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Re: Strum ... (26069 Manfred)

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  • Alan
    Manfred my friend Now, that s my style of poetry. A Rhyming story. A budding Coleridge: It is an ancient Mariner, And he stoppeth one in three. By thy long
    Message 1 of 14 , Feb 1, 2006
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      Manfred my friend

      Now, that's my style of poetry. A Rhyming story. A budding Coleridge:

      "It is an ancient Mariner,
      And he stoppeth one in three.
      'By thy long grey beard and glittering eye,
      Now wherefore stopp'st me?"

      Not only Rhyme but pleasing rhythm which pulls you into the story.

      Perhaps in your second stanza you could have said 'a few dollars'
      rather than "A dollar or two" to maintain a flow which is otherwise
      perfect.
      And in the fourth: most would be better as: 'most to differentiate
      almost from most as in majority.

      I like your style and hope to see much more of the same

      Best wishes
      As always
      Wings

      Iticket2write@yahoogroups.com, "Manfred" <r_u_sirius2@h...> wrote:
      >
      > STRUM
      > (c)Manfred Vijars - Feb 2006
      >
      > His coughing and his wheezing cracked the brisk cool Brisbane dawn.
      > I walked this path most mornings and surveyed him with some scorn.
      > He'd been here for a week now finding shelter by the fence -
      > behind some shrubs, well tucked away and all for no expense.
      >
      > Something prompted me to pause and see if he's OK.
      > (a few dollars to salve my soul then I'd be on my way)
      > The look he gave me pierced me deep and I just had to stay
      > and find out more about this bloke and what caused his decay.
      >
      > The dirt caked on his face and neck had built up over time,
      > He smelt a tad unpleasant yet appropriate to the grime.
      > I sat beside him on the bench, his coughing clearing some.
      > A rough and raspy voice declared that, "People call me Strum!"
      >
      > His eyes bloodshot from cardboard port he'd have most every night.
      > He'd ramble 'bout how rough life was, and "... things is pretty
      tight!"
      > Confessed to petty crime while heading South through one small
      town.
      > I offered him some money which he accepted with a frown.
      >
      > Next morning he was sitting on the bench beside the path
      > I wanted to avoid him, well, at least until he'd bath.
      > I also sat, we spoke some more. I continued on my way;
      > and every morning from then on we'd share the start of day.
      >
      > He slowly opened up to me about the life he'd led
      > The things he'd done, how he thought, and what's inside his head.
      > But something, dunno what it was, chilled me to the bone.
      > It scared me then and scares me now; how he was all alone.
      >
      > He worked Whalers out of Tangalooma, cut cane North and beyond
      > shot some crocs around the Gulf, fixed steel at Geehi Ponds
      > Then as fettler on the Western Rail he lost it all it seems.
      > A dark haired Girl's false promises so full of shattered dreams
      >
      > She was working in Corones, top spot in Charleville.
      > One look and he was smitten so he'd sit and drink his fill
      > just watching her move 'round the bar, but she'd no time for him.
      > She led him on, then dropped him flat. She played him on a whim.
      >
      > It knocked him cold when she moved on, he couldn't understand
      > why she strung him out to dry and flaunt what they had planned.
      > He started drinking seriously and continued up till now
      > No longer trust the fairer sex, he made that his life's vow.
      >
      > Then one morning he was gone; He didn't wait for me.
      > My heart just sank. I feared the worst. Some youths out on a spree
      > had come across him, played with him. Then tiring of their game
      > got vicious, left him in a pool of blood. Shame, shame, Shame!
      >
      > His Service it was simple, bare, devoid of friends (bar me)
      > I wondered what his pathways were into eternity.
      > I sorta hoped that "She" might show, mysterious, dressed in black
      > to offer him one last goodbye but life don't work like that.
      >
      > Strum, a battered old guitar you were, to some you were a hoon.
      > You plucked at life; and my heart strings are left to play your
      tune;
      > It's character that defines us all, not personality.
      > No guarantees in life they say, that statement sure cuts me.
      >
      > You take your path, chose the fork not sure of what's to come,
      > your past mistakes may sometimes rise and bite you on the bum.
      > People touch us then they're gone, their lives not fully run.
      > Unfathomed lessons from a bloke, simply known as "Strum".
      >
    • Manfred
      Spot on with your comments Wings, thank you they have been employed. The piece is still perculating while I try to view the forest AND name the trees so
      Message 2 of 14 , Feb 1, 2006
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        Spot on with your comments Wings, thank you they have been employed.
        The piece is still perculating while I try to "view the forest AND
        name the trees" so comments from different eyes with different lenses
        are most welcome.

        Cheers Mate,

        Manfred.



        --- In ticket2write@yahoogroups.com, "Alan" <wings081@...> wrote:
        >
        > Manfred my friend
        >
        > Now, that's my style of poetry. A Rhyming story. A budding Coleridge:
        >
        > "It is an ancient Mariner,
        > And he stoppeth one in three.
        > 'By thy long grey beard and glittering eye,
        > Now wherefore stopp'st me?"
        >
        > Not only Rhyme but pleasing rhythm which pulls you into the story.
        >
        > Perhaps in your second stanza you could have said 'a few dollars'
        > rather than "A dollar or two" to maintain a flow which is otherwise
        > perfect.
        > And in the fourth: most would be better as: 'most to differentiate
        > almost from most as in majority.
        >
        > I like your style and hope to see much more of the same
        >
        > Best wishes
        > As always
        > Wings
        >
        > Iticket2write@yahoogroups.com, "Manfred" <r_u_sirius2@h...> wrote:
        > >
        > > STRUM
        > > (c)Manfred Vijars - Feb 2006
        > >
        > > His coughing and his wheezing cracked the brisk cool Brisbane dawn.
        > > I walked this path most mornings and surveyed him with some scorn.
        > > He'd been here for a week now finding shelter by the fence -
        > > behind some shrubs, well tucked away and all for no expense.
        > >
        > > Something prompted me to pause and see if he's OK.
        > > (a few dollars to salve my soul then I'd be on my way)
        > > The look he gave me pierced me deep and I just had to stay
        > > and find out more about this bloke and what caused his decay.
        > >
        > > The dirt caked on his face and neck had built up over time,
        > > He smelt a tad unpleasant yet appropriate to the grime.
        > > I sat beside him on the bench, his coughing clearing some.
        > > A rough and raspy voice declared that, "People call me Strum!"
        > >
        > > His eyes bloodshot from cardboard port he'd have most every night.
        > > He'd ramble 'bout how rough life was, and "... things is pretty
        > tight!"
        > > Confessed to petty crime while heading South through one small
        > town.
        > > I offered him some money which he accepted with a frown.
        > >
        > > Next morning he was sitting on the bench beside the path
        > > I wanted to avoid him, well, at least until he'd bath.
        > > I also sat, we spoke some more. I continued on my way;
        > > and every morning from then on we'd share the start of day.
        > >
        > > He slowly opened up to me about the life he'd led
        > > The things he'd done, how he thought, and what's inside his head.
        > > But something, dunno what it was, chilled me to the bone.
        > > It scared me then and scares me now; how he was all alone.
        > >
        > > He worked Whalers out of Tangalooma, cut cane North and beyond
        > > shot some crocs around the Gulf, fixed steel at Geehi Ponds
        > > Then as fettler on the Western Rail he lost it all it seems.
        > > A dark haired Girl's false promises so full of shattered dreams
        > >
        > > She was working in Corones, top spot in Charleville.
        > > One look and he was smitten so he'd sit and drink his fill
        > > just watching her move 'round the bar, but she'd no time for him.
        > > She led him on, then dropped him flat. She played him on a whim.
        > >
        > > It knocked him cold when she moved on, he couldn't understand
        > > why she strung him out to dry and flaunt what they had planned.
        > > He started drinking seriously and continued up till now
        > > No longer trust the fairer sex, he made that his life's vow.
        > >
        > > Then one morning he was gone; He didn't wait for me.
        > > My heart just sank. I feared the worst. Some youths out on a spree
        > > had come across him, played with him. Then tiring of their game
        > > got vicious, left him in a pool of blood. Shame, shame, Shame!
        > >
        > > His Service it was simple, bare, devoid of friends (bar me)
        > > I wondered what his pathways were into eternity.
        > > I sorta hoped that "She" might show, mysterious, dressed in black
        > > to offer him one last goodbye but life don't work like that.
        > >
        > > Strum, a battered old guitar you were, to some you were a hoon.
        > > You plucked at life; and my heart strings are left to play your
        > tune;
        > > It's character that defines us all, not personality.
        > > No guarantees in life they say, that statement sure cuts me.
        > >
        > > You take your path, chose the fork not sure of what's to come,
        > > your past mistakes may sometimes rise and bite you on the bum.
        > > People touch us then they're gone, their lives not fully run.
        > > Unfathomed lessons from a bloke, simply known as "Strum".
        > >
        >
      • Gwen Ames
        Manfred, I envy your long successful attempt at rhyme. I can t comment at length at this time because I am crunched for time. I just wanted to say I enjoyed
        Message 3 of 14 , Feb 1, 2006
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          Manfred,
           
          I envy your long successful attempt at rhyme. I can't comment at length at this time because I am crunched for time. I just wanted to say I enjoyed this but I think it could be tightened up a bit and some lines could have better rhyming partners.
           
