HDTenEightyP/NetNews huggingface dataset:
From: bunny@bsu-cs.bsu.edu (Marsh)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Poem - Time to my Mentor
Keywords: My first poem, circa 1982, when I thought my Grandfather
	  was going to die...
Date: 26 Sep 92 15:59:43 GMT
Organization: CS Dept, Ball St U, Muncie, Indiana


TIME TO MY MENTOR


Young as my springtime my Mentor teaches me,
    though far older than August he knows.
Silly days bring sorrow and wisdom for both
  Master and pupil, for Time is ageless
    and aging.

I love you, hold my hand, my Elder,
    my wiser...
for you taught me to love, you taught me
    to grasp.

  Please, be my eyes, be my light...I am tallow,
  I need your Wick and your Flame for my Guide.

  I love you, hold my hand; teach me
    to grow,
  teach my life; teach me to live
    without you...

I need to find my August, September,
    and lose my springtime, dear Mentor.
Our days together teach us and we must
  laugh in our sadness for Time commands
    us both.


To my Grandfather, John Charles Flynn

-Tracy Flynn-Marsh

Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: jchien@leland.Stanford.EDU (Jennifer Crystal Fang-Chien)
Subject: The Guidelines
Organization: The Land of Flowers (Stanford U.)
Date: Sun, 27 Sep 92 21:52:48 GMT



		"Let's be civilized," she said,
		an expert relationshipologist.
		"To accomplish this, I have formulated
		a few infallible guidelines:

		1. when encountering a stranger,
		always pass to the left;

		2. when speaking to a friend,
		always check behind his/her back;

		3. when speaking to parents or relatives,
		always accept gifts of food;

		4. when encountering an enemy,
		always carry a cultured vocabulary;

		5. when encountering a lover,
		always kiss behind the ear."

		The receipt for the seminar cost $350.



				-- jennifer crystal chien
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: ekankaan@kaira.hut.fi (Eero Kankaanp{{)
Subject: julia
Keywords: amazing, grace
  
     
    
  I will do anything,
    that is good and fitting.
  Just for you Julia, eyes shining.
 Dragons are all dead I reckon
     only a fleeting moment, a seckon'
   for heart of thine I beckon.
  Julia, 
   then I will be gone
    graveyarded, done.
  Cannot find no opiate,
   for that smile of yours to compensate.
   It is getting late.
    Climbing to balconies at night,
   try as one might,
    would be difficult.
Organization: Sloppy Silly Things & Co
Date: Tue, 29 Sep 1992 02:36:04 GMT
From: marek@casbah.acns.nwu.edu (Marek Lugowski)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Indeed here / Halina Poswiatowska / trans: Marek (1990)
Date: 28 Sep 92 18:21:32 GMT
Organization: Northwestern University, Evanston Illinois.

Halina Poswiatowska's (Marek #40).
 
English draft translation:
 
		"Indeed here"
		(p. 100 of _Wiersze wybrane_, 1989)
		-----------------------------------------------------------
		 
		in my mouth i hold a strand of sun
		and as with a strand of hair
		i bite on it
		 
		sometimes a bee flies up to me
		dressed in a short fur
		i talk with it
		 
		the stars coated with the wax of prayers dim
		the wind does not sift through my hair
		the sun does not touch my lips
		only the bee
		brings me the news of light
		 
		it says:  elements of red and gold
		perfectly combined
		ripen
		under the gentle wing of autumn
		 
		i move a branch
		slowly
		turning deep brown
		leaves fall
		 
		elements of red and gold
		scattered all
		 
			Halina Poswiatowska, Polish, 1960s,
			translated from Polish by
 
			Marek Lugowski
			29 November 1990
			Cincinnati
 
Polish original (c) 1975 Wydawnictwo Literackie, Krakow, Poland:
		"Wlasnie tutaj"
		(p. 100 of _Wiersze wybrane_, 1989)
		-----------------------------------------------------------
		 
		trzymam w ustach pasmo slonca
		jak pasmo wlosow
		gryze
		 
		czasem przyfruwa pszczola
		ubrana w krotkie futro
		rozmawiam z nia
		 
		gwiazdy pociagniete woskiem modlitw gasna
		wiatr nie przegarnia wlosow
		slonce nie dotyka ust
		tylko pszczola
		przynosi wiesci o swietle
		 
