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POEMS.POE
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1993-01-16
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HELLO TO A NEW BULLETIN BOARD
by John Chambers
I thought I'd drop in and spread some cheer,
to kick back and chat, and open a beer,
to swap some wild stories about this and that,
just relax, enjoy, and start a long chat.
So ya'll jump on in,
and join in the fray,
oh please don't be fearful
and don't run away.
This can be fun,
the swapping of puns,
and last through the night,
until the first light.
But my eyes are now closing,
and I feel like just dozing,
so I'll have to quit,
and sleep for a bit.
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THE SYSOP'S TALE
by John Chambers
BBSing is so much fun,
I did it all the time,
so I thought I'd start a bbs,
that was just for me and mine.
The first week was really great,
new callers I was meeting,
and reading lots of great new mail,
and passing out my greetings.
The second week was almost fun,
the message base was growing,
the files were going up and down,
things were smoothly flowing.
The third week was OK I think,
a few problems here and there,
but so far I had only gained,
a very few gray hairs.
The first month was over now,
the board was still on-line,
but folks had started writing me,
and answers took so much time,
And after that it got so busy,
with all that mail to do,
I wished I had the time and cash,
to hire an extra crew.
The messages were growing now,
the mail was piling up,
I barely had sufficient time,
to fill my coffee cup.
The doors started going down,
the modem overheated,
the hard disk crashed and lost my files,
and I just felt defeated.
But this stuff is so much fun,
I really can't stop now,
I'll cut and paste it back on-line,
and make it work somehow.
And now I'm so much wiser,
I'll never let it fail,
for now I'll just have to go,
and answer all my mail.
P.S. - it's STILL a gas!
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I WANTED TO WRITE
by John Chambers
I wanted to write a poem today,
to give it one more shot,
but when I sat down to write,
this is all I got.
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NUMBER 42
by John Chambers
This is number forty two,
the best I've ever done
of all the rest. It puts to shame,
the previous forty one.
Fifteen was too sad, I think,
and twenty four was boring,
thirty two was far too long,
and had most readers snoring.
Number twelve was really dumb,
and seventeen was frightful,
but I think this current one,
is totally delightful.
Thirty seven was a bust,
I knew it at the time,
but eight was by far the worst,
it didn't even rhyme.
So now I've got the knack of this,
and feel that I can write,
poetry that is meaningful,
and never ever trite.
But now there is just one more thing,
preventing me from fame,
for although I write poetry,
I can never think of names.
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MORNINGS
by John Chambers
The part of the day which I prefer,
over all of the other choices,
is the early, early morning,
for it is the time for rejoices.
To revel in the dawn of a brand new day,
and greet the birth of dawn,
to watch the sunlight touching the trees,
and spreading its warmth thereon.
The hear the first of the singing birds,
and awe in the turquoise skies,
and see the last of the twinkling stars,
shuttering their bright white eyes.
The dawn is a time of silence,
as the creatures arise from sleep,
and spread their wings, and stretch and yawn,
as they wake from out of the deep.
Postcards will always have sunsets,
with their ambers, and yellows and reds,
with breaking surf over rocky coasts,
and smiling newlyweds.
And most folks will relish those extra hours,
of languishing in their beds,
still soundly sleeping till after sunrise,
snuggled warmly beneath their spreads.
But I'm the strange one who rises early,
while birds are still yet sleeping,
I'll drink my first cup of coffee,
while out the window I'm peeping.
Awaiting that special moment,
when the world again gives birth,
and the rays of the sun again start to shine,
over beautiful planet earth.
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MY FIRST LOVE (A SHORT POEM)
by John Chambers
I'll always remember my very first love,
and the heartbreak that I had,
so I thought I'd put this story to verse,
although it's pretty sad.
She was such a beautiful thing,
with hair of golden silk,
with skin so soft, a complexion so pure,
as a bowl of honey and milk.
The only thing that I could see,
that could ever cause us trouble,
was a difference in our heights,
so my efforts were redoubled.
