Like onions and the smells that underly
each ring, this thread has gone and made me cry.

"The Onion doth come;
it makes you want to smile"
they said. "How wrong!" I thought
but then I saw the guile:
theonion.com

[This message has been edited by Solan (edited September 06, 2002).]

The first day of fall came and went
and I forgot to thank it;
it left behind air’s cooler scent
so I brought out my blanket.
The summer has ended, sans lament,
I grabbed my leather jacket
and hiked up my hill, without the tent,
unearthed the chill and drank it.


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

I cannot presume to know The Muse
or why they’d block your emails,
but if I were you I would refuse
to send them in the first place.


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

If the poem is lost in the void
the Muse must be sore and annoyed.

Chris

[This message has been edited by chris (edited October 10, 2002).]

If the poem doesn't have any meter,
it might just get lost in the ether.

If the void is metered
and the ether annoyed
then the lost might get teetered
and the Muse –overjoyed.


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

<u>The Minimalist</u>

Crows wheel overhead,
and the only sounds
in this dead land
are the cries of the poets
Keening for lost adjectives.

Mad Mary,
Minimalist,
divelicates
my whole.
Masticates,
adjudicates
and
extricates
its soul

“Show don’t tell.
Don’t need that.
You’ll do well
to lose some fat!”

My epic poem
has lost
its heft,
arhythmically.
Like the Cheshire cat,
now all
that’s left
is a simile.

Through a glass dimly
I looked for a simile
to say just how grimly
....my fates had behaved.

But I wasn't ready for
accurate metaphor:
I'm like a semaphore
....nobody waved.

I found a simile once,
I was shopping for fresh croissants
on one of my Sunday jaunts

when all of a sudden there
came this urge that I must compare
their golden crisps to his hair.

I knew he’d find me a bore
if I read him my metaphor.
Alone I was, left to soar.


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

A simile went walking once
and met a mean old metaphor
the simile as nice as pie
the metaphor was quite the boor

[This message has been edited by Robert Swagman (edited October 11, 2002).]

It opened wide to moralize
and spewed forth scenes with oral ayes
its sermons cutting down to size
those crumbled bits of humble pies


[This message has been edited by zbaby (edited October 24, 2002).]

I seek to spring another loop
of rhymed retorting sans the poop
of critical rifts. Let’s just whoop
it up and go around the coop
–no poultry here, I know this troupe.

I pulled out the Porsche and went for a loop
round Canyon Hill Road. Why, he can’t just coop
me up with that blonde-assed bunny-slut troupe;
got better ideas on how I like to whoop
’n holler. I ain’t into porno-pop poop.

I joined an elite reciprocal troupe
and found that they dished out the straightest poop.
Preferring to stay and not fly from the coop,
I lingered around to be part of the whoop.
My circle of life has become this swell loop.


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

ironically i join the loop
on this, a day of solitude
spent wading through the cyber-gloop
for books, and clues to things in dreams;
a way, i guess, to not to brood.
and truthfully the only food
that's interesting me is soup.
not onion (found in earlier themes
of which i read a page) (or four)
but carrot soup with butterbeans
to which i had to give the score
of six point five, it needed more
of many things to make it good,
like chilli sauce and souring creams.

my body fed, my mind a hoop
of spinning worlds and rhyming law.

On days of solitude (how droll)
Around the coop the poultry stroll
Put not more onions in their bowl
They seek soup for the chicken soul


[This message has been edited by McVik (edited November 06, 2002).]

The chickens all have flown the coop
for fear of being chicken soup
so add more onions to the bowl
else, meatless, it will taste too fowl.

*groan*

As a matter of fact, I don't have anything better to do.

The Red Pullet Hen

my lunch depends
upon

a red pullet
hen

glazed with onion
sauce

beside the white
rice.

Now cut it out, Ralph. I'm trying to pack for a weekend excursion. This is distracting me.

I didn’t mind it when
My chick turned to a hen.
The sight of her lovely tail
Would hardly ever fail.
‘Me, hen-pecked? Never!’ I said
For often would she pullet red.

She pullet red
It's black and blue
Me doctor said
"What's wrong with you?
Next time your fox is in the coop
It's sure to be a wrecker
Unless you stop your chick-hen from
Hen-pecking your hen-pecker"

Hens and peckers and peckers and hens
The depth of this humor could give one the bends.
Where is the Rooster mid all this mad pecking?
Not worried his hens may be frantically wrecking
their laying potential and hearty demeanor
for the sake of an overused black and blue wiener?


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

Now that was darned near musical. Hmmmm.....


And now a weiner, black and blue
Perhaps I'll serve up my scents, too.
One more quick course of hens and peckers,
pullets, foxes, roosters, wreckers,
butterbeans, carrots, quince, and soup.
(all choice and entertaining)
I offer up this cour'se for the purpose of refraining!


(uh, sorry)

I’m full of refraining and craving dessert,
I’m wondering what kinds of sweets to pervert…
Could we start with some cherries, or berries that squirt,
and top them with whipped creams that dribble and spurt?