		mowi: elementy czerwieni i zlota
		zwiazane doskonale
		dojrzewaja
		pod lagodnym skrzydlem jesieni
		 
		potracam galaz
		wolno
		 
		brunatniejac
		opadaja liscie
		 
		elementy czerwieni i zlota
		rozsypane
 
			Halina Poswiatowska, Polish, 1960s.
From: kammerer@cwis.unomaha.edu (Al Kammerer)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re: h. - for september/Sheryl
Date: 2 Oct 92 16:56:01 GMT
Article-I.D.: news.1992Oct2.165601.19293
Organization: University of Nebraska at Omaha


Norway maple leaves
Turned crisp in mid-summer,
Stagnant soaked soil drowned roots.
From: bob@netxcom.netx.com (Robert Thralls)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: RE: Haiku about Haiku (or something along that line)
Date: 28 Sep 92 17:11:00 GMT
Organization: NetExpress Inc., Vienna, VA, USA


> Haiku should end with
> smoke-puff hanging in the air
> like exploded mind

I think this is quite violent, true one must pack in the gunpowder to
make the explosion intense, but does that not only cause hearing loss?
How many more shall rome this land, shell shocked by all they encounter?


here's my rebutal on the 'Amusing Sentence':

words weave into one;
earth and man's meaning combine
eventually

Arnica Montana
From: zen@death.Sun.COM (d)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: ...and the jaguar behind the mirror said "this is a hero"
Date: 6 Oct 1992 18:45:20 GMT
Organization: Sun Microsystems Inc., Mountain View, CA
NNTP-Posting-Host: death.corp.sun.com
flames_n_comments: welcome


Yet another rip off, yet another unfinished non-rhyming ditty
with no meter and very little punctuation.  Why do I do this,
I ask rhetorically?

 -- d


check out that jet trail
across the wavy yellowy sky
that just like the fear of god i put
in every iraqui heart and eye

and oh you know
just another job in desert storm
but there was an incandescent
lingering glint in my blue eyes
reflecting off of the greenish dials
and as i slowly moved my index finger
i thought...
that blew away how many lives?

"but hey -- dont thank me
anyone would have done what i did
im just your average american kid"

(and i thought
 oh yeah -- what he said
 who wouldnt pull the trigger
 who wouldnt forget all the dead)

did you check out the camera though?
like a video game -- a real horrorshow
you didnt see the best
when my autocannons blew
the lungs the hearts
right out of their chests
dying in 24 frames a second
thats what being a hero is all about
echoes of the screams and the shouts

god bless ya lad -- youre a hero!
for killing and staying alive
peacetime heros arent killers
theyre just psuedo heros ya know
because real medals are inscribed with
the blood and the souls
and the thrill of the moment

just did what anyone would have done
we all would have moved our index fingers
the cost for freedom is a priceless one
can you put a price on god and bones?
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: c_scolli@oz.plymouth.edu (skull)
Subject: Re: distance
Reply-To: c_scolli@oz.plymouth.edu (skull)
Organization: Plymouth State College - Plymouth, N.H.
Date: Mon, 28 Sep 92 22:47:26 GMT

Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: mshaughn@nyx.cs.du.edu (Michael Shaughnessy)
Subject: Moo gossip, and chew cud?
X-Disclaimer: Nyx is a public access Unix system run by the University
	of Denver for the Denver community.  The University has neither
	control over nor responsibility for the opinions of users.
Organization: Nyx, Public Access Unix at U. of Denver Math/CS dept.
Distribution: usa
Date: Mon, 28 Sep 92 13:41:26 GMT


This might be an odd post, but i am looking for the author of a certain
poem, so that i might get another copy. I lost a copy of it when
*someone* erased my mail file. Anyway, the only things i remember about
this poem and it author is that the author was a female from Indiana.
The poem included lines like "moo gossip" "donot understand sex, my own"
and something about "sitting at a window, watching snow".  I do hope
that somebody from an Indiana college could remember who wrote this poem.
Yes, i did get this poem from the USENET. 

