Poetics and Ruminations

HEALTH ALERT!

 

 Marcel Proust

Dresden, Maine, October 21, 2009. Exclusive to the Dresden Mills Gazette. The Centers for Disease Control in Atlanta, Georgia, today released an urgent appeal to the medical community and to the nation at large regarding an impending health emergency.

According to Dr. Horace S. Asce, M. D., seminal assistant director of reproductive assets at the Centers, bird flu has crossed with swine flu to coalesce into a major epidemic threat indigenous to the United States and potentially a danger to everyone world-wide.

“This could cause a pandemic,” said Dr. Asce when asked why he and not someone from the department of infectious diseases was spokesman for the Centers on this issue.

“Because,” Dr. Asce replied, “this disease is spread by unfertilized eggs. Anyone who has eggs for breakfast is in danger of infection.”

“Why breakfast?” he was asked by reporters present, in particular Wesli Court, chief influenza correspondent of the Dresden Mills Gazette.

“Sorry,” the doctor said, “I did not mean to imply one could catch this new strain of flu only at breakfast. One is at risk at any meal where eggs are served, in any form.”

“Is eating eggs the only way somebody can become infected?” Court asked in a follow-up question.

“No,” said the doctor. “One can also catch this disease by reading a particlar novel written by the French author Marcel Proust.”

“What novel is that?” Court asked.

“Swann’s Way,” he was told.

“How so?”

“Because,” Dr. Asce explained, “This cross between swine flu and bird flu is called Swann flue,” said the Doctor.

“You can get sick from a novel?”

“Oh, yes,” said Dr. Asce. “I speak from experience. Many novels have made me sick.”

“Is this novel flu a single strain?” Court rejoined.

“No,” Dr. Asce said. “There are two strains. The more lethal has a capital S and a double n, as in ‘Swann.’ The other strain is simple swan flu, and you can avoid it if you duck or are goosed in time.”

“That would be a good thing,” opined the reporter, which the doctor confirmed. “Not only good, but eggcellent,” he agreed.

“Has anyone died of swan flu?” Court asked.

“Only readers of Proust so far,” was the reply. “The best defense against this deadly disease is to refrain from reading French novels. In fact, to be perfectly certain that one will not be infected at any stage, in my opinion one should reman at a distance from French literature entirely for an extended period,” said Dr. Asce. 

The Ob Game

 

         Obs are little furry creatures about three inches tall, but they do many of the things that humans do. For instance, they make movies — what do you call a section of a movie made by a little furry creature? — an obscene.

What do you call little furry couples? — obtuse.

What do you call a tall little furry creature? — an oblong.

What is a well-read little furry creature? — an obliterate.

What’s a poisonous little furry creatures? — obnoxious.

What is a tardy little furry creature? — oblate.

What is the young son of a little furry creature? — oboy.

What is a tardy Scottish little furry creature? — obsolete 

What do you call it when a little furry creature has an argument with his sister Catherine? — obfuscate.

What do you call it when a little furry creature falls for a joke? — obit.

What is a little furry papal envoy? — obligate.

Where is his office? In an obligation.

What do you call it when a little furry creature must urinate? — oblique.

What does a little furry girl call her male friend? — oboe.

What do little furry doctors do? — obscure.

What do you call a little furry creature’s job? — an oblivion.

What does a little furry waiter do? — observe.

What does a little furry butler do for his English lord? — observatory.

What are little furry dirty jokes? — obsess.

What does a little furry creature spend with his therapist? — an obsession.

What does a little furry running back experience? — an obstacle.

What did a little furry creature do when he straightened a wall? — he obtrude. 

What is little furry poetry? — obverse.

What do you call a little furry side of a story? — an obversion.

Who is the little furry creatures’ king? — Oberon

 

What It All Meant

 

The sluggard was so stupid he didn’t know what movement.

The sailor was so stupid he didn’t know what shipment.