I was of an average size,
'bout five foot ten or so,
but she was only six inches high,
somehow she'd failed to grow.
She slept at night in a little box,
the kind that held new shoes,
and she'd cover up with a hand-towel,
when she'd lay down to snooze.
She drank her coffee from a toothpaste cap,
used a pill bottle lid for a plate,
with a postage stamp upon her lap,
for a napkin whenever she ate.
I took her with me wherever I went,
and loved her more each day,
We'd go for walks all through the park,
in my breast pocket she'd stay.
A few times around the house,
she'd sit on the floor and play,
and once I almost squashed her,
before she ran out of the way.
Then one day when I woke up,
and went to the bathroom to brush,
I spotted the lid to the toilet tank,
it was open - so over I rushed,
When I looked in I began to cry,
it was more than I could stand,
for my little tiny sweetheart,
had eloped with the Tidy Bowl man.
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THE SECRET
by Lucia Chambers
An old man with a lantern
walks along the bay,
in the watery moonlight
his lamplight seems to say
that there along the seashore
is a path absorbed in foam:
a thousand million secrets
only the moonlight should be told.
He dodges lapping waters
which tow, froth, then retreat;
when suddenly he stops to dance
a little jig, an amazing feat
for an old man with a lantern.
Legs swinging, hands on his waist,
his feet leave cool sand which
his toes so cautiously embraced.
His head bobs up and down,
then is thrown back to starlight gaze;
for a split second he totters but then
resumes, unfazed.
A small cloud passes the spectacle,
a brief shadow, a flickering light
which makes the old man look like
Charlie Chaplin in an old film, what delight!
He abruptly ends his moonlit dance,
stiffly bends to snatch the lantern,
shakes the sand from baggy trousers
and resumes his midnight sojourn.
An old man with a lantern
walks along the bay,
in the watery moonlight
his lamplight seems to say
that there along the seashore
is a path absorbed in foam:
a thousand million secrets
only the moonlight should be told.
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A SUNNY AFTERNOON IN THE GARDEN
by Lucia Chambers
The hops snore a tranquil fragrance
unmindful of the bees slowing, to sleep
while queen clematis tucks her tendrils
round that sleeping giant's knees.
Beetles clamber rosebud newts and chew,
intoxicating tea! their jaws slacken;
a slow climb from below, the preying mantis plots
careful maneuvers through thorny bracken.
Butterflies delight in cosmos' open arms,
that daisy beckons neurotic fluttering to stop
to drink nectar and rest warmly on polleny pillows
while wings bask proudly on pink petal-tops.
While the gardener sleeps beyond the fountain
(charming watery noises lulling her to doze)
the squirrels raid the birdseed, but her dreams
exclude garden disasters: she is thinking of a rose.
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COLD WAR ENDED
by Richard J. Strohl
So the dawning of a brave new day...
Liberated minds with so much to say.
And where fear and darkness once ruled high
Now the liberals would give it a try.
Like tearing down the threats
To see what we could find
A position without regrets
That leaves tyranny behind.
Freedom now is rising
Like the sun that lights the way
Though ever compromising
To the balance in the sway.
The philosopher and housewife
Equal and growing strong
Escape from dismal strife
Building a new lifelong
Nation. It could appear from pieces there,
A wondrous world that all could share.
The promise of a brave new day
In our time - hope grows, it's there to stay.
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SAILOR TO THE SEA
by William E. Collins
The sailor takes to the sea,
the tailor to the seam.
the husband to the wife,
the wife to her children,
the sailor goes to the sea,
his wife knows not why.
the children begin to cry,
the sailor's heart begins to die.
but go he must,
to protect the ones he loves,
with determination so grim.
the wives have tried to understand,
this fascination with the sea,
not to understand the reason so grim.
yet he too loves the sea,
though it's never forgiving,
the sea.
it sends a body down,
such a terrifying thing to maybe drown.
yet the sailor goes to the sea,
to protect the ones he loves.
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DOWN TO THE SEA
by William E. Collins
The Sailor went down to the Sea,
Didn't have time for tea.