If there is any info available, please mail me at denver u. OR
Preferably at Dayton:-----> shaughmr@udavxb.oca.udayton.edu
Thanks
Mike
From: donz@ui.org (Posthumous O'Toole)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re: Definition of Life
Date: 28 Sep 92 17:18:36 GMT
Organization: UNIX International, Parsippany, NJ

In article <1992Sep25.230204.23813@leland.Stanford.EDU> jchien@leland.Stanford.EDU (Jennifer Crystal Chien) writes:
>In article <moonbeam.717445187@du248-18.cc.iastate.edu> moonbeam@iastate.edu (Timothy J Cockerham) writes:
>
>>	I have my own definition of life:
>
>[...]
>
>	life is.

Sorry, but this is too wordy.  Try:


life--

>
>jennifer -- 'it requires a great simplicity of mind to comprehend
>		the complexities of life'

 posthumo -- 'it requires great complexities of mind to comprehend
                the simplicity of life.'
-- 
nobody/not even the rain/              	/	   /      /  /    
 /   /   /     /   /   / /     /       /    /    // /    /  /         /    
/     / / /   /   /     /   / /    / /   / / /  /  /   /      /      /
   / /   /   /	/	 / /      //    /   / /     / /      / / / 
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: ralph@wixer.cactus.org (Ralph Cherubini)
Subject: Poem--Just slightly
Organization: Real/Time Communications
Date: Sun, 27 Sep 92 00:34:16 GMT


                            Just slightly
                             (for She)

Just slightly
furious today
at my abandonment of long ago
relived
each time she leaves me for the day
for reasons quite
excellent
rational
understandable
unless you're only four years old.
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: rbear@inferno.uoregon.edu (Richard Bear)
Subject: Song of a Humanist
Organization: University of Oregon Network Services
X-Newsreader: Tin 1.1 PL5
Date: Tue, 29 Sep 92 02:49:16 GMT


This for the steep road the mind travels 
when having, as Popper says, "problems and the urge 
to solve them"; and the academy, as one arrives, 
already is carved into camps of warring faction 
for which the legionaries have long ago thrown up 
high earthen walls impaled with sharpened stakes 
of rhetoric, which they deem as purest induction, 
provided it is their own and not another's: 
find one place, each campus has one such, 
that seems in quietude to fold into itself 
a peace that stills the mind, even upon approach. 
There go, as often as you have need, and say 
no word, but listen to the silence and build anew 
whatever of good presents itself therein. 
My own such place is called the "grotto," and 
contains several modern sculptures which, 
I thank the architect, do not too much 
obtrude, and one large well-made pool that fills 
the colonnade with its inverted sky. 
Standing in the pool, one bronze from a simpler 
time, known as the "Indian maiden with fawn," 
comments upon our easy scoffs as to 
its demeaning romanticism by having no 
politics of its own, and not minding 
us as it does not mind the rains, or the sometime 
sun. A small susurrant fount behind 
the pool pours out between two fauns that play 
on pipes; or rather one plays, the other has stopped 
to listen, savoring the other's moment with the half 
smile that fine music remembered brings to all 
its hearers. I am not too young to linger here 
alone on autumn days, finding, without knowing 
that I do, the warmest angle in the red brick walls, 
to sit and display my bones to the slowly turning 
sun. Undergraduates and visitors pass, 
in threes or more sometimes, but mostly twos, 
slowly stepping along the low arcade, 
reading the captions of the inexplicable 
modern works, and talking, always in hushed 
and reverent voice, as in a church of stones 
and moss and ancient bits of colored glass. 
I sit like bronze among these friends and lovers: 
perhaps I have been coming here too long. 
Some artist opportunely may have captioned 
me: "man in search of truth." So quaint! 
I am like the maiden, out of my time 
and the fashion, but well-placed within these walls. 
The visitors understand art, and know that it 
is worship. They pass along the walk, half-smiling, 
and some among them catch my silence as a song. 

rbear
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: ralph@wixer.cactus.org (Ralph Cherubini)
Subject: Poem--Before language
Organization: Real/Time Communications
Date: Sun, 27 Sep 92 00:28:26 GMT


                        Before language

Before language
there is the image
the empty room
with chairs pulled up close
three talking
in absentia
implied if not present
no
present but only to a slight degree
the curtains vibrating
just barely
as the draft ebbs in
and me
standing here watching
as the image turns to words.
From: bunny@bsu-cs.bsu.edu (Marsh)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Poem - Photo
Keywords: to him
Date: 7 Oct 92 02:50:23 GMT
Organization: CS Dept, Ball St U, Muncie, Indiana


PHOTO

My lifetime in two others' arms,
whispered dreams gone limp
in spent, furtive moments.