The undertaker was so stupid he didn’t know what bereavement.

The tailor was so stupid he didn’t know what measurement.

The policeman was so stupid he didn’t know what entrapment.

The woodsman was so stupid he didn’t know what encampment.

The guest was so stupid he didn’t know what department.

The general was so stupid he didn’t know what enforcement.

The garage mechanic was so stupid he didn’t know what retirement.

 

The realtor was so simple she didn’t know what allotment.

The makeup artist was so simple she didn’t know what defacement.

The seamstress was so simple she didn’t know what disfigurement

The nurse was so simple she didn’t know what implement.

The actress was so simple she didn’t know what engagement.

The cook was so simple she didn’t know what derangement.

The divorcee was so simple she didn’t know what apartment.

 

The contractor was so stupid he didn’t know what improvement.

The French eradicator was so simple he didn’t know what rapprochement.

The Selective Service administrator was so stupid he didn’t know what enlistment.

The musician was so simple he didn’t know what arrangement.

The shepherd was so stupid he didn’t know what abutment.

The medical student was so stupid he didn’t know what internment. 

The sexton was so simple he didn’t know what interment.

The trapper was so stupid he didn’t know what deferment.

The quiz show host was so stupid he didn’t know what bafflement.

The photographer was so stupid he didn’t know what enlargement.

The novelist was so stupid he didn’t know what entitlement.

The essayist was so stupid he didn’t know what contentment.

The fisherman was so slow he didn’t know what abatement.

The madam was so stupid she didn’t know what procurement.

The poet was so stupid he didn’t know what amusement.

The games maker was so stupid he didn’t know what amazement.

The farmer was so slow he didn’t know what appeasement. 

The Scotsman was so dumb he didn’t know what monument.

The sea captain was so dull he didn’t know what deportment.

 

The kennel owner was so foolish she didn’t know what curtailment.

The dissatisfied boss was so gaga he didn’t know what unemployment.

The messy secretary was so out of it she didn’t know what defilement.

The fired worker was so inexperienced she didn’t know what discernment.

Her boyfriend was so inexperienced he didn’t know what entanglement.

The architect was so dumb he didn’t know what pediment.

The obstructionist was so stupid he didn’t know what impediment.

The trespasser was so dull he didn’t know what encroachment.

The cane grower was so gross he didn’t know what refinement.

The novice teacher was so callow she didn’t know what assignment.

The seer was so inept he didn’t know what assignment.

The artist was so untalented he didn’t know what alignment.

The garageman was so stupid he didn’t know what alignment.

The makeup artist was so inept she didn’t know what lineament.

The trainer was so dumb he didn’t know what liniment.

The sports doctor was so stupid he didn’t know what medicament.

The owner of the team was so raw he didn’t know what emolument.

The successful athlete was so new he didn’t know what endorsement.

The siren was so modest she didn’t know what allurement.

The sadist was so self-absorbed he didn't know what punishment.

Merlin was so young he didn’t know what entrancement,

And neither did the new arrival.

REMARKS

"What It All Meant," on your blog, is a brilliantly crafted manipulation of language...great enjoyment...an exercise for the mind...but does nothing for my heart. I can only speak for myself in this regard, as others' hearts remain elusive. I'm constantly on the fence about such things, one foot in brain fluid, the other ankle-deep in blood.


Jason

 

I’m glad you liked my series of puns, “What It All Meant,” Jason, and I’m pleased that you noticed it’s a mind exercise. There is nothing wrong with human beings exercising their minds. In fact, it is the human mind, the neo-cortex, not the human “heart,” that writes poetry, and it is not the “heart” that is the seat of emotion, it is the mammal brain, the hypothalamus: Take a look on my blog at the essay titled “Sympathetic Magic” for an expansion of some ideas of Arthur Koestler on this subject.

Lew

I just read "What it all Meant" and now I'm filled with contentment. How long did it take you to write that?

Ginger

I couldn't begin to tell you, Ginger.

I sometimes just get on a tear and write a pile of things like that, and then at later times I add to it. Glad you liked the content, though, and now know contentment.

If you'd like to see more pun games on my blog, click on the "Punography" category in the cloud box to the left.

Lew

HEALTH ALERT!

April 28, 2009. Special to the Dresden Mills Gazette. By Wesli Court, Health Editor. A medical emergency has been called by the Centers for Disease Control in Atlanta regarding the current threatened swine flu epidemic. The Senate today confirmed Kathleen Sebelius, Governor of Kansas for the past six years, as Secretary of Health and Human Services, just in time for her to attend to the stymie over the swine influenza strain that is emerging from Mexican piggeries.

         Senator Mark Warner, Democrat of Virginia, said the threat of a flu pandemic made it urgent for the Senate to confirm Ms. Sebelius, “so President Obama has in place a strong secretary of health.”

         But no one foresaw the latest twist in the current knotty health problem, for apparently the virus has mutated among a particular group of scientists. Physicists are being tied up by what experts are now calling the “twine flu,” in particular those who believe in string theory.

         “There is a cord among scientists that this new problem must be solved before the illness can taper off,” an unnamed source located high in the A.M.A. told this reporter. “Right now,” she continued, “it’s hanging fire.”

         A sure symptom of the disease, according to sources, is that a sore throat turns the victim into a sneezer or, among sailors, a hawser or a painter, in a chain of events that can cost a bundle. “All you can do is truss your doctor,” is the common consensus. “And remember that sailors at sea believe that an ampoule a day keeps the doctor aweigh.”

         Finally, all you can do is take precautions, and the number one precept ought to be, “DON’T KISS A PIG! Wear a mask to remind you not to splice up your life.”

 

  

REMARKS

Ah, Lew,

I sow right through that — it was just you wanting to hog all the attention ... you big boar.  But thanks for the update - the shoat must go on. 

Ann

 

Oink, oink, Ann! Great comment!

Lew

 

Sorry, but I think the gossips are stringing you along. What can you do? Give 'em enough rope — you know the rest.  Don't get entwined in all the mumbo-gumbo — it IS a knotty problem, with a new twist — but it can be unravelled with patience.  All I'm twine to say is, don't lose the thread.  If you do, you'll end up back at the Minotaur's pad, and that'll amaze you. I guarantee.

Ruth

p.s. I talked to Larry at the hardware store about your bulletin, and he hadn't heard the noose.  He hasn't anything in stock to help you, says riata carry some hawsers, but don't have any in stock.  He promised to ask the lasso-ver at the counter, who does the ordering. "'Frayed it all depends on memory," he braid.

Well, Ruth,

You can tell Larry that no noose is good noose. Tell him too that he should slip knot into temptation.

Lew

Lew,

I guess you're just bound to pun, to string us along by means of wordplay, to link your meanings on a verbal tether, betide what may!

But have you heard of the latest observed symptom of the current disease? A pig in a border town in New Mexico has sprouted wings! Yes, in plain sight of all, the SWINE FLEW!

Rhina

 

Not only that, Rhina,

But one variety has crossed with bird flu and produced a terrifying strain: one flu over the cuckoo’s nest.

By the way, did you notice that your email letter is infected with rime?

“I guess you're just bound to pun,

to string us along by means of wordplay,

to link your meanings on a verbal tether,

betide what may!”

I’d suggest that you go to an animal doctor for a cure, but you are an inveterate rhymester!

Lew  

Meditation on Oyster Sunday

Living in Maine as I do now, I run into a lot of marine types and odd local lore, as for instance discovering that in the spring mollusks are visited by the Oyster bunny who arrives on Oyster Sunday and brings them Oyster eggs. If bivalves are driven out to sea it’s the clam before the storm. Usually, though, fisherfolk are ingrown and taciturn people, and when you try to talk to them they do clam up. They’re quite shellfish. When they bring in their catch they throw a tarpon it just for the halibut, which can be sharking. They think they’re cod almighty, or maybe just the dolphin of France. Their life has no other porpoise than to fish. If you try to bait them, they go in seine — your life is up for crabs.

Old salts have always smelt bad. They know that there used to be a tern or a gull for every letter of the alphabet, but many have become extinct. There no longer is an A-gull, for instance, but there is a B-gull, though it has lost its wings and developed four legs; it can be quite a wag. There is still, of course, the ever-present C-gull. The D-gull is gone, but the E-gull is still with us and making a comeback. The F-gull, G-gull, H-gull, I-gull, J-gull, and K-gull are all gone, as is the L-gull, though a close cousin, the Lee-gull, continues to exist, though it often interbreeds with the E-gull thus engendering the Lee-gull/E-gull, the avian equivalent of the mule. The Starboard gull is no longer extant.

         The M-gull has not been seen in a long time, though there are many N-terns around hospitals. The O- through Q-gulls have disappeared, but the R-gull exists, though only in Scotland. The S-tern is alive and hazardous, but the T-gull is extinct. The U-tern appears to be omnipresent. About half of them are female sis-terns some of which are thoughtful and tend to be rather deep. The V-, W- and X-gulls are missing (though in a sense all the extinct gulls are X-gulls), but there is still one Y-gull, and its name is Bruce. There were never many Z-gulls, and now they’re all gone.

Sometimes fishermen are required to sterilize sea mammals, so they’ve developed the semi-musical skill of orca-stration; some of them can even tuna piano. Others attempt oar-castration, which is futile. The net result of all this is that they develop mussels between their ears which give them terrible haddocks. No use urchin them to see a shrimp, they’d rather spend their time creating a row, and if they catch you they’ll whale away. To this, all one can say is, “Abalone.”

 

 

                                                REMARKS

 

OK.  Thanks! 

Ruth

Now, now, Ruth. No sarcasm, please.

 

Lew

Well, your Oyster greeting was a good read, and made me remember something I had written as a college freshman many long years ago, about the "regal Fiegle eagle" which annoyed a local beagle ... it was an occasional poem, printed in the college paper, whose name will occur to me in a minute (ah yes, the Mesa College Criterion) ... but in Grand Junction (which I grew up near) a family named Fiegle owned a farm machinery business, known widely as "Fiegle's Trading Post."  For no discernible reason, for a time they topped the building with a bad sculpture of an eagle, and the situation seemed fraught with possibilities ... SO-- the thanks are genuine.

Ruth

 

Lew,

I see you’re angling for a response … well here it is –

While I was trolling I came upon a chum. Since it was Oyster Sunday, he asked if I was praying and I answered, “No, I lost my sole!”

The night crawler was caught by the police and arrested for indecent exposure – he forgot to pull up his mayfly.

The girl couldn’t eat her soup – she forgot harspoon

The husband’s affair with his secretary was a red herring to keep his wife from finding out he really had a boyfriend … she took the bait!

These are pretty bad ... gill-ty as charged. Thanks for the chuckles.

Happy Easter.

Ann

 

The Tibetan Monk Game

invented by Prof. David W. Hill

Questions

1. What Tibetan monk loves to tat?

2. What Tibetan monk is usually late?

3. What Tibetan monk loves pastrami on rye?

4. What Tibetan monk plays with girls’ toys?

5. What Tibetan monk is a real pip?

6. What Tibetan monk loves pickles?

7. What Tibetan monk is judgmental?

8. What Tibetan monk loves New England folk music?

9. What Tibetan monk is severely retarded?

10. What Tibetan monk reads the morning newspaper?

11. What Tibetan monk edits the monastery newsletter?

12. What Tibetan monk, buried alive, is torn up in the fall and replanted in the spring?

13. What Tibetan monk plays the bagpipes?

14. What Tibetan monk is a used car salesman?

15. What Tibetan monk responds apathetically to stimuli?

16. What Tibetan monk dislikes pushbutton communications devices?

17. What Tibetan monk loves a female jazz singer?

18. What bean is grown in Tibet?

19. What is a lazy Tibetan bean?

20. What Tibetan bean is often pickled?

21. What Tibetan bean is served with lox and bagels?

22. What Tibetan bean looks like Barbie?

23. What Tibetan bean makes people salivate?

24. What Tibetan bean is prescribed by physicians?

25. What Tibetan bean has been crossed with a perennial?

26. What Tibetan monk is recalcitrant?

27. What Tibetan monk is a French attorney?

28. What Tibetan monk is a real pip?

29. What Tibetan monk is narrow and straight as an arrow?

30. What Tibetan bean makes people late?

31. What Tibetan monk is highly bedecked?

32. What Tibetan bean is worn as decoration?

33. What Tibetan monk has a fat face?

34. What Tibetan monk is always happy?

35. What Tibetan bean is most like candy?

36. What Tibetan monk is pretty?

37. What Tibetan bean is good looking?

38. What Tibetan monk is a surrealist?

39. What Tibetan monk is surprised?

40. What Tibetan monk is sweetness on a stick?

41. What Tibetan monk lives in the South Pacific?

42. What Tibetan monk makes a fool of himself?

43. What Tibetan monk looks like Tom Sawyer’s aunt?

44. What Tibetan monk acts like Lassie?

45. What Tibetan monk loves Christmas?

46. What Tibetan monk is like a black tropical fish?

47. What Tibetan monk plays tennis?

48. What Tibetan monk is most like Hurok?

 

Answers:

1. The Doily Lama.

2. The Dally Lama.

3. The Deli Lama.

4. The Dolly Lama.

5. The Dilly Lama

6. The Dilly Lama.

7. The Duly Lama.

8. The Dooley Lama.

9. The Drooly Lama.

10. The Daily Lama.

11. The Dele Lama.

12. The Dahlia Lama.

13. The Dirly Lama.

14. The Dealy Lama.

15. The Dully Lama.

16. The Dially Lama.

17. The Della Lama.

18. The Dalai Lama.

19. The Dally Lama.

20. The Dilly Lama.

21. The Deli Lama.

22. The Dolly Lama.

23. The Drooly Lama.

24. The Daily Lama.

25. The Dahlia Lama.

26. The Delay Lama.

27. The du Loi Lama.

28. The Dilly Lama.

29. The Dowelly Lama.

30. The Dally Lama.

31. The Jewelry Lama.

32. The Jewelry Lama.

33. The Jowly Lama.

34. The Jolly Lama.

35. The Jelly Lama.

36. The Joli Lama.

37. The Joli Lama.

38. The Dali Lama.

39. The Golly Lama.

40. The Lolly Lama.

41. The Bali Lama.

42. The Folly Lama.

43. The Polly Lama.

44. The Collie Lama.

45. The Holly Lama.

46. The Molly Lama.

47. The Volley Lama.

48. The Solly Lama.

 

____________________________________________________

 

REMARKS

Oh, no! Grrrroooooaaaan!!! Arggghhhhh!!! Prof. Hill should go to his room for a long time out after this rampage of punstery.

Rhina

 

He just invented the game, Rhina,

The puns aren't all his, so he doesn't deserve all the punishment.

Lew

P.S. Good stuff on the Per Contra Light Verse Supplement! [at http://www.percontra.net/14lvtoc.htm].

Tern and Tern About

What better way to begin the new year than with a moral tale? The fabled Dean of Student Affairs at S.U.N.Y. Oswego and amateur ornithologist Robert Roc received a commission from National Geographic to write and photograph an essay on seabirds nesting on a small and very rocky island off the coast of Maine. It would take him all spring and summer, so he prepared himself thoroughly and built an inconspicuous camp and several blinds at strategic locations on the islet. He moved himself in before mating season started, and he began taking photographs and copious notes.

As time passed, it became clear that the various species of birds got along poorly, to say the least. They were always mounting incursions into each other’s territory, and the larger birds preyed on the smaller ones, either eating them or their eggs or forcing them to relinquish their catches. Eventually, however, Bob became aware of one small seabird who seemed to have a sense of altruism.

This bird, when it saw an altercation developing between its island mates would attempt to break it up before it got started. If the parents of a chick were somehow killed or driven off, this bird would actually try to feed the baby until it became a fledgling. The good Samaritan bird would even lend a wing in nest building if the builder were inept. Roc was simply amazed.

He began to focus on the helpful bird, and at last he became so interested in it — almost obsessively so — that all of his efforts were bent toward chronicling this feathered friend’s existence. When he sat down at his laptop to begin writing his article he soon found that he had enough material for a book. The following fall he submitted his original article to the magazine and began to write the book because, as he said in his journal, “One good tern deserves an author.”

 

Hot Head

CLICK ON THE IMAGE BELOW TO VIEW IT PROPERLY.

Yes, the idiot in this newspaper story is yours truly. All is on the mend.

Sam.

I have a chair like that. It can put you to sleep. That must be what happened to you. For a moment there you had red hair. Glad you're all right. I had a similar experience while I was teaching in Potsdam '68-'69> I went to a doctor to have a couple of growths removed from my scalp. He decided to burn them out, but before he did he disinfected the area with alcohol. I suddenly felt him and his nurse whacking me on the head with the palms of their hands: he'd set me afire. He cut the second one out with a pair of surgical scissors while I sat ensconced in his chair.

Great name for a fire chief! Or any man, I'd say. Now all you have to do is find a woman named Vaginasdaughter to put out the flame in your pubes.

Reminds me of three file cards I found at BuPers my last year in the Navy - Lunger, Crapper, and Glasscock. I thought they'd make a fine law firm.

Lew

Actually I was out of the chair and seated on a quite different kind--white porcelain.  When I returned, the flames were a'risin'.  Lost a lot of poetry books.  Send me a new Book of Forms one of these days.

Sam

I will send you one on Monday, my xmas gift with commiserations for your adversities.

Lew

It must have been a helluva massage!

Roy Howe

 

In a chaise pour massage, our friend Sam

made himself just as snug as a clam

till the gizmo defied him

and just about fried him

and served him with pancakes and ham.

Rhina

 

It takes a special person to own up. Or a person who knew his cover was already blown.

Tim Summerlin

Good God Sam!!!! What were you thinking???? I hope Captain Penis-son.....took good care of you and that you are NOT permanently damaged....

Love, Co

 

Oh, Dear!

FOR OUR FRIEND SAM

The chair he sat on like a burning throne

Flared in his office for a failed massage,

While all around him poems went up in flames

As their creators hoped they would some day.

It was a conflagration of the art

Much to be desired by mincing Logans

And others of that ilk. O mighty pyre,

That saves the critic from a chore to read,

Why should a garden hose rescue a poem?

If only it had spewed forth Maker’s Mark

We should have seen the Burning Man of art.

Yet still our friend lives on to blaze and write

Another book review, another rite

Of sanity disposed of in his prose.

Shine forth, O Burning Man, and in the night

May thy new-dappled nose dispel the gloom

Like reindeer guiding Santa’s laden sleigh.

Composed with love between courses of a reasonably good dinner,

Dave Mason

 

Sam,

I truly had no idea how prescient I was when I wrote your epitaph long ago:

 R.I.P.  R. S. GWYNN

May 13 1948

He made us laugh, he made us giggle,

But now he makes the earthworms wiggle,

He smoked until they let him in:

Here lie the ashes of R. S. Gwynn.

Lew

 Sam, this gives a whole new meaning to being in the hot-seat!   But I'm very glad you're okay; those heating-pad things are dangerous, and it could have been a whole lot worse.

Marilyn

 

 TEXAS POET SURVIVES ELECTRIC CHAIR!(and I just wonder who wrote up that marvelous article with a title just made for poetry?... in fact,  the entire ordeal seems poetry-ready!) Now HEAL, SAM!

T.P.

Please, T. P.,

Stop treating Sam like a dog.

Lew

Everyman in the Street

A CYBERSPACE INTERVIEW

Special to the Dresden Mills Gazette. September 28, 2008. My name is Wesli Court, a reporter for the Dresden Mills Gazette, and I am standing beside the counter of the Dresden Take-Out and Texaco. With me is my sketchist, Art Penman, and we are about to speak with a gentleman who has just entered the store to pay for his gasoline. Good morning, sir. What is your name, please?

D.E. My name is Dick Everyman.

W. C. Mr. Everyman, would you mind answering a few questions for the Dresden Mills Gazette?

D. E. Okay.

W. C. Are you a registered voter?

D. E. Yes, I am.

W. C. What is your opinion of the people who are running for the Presidency of the United States?

D. E. Depends. Which one?

W. C. How about the Republican nominee?

D. E. I think in his dotage he’s raising McCain.

W. C. And the Democrat?

D. E. Lots of racists are afraid we’re turning into an Obama nation.

W. C. How about his running mate?

D. E. He should start Biden time before he blurts again.

W. C. How about the Republican Vice-Presidential nominee?

D. E. She started out pale, and she’s still Palin. The depth of her ignorance is appalling.

W. C. How do you feel about the bailout of the country’s financial institutions taking place right now?

D. E. I thought the Bush League had finished looting the national treasury, but I was wrong. And they’re going to get away with it again.

W. C. What’s your opinion of the Secretary of the Treasury?

D. E. He, too, apPauls, son.

W. C. Which party do you think you’ll vote for in this election?

D. E. Well, in the recent past I’ve voted Green, but they’ve reached their Nader once too often.

W. C. Then you’re undecided?

D. E. Hell, no! If you think I want a third term sitting in the Bushes with McCain and his sugar, you’re crazy.

W. C. Thank you for your time, Mr. Everyman.

D. E. Welcome. How much do I owe you for gas?

 

Ideas for a Poetry Workshop

Windmill Poets

Tuesday July 15, 2008

6:30-8:00 PM

Piedmont OK Public Library

 

Some Ideas (fill in the blanks):

 The scents from the kitchen say? —  “Cooking makes sense.”

 The manicured lawn says? — “Mow is me!”

 The dust on the table says — “Dust thou as I say?”

 The wilted roses say — “Water, Lily!”

 The room of poets says — “We're averse to everything.” 

____________________________________________________

Windmill Poets Report:

Your words were the highlight. I typed them on a handout — and we had Clark Elliott read them aloud because he has a wit-and-humor-gift.

Attendance was down — always is in July — but we had a great time made more fun by  "Poetical Uncle Lew."  

I had a hunch you might include your responses to the Windmill Poets Announcement on your web site. Sure enough you did! I missed it if you credited yourself or Wesli for the clever endings.

 Thank you!

 Vivian

Lew,

 the wives of the Navy's elite say, "our lips are SEALed?" 



the sailors in the parade announce, "we're afloat?" 



the library school kids say, "it's all booklearning?" 



the calligraphy students say. "we learn by rote?"

 Paul Austin

Here are some offerings .... 

The Italian chef says.... ahhh-Roma! 
 
The dragon lily says to the violet ... you're a pansy! 
 
The ballet instructor says to the student... you're just tu-tu! 
 
The wizard says to the cowardly lion ... here's your mettle. 
 
Ann says to Lew ... here's a gold star just cuz' you're great!!!!! 

Ann Badach