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Christmas Tradition Started Walking into the workshop Santa looked around and saw a mess, unlike normal years. “Where are Hank and the other elves? What is going on here? I need those toys for Christmas.” A new trainee went toward Santa and said, “Santa, Hank and three others are very sick and are bedridden. We’re trying to get the toys done as fast as we can.” Santa began to feel pre-Christmas pressure and said, “O.K. keep doing the best that you can.” He walked toward the kitchen to get some breakfast and Mrs. Clause smiling at him said, “Morning Santa. I have good news; Mom is coming to visit tomorrow.” Santa started to cringe but held it back it was stressing him more and said, “Morning Mrs. Sandy Claus. I hope she brings some of her great cherry fudge.” He decided against breakfast and walked out to check on the sleigh and the reindeer. Fred. An older elf was sitting down near a pile of toys looking sad. Santa said, “Morning Fred. How is it coming?” “Santa, I’m sorry but four of the reindeer are about to give birth. We will have to use the new recruits if I can’t find the three that have jumped the fence.” ”Come on Fred I’ll help you load the sleight and give it a test run.” Then as they, both began to load the sleigh, one of the floorboards cracked and toys bags fell to the ground sending toys scattering. Frustrated, Santa went in the house for a cup of apple cider and a shot of rum. When he went to the cupboard, he could only find one bottle of cider there and said, “Hey what happened to the rest of the cider and the liquor.” Mrs. Claus said, “Some of the elves drank most of the cider. I have the rum hidden from them.” Santa shook his head and in his angst, he dropped the cider jug, and it broke into little glass shards all over the kitchen floor. He went to get the broom but found the straw off the end of the broom had been eaten away. “Ding Dong Ding,” The doorbell sounded. Santa marched out of the kitchen to the door, yanked it open, and there stood a little angel with a great big decorated Christmas tree. The angel said cheerfully, “Merry Christmas, Santa. Isn't this a lovely day? I have a beautiful tree for you. Where would you like me to stick it?” And so began the tradition of the little angel on top of the Christmas tree. = = = = = = = = = = = = = I wish you all a Merry Christmas or Happy Holidays DENVER

Colorado Red By Denver High Once upon a time in a far, faraway land called Colorado. There was a man named COLORADO who loved the color “Colorado red.” He grew roses. They were Colorado red. The roses had thorns that would cut him sometimes but that was ok because the blood was also Colorado red. The leaves and stems were green. So, he put on Colorado red blinders to not see them. When he looked at his house, it was Sienna. So, he painted it Colorado red. When he looked down, the birdbath for the red robins was color of teal. So, he threw it away into the Colorado red trash can. When he looked up, the sky was blue. So, he put on Colorado red sunglasses. "Hi. What are you doing?" he heard a little voice ask. He turned around to see a boy wearing black sunglasses. Through the man's sunglasses, the boy was Colorado red. His hair, his skin, his clothes, his cane were all Colorado red. Only his sunglasses were black. "I like Colorado red," the man replied. "I also grow Colorado red roses." "The pink roses are also beautiful," said the boy. "All the roses look red to me. The stems were green, so I wear these red blinders." "My house was Sienna not Colorado red, so I painted it. The birdbath wasn't Colorado red. So I threw it away. The sky wasn't Colorado red, so I wear these Colorado red, sunglasses. Hm . . Your sunglasses frame isn't Colorado red, can I paint them for you?" he asked the boy. The boy shrugged. "It doesn't matter. I'm blind. I can't see. I just remember all the colors. Now the only color I see is black. I am told black isn’t a color. It’s the absence of color." "I feel bad for you. I’m sorry," said Colorado. "It isn't your fault, no need to apologize. But, can I have the colors you're not using? I’d love to see them. If you give them to me, I will save them. Maybe someday my eye sight might return. You are so lucky to be able to see, but you don’t want to see all the colors. Like those in a rainbow." "I think that from this day I will look at all the colors that I haven't been using. Thank you, for helping me to see the colors again," Colorado said to the boy.Colorado took off the blinders and didn't use sunglasses anymore. He repainted his home blue, and enjoyed all the colors of the rainbow from that day on. Denver High

Sometimes When I'm Lonely © Sometimes when I'm so lonely It makes me cry. No one sees my tears! Nor see my eyes dry. . . . . . . . Sometimes when I'm so lonely I am sad and I hurt! with nobody around me, No one sees my hurt! . . . . . . . . . Sometimes when I'm so lonely I'm sad, and I'm worried sick! No one sees my stress! Or see what makes me tick. . . . . . . . . . . . . . Sometimes when I'm sad and lonely I knew I would have lonely years. You left me with blurred vision, and saw you through a prism of tears. . . . . . . . . . . . SOMETIMES . . .