Faces shine from faded photos
snapped beneath an ancient giant
sleeping on a bed of stilts -
Paris, symbols virile,
phallic; perfect backdrop
for a hirsute, low-browed
swarthy dark and laughing god.

-Tracy Flynn-Marsh
Date: Saturday, 26 Sep 1992 13:53:41 EST
From: <RVESTERM@vma.cc.nd.edu>
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re: Poem - Suffocation

if it weren't for carbon dioxide, you'd be dead.

hence, i find it hard to call carbon dioxide an air impurity.
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: trussell@cwis.unomaha.edu (Tim Russell)
Subject: Re: Wolf
Organization: University of Nebraska at Omaha
Date: Wed, 7 Oct 1992 00:42:48 GMT

    Wonderful!  I loved the way you used "it" in the first several lines
to help convey the cold, calculating nature by then switched to "he"
after you had shown us some of his emotions.

    Not to mention the fact that wolf imagery turns me on.  :-)

--
   Tim Russell                 Omaha, NE              trussell@unomaha.edu
      "Who can doubt that pleasure is the only goal of a reasoned life?"
                                                   -- Epicurus
From: wstrutin@lehi3b15.CSEE.Lehigh.EDU (Wendy Strutin)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: If I Could Art
Keywords: 'Freydom
Date: 4 Oct 92 19:08:56 GMT
Organization: Lehigh University, CSEE Dept, Bethlehem, PA

IF I COULD ART

frustration for the artist's eye's
seeing universal canvas
standing at the easel judge
but cannot make it happen

music hummed but once - forgotten
minds eye art is never gotten 
fame, acclaim is silent too
unsung songs in artist's hues

and i who visions world as art
eyes with all the colors
curse my clumsy artless hands
and stand in awe of others.


			\/\/endy
-- 
 /\ /\ /\ /\ /\ /\ /\ /\ /\ /\ /\ /\ /\ /\ /\ /\ /\ /\ /\ /\ /\ /\ /\ /\
<--X--X--X--X--X--X--X--X--X--X--X--X--X--X--X--X--X--X--X--X--X--X--X-->
 \/ \/ \/ \/ \/ \/ \/ \/ \/ \/ \/ \/ \/ \/ \/ \/ \/ \/ \/ \/ \/ \/ \/ \/
   Official Argyle Mail Trailer  --  WStrutin@lehi3b15.csee.lehigh.edu
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: moonbeam@iastate.edu (Timothy J Cockerham)
Subject: For You
Organization: Iowa State University, Ames IA
Date: Mon, 28 Sep 1992 02:27:42 GMT

---

	She binds my sanity; her gentle fingers brushing my fears away.
Would I frighten her with my feelings; all too deep.
 And her eyes, that see deeply into my soul, watch as I wander over a field of
green stone; set in her gaze.
 Her proximity is a drug; an intense addiction that pulls me closer.

---

	-Tim-
	Please respond, but don't tell me my punctuation is wrong, I know.
	It needs big help...
From: ktw@polaris.att.com (79243-wolman)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Ezra Pound, Binghamton, NY, 11/2/72
Date: 29 Sep 92 20:04:22 GMT
Organization: AT&T
Originator: news@cbnewsb.cb.att.com


EZRA POUND: BINGHAMTON, NEW YORK, 11/2/72

When word came on that cold upstate New York morning
that he was gone, we sat in the library coffee room,
and some of us wept: for somewhere in the night,
a mountain had disappeared, a cold volcano
melted into the flow of inevitability,
joining its core to the eternal flow
that pushes up mountains to take its place:
except its shape is irreplaceable.
And on this morning in the western Catskill hills,
the darkness of the mountain gone, we could see
the valley, an optimist's garden filled
with cartoon bunnies and celluloid sunflowers
that swayed and sang in the voices of neutered cats.

