Carl Sundell, dear sir,
I’ve no sword, nor shield
to guard me on that battlefield
called faith. It’s a blur,

a fog as it were.
Where believers wield
and many innocents are peeled,
mid chanting and myrrh.

One need not concur
nor remain concealed;
when in the end all can be healed
by whom they prefer.

Sure Zbaby, I'm there with you,
come on Minxy - let's go and screw

around with manacles of rhyme
and passe gud weed in metered time

beside the rippling cyber lake,
eat Compaq cookies, chips and cake

and watch the deer and kangaroos
strum and sing the greens, the blues.

Come live with me and be my love
and our pleasures will more than ever prove

that sage and thyme are on our side.
Such gud weeds of song won't glide

into oblivion or diatribe.
Time will tell just who can scribe.


...and Mr Sundell, nonsense is house style.
Thus we hereby dub you Carl Sundial.



[This message has been edited by chris (edited August 22, 2002).]

I think you've nailed it, Chris,
For how could Carl object
To be thought solar powered and
Poetically correct...

"One need not concur
nor remain concealed;
when in the end all can be healed
by whom they prefer."

'Tis true religions do vary;
And of this fact we should be wary.
Some we choose because they give us hope;
others are chosen by fiend or false pope
who'll use them to conceal his true intent
of blessing grossest merriment.

'Tis true religion is God's gift, a tool
by which we map our way to God.
We should too be watchful for the fool
whose faith is governed only by the rod.
"In the end all can be healed by whom they prefer"?
Quack doctors feed quite well on every him and her.




[This message has been edited by Carl Sundell (edited August 23, 2002).]

An Atheist’s Toast

As I’m a doctor and degreed
In skepticism, here’s my creed:
I always have been fascinated
By how religion is debated,
Having myself not been convicted
In several states--my soul restricted
To unbelief,
I seek relief
In medicines that kill the pains
Or disinfect what flesh remains.

"To unbelief,
I seek relief
In medicines that kill the pains
Or disinfect what flesh remains."

AN ATHEIST IS TOAST

Futile effort to seek a pill for relief
of the soul whose pain is caused by unbelief.
The soul that has no use for God will know
its corpse laid out, dressed up ... no place to go.
A well known fact: some doctors think they're God;
but humbler doctors trod and trod and trod.




[This message has been edited by Carl Sundell (edited August 23, 2002).]

Man is certainly stark mad. He cannot even make a worm,
and yet he will be making gods by the dozens.
~ Montaigne

Carl, correct me if I’ve read you wrongly
but, it seems you may have shared quite strongly
how you might believe that one religion
can be lamer. Well now, I’m no pigeon,

and, if I may add, no zealot preacher;
one thing that I truly am is teacher
to that someone called myself. I’m lucky
I can see the truth -- unlike the lackey.

One can’t always choose their faith you know this,
born to bible’s, scroll’s or torah’s thesis,
raised to question nothing else be banished.
This is how humanity has vanished…

Also, “healed” was meant to scope that “spirit”,
somehow we’d believe no thing can snuff it.
I’d believe in quacks like Joe Aimone
if he’d fix my flesh and not want money.

and…

Chris? I’m neither there nor with you!
Call me minx again, I’ll hit you
with some cyber cookies (idle threat)…
You would know this if we’d met, I bet.

"Carl, correct me if I’ve read you wrongly
but, it seems you may have shared quite strongly
how you might believe that one religion
can be lamer. Well now, I’m no pigeon,"

(Oh sure, I know you are no flaming pigeon;
but do you ever cede a point a smidgen?)

Pray tell, would you worship a cow or a snake,
or a dragon rising from a burning lake?
In old India Thugees slaughtered humans young.
For great lies one may lose one's lying tongue.
You may insist that no one church is better.
I'm not convinced; send me another letter.



[This message has been edited by Carl Sundell (edited August 23, 2002).]

Zita, you I'd freely heal
If I could just so do--
Carl, my soul is yours to steal
From him I sold it to.

I’ve conceded to only one point:
There will never be only one joint-
best-religion throughout our sad land,
even though we are only one man.