Hello Poets! I am so bad with poetry and I dislike it. I need a EASY poem to learn by November 14th, 2011. I'm taking a creative writing course at the Jr. College and I have to memorize a short poem, not one that I have written. It should be at least 16 lines. Preferably one by a recognized poet. Maybe by someone that is dead. I went to simple little poems post by kuttiecc, but they didn't have author's. I thought of Paul Revere's ride by longfellow. I had to learn the start of it in high school. It can also be a nursery rhyme but it has to have a poet's name. Thanks in advance.

Baking My Favorite Cake © One day, when baking a Devil's Food cake the called for six spoonful of allspice. I took the allspice can from the spice rack and opened it. I extracted a measuring spoon of the contents. I held it over the bowl before pouring it into the other ingredients. Something wasn't quite right, so I looked closely. The spoon contained nothing but the dry skeletons of tiny beetles! Investigation of the rest of the half-can of Allspice showed the whole thing to be nothing but beetle skeletons, right down to the bottom. Months or years before, some beetles had gotten into the can, started eating and reproducing. With no natural enemies present, they multiplied into several generations, all happily supplied with a surfeit of food. Eventually, there was only a thin layer of allspice in the bottom of the can; a layer of eating, breeding beetles; and a thick layer of dead beetles. The eating beetle thought they were in the best of worlds, as they could not yet see the bottom of the can, and all they had to do was live it up and celebrate! Soon though, there were only a few grains of allspice left. Seeing the bottom of the can finally, there was nothing left to do but eat them all. Then, soon hungry, they started to eat their offspring, or the remnants of their ancestor, or both. Before long, as if by alchemy, the cans original allspice contents had been transmuted into beetle skeletons. Life as they knew it ended and life in that little world was reduced to merely a few microbes, encapsulated against the lack of moisture. If moisture and other right conditions had appeared, they could have started again a one-billion-year evolution toward an intelligent being, a Man-II. Intelligent Man-1 Intelligent Man-1 is busy cutting down his essential rain forests at the rate of 5000 acres a day, cutting down the supply of oxygen. Man is using up the supply of natural resources all over the world. How soon will our descendants see the bottom of the Allspice can? I didn't finish making the chocolate cake! I hope you understand that this is just a metaphor for the current situation that is happening to Earth. I know that after man is gone the Earth will return itself to the best state that it ever was. It has been doing that to itself for millions and millions of years. It will do it again but man won’t be around. By the way, do you know what "All Spice" is, and what taste it adds to whatever you’re making, you probably have one in your pantry, and never used it. Google it!

First make sure the spelling of the title is correct, cause you can't change it later. Then post it. Ahh . . . I that's better I gave him a computer instead of the typewriter that he had. I also added some paint to the roof of his dog house. Snoopy just said to me, "I find this PC slow and cumbersome. So I sent an e-mail to Santa Claus and asked him for a "ipad2" for Christmas." "Santa said his going to check his list twice!"