The Sailor went down to the Sea,
Didn't have time for a Pea.
The Sailor went down to the Sea,
Had his bag, and said goodbye to his hag.
The Sailor went down to the Sea,
All he had were his rags.
The Sailor came up from the Sea,
Through the brush and scree.
The Sailor came up from the Sea,
Didn't want no tea!
The Sailor came up from the Sea,
Threw down his bag and grabbed his hag.
The Sailor came up from the Sea,
All he wanted was to tear off his rags.
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THE SAILOR WENT TO WAR
by William E. Collins
The sailor went to War,
by a choice he had no more.
The sailor went to war,
that people said, NO MORE!
The sailor went to War,
the captain was such a bore.
the Sailor put to port,
several girls he did court.
The sailor went to War,
not sure he knew what he was there for.
The sailor saw some action,
in the mud there's no traction.
The sailor went to War,
the water and mud was not what he signed up for.
The sailor went some places he still can not tell,
many were just another kind of hell.
The sailor went to War,
he was scared to the core.
The sailor went ashore,
to save some lives he was sent for.
The sailor went to War,
his exploits were never to make lore.
The sailor went to War,
and came across a force majeure.
The sailor returned from war,
to be spit on and hated to the core.
The they saw him return from war,
and hated him so without knowing the score.
The sailor returned from the war,
to be subject to a country full of scorn.
The sailor was changed,
Jane he wanted to see hanged!
The sailor returned from the war,
a flower child, thought of as a weed.
The sailor returned from the war,
changed as much by those at home, as the gore.
The sailor saw things he doesn't talk about,
many things you don't want to know about.
The sailor smiles today,
though at times to remember another day.
The sailor later feared for his son,
who went to war in a sea hot desert sun.
One to the wet jungle,
the other to the dry sand.
He came home to spitting curses,
all he did was keep them alive,
to get them to the doctors and nurses.
His son came home to the welcome band,
he helped them to regain their stolen land,
everyone gave them a hand.
The sailor has not been to the wall,
too many memories on the mall.
What can he say to the ones so still,
to the ones that were beyond help on that hill.
The flower child sometimes hurts,
from that long ago killing fire.
But, thankful of his son's lot,
never having to live,
thinking of someone else's snot.
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TALKING TO MY 'PUTER
by William E. Collins
Every day I talk to my 'puter
some days it says hi,
some days it says beep.
Then some creep said I needed a new 'puter,
now this one says Hello some days,
and other days says blerp!
What's the difference,
why did it change?
Isn't a 'puter a 'puter?
Just like other machines and people,
some are nice,
some are not.
Me, I just want a friend,
one who will be there when I need one,
one who will help fix my mistakes.
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LOST DATA
by William E. Collins
Bits and bytes
nibbles and bits.
She destroys my data,
in little biddy bits.
Clickety clack,
it won't come back.
No matter how you stroke the keys,
my data I'll never sees.
A printer won't do me no good,
the data don't like no wood.
Ink is not the missing link,
it makes you tongue black to drink.
Buses and ports,
chips of all sorts.
Crippled code,
we try to decode.
Nibbles and bits,
a girl with big... lips.
Sweet talk nor pout,
won't bring that data out.
She don't wear no jeans,
she won't show the data on her screens.
She can't count using a bean,
she hides my data to be mean.
Without my data I'm in a jam,
you can't beat it out of the RAM.
To her, hiding data's a must,
and blows it away like motes of dust.
The other day I tried to organize,
all she did was ostracize.
The other day I tried to optimize,
she wouldn't even let me localize.
I tried to put her on the net,
said she wouldn't on a bet.
I tried to introduce her to another,
and kicked me for messing with her baud.
When I tried to give her more memory I heard,
what god's forgotten, we stuff with cotton.
When I tried to run her in turbo,
she slapped and said I was going to fast.
My computer's no fun,
it's like a date with Attila the Hun.
One of these days I'll find some fun,
and finish this little pun.