I’ve known hamsters to eat their own young,
“but we’re better than them”… what pure dung.
I am speaking on plasmatic levels.
For as many odd-gods, there are devils;

what is your need for any of those?
Life is full of awakening blows
that we label dear friends or vile foes,
and write fables on which to suppose.

I’d not worship a snake, nor a lake,
nor an old written word, goodness sake.
Now I will ask you, “gimme a break”;
sounds like you’d have me burned at the stake.




[This message has been edited by zbaby (edited August 28, 2002).]

You sold your soul,
how much did you get?
I got a bank roll
and a Lear Jet.

Zbaby, like Joan beware of the torch
that will flick at your knickers
and leave a red scorch.

"Sounds like you’d have me burned at the stake."


Now devils have entered the Church at its height.
Their fiery demeanor will give some a fright.
Torquemada was a priest gone bad,
his devils afoot and horribly mad.
God would not have you burned at the stake,
nor thrown in the dragon's burning lake.

"Carl, my soul is yours to steal
From him I sold it to."

To whom, alas, did you sell your soul?
Tell me before the last bells toll.
God said: "You have the right to choose.
I am yours for your heart to win;
for the atheist's heart to lose."

To whom? Alas, Carl, I can't tell!
I signed a non-disclosure form as well.

To Whom Indeed, Mr Sundell?

If God is the question under the microscope
this story won't sell.

That is the subject under discussion with meter and trope -
we're so rhetorical.

The best religion is lying in bed with grapes and papaya
and what's on the cable.

Kicking the Pope, the poor Dalai Lama, or some Ayatollah
may land you in hell.

Enough is enough. Fresh topics must rain upon this dry turf.
Time out, ring the bell.

Who brought up this topic? It's time for a channel-surf.
Leave 'Touched by an Angel'.




[This message has been edited by chris (edited August 24, 2002).]

A non-disclosure form does bind.
Yet reading fine print you may find
A loophole that will let you speak
of one who'd keep you bound and weak.
If to the Dark Prince you did sell,
what stops your mouth, the fear of Hell?

Devil got your tongue?

Chris

You're quite right!

Tiresome it is to write these awful rhyming jingles.
They take far much more groping than a bar for singles!



[This message has been edited by Carl Sundell (edited August 24, 2002).]

It appears we've been saved from evangelization
Only to suffer Los Angelesation.

The pair of you, with awful ease,
Discussing Mephistopheles
Facetiously, as if you weren't
In jeopardy of getting burnt!

Joe, would you sign a contract with
An entity you saw as myth?

If you think death's the final curtain,
You'll never know the proof for certain.
If right, you simply cease to be;
If wrong, eat crow eternally!

Better think "death has no dominion":
There's no recanting that opinion!

Carl,

Eratosphere is that single's bar
to chat and spat and score the next gold star.

Joe,

Does one make friends or contacts in LA?
Warp Speed! Delta Quadrant's the other way.

Peter,

Wise words indeed...and yet the cosmos calls
I am not ready for Vallhalla's halls.

Chris,

Or should you off your image, unplug the cam,
admit you're just a fading hologram?



[This message has been edited by chris (edited August 24, 2002).]

Chris, if I may gently venture...
Talking to yourself online
Is probably an early sign
Of virtual dementia.



[This message has been edited by peterjb (edited August 25, 2002).]

Peter,

My madness is a TV screen
(quite apt, dear chap)
and I must channel-surf between
(nursing my laptop)
the best and worst of smultz and glamour
(nothing to clap)
while beating iamb-heads with hammer
(wish I could stop).

Folks all,

No one is talking much, it seems too quiet.
The chimpanzees are bored and off the diet.

Should we not change our topic and opinions?
Let's see...perhaps...the sexiness of onions?

What is that you say? Chap?
Beating heads on lap? Clap?

So,

You’re lying in bed, papayas and grapes,
and what is it that you want of us apes:
Can onions tell sexy by way of debate?
(Discuss it you monkeys – I’ll masturbate)

Hold on there let’s don’t get bent in mad shapes,
you know that this sexy zbaby japes.
So please pick some other primate-jive bait
and keep the root sex-talk for the next date.

Zita,

You think my laptop talk is off the wall?
I wasn't masturbating (much) at all.

'Discovery' has chimpanzees in bras.
TV's the pimp exploiting hairy stars.

I look, I think, I itch, I scratch, I rhyme
eating papaya spiked with salty lime,

train my trochees, let anapests free off the chain
and shout at all my iambs: march again!

Dumb spondees wait - hold back, chimp-brained, they
try damn hard, but cannot run and play.

Rollicking dactyllic lines with the feet all ordained,
speak from the stage of heroic excitement unchained

and then it's exeunt. I've thrown my hex.
We're back on terra firma after sex.

So dear Zita who has spurned the chimp,
this lap-top poet's lines now hobble and limp.

I am done. Now offer your opinions,
but be warned - ya gotta know yr onions.


Ya all,

Let us invite more onion prosody.
Peel some lines and hang them on the tree.

I hesitate to join such racy talk
With two whose feet can clearly walk the walk,
But to defend the onion, noble fruit,
I'll make appeal until there's nothing to it.
What odor's that, defending every lip
From too close contact with a case of grippe?
It is the onion, crisp and raw as apples
And green as summer grass, perfuming chaples,
That keeps the faithful working in their gardens,
'Mid shallots, leeks and chives, where that bulb hardens
That fairly glows with vegetative light
In all its colors, red, yellow and white.
So let the monkey dawdle with banana--
Agnostic though the onion be, it's manna.
What vegetable could'st thou better propose
Than one whose spirit reacheth every nose?

[This message has been edited by Joe Aimone (edited August 28, 2002).]

"But to defend the onion, noble fruit,
I'll make appeal until there's nothing to it."

There's better fruit to hold beneath thy nose;
Italians like to crush it 'tween their toes.
Ugly women of every weight and shape
Are sexpots when you drink the juice of grape.
You can keep your nauseating onions;
I'll mash red grapes till I get bunions.

That odor’s Sweet Imperial, ah yes.
With velvet skin ethereal, undress
that Tennessee ripe Truffle, peel and lull
that boiling onion. Husk that summer bulb.

It’s grilled, sautéed, with stalks exposed, oh my.
Such bunching onion Cippolini thigh,
those Spanish, Chinese, Bermuda scents
sliced raw in ringlets’ guttural suspense;

I’ll tolerate such talk, but oh, oh yes.
If I go on I surely will transgress
into a state of Pearlish readiness,
Vidalia observing me Granex!


[This message has been edited by zbaby (edited August 29, 2002).]

A drunken man with nauseating bunions
is not as titillating as are onions,
no matter of his shape or how he hardens.
The onion’s always willing at my luncheons.

It's nice to see the onion taking root
iambically, in couplets, foot by foot.

The pungent tale of onion goes to the core.
It seems there is no end to onion law

and I commend your efforts - Onion Singers -
Your personal encounters with those stingers

shows just how far the onion is ahead
in literature, philosophy and in bed.

Joe holds the onion firmly in his fingers -
a holy grail of smell, the spirit lingers

and racy Zita barbeques opinions
and proves she knows a thing or two of onions.

but Carl, forever the rebel promotes the grape
and puts the onion in a villain's cape,

yet still the song singeth merrily along.
We know that wine doth lubricate a song.

Now having lunched and peeled some onion layers
let us see who are sprinters, who will be stayers

with onion prosidy in racy meters.
Where's those Henrys, Swagmans, Slaters, Peters?

Those flashy jockeys are elsewhere on the run
but The Onion Cup is waiting to be won.


.....................


So off on a canter as the bard has once told
the onion came down like a wolf on the fold....

Zbaby

I am neither drunkard nor have I bunions.
From a distance I do not smell like onions.
That noxious fruit that you do seem to relish
is to my nose and eyes so very hellish
that I'll just have to ask you keep your distance
and pray red grapes don't lessen my resistance.

But soft or hard as your onions may be cooked,
on your salty rhymes and humor I am hooked.

Lay on, Zbaby!



[This message has been edited by Carl Sundell (edited August 28, 2002).]

As every dish must have its seasoning,
I must agree with Chris's reasoning.
Although I happily will cook with wine
(Whether in soup or me, I like it fine),
But where are all those singers hot with steam--
What whistle calls them to our odious theme?

"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.