A Dark and Stormy Night! by Denver High It's a dark, gloomy, stormy night in October. I am alone at home. I walk very deliberately to the kitchen and pull two large Forschner German stainless steel knives out of the wooden knife holder. One is an twelve-inch butcher knife. Its edge is so sharp that it can cut a very thin slice of meat from a roast without and effort, or slice a thin piece of paper without any effort. The other one is a sharp serrated knife, this blade sparkles from the overhead lights as I hold and look at it. I touch the tip and its cutting edge. I can feel the sharpness on my finger tips. It has an excellent point to insert and start the cutting. I can see my reflection on the side of the polished blade. It’s perfect, for what I am about to do. “I must be careful not to get cut, like the last time,” I say out loud. I feel the serrated side again and it is sharper than when it was new. I put on thin almost clear rubber gloves like surgeons use and walk to the garage where I do my best work. That’s where I had placed my prey. I know what I have to do. She waits there, quiet as can be. As I walk in I flick the light switch and florescent light fills the room, emanating from the two large six foot ceiling fixtures. “Hello, my beauty. Sorry to keep you waiting. You’re the best looking one I’ve ever had. Such beautiful skin without any blemishes. You are perfect in every way. Let me turn on some music. You know doing something is always better with music. It set the right mood. Is Puccini or Verdi Ok? You probably like Brahms, huh” One of the three B’s” I didn’t expect a response from her. I turned the CD player on and selected various pieces to play. The first one I picked was the Blue Danube, by Strauss. I also turned up the volume. The beat of the music gives me inspiration when ever I hear this piece. It reminds me of a Merry-Go-around and the horses going up and down. The peaceful soft music is beginning to fill the room. I walked to the work bench and placed the twelve inch knife down, keeping the serrated in my right hand. I grasp the beautiful walnut grain handle holding the blade pointing down. I approach her from behind. I transfer the knife to my left hand, holding the tip barely touching the skull, and I smack the top of the knife handle with the palm of my right hand and quickly the knife sinks into the top of the head. “Goodness. The blade went in cleanly all the way to the hilt. Just like a matador. Ole!” The blade made a slight squishing sound as it sank deeper. I withdrew the knife and turned it to use the serrated side. I reinsert it and with a circular sawing motion I cut open the top of the head. Being ever so careful to make sure a circle as perfect as I could and making sure the edge it has a slight inward angle. “This knife cut so easy. Hannibal Lector would envy that circular cut.” As I remove the top, I get the feeling it’s like removing a sticky top on a jar of grape jam. I place the top on a piece of clear plastic wrap, no need to be sloppy. I Look into the cavity, and I can see the wet slimy, gooey brains within. A very pleasant familiar odor hits my nostrils, bringing back tasteful memories of former victims. “Ah, Verdi's” drinking song is playing. I can’t remember the title of it.” I changed to the other knife and I insert the knife into the brains and make a cross cut on them. I pull the knife out and with my left hand, I reach in, grab a portion of the brain and pull. That first chunks came out easily, but it has strings trying to hold it in. It doesn't want to let go. “Looks just like a piece of cheese pizza, trying to stay together.” With a flick of the knife I slice them off. I place it on the piece of plastic that is ready on the workbench. I’m trying not to drip on the clean garage floor. “No need to be sloppy, have to be neat. I would have to clean it up anyway.” I say. One at a time . . . I Pull . . . Slowly . . . Slimy . . . Slicing . . . I repeat the action, pulling, slicing and putting each piece on the plastic. I am glad that I have gloves on. Verdi plays on. The evidence of all my actions will be buried soon, never to be found again. I thrust the knife again and again always making sideways motion to slice the remainder of the brains. I'm almost done. I know that I'm doing a great job and can’t wait to get the great aroma smell of the brains cooking in the oven. Even Italian food smell can't smell that good. A clean cavity. No more brains. Only the skull is left. “I think this is almost as good as Silence of the Lambs.” I take the brains to the sink, turn on the warm water, wash and save the best parts. I put them in a pan to cook in the preheated oven at three hundred fifty degrees. I loved them well toasted. I walk back into the garage and say, “All most done my dear. Soon even you, if you were still alive, you would be proud of me.” Puccini is playing now. Ta ta Di dumm . . . To finish the job I stick the knife in many more times in different places and make cuts. I have to get it right. I’m such a perfectionist when I do this job. I pick up all the useless part of the brains and skin using the plastic wrap and throw them into the garbage can. I return to the oven, stir and turn them over to make sure all the parts are well cooked. They look perfect. I can’t wait to see how the first morsels are going to taste. I think I could do this on a one time TV show just like Martha Stewart. I would be as friendly as Rachael Ray, I could have her there as a guest. I turn the oven off. Take the contents out and place them on top of the stove to cool. “Great job, Denver.” I proudly pick up the head, walk to the front my home and place it on the porch. The Jack-O-lantern is finished. It smiles at me with pleasure. I smile back. Hope the trick-or-treaters will like it again this year. "O Solo Mio, is playing now and sung by Pavarotti." "Now let’s eat the brains. Try some. Hmmm. . . They're yummier than I remember." Trick or Treat” Kiss my feet, give me something good to eat. = = = = = = = = = = Bye for now Denver 2012 = = = = = = = = = =

How many of you try to write each day? How many wait for the Muse to run her fingers through your hair and say "come get me big boy!" How much of writing is pure craft? How much inspiration?

Would American readers find modern fiction distracting if it was written in British English - would it put you off ? Opinions please (And for what it's worth I would offer my opinion that the situation in reverse is not distracting or off putting.)

correction - synchronicity This sounds a bit mental and perhaps it is. Has anyone been aware of reading, writing or thinking a word and you hear it at exactly the same time on the radio or TV ? With simple words this is no big deal but when you get words like 'silver' 'mercury' etc it makes you think.

Sweat and soot soaked smith stubborn under his hammer, fiery words he crafts

... and social commentary I was talking with our new member, Santero, about how poetry is the highest form of communication, and how song lyric are the highest for of poetry (in my opinion). He is a musician and a songwriter. It occurred to me later how very moving some songs are, and how music can spur on social change. This forum is for sharing lyrics that have moved you. First entry ... one of my faves. Ten Years After - I'd Love to Change the World Everywhere is freaks and hairiesDykes and fairies, tell me where is sanityTax the rich, feed the poor'Til there are no rich no more I'd love to change the worldBut I don't know what to doSo I'll leave it up to you Population keeps on breedingNation bleeding, still more feeding economyLife is funny, skies are sunnyBees make honey, who needs money, No none for me I'd love to change the worldBut I don't know what to doSo I'll leave it up to you I commented the other day to Byron, how the issues sometimes don't seem to change much (this song is 45+ years old), and wondered of our generation somehow failed.

Short poems with long titles - usually nothing more than a couplet or two. Doggerel and burlesque are encouraged ;^) Example: "That Horrible Thing in my Bed Last Night" It bit, that twit!

I came across this fun article I bet you'd all love to see, and pass along to someone in your life and go - see! http://kathrynvercillo.com/blog/2009/02/07/20-great-things-about-dating-a-writer/ [text reproduced below in full / I did not write this] Here’s a look at 20 reasons to date a writer: Writers will romance you with words. Dating a writer means that you will receive love letters. Quirky notes will turn up in your pockets. Flowery descriptions of everything great about you will be shared on special occasions. See my recent post on things to write someone for Valentine’s Day for an idea of what you may receive when dating a writer. Writers will write about you. Date a blog writer and you’ll find yourself bookmarking that blog to see if there are references to you in it. Date a poet and you will see yourself reflected back in some of the lines of poetry that the person recites at open mic nights. Your narcissistic tendencies will be happily fed when you date a writer. Of course, the drawback here is that dating a writer means that personal details about you may turn up in written form and the writer may write much less flattering things about you if you break up. Writers will take you to interesting events. Writers, as a general rule, are curious people. We like to go to lots of different types of things so that we can widen the boundaries of our life experience and therefore broaden our writing. When you date a writer, you can expect to be invited to everything from burlesque shows to roller derby races to foreign countries. Writers will remind you that money doesn’t matter so much. People who write for a living don’t do it to get rich. They know that money may matter but it’s not the most important thing in life. Dating a writer will help to remind you that it’s important to pursue your passions. Writers will acknowledge you and dedicate things to you. Writers are big on acknowledging those who have helped them. Almost every book at the bookstore has a page for dedications and / or acknowledgments. Song writers and poets frequently include a dedication on their work. Date a writer and the world will know that you’ve supported someone in the arts. Writers will offer you an interesting perspective on things. There is a writing quote about how writers taste life twice - once in the living and once in the re-telling on the page. Writers pay attention to interesting details in life so that they can recapture the world in their writing. When you date a writer, you will be privy to all of their insights about life’s events and experiences - and you may find that you get to see things in a whole new light. Writers are smart. The majority of writers are intelligent people. They are usually well-read and well-educated which means they can hold their own in many types of conversations. Dating someone dumb just isn’t fun for long; dating someone smart is always an interesting challenge. Writers are really passionate. Writers use all of their senses. They are passionate about their work and passionate about their lives. Your life will be enhanced by this passion for things when you date a writer. Writers can think through their feelings. Writers may be really passionate but most of them don’t fly off-the-handle with emotion. They like to take time to process things. This ability is a true asset in a long-term relationship. Writers enjoy their solitude. Unless you’re in the honeymoon phase of your relationship, you probably want at least some time to yourself and time to spend with your friends and family. Writers want time to be alone to write and think which means that you’ll get your own much-needed space as well. Writers are creative. This sounds obvious but it has a deeper truth to it. Creative people are more capable of coming up with solutions to problems in life. Dating a writer means a chance to come up with creative solutions to life’s problems. Writers wear their hearts on their sleeves. Sure this depends on the writer but most writers are pretty good at articulating what is going on with them. If they adore you, you’ll know it. If they’re mad at you, you probably won’t have to guess at why. Writers will teach you cool new words. Writers love words. It can be irritating when they use ten dollar words in normal conversations but it can also be kind of fun to stretch your mind and build your vocabulary. Expect to play lots of Scrabble when dating a writer. Writers may be able to adjust their schedules for you. Writers who can set their own schedules might be willing to rearrange things to spend time with you. They might be happy to meet you for a long lunch or to spend a luxurious morning in bed with you. Don’t expect the writer you’re dating to give up all of his or her time - they have to work regularly to pay their bills just like anyone else - but do know that there are some scheduling perks possible when you date a writer. Writers can find 1000 ways to tell you why they like you. Writers are wordy and they like to express themselves. You can bask in the glow of hearing good things about yourself in ways that you’ve never heard them before. Of course, some writers will also be all too happy to tell you your faults so make sure you date a kind writer! Writers communicate in a bunch of different ways. Most writers are pretty flexible in how they communicate. They’ll be just as content to get an email from you or to chat on IM with you as they are to talk on the phone (maybe even more so). This means that however you communicate regularly is probably fine for the writer you’re dating. Writers can work from anywhere. This is nice because it means that writers can happily travel with you. They may have to take a laptop and spend some time at the hotel when you go to the beach but you can enjoy much easier vacation planning with a writer than with someone who works a 9-5 job. Writers are surrounded by interesting people. Writers have a lot of characters in their lives. If you like meeting interesting people, just plan on being the date that goes along to parties and other gatherings with a writer. Writers are easy to buy gifts for. Writers are happy with little things. Most writers like getting books as gifts. Since they aren’t really into the pursuit of money, they aren’t going to be chasing you for the big bucks you spend on them. This doesn’t mean you shouldn’t spoil a writer if you want to but you should know that they value thoughtfulness way more than most material things. Writers are sexy. There is a reason that people have fantasies about the school librarian. Male or female, those bookish types are hot hot hot. So, why wouldn’t you date a writer?!

Well as you know G's , Bullet is on a Space Exploration Mission to the planet Neptune. That has been put on hold for a while beacuase Bullet is locked up in a Space Jail and I'm in a World of Hurt. Let me fill you in G's : as you know bullet left Earth headed to Neptune and stopped off at Venus for a female counter part to Roll With on my mission. Then we found life on a moon on the Backside of Uranus, which I taught the Game of Chess. Not only am I considered a Hero in Uranus but I am an Official Uranian Ambassador to the Universe. All that for teaching them the game of Chess. Well after a lengthy stay, me and the lady load up in the Bulletship (spacecraft), and head for Neptune, and thats when the problems Started. You see G's Bullet was way Behind on my Manifest to Neptune so I placed the Bulletship in Hyperspace speed (which is the speed of light minus the speed of Sound), and were Stepping out there pretty damn lickety split. Then, I noticed Flashing Lights , blue,white,red,and yellow, like on a cop car, as it closes in on me I noticed that this Spacecraft was no larger than a Tonka Toy. Well Bullet had no Intention of stopping for no Tonka Toy Space Cop. Well, all the Senser Alarms start sounding and the bulletship Loses power and within thirty seconds we were at a dead stop. I had no control over my spaceship. The spacedoor opens and in comes this little mini spacecraft. My spacedoor closes and its spacedoor opens, and low and behold out steps this Alien Space Cop that looks like a cross between a mouse, a mole,and a treefrog. I come to find out later that these space cops are bred to be small so that the spacecraft, food and provisions in space are also small. These Little Mini Aliens are also bred to be the deadliest shot in the Galaxy with a Laser Gun and have won Competitions throughout the Universe. There is nothing quite like the feeling of being out done by some one a fraction of your size. Well to make a long story short heres what happened: I was Going 4 times the speed alowed in Neptinian Airspace, and as the space cop looks around his Scensorscan sounds and he finds a Uranian Stowaway that hid onboard. Then his Sensorscan noticed that My female counterpart from Venus (who I nickname Firby) has only three toes on each foot and four fingers on each hand which are not allowed in neptinian airspace. Well, I was Arrested for going 4 times the allowed neptinian airspeed, Alien Smuggling for the Stowaway, Illegal Alien Transport for the Female from Venus, And becauase all three of us are considered different types of Aliens and were going four times the speed limit, they Tacked on; Alien Invasion. Man do I feel ALIENATED. I will try and keep you Posted G"S .

a few minutes ago · Quote · Edit · Delete · #1 Taffy-Duff The wind and rain did howl through the ridges As the mountains stood tall upon the Welsh clay The pits are empty and quiet in their hollow dark Folk are hidden in houses and go about their way There in the gulley of a far off taff bar We creak the door open to see the through the crowd 'Tis ok in here' I say as we find a quiet corner Football is on, balls are potted and the laughter is loud We entrench ourselves in our chairs and we know It was me or him that will stand the test of time The board lay bare - the pieces put on and ready Each of us think in our hearts that victory is mine Through clenched teeth each move is thought As our hands to our forheads our nerves are caught The noise in the bar becomes loud and atmosphere thick But we are lost in our world as if cemented in brick Folk pass us for the loo, look down at us and freeze The intensity of our minds just sobers them to the spot We planned a light game, a few drinks and a laugh But beer is sipped and each move has us in a knot Well the knights slipped this way and the bishop is down Each move is heartfelt and now our heads in a frown Banter is merry and the folk sing to enrich the mood our silence and ignorance to all may seem quite rude It is our pride at stake and a hour and a half is gone Our worlds and worries are now so far away Locked and lost in a game of great strategy I will never forget chess at the 'Miners Arms' that day.

Delete What are the vices that bind us, that make us miss the light and life. Where do our souls wander if we have no virtues. When we come to our last stop and look up, will our lives have been full of strife ? At the end of time - would we have missed the point of it all ? Clarity, a clean mind and a healthy heart - make us Lord answer to our call!

Here be dragons (& perhaps Indians, pianos, French, moderns, gambits of every nationality, etc.)

Round & Round (Vers.3)​ Blue-hairs, white hairs, no-hairs. One with Elvis Costello glasses, One with Cat Woman’s. Others have wire-rimmed goggles, not that they are Seeing anything but more from routine and habit. Planets orbiting the quarter-mile track. They orbit the in-door track as walking zombies moving but with no destination. There are singular planets and near colliding couple planets. All orbit the same. Slightly hunched Forward, not quite falling, their weight sifted for impetus. Speed maintained And on course, Scotty. Not fast; not slow – steadily circling their orbit. They all orbit to the left as if some gravitational pull is tugging like an umbilical cord I try not to see their eyes, but I do - see them. Vacant, black, empty rooms with rolled up shades In non-anticipation of diversion or acknowledgement or remembrance. The track is dark no stars illuminating constellations Only the gym’s skylights parcel out the non-shadow areas When the planets, both men and women, reach the north end they Fade in to the walls and the volleyball netting, obscured momentarily Until they have once again entered the curvature of their circumference I observe them through a short lens telescope taking notes collecting data on non-existence. I note the planets do not speak or wave or travel out of orbit I will name them soon. They circle the track In their not quite white gym shoes / not jogging or running shoes. Shoes like The nurses used to wear when I was very young and all there was to choose From were real gym shoes, black and white Converse or PF Flyers and nurses’ Shoes, not quite white. They never look at me; never speak. I think, as I lace up my PF Flyers, I think today I will orbit to the right.

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