[Poetic Peter]

Re: Where Have You Been?

I'm a big blue cop
helping Christians cross the street.
Cause I'm a better man than you.
And I've got a gun...
I've also got some handcuffs,
for when you give up.

Welcome back, Elmer and Glendora

Thank you both so much.

Another ditty of healthy thought:

E&I&G

If life is a pickup truck
(mind, I ain't sayin' diff'rent) ,
I'd thumb a ride to ride beside
'tween you and Mother Glyndie.

If manhood is a rifle rack
(mind, I ain't sayin' diff'rent) ,
I'd stock yours with walnut curves
for you and Mother Glyndie.

[Pastor Al E Pistle]

Re: Where Have You Been?

Thank you both so much.

Another ditty of healthy thought:

E&I&G

If life is a pickup truck
(mind, I ain't sayin' diff'rent) ,
I'd thumb a ride to ride beside
'tween you and Mother Glyndie.

If manhood is a rifle rack
(mind, I ain't sayin' diff'rent) ,
I'd stock yours with walnut curves
for you and Mother Glyndie.

What an amazing
mind (I ain't sayin' diff'rent).
I'd like to think a thought through it
to see what shines the penny.

[Poetic Peter]

Re: Where Have You Been?

What an amazing
mind (I ain't sayin' diff'rent).
I'd like to think a thought through it
to see what shines the penny.

Well, sir, what shines the quarter is that ode I have fresh-made for you in a nearby space.

Yep, you were way ahead of the pack in alternative fuel technology in my imaginary (but not far from the truth!) re-casting of your life in an earlier time.

The best poet that ever wrote for the USA was Edgar Allen Guest.
(mind, I ain't sayin' I'm near as good!)

[Pastor Ezekiel]

Re: Where Have You Been?

This was my grandfather's favorite poem. He was a farmer, and he was a commie.

SOYBEANS

The October air was warm and musky, blowing
Over brown fields, heavy with the fragrance
Of freshly combined beans, the breath of harvest.

He was pulling a truckload onto the scales
At the elevator near the rail siding north of town
When a big Cadillac drove up. A man stepped out,
Wearing a three-piece suit and a gold pinky ring.
The man said he had just invested a hundred grand
In soybeans and wanted to see what they looked like.

The farmer stared at the man and was quiet, reaching
For the tobacco in the rear pocket of his jeans,
Where he wore his only ring, a threadbare circle rubbed
By working cans of dip and long hours on the backside
Of a hundred acre run. He scooped up a handful
Of small white beans, the pearls of the prairie, saying:

Soybeans look like a foot of water on the field in April
When you're ready to plant and can't get in;
Like three kids at the kitchen table
Eating macaroni and cheese five nights in a row,
Or like a broken part on the combine when
Your credit with the implement dealer is nearly tapped.

Soybeans look like prayers bouncing off the ceiling
When prices on the Chicago grain market start to drop;
Or like your old man's tears when you tell him
How much the land might bring for subdivisions.
Soybeans look like the first good night of sleep in weeks
When you unload at the elevator and the kids get Christmas.

He spat a little juice on the tire of the Cadillac,
Laughing despite himself and saying to the man:
Now maybe you can tell me what a hundred grand looks like.

-- Thomas Alan Orr

[Brother Temperance]

Re: Where Have You Been?

This was my grandfather's favorite poem. He was a farmer, and he was a commie.

I trust he was nothing to do with Uncle Rummy's side of the family?

[Pastor Ezekiel]

Re: Where Have You Been?

I trust he was nothing to do with Uncle Rummy's side of the family?

Of course not. My sinful mother's side of the family. Thanks for bringing up a very painful subject.

[Brother Temperance]

Re: Where Have You Been?

Of course not. My sinful mother's side of the family. Thanks for bringing up a very painful subject.

Oh. It figures that someone like that would be related to a woman.

[Poetic Peter]

Re: Where Have You Been?

Worth to read any such poem aloud. Read all poetry aloud.
Poetry is about language and inflection. Good example, Zeke.
Sorry about beans here.

http://img156.imageshack.us/my.php?image=sound203jk2.swf

PP

This was my grandfather's favorite poem. He was a farmer, and he was a commie.

SOYBEANS

The October air was warm and musky, blowing
Over brown fields, heavy with the fragrance
Of freshly combined beans, the breath of harvest.

He was pulling a truckload onto the scales
At the elevator near the rail siding north of town
When a big Cadillac drove up. A man stepped out,
Wearing a three-piece suit and a gold pinky ring.
The man said he had just invested a hundred grand
In soybeans and wanted to see what they looked like.

The farmer stared at the man and was quiet, reaching
For the tobacco in the rear pocket of his jeans,
Where he wore his only ring, a threadbare circle rubbed
By working cans of dip and long hours on the backside
Of a hundred acre run. He scooped up a handful
Of small white beans, the pearls of the prairie, saying:

Soybeans look like a foot of water on the field in April
When you're ready to plant and can't get in;
Like three kids at the kitchen table
Eating macaroni and cheese five nights in a row,
Or like a broken part on the combine when
Your credit with the implement dealer is nearly tapped.

Soybeans look like prayers bouncing off the ceiling
When prices on the Chicago grain market start to drop;
Or like your old man's tears when you tell him
How much the land might bring for subdivisions.
Soybeans look like the first good night of sleep in weeks
When you unload at the elevator and the kids get Christmas.

He spat a little juice on the tire of the Cadillac,
Laughing despite himself and saying to the man:
Now maybe you can tell me what a hundred grand looks like.

-- Thomas Alan Orr