          I actually have one about a homeless man that I might share some day. I've passed it around one small group already but feel it is not finished yet.
           
          I don't think I've heard from you before, are you new or just been resting?
           
          Gwen
          .

          Manfred <r_u_sirius2@...> wrote:
          STRUM
          (c)Manfred Vijars - Feb 2006

          His coughing and his wheezing cracked the brisk cool Brisbane dawn.
          I walked this path most mornings and surveyed him with some scorn.
          He'd been here for a week now finding shelter by the fence -
          behind some shrubs, well tucked away and all for no expense.

          Something prompted me to pause and see if he's OK.
          (a few dollars to salve my soul then I'd be on my way)
          The look he gave me pierced me deep and I just had to stay
          and find out more about this bloke and what caused his decay.

          The dirt caked on his face and neck had built up over time,
          He smelt a tad unpleasant yet appropriate to the grime.
          I sat beside him on the bench, his coughing clearing some.
          A rough and raspy voice declared that, "People call me Strum!"

          His eyes bloodshot from cardboard port he'd have most every night.
          He'd ramble 'bout how rough life was, and "... things is pretty tight!"
          Confessed to petty crime while heading South through one small town.
          I offered him some money which he accepted with a frown.

          Next morning he was sitting on the bench beside the path
          I wanted to avoid him, well, at least until he'd bath.
          I also sat, we spoke some more. I continued on my way;
          and every morning from then on we'd share the start of day.

          He slowly opened up to me about the life he'd led
          The things he'd done, how he thought, and what's inside his head.
          But something, dunno what it was, chilled me to the bone.
          It scared me then and scares me now; how he was all alone.

          He worked Whalers out of Tangalooma, cut cane North and beyond
          shot some crocs around the Gulf, fixed steel at Geehi Ponds
          Then as fettler on the Western Rail he lost it all it seems.
          A dark haired Girl's false promises so full of shattered dreams

          She was working in Corones, top spot in Charleville.
          One look and he was smitten so he'd sit and drink his fill
          just watching her move 'round the bar, but she'd no time for him.
          She led him on, then dropped him flat. She played him on a whim.

          It knocked him cold when she moved on, he couldn't understand
          why she strung him out to dry and flaunt what they had planned.
          He started drinking seriously and continued up till now
          No longer trust the fairer sex, he made that his life's vow.

          Then one morning he was gone; He didn't wait for me.
          My heart just sank. I feared the worst. Some youths out on a spree
          had come across him, played with him. Then tiring of their game
          got vicious, left him in a pool of blood. Shame, shame, Shame!

          His Service it was simple, bare, devoid of friends (bar me)
          I wondered what his pathways were into eternity.
          I sorta hoped that "She" might show, mysterious, dressed in black
          to offer him one last goodbye but life don't work like that.

          Strum, a battered old guitar you were, to some you were a hoon.
          You plucked at life; and my heart strings are left to play your tune;
          It's character that defines us all, not personality.
          No guarantees in life they say, that statement sure cuts me.

          You take your path, chose the fork not sure of what's to come,
          your past mistakes may sometimes rise and bite you on the bum.
          People touch us then they're gone, their lives not fully run.
          Unfathomed lessons from a bloke, simply known as "Strum".










          YAHOO! GROUPS LINKS





        • Alan
          Dear Gwen I may be jumping the gun here but I can tell you: Manfred, my antipodean friend has graced this board many times with his illustrious work and may he
          Message 4 of 14 , Feb 2, 2006
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            Dear Gwen
            I may be jumping the gun here but I can tell you: Manfred, my
            antipodean friend has graced this board many times with his
            illustrious work and may he continue so to do.

            t2w is most fortunate to have members from nearly every corner of
            the globe (how can a globe have a corner?)Every nationality,colour
            and religion is represented without fear or favour. All with one
            ambition: To put their thoughts into words and participation in
            polite discourse with like minds.

            You are among good friends.

            As always

            Wings
            --- In ticket2write@yahoogroups.com, Gwen Ames <poetry4u@...> wrote:
            >
            > Manfred,
            >
            > I envy your long successful attempt at rhyme. I can't comment at
            length at this time because I am crunched for time. I just wanted to
            say I enjoyed this but I think it could be tightened up a bit and
            some lines could have better rhyming partners.
            >
            > I actually have one about a homeless man that I might share some
            day. I've passed it around one small group already but feel it is
            not finished yet.
            >
            > I don't think I've heard from you before, are you new or just
            been resting?
            >
            > Gwen
            > .
            >
            > Manfred <r_u_sirius2@...> wrote:
            > STRUM
            > (c)Manfred Vijars - Feb 2006
            >
            > His coughing and his wheezing cracked the brisk cool Brisbane dawn.
            > I walked this path most mornings and surveyed him with some scorn.
            > He'd been here for a week now finding shelter by the fence -
            > behind some shrubs, well tucked away and all for no expense.
            >
            > Something prompted me to pause and see if he's OK.
            > (a few dollars to salve my soul then I'd be on my way)
            > The look he gave me pierced me deep and I just had to stay
            > and find out more about this bloke and what caused his decay.
            >
            > The dirt caked on his face and neck had built up over time,
            > He smelt a tad unpleasant yet appropriate to the grime.
            > I sat beside him on the bench, his coughing clearing some.
            > A rough and raspy voice declared that, "People call me Strum!"
            >
            > His eyes bloodshot from cardboard port he'd have most every night.
            > He'd ramble 'bout how rough life was, and "... things is pretty
            tight!"
            > Confessed to petty crime while heading South through one small
            town.
            > I offered him some money which he accepted with a frown.
            >
            > Next morning he was sitting on the bench beside the path
            > I wanted to avoid him, well, at least until he'd bath.
            > I also sat, we spoke some more. I continued on my way;
            > and every morning from then on we'd share the start of day.
            >
            > He slowly opened up to me about the life he'd led
            > The things he'd done, how he thought, and what's inside his head.
            > But something, dunno what it was, chilled me to the bone.
            > It scared me then and scares me now; how he was all alone.
            >
            > He worked Whalers out of Tangalooma, cut cane North and beyond
            > shot some crocs around the Gulf, fixed steel at Geehi Ponds
            > Then as fettler on the Western Rail he lost it all it seems.
            > A dark haired Girl's false promises so full of shattered dreams
            >
            > She was working in Corones, top spot in Charleville.
            > One look and he was smitten so he'd sit and drink his fill
            > just watching her move 'round the bar, but she'd no time for him.
            > She led him on, then dropped him flat. She played him on a whim.
            >
            > It knocked him cold when she moved on, he couldn't understand
            > why she strung him out to dry and flaunt what they had planned.
            > He started drinking seriously and continued up till now
            > No longer trust the fairer sex, he made that his life's vow.
            >
            > Then one morning he was gone; He didn't wait for me.
            > My heart just sank. I feared the worst. Some youths out on a spree
            > had come across him, played with him. Then tiring of their game
            > got vicious, left him in a pool of blood. Shame, shame, Shame!
            >
            > His Service it was simple, bare, devoid of friends (bar me)
            > I wondered what his pathways were into eternity.
            > I sorta hoped that "She" might show, mysterious, dressed in black
            > to offer him one last goodbye but life don't work like that.
            >
            > Strum, a battered old guitar you were, to some you were a hoon.
            > You plucked at life; and my heart strings are left to play your
            tune;
            > It's character that defines us all, not personality.
            > No guarantees in life they say, that statement sure cuts me.
            >
            > You take your path, chose the fork not sure of what's to come,
            > your past mistakes may sometimes rise and bite you on the bum.
            > People touch us then they're gone, their lives not fully run.
            > Unfathomed lessons from a bloke, simply known as "Strum".
            >
            >
            >
            >
            >
            >
            >
            >
            >
            >
            > Learn more about ticket2wite at http://ticket2write.tripod.com
            >
            >
            >
            > SPONSORED LINKS
            > Creative writing Professional writer Creative writing
            course Creative writing program Writing book Writing a book
            >
            > ---------------------------------
            > YAHOO! GROUPS LINKS
            >
            >
            > Visit your group "ticket2write" on the web.
            >
            > To unsubscribe from this group, send an email to:
            > ticket2write-unsubscribe@yahoogroups.com
            >
            > Your use of Yahoo! Groups is subject to the Yahoo! Terms of
            Service.
            >
            >
            > ---------------------------------
            >
          • Manfred
            ... you jump in quick Mate ... :o) ... here a lil piece for another Al .... Enjoy ... Manfred. For Al (Alan Palmer) (c) Manfred - July 2005 He s a big boofy
            Message 5 of 14 , Feb 2, 2006
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              ... you jump in quick Mate ... :o) ... here a lil piece for another
              "Al" ....

              Enjoy ...

              Manfred.



              For Al (Alan Palmer)
              (c) Manfred - July 2005

              He's a big boofy bastard
              with a great dopey grin
              I saw him while plastered
              So I asked "How's ya bin?"
              "It's bloodywell empty mate
              Was cleaned out last night"
              So I insulted this boof-head -
              Forgot to duck;
              Now I type with a lisp
              and I can't rhyme either.
              ----







              --- In ticket2write@yahoogroups.com, "Alan" <wings081@...> wrote:
              >
              > Dear Gwen
              > I may be jumping the gun here but I can tell you: Manfred, my
              > antipodean friend has graced this board many times with his
              > illustrious work and may he continue so to do.
              >
              > t2w is most fortunate to have members from nearly every corner of
              > the globe (how can a globe have a corner?)Every nationality,colour
              > and religion is represented without fear or favour. All with one
              > ambition: To put their thoughts into words and participation in
              > polite discourse with like minds.
              >
              > You are among good friends.
              >
              > As always
              >
              > Wings
              > --- In ticket2write@yahoogroups.com, Gwen Ames <poetry4u@> wrote:
              > >
              > > Manfred,
              > >
              > > I envy your long successful attempt at rhyme. I can't comment at
              > length at this time because I am crunched for time. I just wanted to
              > say I enjoyed this but I think it could be tightened up a bit and
              > some lines could have better rhyming partners.
              > >
              > > I actually have one about a homeless man that I might share some
              > day. I've passed it around one small group already but feel it is
              > not finished yet.
              > >
              > > I don't think I've heard from you before, are you new or just
              > been resting?
              > >
              > > Gwen
              > > .
              > >
              > > Manfred <r_u_sirius2@> wrote:
              > > STRUM
              > > (c)Manfred Vijars - Feb 2006
              > >
              > > His coughing and his wheezing cracked the brisk cool Brisbane dawn.
              > > I walked this path most mornings and surveyed him with some scorn.
              > > He'd been here for a week now finding shelter by the fence -
              > > behind some shrubs, well tucked away and all for no expense.
              > >
              > > Something prompted me to pause and see if he's OK.
              > > (a few dollars to salve my soul then I'd be on my way)
              > > The look he gave me pierced me deep and I just had to stay
              > > and find out more about this bloke and what caused his decay.
              > >
              > > The dirt caked on his face and neck had built up over time,
              > > He smelt a tad unpleasant yet appropriate to the grime.
              > > I sat beside him on the bench, his coughing clearing some.
              > > A rough and raspy voice declared that, "People call me Strum!"
              > >
              > > His eyes bloodshot from cardboard port he'd have most every night.
              > > He'd ramble 'bout how rough life was, and "... things is pretty
              > tight!"
              > > Confessed to petty crime while heading South through one small
              > town.
              > > I offered him some money which he accepted with a frown.
              > >
              > > Next morning he was sitting on the bench beside the path
              > > I wanted to avoid him, well, at least until he'd bath.
              > > I also sat, we spoke some more. I continued on my way;
              > > and every morning from then on we'd share the start of day.
              > >
              > > He slowly opened up to me about the life he'd led
              > > The things he'd done, how he thought, and what's inside his head.
              > > But something, dunno what it was, chilled me to the bone.
              > > It scared me then and scares me now; how he was all alone.
              > >
              > > He worked Whalers out of Tangalooma, cut cane North and beyond
              > > shot some crocs around the Gulf, fixed steel at Geehi Ponds
              > > Then as fettler on the Western Rail he lost it all it seems.
              > > A dark haired Girl's false promises so full of shattered dreams
              > >
              > > She was working in Corones, top spot in Charleville.
              > > One look and he was smitten so he'd sit and drink his fill
              > > just watching her move 'round the bar, but she'd no time for him.
              > > She led him on, then dropped him flat. She played him on a whim.
              > >
              > > It knocked him cold when she moved on, he couldn't understand
              > > why she strung him out to dry and flaunt what they had planned.
              > > He started drinking seriously and continued up till now
              > > No longer trust the fairer sex, he made that his life's vow.
              > >
              > > Then one morning he was gone; He didn't wait for me.
              > > My heart just sank. I feared the worst. Some youths out on a spree
              > > had come across him, played with him. Then tiring of their game
              > > got vicious, left him in a pool of blood. Shame, shame, Shame!
              > >
              > > His Service it was simple, bare, devoid of friends (bar me)
              > > I wondered what his pathways were into eternity.
              > > I sorta hoped that "She" might show, mysterious, dressed in black
              > > to offer him one last goodbye but life don't work like that.
              > >
              > > Strum, a battered old guitar you were, to some you were a hoon.
              > > You plucked at life; and my heart strings are left to play your
              > tune;
              > > It's character that defines us all, not personality.
              > > No guarantees in life they say, that statement sure cuts me.
              > >
              > > You take your path, chose the fork not sure of what's to come,
              > > your past mistakes may sometimes rise and bite you on the bum.
              > > People touch us then they're gone, their lives not fully run.
              > > Unfathomed lessons from a bloke, simply known as "Strum".
              > >
              > >
              > >
              > >
              > >
              > >
              > >
              > >
              > >
              > >
              > > Learn more about ticket2wite at http://ticket2write.tripod.com
              > >
              > >
              > >
              > > SPONSORED LINKS
              > > Creative writing Professional writer Creative writing
              > course Creative writing program Writing book Writing a book
              > >
              > > ---------------------------------
              > > YAHOO! GROUPS LINKS
              > >
              > >
              > > Visit your group "ticket2write" on the web.
              > >
              > > To unsubscribe from this group, send an email to:
              > > ticket2write-unsubscribe@yahoogroups.com
              > >
              > > Your use of Yahoo! Groups is subject to the Yahoo! Terms of
              > Service.
              > >
              > >
              > > ---------------------------------
              > >
              >
            • Gwen Ames
              Too witty for me Manfred. I hurt from laughing. I hope he got his sense of humor back the next morn :o). Gwen Manfred wrote: ... you
              Message 6 of 14 , Feb 2, 2006
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                Too witty for me Manfred. I hurt from laughing. I hope he got his sense of humor back the next morn :o).
                 
                Gwen

                Manfred <r_u_sirius2@...> wrote:
                ... you jump in quick Mate ...  :o) ... here a lil piece for another
                "Al" ....

                Enjoy ...

                Manfred.



                For Al (Alan Palmer)
                (c) Manfred - July 2005

                He's a big boofy bastard
                with a great dopey grin
                I saw him while plastered
                So I asked "How's ya bin?"
                "It's bloodywell empty mate
                Was cleaned out last night"
                So I insulted this boof-head -
                Forgot to duck;
                Now I type with a lisp
                and I can't rhyme either.
                ----







                --- In ticket2write@yahoogroups.com, "Alan" <wings081@...> wrote:
                >
                > Dear Gwen
                > I may be jumping the gun here but I can tell you: Manfred, my
                > antipodean friend has graced this board many times with his
                > illustrious work and may he continue so to do.
                >
                > t2w is most fortunate to have members from nearly every corner of
                > the globe (how can a globe have a corner?)Every nationality,colour
                > and religion is represented without fear or favour. All with one
                > ambition: To put their thoughts into words and participation in
                > polite discourse with like minds.
                >
                > You are among good friends.
                >
                > As always
                >
                > Wings
                > --- In ticket2write@yahoogroups.com, Gwen Ames <poetry4u@> wrote:
                > >
                > > Manfred,
                > >   
                > >   I envy your long successful attempt at rhyme. I can't comment at
                > length at this time because I am crunched for time. I just wanted to
                > say I enjoyed this but I think it could be tightened up a bit and
                > some lines could have better rhyming partners.
                > >   
                > >   I actually have one about a homeless man that I might share some
                > day. I've passed it around one small group already but feel it is
                > not finished yet.
                > >   
                > >   I don't think I've heard from you before, are you new or just
                > been resting?
                > >   
                > >   Gwen
                > >   .
                > >
                > > Manfred <r_u_sirius2@> wrote:
                > >   STRUM
                > > (c)Manfred Vijars - Feb 2006
                > >
                > > His coughing and his wheezing cracked the brisk cool Brisbane dawn.
                > > I walked this path most mornings and surveyed him with some scorn.
                > > He'd been here for a week now finding shelter by the fence -
                > > behind some shrubs, well tucked away and all for no expense.
                > >
                > > Something prompted me to pause and see if he's OK.
                > > (a few dollars to salve my soul then I'd be on my way)
                > > The look he gave me pierced me deep and I just had to stay
                > > and find out more about this bloke and what caused his decay.
                > >
                > > The dirt caked on his face and neck had built up over time,
                > > He smelt a tad unpleasant yet appropriate to the grime.
                > > I sat beside him on the bench, his coughing clearing some.
                > > A rough and raspy voice declared that, "People call me Strum!"
                > >
                > > His eyes bloodshot from cardboard port he'd have most every night.
                > > He'd ramble 'bout how rough life was, and "... things is pretty
                > tight!"
                > > Confessed to petty crime while heading South through one small
                > town.
                > > I offered him some money which he accepted with a frown.
                > >
                > > Next morning he was sitting on the bench beside the path
                > > I wanted to avoid him, well, at least until he'd bath.
                > > I also sat, we spoke some more. I continued on my way;
                > > and every morning from then on we'd share the start of day.
                > >
                > > He slowly opened up to me about the life he'd led
                > > The things he'd done, how he thought, and what's inside his head.
                > > But something, dunno what it was, chilled me to the bone.
                > > It scared me then and scares me now; how he was all alone.
                > >
                > > He worked Whalers out of Tangalooma, cut cane North and beyond
                > > shot some crocs around the Gulf, fixed steel at Geehi Ponds
                > > Then as fettler on the Western Rail he lost it all it seems.
                > > A dark haired Girl's false promises so full of shattered dreams
                > >
                > > She was working in Corones, top spot in Charleville.
                > > One look and he was smitten so he'd sit and drink his fill
                > > just watching her move 'round the bar, but she'd no time for him.
                > > She led him on, then dropped him flat. She played him on a whim.
                > >
                > > It knocked him cold when she moved on, he couldn't understand
                > > why she strung him out to dry and flaunt what they had planned.
                > > He started drinking seriously and continued up till now
                > > No longer trust the fairer sex, he made that his life's vow.
                > >
                > > Then one morning he was gone; He didn't wait for me.
                > > My heart just sank. I feared the worst. Some youths out on a spree
                > > had come across him, played with him. Then tiring of their game
                > > got vicious, left him in a pool of blood. Shame, shame, Shame!
                > >
                > > His Service it was simple, bare, devoid of friends (bar me)
                > > I wondered what his pathways were into eternity.
                > > I sorta hoped that "She" might show, mysterious, dressed in black
                > > to offer him one last goodbye but life don't work like that.
                > >
                > > Strum, a battered old guitar you were, to some you were a hoon.
                > > You plucked at life; and my heart strings are left to play your
                > tune;
                > > It's character that defines us all, not personality.
                > > No guarantees in life they say, that statement sure cuts me.
                > >
                > > You take your path, chose the fork not sure of what's to come,
                > > your past mistakes may sometimes rise and bite you on the bum.
                > > People touch us then they're gone, their lives not fully run.
                > > Unfathomed lessons from a bloke, simply known as "Strum".
                > >
                > >
                > >
                > >
                > >
                > >
                > >
                > >
                > >
                > >
                > > Learn more about ticket2wite at http://ticket2write.tripod.com
                > >
                > >
                > >
                > >   SPONSORED LINKS
                > >         Creative writing   Professional writer   Creative writing
                > course     Creative writing program   Writing book   Writing a book
                > >    
                > > ---------------------------------
                > >   YAHOO! GROUPS LINKS
                > >
                > >    
                > >     Visit your group "ticket2write" on the web.
                > >    
                > >     To unsubscribe from this group, send an email to:
                > >  ticket2write-unsubscribe@yahoogroups.com
                > >    
                > >     Your use of Yahoo! Groups is subject to the Yahoo! Terms of
                > Service.
                > >
                > >    
                > > ---------------------------------
                > >
                >








              • Lambert
                Manfred s poem reminds me of one I wrote for a friend who had terminal cancer. Alas, it didn t save her, but she got a chuckle out of it and hung it on her
                Message 7 of 14 , Feb 2, 2006
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                  Manfred's poem reminds me of one I wrote for a friend who had terminal cancer.  Alas, it didn't save her, but she got a chuckle out of it and hung it on her fridge.
                   

                  Beware of Axioms

                   

                   When times are hard and your tires are low,

                  And you’re all dressed up but there’s no place to go;

                   

                  When you’re losing your faith and looking for hope,

                  And you can’t find a rabbi, a pastor, or  pope,

                   

                  When your ship comes in but you can’t debark,

                  And you show up late, but there’s no place to park;

                   

                  When the end of the book is missing a page,

                  And your dominant emotion is always rage;

                   

                  When the bills are many and the dollars few,

                  And bad hair days are your usual ‘do,

                   

                  When your view of the future is at best bleak,

                  And your dog uses your leg for taking a leak,

                   

                  When you’ve gotten so fat your clothes no longer fit you,

                   

                  Just remember:

                   

                  The BIGGER they are, the HARDER they’ll HIT you.

                   

                  Jim Lambert 2003


                • Alan
                  Manfred old sport I just could not help myself finishing off your rhyme. He s a big boofy bastard with a great dopey grin I saw him while plastered So I asked
                  Message 8 of 14 , Feb 2, 2006
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                    Manfred old sport

                    I just could not help myself finishing off your rhyme.


                    He's a big boofy bastard
                    with a great dopey grin
                    I saw him while plastered
                    So I asked "How's ya bin?"

                    "It's bloodywell empty mate
                    Was cleaned out last night"
                    So I insulted this boof-head -
                    Forgot to duck out of sight

                    Now I type with a lisp
                    And my dentures are cracked
                    Scabious bruises purple and crisp
                    Exhibit pain of which I am wracked

                    One of these days when matey's quite calm
                    I'll have my revenge and clobber him too
                    I know what to do to cause him most harm
                    I'll crack open his head with my
                    didgeridoo.


                    Please forgive the impertinence

                    As always

                    Wings.




                    --- In ticket2write@yahoogroups.com, "Manfred" <r_u_sirius2@...>
                    wrote:
                    >
                    > ... you jump in quick Mate ... :o) ... here a lil piece for
                    another
                    > "Al" ....
                    >
                    > Enjoy ...
                    >
                    > Manfred.
                    >
                    >
                    >
                    > For Al (Alan Palmer)
                    > (c) Manfred - July 2005
                    >
                    > He's a big boofy bastard
                    > with a great dopey grin
                    > I saw him while plastered
                    > So I asked "How's ya bin?"
                    > "It's bloodywell empty mate
                    > Was cleaned out last night"
                    > So I insulted this boof-head -
                    > Forgot to duck;
                    > Now I type with a lisp
                    > and I can't rhyme either.
                    > ----
                    >
                    >
                    >
                    >
                    >
                    >
                    >
                    > --- In ticket2write@yahoogroups.com, "Alan" <wings081@> wrote:
                    > >
                    > > Dear Gwen
                    > > I may be jumping the gun here but I can tell you: Manfred, my
                    > > antipodean friend has graced this board many times with his
                    > > illustrious work and may he continue so to do.
                    > >
                    > > t2w is most fortunate to have members from nearly every corner
                    of
                    > > the globe (how can a globe have a corner?)Every
                    nationality,colour
                    > > and religion is represented without fear or favour. All with one
                    > > ambition: To put their thoughts into words and participation in
                    > > polite discourse with like minds.
                    > >
                    > > You are among good friends.
                    > >
                    > > As always
                    > >
                    > > Wings
                    > > --- In ticket2write@yahoogroups.com, Gwen Ames <poetry4u@> wrote:
                    > > >
                    > > > Manfred,
                    > > >
                    > > > I envy your long successful attempt at rhyme. I can't
                    comment at
                    > > length at this time because I am crunched for time. I just
                    wanted to
                    > > say I enjoyed this but I think it could be tightened up a bit
                    and
                    > > some lines could have better rhyming partners.
                    > > >
                    > > > I actually have one about a homeless man that I might share
                    some
                    > > day. I've passed it around one small group already but feel it
                    is
                    > > not finished yet.
                    > > >
                    > > > I don't think I've heard from you before, are you new or
                    just
                    > > been resting?
                    > > >
                    > > > Gwen
                    > > > .
                    > > >
                    > > > Manfred <r_u_sirius2@> wrote:
                    > > > STRUM
                    > > > (c)Manfred Vijars - Feb 2006
                    > > >
                    > > > His coughing and his wheezing cracked the brisk cool Brisbane
                    dawn.
                    > > > I walked this path most mornings and surveyed him with some
                    scorn.
                    > > > He'd been here for a week now finding shelter by the fence -
                    > > > behind some shrubs, well tucked away and all for no expense.
                    > > >
                    > > > Something prompted me to pause and see if he's OK.
                    > > > (a few dollars to salve my soul then I'd be on my way)
                    > > > The look he gave me pierced me deep and I just had to stay
                    > > > and find out more about this bloke and what caused his decay.
                    > > >
                    > > > The dirt caked on his face and neck had built up over time,
                    > > > He smelt a tad unpleasant yet appropriate to the grime.
                    > > > I sat beside him on the bench, his coughing clearing some.
                    > > > A rough and raspy voice declared that, "People call me Strum!"
                    > > >
                    > > > His eyes bloodshot from cardboard port he'd have most every
                    night.
                    > > > He'd ramble 'bout how rough life was, and "... things is
                    pretty
                    > > tight!"
                    > > > Confessed to petty crime while heading South through one small
                    > > town.
                    > > > I offered him some money which he accepted with a frown.
                    > > >
                    > > > Next morning he was sitting on the bench beside the path
                    > > > I wanted to avoid him, well, at least until he'd bath.
                    > > > I also sat, we spoke some more. I continued on my way;
                    > > > and every morning from then on we'd share the start of day.
                    > > >
                    > > > He slowly opened up to me about the life he'd led
                    > > > The things he'd done, how he thought, and what's inside his
                    head.
                    > > > But something, dunno what it was, chilled me to the bone.
                    > > > It scared me then and scares me now; how he was all alone.
                    > > >
                    > > > He worked Whalers out of Tangalooma, cut cane North and beyond
                    > > > shot some crocs around the Gulf, fixed steel at Geehi Ponds
                    > > > Then as fettler on the Western Rail he lost it all it seems.
                    > > > A dark haired Girl's false promises so full of shattered dreams
                    > > >
                    > > > She was working in Corones, top spot in Charleville.
                    > > > One look and he was smitten so he'd sit and drink his fill
                    > > > just watching her move 'round the bar, but she'd no time for
                    him.
                    > > > She led him on, then dropped him flat. She played him on a
                    whim.
                    > > >
                    > > > It knocked him cold when she moved on, he couldn't understand
                    > > > why she strung him out to dry and flaunt what they had planned.
                    > > > He started drinking seriously and continued up till now
                    > > > No longer trust the fairer sex, he made that his life's vow.
                    > > >
                    > > > Then one morning he was gone; He didn't wait for me.
                    > > > My heart just sank. I feared the worst. Some youths out on a
                    spree
                    > > > had come across him, played with him. Then tiring of their game
                    > > > got vicious, left him in a pool of blood. Shame, shame, Shame!
                    > > >
                    > > > His Service it was simple, bare, devoid of friends (bar me)
                    > > > I wondered what his pathways were into eternity.
                    > > > I sorta hoped that "She" might show, mysterious, dressed in
                    black
                    > > > to offer him one last goodbye but life don't work like that.
                    > > >
                    > > > Strum, a battered old guitar you were, to some you were a hoon.
                    > > > You plucked at life; and my heart strings are left to play
                    your
                    > > tune;
                    > > > It's character that defines us all, not personality.
                    > > > No guarantees in life they say, that statement sure cuts me.
                    > > >
                    > > > You take your path, chose the fork not sure of what's to come,
                    > > > your past mistakes may sometimes rise and bite you on the bum.
                    > > > People touch us then they're gone, their lives not fully run.
                    > > > Unfathomed lessons from a bloke, simply known as "Strum".
                    > > >
                    > > >
                    > > >
                    > > >
                    > > >
                    > > >
                    > > >
                    > > >
                    > > >
                    > > >
                    > > > Learn more about ticket2wite at http://ticket2write.tripod.com
                    > > >
                    > > >
                    > > >
                    > > > SPONSORED LINKS
                    > > > Creative writing Professional writer Creative
                    writing
                    > > course Creative writing program Writing book Writing a
                    book
                    > > >
                    > > > ---------------------------------
                    > > > YAHOO! GROUPS LINKS
                    > > >
                    > > >
                    > > > Visit your group "ticket2write" on the web.
                    > > >
                    > > > To unsubscribe from this group, send an email to:
                    > > > ticket2write-unsubscribe@yahoogroups.com
                    > > >
                    > > > Your use of Yahoo! Groups is subject to the Yahoo! Terms
                    of
                    > > Service.
                    > > >
                    > > >
                    > > > ---------------------------------
                    > > >
                    > >
                    >
                  • Alan
                    Hi Jim. Lacking the discipline for composing the momentous poetry of my forbears (somewhere along the branches of my family tree lurks the name Percy Byshe
                    Message 9 of 14 , Feb 2, 2006
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                      Hi Jim.
                      Lacking the discipline for composing the momentous poetry of my
                      forbears (somewhere along the branches of my family tree lurks the
                      name Percy Byshe Shelley)I am a devotee of the rhyming story of
                      which yours is a prime example.
                      I would like your permission to offer this piece to our parish
                      magazine, attributing it to your goodself of course.

                      Thanks for sharing

                      As always


                      Wings




                      --- In ticket2write@yahoogroups.com, "Lambert" <mijlamb@...> wrote:
                      >
                      > Manfred's poem reminds me of one I wrote for a friend who had
                      terminal cancer. Alas, it didn't save her, but she got a chuckle
                      out of it and hung it on her fridge.
                      >
                      > Beware of Axioms
                      >
                      >
                      >
                      > When times are hard and your tires are low,
                      >
                      > And you're all dressed up but there's no place to go;
                      >
                      >
                      >
                      > When you're losing your faith and looking for hope,
                      >
                      > And you can't find a rabbi, a pastor, or pope,
                      >
                      >
                      >
                      > When your ship comes in but you can't debark,
                      >
                      > And you show up late, but there's no place to park;
                      >
                      >
                      >
                      > When the end of the book is missing a page,
                      >
                      > And your dominant emotion is always rage;
                      >
                      >
                      >
                      > When the bills are many and the dollars few,
                      >
                      > And bad hair days are your usual 'do,
                      >
                      >
                      >
                      > When your view of the future is at best bleak,
                      >
                      > And your dog uses your leg for taking a leak,
                      >
                      >
                      >
                      > When you've gotten so fat your clothes no longer fit you,
                      >
                      >
                      >
                      > Just remember:
                      >
                      >
                      >
                      > The BIGGER they are, the HARDER they'll HIT you.
                      >
                      >
                      >
                      > Jim Lambert 2003
                      >
                    • Lambert
                      Yes, Yes. I am flattered. Could you send me a copy of the newsletter? Jim Lambert
                      Message 10 of 14 , Feb 2, 2006
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                        Yes, Yes.  I am flattered.  Could you send me a copy of the newsletter?
                         
                        Jim Lambert
                      • Manfred
                        Goodonya!!! ... :o) I used digeridoo once too ..... LOL Hullabaloo A wild kangaroo loose in Kalamazoo, and why not in Lima way out in Peru? It packed it s
                        Message 11 of 14 , Feb 2, 2006
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                          Goodonya!!! ... :o)
                          I used digeridoo once too ..... LOL


                          Hullabaloo

                          A wild kangaroo loose in Kalamazoo,
                          and why not in Lima way out in Peru?
                          It packed it's supplies in it's digeridoo
                          Then hopped all the way there from old Timbuktu,
                          with a short little visit to see Kathmandu.
                          Just didn't have time to wait long in a queue;
                          So on the way through it scattered the Sioux
                          and really created a Hullabaloo!
                          This hungry, man eating, wild red Kangaroo
                          while going for dinner to Kalamazoo.





                          --- In ticket2write@yahoogroups.com, "Alan" <wings081@...> wrote:
                          >
                          > Manfred old sport
                          >
                          > I just could not help myself finishing off your rhyme.
                          >
                          >
                          > He's a big boofy bastard
                          > with a great dopey grin
                          > I saw him while plastered
                          > So I asked "How's ya bin?"
                          >
                          > "It's bloodywell empty mate
                          > Was cleaned out last night"
                          > So I insulted this boof-head -
                          > Forgot to duck out of sight
                          >
                          > Now I type with a lisp
                          > And my dentures are cracked
                          > Scabious bruises purple and crisp
                          > Exhibit pain of which I am wracked
                          >
                          > One of these days when matey's quite calm
                          > I'll have my revenge and clobber him too
                          > I know what to do to cause him most harm
                          > I'll crack open his head with my
                          > didgeridoo.
                          >
                          >
                          > Please forgive the impertinence
                          >
                          > As always
                          >
                          > Wings.
                          >
                          >
                          >
                          >
                          > --- In ticket2write@yahoogroups.com, "Manfred" <r_u_sirius2@>
                          > wrote:
                          > >
                          > > ... you jump in quick Mate ... :o) ... here a lil piece for
                          > another
                          > > "Al" ....
                          > >
                          > > Enjoy ...
                          > >
                          > > Manfred.
                          > >
                          > >
                          > >
                          > > For Al (Alan Palmer)
                          > > (c) Manfred - July 2005
                          > >
                          > > He's a big boofy bastard
                          > > with a great dopey grin
                          > > I saw him while plastered
                          > > So I asked "How's ya bin?"
                          > > "It's bloodywell empty mate
                          > > Was cleaned out last night"
                          > > So I insulted this boof-head -
                          > > Forgot to duck;
                          > > Now I type with a lisp
                          > > and I can't rhyme either.
                          > > ----
                          > >
                          > >
                          > >
                          > >
                          > >
                          > >
                          > >
                          > > --- In ticket2write@yahoogroups.com, "Alan" <wings081@> wrote:
                          > > >
                          > > > Dear Gwen
                          > > > I may be jumping the gun here but I can tell you: Manfred, my
                          > > > antipodean friend has graced this board many times with his
                          > > > illustrious work and may he continue so to do.
                          > > >
                          > > > t2w is most fortunate to have members from nearly every corner
                          > of
                          > > > the globe (how can a globe have a corner?)Every
                          > nationality,colour
                          > > > and religion is represented without fear or favour. All with one
                          > > > ambition: To put their thoughts into words and participation in
                          > > > polite discourse with like minds.
                          > > >
                          > > > You are among good friends.
                          > > >
                          > > > As always
                          > > >
                          > > > Wings
                          > > > --- In ticket2write@yahoogroups.com, Gwen Ames <poetry4u@> wrote:
                          > > > >
                          > > > > Manfred,
                          > > > >
                          > > > > I envy your long successful attempt at rhyme. I can't
                          > comment at
                          > > > length at this time because I am crunched for time. I just
                          > wanted to
                          > > > say I enjoyed this but I think it could be tightened up a bit
                          > and
                          > > > some lines could have better rhyming partners.
                          > > > >
                          > > > > I actually have one about a homeless man that I might share
                          > some
                          > > > day. I've passed it around one small group already but feel it
                          > is
                          > > > not finished yet.
                          > > > >
                          > > > > I don't think I've heard from you before, are you new or
                          > just
                          > > > been resting?
                          > > > >
                          > > > > Gwen
                          > > > > .
                          > > > >
                          > > > > Manfred <r_u_sirius2@> wrote:
                          > > > > STRUM
                          > > > > (c)Manfred Vijars - Feb 2006
                          > > > >
                          > > > > His coughing and his wheezing cracked the brisk cool Brisbane
                          > dawn.
                          > > > > I walked this path most mornings and surveyed him with some
                          > scorn.
                          > > > > He'd been here for a week now finding shelter by the fence -
                          > > > > behind some shrubs, well tucked away and all for no expense.
                          > > > >
                          > > > > Something prompted me to pause and see if he's OK.
                          > > > > (a few dollars to salve my soul then I'd be on my way)
                          > > > > The look he gave me pierced me deep and I just had to stay
                          > > > > and find out more about this bloke and what caused his decay.
                          > > > >
                          > > > > The dirt caked on his face and neck had built up over time,
                          > > > > He smelt a tad unpleasant yet appropriate to the grime.
                          > > > > I sat beside him on the bench, his coughing clearing some.
                          > > > > A rough and raspy voice declared that, "People call me Strum!"
                          > > > >
                          > > > > His eyes bloodshot from cardboard port he'd have most every
                          > night.
                          > > > > He'd ramble 'bout how rough life was, and "... things is
                          > pretty
                          > > > tight!"
                          > > > > Confessed to petty crime while heading South through one small
                          > > > town.
                          > > > > I offered him some money which he accepted with a frown.
                          > > > >
                          > > > > Next morning he was sitting on the bench beside the path
                          > > > > I wanted to avoid him, well, at least until he'd bath.
                          > > > > I also sat, we spoke some more. I continued on my way;
                          > > > > and every morning from then on we'd share the start of day.
                          > > > >
                          > > > > He slowly opened up to me about the life he'd led
                          > > > > The things he'd done, how he thought, and what's inside his
                          > head.
                          > > > > But something, dunno what it was, chilled me to the bone.
                          > > > > It scared me then and scares me now; how he was all alone.
                          > > > >
                          > > > > He worked Whalers out of Tangalooma, cut cane North and beyond
                          > > > > shot some crocs around the Gulf, fixed steel at Geehi Ponds
                          > > > > Then as fettler on the Western Rail he lost it all it seems.
                          > > > > A dark haired Girl's false promises so full of shattered dreams
                          > > > >
                          > > > > She was working in Corones, top spot in Charleville.
                          > > > > One look and he was smitten so he'd sit and drink his fill
                          > > > > just watching her move 'round the bar, but she'd no time for
                          > him.
                          > > > > She led him on, then dropped him flat. She played him on a
                          > whim.
                          > > > >
                          > > > > It knocked him cold when she moved on, he couldn't understand
                          > > > > why she strung him out to dry and flaunt what they had planned.
                          > > > > He started drinking seriously and continued up till now
                          > > > > No longer trust the fairer sex, he made that his life's vow.
                          > > > >
                          > > > > Then one morning he was gone; He didn't wait for me.
                          > > > > My heart just sank. I feared the worst. Some youths out on a
                          > spree
                          > > > > had come across him, played with him. Then tiring of their game
                          > > > > got vicious, left him in a pool of blood. Shame, shame, Shame!
                          > > > >
                          > > > > His Service it was simple, bare, devoid of friends (bar me)
                          > > > > I wondered what his pathways were into eternity.
                          > > > > I sorta hoped that "She" might show, mysterious, dressed in
                          > black
                          > > > > to offer him one last goodbye but life don't work like that.
                          > > > >
                          > > > > Strum, a battered old guitar you were, to some you were a hoon.
                          > > > > You plucked at life; and my heart strings are left to play
                          > your
                          > > > tune;
                          > > > > It's character that defines us all, not personality.
                          > > > > No guarantees in life they say, that statement sure cuts me.
                          > > > >
                          > > > > You take your path, chose the fork not sure of what's to come,
                          > > > > your past mistakes may sometimes rise and bite you on the bum.
                          > > > > People touch us then they're gone, their lives not fully run.
                          > > > > Unfathomed lessons from a bloke, simply known as "Strum".
                          > > > >
                          > > > >
                          > > > >
                          > > > >
                          > > > >
                          > > > >
                          > > > >
                          > > > >
                          > > > >
                          > > > >
                          > > > > Learn more about ticket2wite at http://ticket2write.tripod.com
                          > > > >
                          > > > >
                          > > > >
                          > > > > SPONSORED LINKS
                          > > > > Creative writing Professional writer Creative
                          > writing
                          > > > course Creative writing program Writing book Writing a
                          > book
                          > > > >
                          > > > > ---------------------------------
                          > > > > YAHOO! GROUPS LINKS
                          > > > >
                          > > > >
                          > > > > Visit your group "ticket2write" on the web.
                          > > > >
                          > > > > To unsubscribe from this group, send an email to:
                          > > > > ticket2write-unsubscribe@yahoogroups.com
                          > > > >
                          > > > > Your use of Yahoo! Groups is subject to the Yahoo! Terms
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                          > > > Service.
                          > > > >
                          > > > >
                          > > > > ---------------------------------
                          > > > >
                          > > >
                          > >
                          >
                        • Alan
                          Hi again Manfred Katmandu I once shipped some aircraft parts A.O.G to Khartoum in the Sudan (A.O.G.means aircraft on ground waiting for urgent spares before
                          Message 12 of 14 , Feb 2, 2006
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                            Hi again Manfred

                            "Katmandu"
                            I once shipped some aircraft parts A.O.G to Khartoum in the Sudan
                            (A.O.G.means aircraft on ground waiting for urgent spares before it
                            can get airborne)
                            The carrier,who shall be nameless, managed to get them delivered to
                            Katmandu and had I not checked by tracking on WWW they would be
                            languishing in India to this day.
                            However after a severe roasting over the phone, the spares were
                            re-routed immediately.
                            There is an old rhyme about Katmandu but if you know it,you will
                            realise it will not pass the censors on this site because I'm not
                            referring to the one by Kipling.

                            As always

                            Wings
                            Ps. Wouldn't get much of a tune out of the didgeridoo after the roo
                            had packed its supplies in it.

                            --- In ticket2write@yahoogroups.com, "Manfred" <r_u_sirius2@...>
                            wrote:
                            >
                            > Goodonya!!! ... :o)
                            > I used digeridoo once too ..... LOL
                            >
                            >
                            > Hullabaloo
                            >
                            > A wild kangaroo loose in Kalamazoo,
                            > and why not in Lima way out in Peru?
                            > It packed it's supplies in it's digeridoo
                            > Then hopped all the way there from old Timbuktu,
                            > with a short little visit to see Kathmandu.
                            > Just didn't have time to wait long in a queue;
                            > So on the way through it scattered the Sioux
                            > and really created a Hullabaloo!
                            > This hungry, man eating, wild red Kangaroo
                            > while going for dinner to Kalamazoo.
                            >
                            >
                            >
                            >
                            >
                            > --- In ticket2write@yahoogroups.com, "Alan" <wings081@> wrote:
                            > >
                            > > Manfred old sport
                            > >
                            > > I just could not help myself finishing off your rhyme.
                            > >
                            > >
                            > > He's a big boofy bastard
                            > > with a great dopey grin
                            > > I saw him while plastered
                            > > So I asked "How's ya bin?"
                            > >
                            > > "It's bloodywell empty mate
                            > > Was cleaned out last night"
                            > > So I insulted this boof-head -
                            > > Forgot to duck out of sight
                            > >
                            > > Now I type with a lisp
                            > > And my dentures are cracked
                            > > Scabious bruises purple and crisp
                            > > Exhibit pain of which I am wracked
                            > >
                            > > One of these days when matey's quite calm
                            > > I'll have my revenge and clobber him too
                            > > I know what to do to cause him most harm
                            > > I'll crack open his head with my
                            > > didgeridoo.
                            > >
                            > >
                            > > Please forgive the impertinence
                            > >
                            > > As always
                            > >
                            > > Wings.
                            > >
                            > >
                            > >
                            > >
                            > > --- In ticket2write@yahoogroups.com, "Manfred" <r_u_sirius2@>
                            > > wrote:
                            > > >
                            > > > ... you jump in quick Mate ... :o) ... here a lil piece for
                            > > another
                            > > > "Al" ....
                            > > >
                            > > > Enjoy ...
                            > > >
                            > > > Manfred.
                            > > >
                            > > >
                            > > >
                            > > > For Al (Alan Palmer)
                            > > > (c) Manfred - July 2005
                            > > >
                            > > > He's a big boofy bastard
                            > > > with a great dopey grin
                            > > > I saw him while plastered
                            > > > So I asked "How's ya bin?"
                            > > > "It's bloodywell empty mate
                            > > > Was cleaned out last night"
                            > > > So I insulted this boof-head -
                            > > > Forgot to duck;
                            > > > Now I type with a lisp
                            > > > and I can't rhyme either.
                            > > > ----
                            > > >
                            > > >
                            > > >
                            > > >
                            > > >
                            > > >
                            > > >
                            > > > --- In ticket2write@yahoogroups.com, "Alan" <wings081@> wrote:
                            > > > >
                            > > > > Dear Gwen
                            > > > > I may be jumping the gun here but I can tell you: Manfred,
                            my
                            > > > > antipodean friend has graced this board many times with his
                            > > > > illustrious work and may he continue so to do.
                            > > > >
                            > > > > t2w is most fortunate to have members from nearly every
                            corner
                            > > of
                            > > > > the globe (how can a globe have a corner?)Every
                            > > nationality,colour
                            > > > > and religion is represented without fear or favour. All with
                            one
                            > > > > ambition: To put their thoughts into words and participation
                            in
                            > > > > polite discourse with like minds.
                            > > > >
                            > > > > You are among good friends.
                            > > > >
                            > > > > As always
                            > > > >
                            > > > > Wings
                            > > > > --- In ticket2write@yahoogroups.com, Gwen Ames <poetry4u@>
                            wrote:
                            > > > > >
                            > > > > > Manfred,
                            > > > > >
                            > > > > > I envy your long successful attempt at rhyme. I can't
                            > > comment at
                            > > > > length at this time because I am crunched for time. I just
                            > > wanted to
                            > > > > say I enjoyed this but I think it could be tightened up a
                            bit
                            > > and
                            > > > > some lines could have better rhyming partners.
                            > > > > >
                            > > > > > I actually have one about a homeless man that I might
                            share
                            > > some
                            > > > > day. I've passed it around one small group already but feel
                            it
                            > > is
                            > > > > not finished yet.
                            > > > > >
                            > > > > > I don't think I've heard from you before, are you new or
                            > > just
                            > > > > been resting?
                            > > > > >
                            > > > > > Gwen
                            > > > > > .
                            > > > > >
                            > > > > > Manfred <r_u_sirius2@> wrote:
                            > > > > > STRUM
                            > > > > > (c)Manfred Vijars - Feb 2006
                            > > > > >
                            > > > > > His coughing and his wheezing cracked the brisk cool
                            Brisbane
                            > > dawn.
                            > > > > > I walked this path most mornings and surveyed him with
                            some
                            > > scorn.
                            > > > > > He'd been here for a week now finding shelter by the
                            fence -
                            > > > > > behind some shrubs, well tucked away and all for no
                            expense.
                            > > > > >
                            > > > > > Something prompted me to pause and see if he's OK.
                            > > > > > (a few dollars to salve my soul then I'd be on my way)
                            > > > > > The look he gave me pierced me deep and I just had to stay
                            > > > > > and find out more about this bloke and what caused his
                            decay.
                            > > > > >
                            > > > > > The dirt caked on his face and neck had built up over time,
                            > > > > > He smelt a tad unpleasant yet appropriate to the grime.
                            > > > > > I sat beside him on the bench, his coughing clearing some.
                            > > > > > A rough and raspy voice declared that, "People call me
                            Strum!"
                            > > > > >
                            > > > > > His eyes bloodshot from cardboard port he'd have most
                            every
                            > > night.
                            > > > > > He'd ramble 'bout how rough life was, and "... things is
                            > > pretty
                            > > > > tight!"
                            > > > > > Confessed to petty crime while heading South through one
                            small
                            > > > > town.
                            > > > > > I offered him some money which he accepted with a frown.
                            > > > > >
                            > > > > > Next morning he was sitting on the bench beside the path
                            > > > > > I wanted to avoid him, well, at least until he'd bath.
                            > > > > > I also sat, we spoke some more. I continued on my way;
                            > > > > > and every morning from then on we'd share the start of day.
                            > > > > >
                            > > > > > He slowly opened up to me about the life he'd led
                            > > > > > The things he'd done, how he thought, and what's inside
                            his
                            > > head.
                            > > > > > But something, dunno what it was, chilled me to the bone.
                            > > > > > It scared me then and scares me now; how he was all alone.
                            > > > > >
                            > > > > > He worked Whalers out of Tangalooma, cut cane North and
                            beyond
                            > > > > > shot some crocs around the Gulf, fixed steel at Geehi Ponds
                            > > > > > Then as fettler on the Western Rail he lost it all it
                            seems.
                            > > > > > A dark haired Girl's false promises so full of shattered
                            dreams
                            > > > > >
                            > > > > > She was working in Corones, top spot in Charleville.
                            > > > > > One look and he was smitten so he'd sit and drink his fill
                            > > > > > just watching her move 'round the bar, but she'd no time
                            for
                            > > him.
                            > > > > > She led him on, then dropped him flat. She played him on a
                            > > whim.
                            > > > > >
                            > > > > > It knocked him cold when she moved on, he couldn't
                            understand
                            > > > > > why she strung him out to dry and flaunt what they had
                            planned.
                            > > > > > He started drinking seriously and continued up till now
                            > > > > > No longer trust the fairer sex, he made that his life's
                            vow.
                            > > > > >
                            > > > > > Then one morning he was gone; He didn't wait for me.
                            > > > > > My heart just sank. I feared the worst. Some youths out on
                            a
                            > > spree
                            > > > > > had come across him, played with him. Then tiring of their
                            game
                            > > > > > got vicious, left him in a pool of blood. Shame, shame,
                            Shame!
                            > > > > >
                            > > > > > His Service it was simple, bare, devoid of friends (bar me)
                            > > > > > I wondered what his pathways were into eternity.
                            > > > > > I sorta hoped that "She" might show, mysterious, dressed
                            in
                            > > black
                            > > > > > to offer him one last goodbye but life don't work like
                            that.
                            > > > > >
                            > > > > > Strum, a battered old guitar you were, to some you were a
                            hoon.
                            > > > > > You plucked at life; and my heart strings are left to play
                            > > your
                            > > > > tune;
                            > > > > > It's character that defines us all, not personality.
                            > > > > > No guarantees in life they say, that statement sure cuts
                            me.
                            > > > > >
                            > > > > > You take your path, chose the fork not sure of what's to
                            come,
                            > > > > > your past mistakes may sometimes rise and bite you on the
                            bum.
                            > > > > > People touch us then they're gone, their lives not fully
                            run.
                            > > > > > Unfathomed lessons from a bloke, simply known as "Strum".
                            > > > > >
                            > > > > >
                            > > > > >
                            > > > > >
                            > > > > >
                            > > > > >
                            > > > > >
                            > > > > >
                            > > > > >
                            > > > > >
                            > > > > > Learn more about ticket2wite at
                            http://ticket2write.tripod.com
                            > > > > >
                            > > > > >
                            > > > > >
                            > > > > > SPONSORED LINKS
                            > > > > > Creative writing Professional writer Creative
                            > > writing
                            > > > > course Creative writing program Writing book Writing
                            a
                            > > book
                            > > > > >
                            > > > > > ---------------------------------
                            > > > > > YAHOO! GROUPS LINKS
                            > > > > >
                            > > > > >
                            > > > > > Visit your group "ticket2write" on the web.
                            > > > > >
                            > > > > > To unsubscribe from this group, send an email to:
                            > > > > > ticket2write-unsubscribe@yahoogroups.com
                            > > > > >
                            > > > > > Your use of Yahoo! Groups is subject to the Yahoo!
                            Terms
                            > > of
                            > > > > Service.
                            > > > > >
                            > > > > >
                            > > > > > ---------------------------------
                            > > > > >
                            > > > >
                            > > >
                            > >
                            >
                          • Diva
                            danged Ya-hooey. Stupid system just got around to delivering your smashing work, Manfred. goodonya Marge Manfred wrote: STRUM
                            Message 13 of 14 , Feb 2, 2006
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                              danged Ya-hooey.  Stupid system just got around to delivering your smashing work, Manfred.  goodonya
                               
                               
                              Marge

                              Manfred <r_u_sirius2@...> wrote:
                              STRUM
                              (c)Manfred Vijars - Feb 2006

                              His coughing and his wheezing cracked the brisk cool Brisbane dawn.
                              I walked this path most mornings and surveyed him with some scorn.
                              He'd been here for a week now finding shelter by the fence -
                              behind some shrubs, well tucked away and all for no expense.

                              Something prompted me to pause and see if he's OK.
                              (a few dollars to salve my soul then I'd be on my way)
                              The look he gave me pierced me deep and I just had to stay
                              and find out more about this bloke and what caused his decay.

                              The dirt caked on his face and neck had built up over time,
                              He smelt a tad unpleasant yet appropriate to the grime.
                              I sat beside him on the bench, his coughing clearing some.
                              A rough and raspy voice declared that, "People call me Strum!"

                              His eyes bloodshot from cardboard port he'd have most every night.
                              He'd ramble 'bout how rough life was, and "... things is pretty tight!"
                              Confessed to petty crime while heading South through one small town.
                              I offered him some money which he accepted with a frown.

                              Next morning he was sitting on the bench beside the path
                              I wanted to avoid him, well, at least until he'd bath.
                              I also sat, we spoke some more. I continued on my way;
                              and every morning from then on we'd share the start of day.

                              He slowly opened up to me about the life he'd led
                              The things he'd done, how he thought, and what's inside his head.
                              But something, dunno what it was, chilled me to the bone.
                              It scared me then and scares me now; how he was all alone.

                              He worked Whalers out of Tangalooma, cut cane North and beyond
                              shot some crocs around the Gulf, fixed steel at Geehi Ponds
                              Then as fettler on the Western Rail he lost it all it seems.
                              A dark haired Girl's false promises so full of shattered dreams

                              She was working in Corones, top spot in Charleville.
                              One look and he was smitten so he'd sit and drink his fill
                              just watching her move 'round the bar, but she'd no time for him.
                              She led him on, then dropped him flat. She played him on a whim.

                              It knocked him cold when she moved on, he couldn't understand
                              why she strung him out to dry and flaunt what they had planned.
                              He started drinking seriously and continued up till now
                              No longer trust the fairer sex, he made that his life's vow.

                              Then one morning he was gone; He didn't wait for me.
                              My heart just sank. I feared the worst. Some youths out on a spree
                              had come across him, played with him. Then tiring of their game
                              got vicious, left him in a pool of blood. Shame, shame, Shame!

                              His Service it was simple, bare, devoid of friends (bar me)
                              I wondered what his pathways were into eternity.
                              I sorta hoped that "She" might show, mysterious, dressed in black
                              to offer him one last goodbye but life don't work like that.

                              Strum, a battered old guitar you were, to some you were a hoon.
                              You plucked at life; and my heart strings are left to play your tune;
                              It's character that defines us all, not personality.
                              No guarantees in life they say, that statement sure cuts me.

                              You take your path, chose the fork not sure of what's to come,
                              your past mistakes may sometimes rise and bite you on the bum.
                              People touch us then they're gone, their lives not fully run.
                              Unfathomed lessons from a bloke, simply known as "Strum".










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