questions
to her mirror.
She must fall in love with a cossack
or a poet.

She must never go out of the house
unless veiled in paint.
She must wear tight shoes
so she always remembers her bondage.
She must never forget
she is rooted in the ground.

Though she is quick to learn
& admittedly clever,
her natural doubt of herself
should make her so weak
that she dabbles brilliantly
in half a dozen talents
& thus embellishes
but does not change
our life.

If she's an artist
& comes close to genius,
the very fact of her gift
should cause her such pain
that she will take her own life
rather than best us.

& after she dies, we will cry
& make her a saint.

"Becoming a Nun"

On cold days
it is easy to be reasonable,
to button the mouth against kisses,
dust the breasts
with talcum powder
& forget
the red pulp meat
of the heart.

On those days
it beats
like a digital clock--
not a beat at all
but a steady whirring
chilly as green neon,
luminous as numerals in the dark,
cool as electricity.

& I think:
I can live without it all--
love with its blood pump,
sex with its messy hungers,
men with their peacock strutting,
their silly sexual baggage,
their wet tongues in my ear
& their words like little sugar suckers
with sour centers.

On such days
I am zipped in my body suit,
I am wearing seven league red suede boots,
I am marching over the cobblestones
as if they were the heads of men,

& I am happy
as a seven-year-old virgin
holding Daddy's hand.

Don't touch.
Don't try to tempt me with your ripe persimmons.
Don't threaten me with your volcano.
The sky is clearer when I'm not in heat,
& the poems
are colder.


aluminum petunia
Sep 29, 2005
jewel kilcher

I look at young girls now
in their tight crushed velour
skin tight sky blue
hip huggers with the baby doll
tank tops
and I think
I've been there.
God, have I been there.

Sixteen years old and
wrestling with an overwhelming
newfound sexuality.
Parading it in all its
raw and awkward charm.

I had a pair of vintage
burgundy velvet short-shorts
that laced up
the sides
from the 1920s
and I wore them
with a tight leotard
and plastic faux pearl

showing off all my lanky
leggy blossoming
youth on the verge
of womanhood for all the
free world to see
with no idea how to keep
a secret, especially my own.

Jewel got me through my tween and teen years with her books of poetry!

Ho Ho Tai

Well-Known Member
Jun 9, 2006
Friends -

I told my kids about an outing long ago, in which I induced a friend to come out early in the morning to see the five visible planets all lined up in the sky. Grouching and complaining, she did come out to see them, and was delighted. Later, she sent me this poem.

Like the sign at Caribou Coffee, "If you want to experience life, you have to stay awake for it."

Ho Ho Tai

Robert Francis
Keep me from going to sleep too soon
Or if I go to sleep too soon
Come wake me up. Come any hour
Of night. Come whistling up the road.
Stomp on the porch. Bang on the door.
Make me get out of bed and come
And let you in and light a light.
Tell me the northern lights are on
And make me look. Or tell me clouds
Are doing something to the moon
They never did before, and show me.
See that I see. Talk to me till
I’m half as wide awake as you
And start to dress wondering why
I ever went to bed at all.
Tell me the walking is superb.
Not only tell me but persuade me.
You know I’m not too hard persuaded.



Hard to say, really...
Mar 22, 2011
New York
Been wanting to contribute something here for a while now, particularly this one that always seems to come to mind reflecting on how people inevitably float on out of our lives, although-still are never really ever quite gone. It's kind of long, so just bear with me; especially as maybe now it says something about this place as well, for some of you:

Sexual Urgency, What a Woman's Laughter can do, and the Nature of True Virility​

Someone of hand to the caliph of Egypt,
"The king of Mosul
has a concubine like no other,
more beautiful than I can describe.
She looks like this."
He draws her likeness on paper.

The caliph drops his cup.
Immediately he sends his captain to Mosul
with an army of thousands. The siege goes on for a week,
with many casualties, the walls and towers unsteady,
as soft as wax. The king of Mosul sends an envoy.
"Why this killing?" If you want the city,
I will leave you can have it!
If you want more wealth, that's even easier."

The captain take out the piece of paper
with the girl's picture on it. This.
The strong king of Mosul is quick to reply.
"lead her out. The idol belongs with idolaters."

When the captain sees her, he falls in love,
like the caliph. Don't laugh at this.
This loving is also part of the infinite love,
without which the world does not evolve.
Objects move from ignorance to vegetation
to selves endowed with spirit through the urgency
of every love that wants to come to perfection.

This captain thinks the soil looks fertile,
so he sows his seed. Sleeping he sees the girl
in a dream. He makes love to her image,
and his semen spurts out.

After a while he begins to wake.
slowly he senses the girls is not there.
'I have given my seed into nothing.
I shall put this tricky woman to a test."
A leader who is not captain of his body is not one
to be honored, with his semen spilled in to the sand.
Now he loses all control. He doesn't care
about the caliph, or about dying.
"I am in love," he says.

Do not act in such heat.
Take counsel with a master.
But the captain couldn't.

His infatuation is a black water wave carrying him away.
Something that doesn't exist makes a phantom
appear in the darkness of the well,
and the phantom becomes strong enough
to throw actual lions in the hole.

More advice: it is dangerous to let others men
have intimate connections with the women in your care.
Cotton and fire sparks, those are, together.
difficult, almost impossible, to quench.

The captain does not return straight to the caliph,
but instead camps in a secluded meadow.
Blazing. He can't tell ground from sky.
His reason is lost in a drumming sound,
worthless radish and son of a radish.
The caliph himself a gnat, nothing.

But just as this cultivator tears off the woman's pants
and lies down between her legs, his penis moving
strait to the mark, there is a great tumult
and a rising cry of soldiers outside the tent.
He leaps up with his bare bottom shinning
and runs out, scimitar in hand.

A black lion from a nearby swamp
has gotten in among the horses. chaos.
the lion jumping twenty feet in to the air,
tents billowing like an ocean.

The captain quickly approaches the lion,
splits his head with one blow,
and now he's running back to the woman's tent.

When he stretches out her beauty again,
his penis goes even more erect.

The engagement, the coming together, is as with the lion.
His penis stays erect all through it,
and it does not scatter semen feebly.
the beautiful one is amazed at his virility.
Immediately, with great energy she joins with his energy,
and their two spirits go out of them as one.

Whenever two are linked this way, there comes another
from the unseen world. It maybe through birth,
if nothing prevents conception,
but a third does come, when two unite in love,
or in hate. The intense qualities born
of such joining appear in the spiritual world.

You will recognize them when you go there.
Your associations bear progeny.
Be careful, therefore. wait and be conscious,
before you go to meet anyone.
remember there are children to consider!

Children you must live with and tend to,
born of your emotions with another, entities
with a form, and speech, and a place to live.
they are crying to you even now.
you have forgotten us. come back.
Be aware of this. A man and a woman together
always have a spiritual result.

The captain was not so aware. He fell,
and stuck like a gnat in a pot of buttermilk,
totally absorbed in his love affair. Then,
just as suddenly, he's uninterested. He tells
the woman, "Don't say a word of this to the caliph."

He takes her there, and the caliph is smitten.
She's a hundred times more beautiful than he's imagined.

A certain man asks an eloquent teacher,
"What is true and what is false?"

"This is false: a bat hides from the sun, not from the idea of the sun.
It's the idea that puts fear in the bat and leads it
deeper into the cave. you have an idea
of an enemy that attacks you to certain companions.

Moses, the inner light of revelation,
lit up the top of Sinai, but the mountain
could not hold that light.

Don't deceive yourself that way!
Having the idea is not living
the reality, of anything.

There's no courage in the idea of battle.
The bath house wall is covered with pictures
and much talk of heroism. Try to make an idea move
from ear to eye. Then your wooly ears
become as subtle as fibers of light.

Your whole body becomes a mirror,
all eye and spiritual breathing.
Let your ear lead the you to your lover."

So the caliph is mightily in love with this girl.
His kingdom vanishes like lightning.
If your loving is numb, know this: when what you own
can vanish, it's only a dream, a vanity, breath
through a mustache. It would have killed you.

There are those that say, "Nothing lasts."
They're wrong. Every moment they say,
"If there were some other reality,
I would have seen it. I would know about it."

Because a child doesn't understand a chain of reasoning,
should adults give up being rational?
If reasonable people don't feel the presence of love
within the universe, that doesn't mean it's not there.

Joseph's brothers did not see Joseph's beauty,
but Jacob never lost sight of it. Moses at first
saw only a wooden staff, but to his others seeing
it was a viper and a cause of panic.

Eyesight is in conflict with inner knowing.
Moses' hand is a hand and a source of light.

These matters are as real as the infinite is real,
but they seem religious fantasies to some,
to those who believe only in reality
of the sexual organs and the digestive tract.

Don't mention the Friend to those.
To others, sex and hunger are fading images,
and the Friend is more constantly, solidly here.
Let the former go to their church, and we'll go to ours.
Don't talk long to skeptics or those
who claim to be atheists.

So the caliph has the idea
of entering the beautiful woman,
and he comes to her wanting to do this wanting.

Memory raises his penis, straining it in through
towards the pushing down and the lifting up
which make that member grow large with delight.

But as he actually lies down with the woman,
there comes to him a decree from God
to stop these voluptuous doings. A tiny sound,
like a mouse might make. The penis droops,
and desire slips away.

He thinks that whispering sound is a snake
rising off the straw mat. The girl sees his drooping
and sails into fits of laughing at the marvelous thing.
She remembers the captain killing the lion
with his penis standing straight up.

Long and loud the laughter.
Anything she thinks of only increases it,
like the laughter of those who eat hashish.
Everything is funny.

Every emotion has a source a key that opens it.
The caliph is furious. He draws his sword.
"What's so amusing?" Tell me everything you're thinking.

Don't hold anything back. At this moment
I'm clairvoyant. If you lie, I'll behead you.
If you tell the truth, I'll give you your freedom."

He stacks seven Qur'ans on top of each other
and swears to do as he says.
When she finally gets a hold of her self,
the girl tells all, in great detail. Of the camp
in the meadow, the killing of the lion,
the captain's return to the tent with his penis
still hard as the horn of a rhino.

And the contrast with the caliph's own member
sinking down because of one mouse-whisper.
Hidden things always come to light.
Do not sow bad seed. Be sure, they'll come up.
Rain and the sun's heat make them rise in to the air.
Spring comes after the fall of leaves,
which is proof enough of resurrection.
Secrets come out in spring, out from earth-lips into leaf.
Worries become wine-headaches.
But where did the wine come from? Think.

A branch of blossoms does not look like seed.
A man does not resemble semen. Jesus came
from Gabriel's breath, but he is not in that form.
The grape doesn't look like the vine.
loving actions are the seed of something
completely different, a living-place.
No origins is like where it leads to.
We can't know where our pain is from
We don't know all that we've done.
Perhaps it's best that we don't.
Nevertheless we suffer for it.

The caliph comes back to his clarity. "In the pride
of my power I took this woman from another,
so of course, someone came to knock on my door.
Whoever commits adultery is a pimp
for his own wife.

If you cause injury to someone, you draw
that same injury toward yourself. My treachery
made my friend a traitor to me. This repetition
must stop somewhere. Here, in and act of mercy.

I'll send you back to the captain ,
saying another of my wives is jealous,
and since that captain was brave enough
to bring you back from Mosul,
he shall have you in marriage."

This is the virility of a prophet.
The caliph was sexually impotent,
but his manliness was most powerful.
The kernel of true manhood is the ability
to abandon sensual indulgences. The intensity
of the captain's libido is less than a husk
compared to the caliph's nobility in ending
the cycle so sowing lust and reaping
secrecy and vengefulness.​

Ho Ho Tai

Well-Known Member
Jun 9, 2006
My fav for over 20 years :)

by e e cummings

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

Yesterday was the 28th anniversary of the day that "she and I knew that we would be 'us'" - almost, but not quite, an engagement, but a moment of understanding that opened the door to the rest of our lives.

Not long after that, I devised the patterns for the tee shirts shown below, and had the shirts made up. It's a bit difficult to read but one shirt shows me peeping out the window of a heart-shaped little house. It has the caption "Annie's [Mrs Ho Ho's] heart, Bobby's house." The other is just the reverse. We pull them out occasionally and wear them - and yesterday was one of those days. I wish I could post the picture of us, together, wearing the shirts but that's a no-no.

It seems like the perfect complement to the cummings poem and a legitimate way to re-boot this wonderful thread.

View attachment heart shirts IMG_0994.jpg

Ho Ho Tai

Well-Known Member
Jun 9, 2006
Friends - I hope you don't mind my booting this thread yet one more time. I had occasion to share this with a friend and decided it would be new, and of interest, to many of you as well. My co-poet, Marsha Menard, was a beloved regular here years ago, who died in an effort to accomplish feats beyond her abilities. Would that this could be said of me some day.

With this preface, I sent it to my older son when he turned 40 (he of the hand-walking and pink flamingos).

The Big 40!
No, not mine, nor Mrs Ho Ho's either. I ran across something I sent to my oldest son a few years ago, when he turned 40. I post a modified version of it here, for whatever humor or wisdom it may contain.

"So - 40. Looking back, as I approached 40, I had just left one company and started with another. I had those anticipations and trepidations that, finally, I had to stop the denial and acknowledge that I was no longer a kid. I had entered the world of adulthood.

That feeling must have lasted a good six months.

If you are also facing running headlong into that wall, I know that - if you have led a well-balanced life - you NEVER really reach adulthood, at least, in the sense of leaving childhood behind. You acquire adult behaviors, you build on the sense of responsibility to yourself and others that has carried you this far. (If you didn't have some of that already, you wouldn't have made it.)

I don't know if I sent you the pair of poems, both entitled "Ice Blocking" that I wrote together with an on-line friend. If not (and even if I have) I'll send them to you. They got published in a local paper. But, given your re-developed talent for walking around the block on your hands, and inflicting the neighbor with a plague of pink flamingos, I think you have already 'gotten' this message.

I think I will append the poems here. The cap-and-bells icon is one I used on a bulletin board where I 'met' Marsha, the author of the first of the pair. Sadly, she died recently (circa 2006), the result of pneumonia acquired while attempting an endurance feat well beyond her capacity."


Ice Blocking
Marsha Menard (R.I.P)

A huge block of party ice, and one towel.
A semi-steep slope covered in recently-watered grass
It smells so sweet, looks so green, looks so perfect.
I plop the ice upon the top of the slope,
Sliding the ice a little to get it ready.
I cover the ice with a towel so that it does not stick to my butt. I sit, raising my legs, balancing on the big block of ice. "Wheeeeeee!" I shout joyfully as I summer-toboggan down the slope ice melting sliding slipping me off rolling at the bottom giggling hands and feet flying in the air as I bounce here and there upon the grass the ice zooming ahead of me.
I stand up catching my bearings laughing at myself and the supremely childish fun I'm having.

I catch up to the block of ice, and pull it by the towel that is now half frozen to it. I pull the ice back up the hill, feet happy, heart racing, and ready to slide again and again, to my heart's content, merrily crashing at the bottom of the grassy slope, eager to go again and again and again and again.

The ice melts slowly, eventually it is time to go. I am forced once more to become an adult again. "sigh"

Ice Blocking (the child you leave behind)
Ho Ho Tai

"Grow up!" my mother often said,
"Leave childish ways behind!"
I did grow up, or tall at least,
With longer legs, horizons to reach.
I walked too fast, and for a time,
I left my little child behind.

I had a long, hard run,
Horizons still just out of reach.

But now, I'm old and slow, you see,
And my child has caught up with me.
The one who runs through sprinklers
As we did the other day,
Or lugs an ice block up a hill
And slides down all the way (I wish I'd thought of that)

Moms are always right, I know.
(At least, in their own mind.)
But NO adult can be complete
Who leaves their child behind.

Ho Ho Tai (written a long, long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away)

Marsha, I have a feeling that resting in peace is not what you are up to. I thought I got a glimpse of you sliding down a cloud.
Ho Ho Tai

"The greatest wisdom: Love and Laughter, Inter-twined."


Lions don't need to spank
Nov 8, 2005
Banned from facebook,
Dear Esteemed Master of the English Language (AKA Ho Ho Ta),

I have missed you & your handler (Ms Ho Ho). I bet you thought I had become a zealot or joined a cult. No, not again . . . been there, done that. I don't think the Amish will let me in again (long story) and Tony Alamo's is supposed to be shut down. I now where they live in Arkansas and the roads are still closed to the public. After all they did make some outrageously beautiful jackets.

I couldn't resist responding to your poems in your last few quotes to this thread. If you want my advice (no person with normal sanity would), I will hold back . . . would want to inflate a senior citizen's vanity. After all, it only makes them worse (or that's what they tell me). A few words of warning . . . Someone showed me how to count the number of words in a document using Word. The epic poems in your last post were 807, I know you can top that . . . so can I. Just thought you'd want to know that the younger Dimmers are watching and the machines can count now.

Will talk more later. I bet your mailbox is still full and not taking anymore posts.

Love (and I don't say that to many people), :kiss2:


Ho Ho Tai

Well-Known Member
Jun 9, 2006
Moore to Me -

I had to bump this thread because I can't live without poetry (and this thread) any more than I can live without love (and thanks for yours. Dear Lady).

I don't really have a poem for you at the moment, but I can say that Mrs. Ho Ho and I are still very much in love as we approach our 28th year together. Our hearts still beat to the same meter, as our souls fill in the words. As I approach 80 y.o., nothing will ever match that gift.

Dr. Feelgood

intellectual nerd
Dec 20, 2006
"Books are keys to wisdom's treasure.
Books are gate to lands of pleasure.
Books are paths that upward lead.
Books are friends -- come, let us read."

--Emilie Poulson


May 3, 2009
My favorite is The Highwayman by Alfred Noyes. I first heard of it back in the 80s when watching Anne of Green Gables with Megan Follows. Singer Loreena McKennitt did a good job turning it into a song years ago...


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