"How could God be three in one?"
the skeptics are prone to ask:
Believers have before them
the darndest logical task.
For God is one, they do say,
no other God was ever;
then why one God into three
do these believers sever?

Any takers?

Holy cow,
I mean snake, or, umm lake?

Are you still on that fell trip?
Would you please get a grip, chip?
Bid farewell to that gothic,
unbending, unsettled topic!
Riddle me this, riddle me that,
what is the color of my black hat?

Any givers?


------------------
zz

Our salad days are over. Who'll split hair
Or onion for Salvation Army fare?

It seems that the onion stew
is in need of a stir or two.
I'll throw in a verse
like a mummy's curse,
and hope someone comes to the rescue.

Never let it be said that a Quince
Ran from a challenge or didn't take hints!

SONG OF THE ONION

Were I to sing about the onion
I'd have to bring in Damon Runyon,
a writer famed as racy; I
would list the known Lilaceae
of genus Allium: I'd speak
not just of cepa but of leek,
of chives, shallot (or scannion),
a few among its many dozens
of close and distant bulby cousins.
But lest I fell into a canyon
of rhyme contrived—on Damon Runyon
I'd say if he were still alive
he'd turn from onions in his grave!
I'd mention that he wrote the book
of Guys and Dolls; though both might cook
their onions well or eat them raw,
if they should sing then, stagecraft law
would make them do so several paces
apart, not in each other's faces.

I'd tell of claims (you may believe 'em)
that garlic, Allium sativam,
has oils to make us strong and well,
although they also make us smell.
So if (I'd say) these cloves you eat,
and find yourself out on the street,
since garlic stinks as bad as onion
please stay upon the side it's sunny on,
while I'd be on the shady side,
and if you crossed I'd run and hide.

But verse on matters alliaceous
I find is really too audacious.
To me, it's not at all a fun yen,
this urge to celebrate the onion.
I'd sooner sing of Pinot Noir,
which lingers friendlier by far.




[This message has been edited by Henry Quince (edited September 02, 2002).]

Oh Onion, whence doth thou cometh
From divine sourceth under the sunneth?
Thy layers are a symbol of what zz speaketh
But because of thee, sorrowfully, she reeketh.

But soft! Alas, yonder God doth proclaim!
Beholdest thee a winner of this Onion game?
Tis best methinks whence the onion is minced
Dost thou not prefer this to yawning Quinced?

I find it hard think of any thing
to better to ruin such an enchanting
rhymed and metered poets’ session
than the onion.

Way to go Chris!

I cannot read; my eyes are watering.
Perhaps it’s time to add the sweetening
of a different obsession
from the onion.

Thanks a lot Quince,

I feel the pain of over pondering
and wish I could suggest some other thing,
far from phallic with discretion
like the onion.

Give it up Z…

I tell myself, “just keep on checking”
’cause someone else more able-threading
will revive this conversation
– not the onion.

Take it, someone!

Mela, I cross-posted…
Sorry, I be toasted!
Welcome to the hosted
smelly-onion roasted
repartee re-coasted
–nary longer ghosted.

Bela! Bela! de Quince
though Mela, she wanna you mince.
Must say you toppa da list
singin da onion, pissed.

Each has an Onion Poem
mouldering away in them,
but if Zz's nose aint copin'
let's leave the mike quite open...


Chris




[This message has been edited by chris (edited September 05, 2002).]

Betwixt the Onion and the Quince methinks
No contest is, for each its own way stinks.
The very name of Quince is a corruption.
Adapted from the French (who coined it plural)
By English tonsils quinsied to eruption.
Its twisted flower, whose bush grows horizontal,
Bears fruit of stringent fragrance and strong taste.
When Eve presented Adam with sweet vowels
This evil apple, Eden was laid waste
For morning marmalade that binds the bowels.