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#81665 09/25/02 01:41 PM
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Carpal Tunnel
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What would the change of seasons be without a diatribe on hemispherism?

Oh, what!? We're sposed to cain't revel in the most bittersweet of all seasonal changes jus cuz some a y'all choose to live hanging upside down by yer feet from the wrong side of the world?

BTW, we used to rib a transplanted Ozzie friend about celebrating Christmas in summer. We asked her what her favorite Christmas custom was and she replied, "Sitting by the pool drinking gin'n'tonics


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Carpal Tunnel
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Forever Autumn

Is that a shona original?


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Pooh-Bah
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Gold and red leaves fall
I don't like raking at all
But the air smells good





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veteran
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Is that a shona original?


My writing isn't quite that bad. Well, it is, actually.

But it's a song from Jeff Wayne's famous double album War Of The Worlds, based on the H.G. Wells book, sung by Justin Hayward of the Moody Blues. c.1976 I think.



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enthusiast
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I know where the birdies is --
They're eatin' all my radishis.


Birdies? Not.
It's gotta be that cat. Anything that size is eatin' whatever it can find.



#81670 09/25/02 03:08 PM
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AFTER APPLE-PICKING

by Robert Frost

My long two-pointed ladder's sticking through a tree
Toward heaven still,
And there's a barrel that I didn't fill
Beside it, and there may be two or three
Apples I didn't pick upon some bough.
But I am done with apple-picking now.
Essence of winter sleep is on the night,
The scent of apples: I am drowsing off.
I cannot rub the strangeness from my sight
I got from looking through a pane of glass
I skimmed this morning from the drinking trough
And held against the world of hoary grass.
It melted, and I let it fall and break.
But I was well
Upon my way to sleep before it fell,
And I could tell
What form my dreaming was about to take.
Magnified apples appear and disappear,
Stem end and blossom end,
And every fleck of russet showing clear.
My instep arch not only keeps the ache,
It keeps the pressure of a ladder-round.
I feel the ladder sway as the boughs bend.

And I keep hearing from the cellar bin
The rumbling sound
Of load on load of apples coming in.
For I have had too much
Of apple-picking: I am overtired
Of the great harvest I myself desired.
There were ten thousand thousand fruit to touch,
Cherish in hand, lift down, and not let fall.
For all
That struck the earth,
No matter if not bruised or spiked with stubble,
Went surely to the cider-apple heap
As of no worth.
One can see what will trouble
This sleep of mine, whatever sleep it is.
Were he not gone,
The woodchuck could say whether it's like his
Long sleep, as I describe its coming on,
Or just some human sleep.


©1914 by Robert frost




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Carpal Tunnel
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Gold and red leaves fall
I don't like raking at all
But the air smells good


Nice one, Alex. You've even introduced rhyme into the scheme.


#81672 09/25/02 07:04 PM
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...and even has the nature theme, as a true haiku should :-)


#81673 09/26/02 03:16 PM
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old hand
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Now boys and girls a poem to be read when the wolfbane is in bloom that is guaranteed to give as much pleasure to the reader as to those who listen...

DREAMLAND


~ Edgar Allan Poe (1844)


By a route obscure and lonely,
Haunted by ill angels only,
Where an Eidolon, named Night,
On a black throne reigns upright,
I have reached these lands but newly
From an ultimate dim Thule-
From a wild clime that lieth, sublime,
Out of SPACE- out of TIME.

Bottomless vales and boundless floods,
And chasms, and caves, and Titan woods,
With forms that no man can discover
For the tears that drip all over;
Mountains toppling evermore
Into seas without a shore;
Seas that restlessly aspire,
Surging, unto skies of fire;
Lakes that endlessly outspread
Their lone waters- lone and dead,-
Their still waters- still and chilly
With the snows of the lolling lily.

By the lakes that thus outspread
Their lone waters, lone and dead,-
Their sad waters, sad and chilly
With the snows of the lolling lily,-
By the mountains- near the river
Murmuring lowly, murmuring ever,-
By the grey woods,- by the swamp
Where the toad and the newt encamp-
By the dismal tarns and pools
Where dwell the Ghouls,-
By each spot the most unholy-
In each nook most melancholy-
There the traveller meets aghast
Sheeted Memories of the Past-
Shrouded forms that start and sigh
As they pass the wanderer by-
White-robed forms of friends long given,
In agony, to the Earth- and Heaven.

For the heart whose woes are legion
'Tis a peaceful, soothing region-
For the spirit that walks in shadow
'Tis- oh, 'tis an Eldorado!
But the traveller, travelling through it,
May not- dare not openly view it!
Never its mysteries are exposed
To the weak human eye unclosed;
So wills its King, who hath forbid
The uplifting of the fringed lid;
And thus the sad Soul that here passes
Beholds it but through darkened glasses.

By a route obscure and lonely,
Haunted by ill angels only,
Where an Eidolon, named Night,
On a black throne reigns upright,
I have wandered home but newly
From this ultimate dim Thule.


_____The End_____




#81674 09/26/02 03:49 PM
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Carpal Tunnel
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Not a poem, but. What autumnal perusal of literature would be complete without this?

THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW

by Washington Irving


http://www.bartleby.com/310/2/2.html


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