He remains in memory Cartier-Bresson's
Venetian image, a wary old man
in waning available light, his face
faded into his beard, a white glacial crag
like a natural force in a moonscape,
silvered, staring silently into the Leica,
not even at the man behind it, the face
immobile but crying out the silence
of one who has said enough and now, self-willed,
can hear the nearing earth's end,
as he heard the lava's flow beneath it.

Kenneth Wolman, September 29, 1992
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
From: magpie@next08pg2.wam.umd.edu (Hail to the Redskins)
Subject: for jchien@leland.stanford.edu
Organization: Workstations at Maryland, University of Maryland, College Park
Date: Wed, 7 Oct 1992 02:45:51 GMT

Grandad's Wrinkled Eyes

Wrinkled eyes, sweat rolling through the folds like oil,
Blinked to release the tears that drove off dust.
Mirrors reflecting hands waving farewell.

Eyes, waning like the moon, could feign smiles well;
Could bask in dust and make a child, adult trust
Wrinkled eyes, sweat rolling through the folds like oil.

To walk through black pupils, through the night's shell,
Chilled the soul like darkness crushing stardust,
Mirrors shattered by hands waving farewell.

From the pupils, urine streaks sliced hazel
Orbs and painted eclipses from which the sun busted
Wrinkled eyes, sweat rolling through the folds like oil.

Eyes that aged like grapes, like raisons shrivelled.
Deep in the creases crusted yesterday's dust,
Pieces that reflected hands waving farewell.

Eyes, two rusted coins a young hand took well,
Spent on a doll which in the attic rusts
With wrinked eyes and sweat rolling like oil,
A face reflecting hands wavin farewell.

				--Henry Louis
From: sstover@sumax.seattleu.edu (Maven o'Mirth)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re: High School Love
Date: 4 Oct 92 15:42:56 GMT
Article-I.D.: sumax.5302
Organization: Seattle University, Seattle WA

In article <1992Oct2.224204.10207@doug.cae.wisc.edu> mccullou@cae.wisc.edu (Mark McCullough) writes:
>Key of G??????  That is not the proper key for that poem/song.  Try
>a different key, such as a flat key or a minor key.  Key of G tends
>to be too friendly a key.

Key of D.  Still major, still mainstream.   With an edge.  Incidentally, I
read it as a 3-chord song, D/G/A7.

:)

--
Sheryl Stover				|  How passing fair is youth,
*>sstover@sumax.seattleu.edu<*		|  Forever fleeting away;
and Hemingway, feline philosopher	|  Who happy would be, let him be;
Watch this .sig for news of the		|  Of tomorrow, who can say?
upcoming album from Seattle's 		|	-Lorenzo de'Medici
premier band, the Medici!		|
From: wachtel@canon.co.uk (Tom Wachtel)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re: Not A Love Sonnet
Date: 29 Sep 92 10:18:45 GMT
Reply-To: wachtel@canon.co.uk
Organization: Canon Research Centre Europe Ltd

sharon@netlabs.com (Sharon Hopkins) writes:

> In article <1992Sep28.042646.871@cheshire.oxy.edu> sharon@netlabs.com (me) writes:
> >
> >    Not A Love Sonnet
> 
> Sorry about the multiple postings of this.  My machine was acting up,
> and it looked like the poem hadn't gone out, so I tried again from
> other places.


it was well worth it.

tom


-- 

Tom Wachtel (wachtel@canon.co.uk)
From: 2ftolonger@kuhub.cc.ukans.edu
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Re: If I Could Art
Date: 5 Oct 92 19:40:36 CDT
Organization: University of Kansas Academic Computing Services