I’ll do almost anything not to revert
to onions and pullets, no matter how pert!
Could we cleanse our sourpusses and try to avert
those wreckers and chic-hens? Let’s sound the alert:

Our sweet tooth’s triumphant! The stews must convert!


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

[This message has been edited by zbaby (edited December 02, 2002).]

Though I've not heard of whipped creams that spurted or dribbled
nor berries that squirted (unless they were nibbled)
I'll hold from objecting, for sake of the ribald,
and not be the one with your verse to have quibbled.

Regarding the sweet tooth; I'm sorry to say
I've no interest in cherries or berries that spray.
The dilemma I have is progressing decay
of my few dental structures - I'd like them to stay!

what is this life, so full of care
to have no teeth to chew the fare
without those teeth to grind and chew
you'd have to end up slurping stew

No teeth to grind, all food by spoon,
streams full of stew I'll live on soon.

A poor mouth this if, void of teeth,
I have but gums both 'bove and 'neath.


(Ouch. I think I pulled a muscle reaching for that one...)

And what is care? So full of life
that it’s not fair, to roll the dice
and grind those teeth on silver spoon;
you’ll end up on the stream you’re strewn.

(Call 911…)


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

How tragic! After all this talk of onion, quince, and fowls,
That stir the heart, and activate the bowels,
That I should stumble on this scene, to lay this wreath:
Your verse has lost its teeth.

Let nobody hang a wreath.
Let no bells be rung.
Though my verse has lost its teeth
it still has gums and tongue.

No teeth, but gums and tongue?
Well, bully for you, Slater,
Feast you may, on un-ee-yun--
just run it through a grater.

Though my verse may lack the tooth
it once could boast of in my youth,
I still possess the selfsame tongue
that served me well when I was young.
But one thought brings me sleepless nights:
somehow my toothless verse still bites.

A Boast Rebuked

If conscience keeps you from your rest
For having somehow kept your edge,
It seems slight sin that you’ve confessed.
Look up. Who poises on the ledge?

I guess you're right. My sins are slight,
and that is how I sleep at night.
But Joe, I'm shocked by what you wrote.
To claim I have a "conscience" (quote)
really gives me too much credit.
I simply can't believe you said it.
If you agree and now regret it,
it's not too late to click on "edit".

The Inquistor's Accusations Defended and Some Additional Advice Given

It's never too late in most cases,
Depending on what one embraces,
Or whom, and what precautions, medical
Or otherwise, to save one's pedicle,
One takes. I said, "If..." Hypothetical.
If conscience be not there, then hasten
To find the couch, where you may chasten
With psychoanalytic thought
The demon with which you are fraught--
With snakes and teeth and tongues and biting,
Youth gone, yours could be Freud's own writing!
But like the mystic writing pad,
I can't erase, but only add:
(Although I do forget sometimes
The fantasy of my own crimes--)
I keep my dark, secret impression
Of all that's written, in each session.

It's not as if they've given up
They'd never be so flaky
Surveillance being what it is
The M.O. got more snaky.

They've found him in the mountains
They've found him in his lair
They've found him in a book they're writing
"Avant-derriere".

They've got his cell, they've got his men
They've heard his camel whinny
And soon they'll have a title too:
"Osama is a Ninny."

Terese

But I have seen them, Roger,
in vain may you deny it,
dissembler, fact-dislodger,
we Sphereans will not buy it;
yes I have seen your poultry
and seen the way you prance
about like Roger Daltry, (Who?)
throwing with nonchalance
large shellfish plucked from coral
to fowl at great expense;
you’re caring, not amoral,
I’ve seen your “conchy hens”.

Once more I have been slandered,
accused of being caring,
so let me now be candid
(forgive a little sharing):

my soul is like black coffee
I've chosen not to sweeten.
I'm simply not the softy
depicted by John Beaton.

The Bitter Tooth

Black coffee and a Danish
Betrays the bitter tooth;
Though Roger claims he's brainish,
Is "caring" the untruth?

One might consult his lady wife
Or gypsies in a booth:
"Is it sweetness, is it strife,
Or must we rent a sleuth?"

Terese

Okay, I guess I'm busted.
I really am quite gentle,
worthy to be trusted
though somewhat sentimental.

Though I project the image
of a quarterback on steroids,
I do not like to scrimmage
with my fellow Eratospheroids.

Another tangent:

The conversation started on a course of alexandrines,
Proceeded to the meaning of Pierre de Ronsard's lambskins.
It wasn't long before we turned to academic patter,
To stresses and seniority, the pay squeeze and the matter
Of all the ways an applicant for Ph.D. must play
In order to impress the college faculty one day.

And though it wasn't intimate, a glow came through the phone
As if you thought flirtation was the entree to some throne.
"Let's meet at nine for drinks at Googie's, you must know the place"—
The thought occurred I wasn't ready for a face-to-face.
Bravura came from somewhere and we made a date for later;
Thus it was we each became the other's compensator.

Terese



[This message has been edited by Terese Coe (edited December 06, 2002).]