In article <1992Oct4.190856.28787@lehi3b15.CSEE.Lehigh.EDU>, wstrutin@lehi3b15.CSEE.Lehigh.EDU (Wendy Strutin) writes:
> IF I COULD ART
> 
> frustration for the artist's eye's
> seeing universal canvas
> standing at the easel judge
> but cannot make it happen
> 
> music hummed but once - forgotten
> minds eye art is never gotten 
> fame, acclaim is silent too
> unsung songs in artist's hues
> 
> and i who visions world as art
> eyes with all the colors
> curse my clumsy artless hands
> and stand in awe of others.
> 
> 
> 			\/\/endy
> -- 
>  /\ /\ /\ /\ /\ /\ /\ /\ /\ /\ /\ /\ /\ /\ /\ /\ /\ /\ /\ /\ /\ /\ /\ /\
> <--X--X--X--X--X--X--X--X--X--X--X--X--X--X--X--X--X--X--X--X--X--X--X-->
>  \/ \/ \/ \/ \/ \/ \/ \/ \/ \/ \/ \/ \/ \/ \/ \/ \/ \/ \/ \/ \/ \/ \/ \/
>    Official Argyle Mail Trailer  --  WStrutin@lehi3b15.csee.lehigh.edu
From: petersm@jacobs.CS.ORST.EDU (Marguerite Petersen)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Old Autumn Poetry
Date: 1 Oct 92 08:58:43 GMT
Organization: Computer Science Outreach Services - Oregon State University

Hi All!  Since I am still unemployed I figured I might as well get some
of my mess of poetry in some semblance of order.  While filing them
away in separate directories I came across these two poems written a
Long, Long Time Ago in a Galaxy Far Away...........Since the season is
appropriate and everyone seems to be doing it (;-))  I thought I would
go ahead and post them even though I wrote them when just a babe.  It's
amusing (to me at least) to look back on these old poems.  Enjoy!


                              FALL

          It's fall today
          I can feel it in the air
          The leaves have not yet turned
          But trees will soon be bare.

          It's fall today
          The sun is not so warm
          The singing of the birds
          And the buzzing of the bees, is gone.

          It's fall today, and
          Although the sky is blue
          And clouds are puffy white
          They silently await their cue.

          It's fall today
          The wind is not so warm
          And even bites if you are unaware
          That it is fall today.

          It's fall today
          I can't explain my knowing
          I feel that summer we once knew
          Is quickly going.

          The sun is shining now
          Perhaps it's summer still
          And lo, I hear a bird
          His tinkling voice sings out above
          The morbid sounds of Fall.

          It's fall today
          And though it looks of spring
          It smells of fall
          That tangy, smoky smell of Fall.
     
          It's fall today
          And with it's coming
          Summer disappears and dies
          And winter's song is humming.

                    Marguerite K.A. Petersen
                    October 1, 1963



                              AUTUMN

          It's quiet now and not the same
          As it once was.  Never again
          Will I hear voices familiar to me
          That know my name.

          The trees are even different now.
          They're colored every hue.  
          There is a story here to tell
          I wish I knew.

          There are so many people here
          They slowly walk, get in my way.
          I cannot stand their sauntering
          I pass them all.

          I'm missing something that is true
          I'm not quite sure, it may be you.
          To talk to, walk with, once in awhile
          To see you smile.

                              Marguerite K.A. Petersen
                              September 1964

Kathleen O'Toole,
Bringer of Light
From: watson@hg.uleth.ca (The terror that flaps in the night)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: hormonely yours
Date: 30 Sep 92 19:02:15 GMT
Reply-To: watson@hg.uleth.ca
Organization: University of Lethbridge


E motionally, challenged, you say, so
S tay away! Until I tell you otherwise but
T ell me repeatedly that you love me and while you're at it
R id me of this ache.
O ver-reacting, Ovulating, O fuck off!
G entle please, my breasts are tender from
E rotic dreams and nightmare days.
N ow you get over here! And give me a hug, dammit.

- Carol
with inspiration from Libby Doe
From: cecilw@access.isc-br.com (Cecil Williams)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Moon
Date: 27 Sep 92 02:57:30 GMT
Organization: ISC-Bunker Ramo, Spokane, WA








        What if someone 
        took the moon
        into their house?
        my six year old
        daughter asks,
        with a giggle.




        Cecil Williams   
        Andrea Williams  9/26/92
        ************************
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems