me too! I remember explaining to someone how you CAN have real friendships with people you have never met you just need to be wary of pilots and underwear models...

And here is another poem completely randomly

Where the Sidewalk Ends

There is a place where the sidewalk ends
And before the street begins,
And there the grass grows soft and white,
And there the sun burns crimson bright,
And there the moon-bird rests from his flight
To cool in the peppermint wind.

Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black
And the dark street winds and bends.
Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow
We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And watch where the chalk-white arrows go
To the place where the sidewalk ends.

Yes we'll walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And we'll go where the chalk-white arrows go,
For the children, they mark, and the children, they know
The place where the sidewalk ends.

And of course that was Shel Silverstein

froglipz wrote:me too! I remember explaining to someone how you CAN have real friendships with people you have never met you just need to be wary of pilots and underwear models...

I like this !! Sounds like great advice ... and I kind of get underwear models, but pilots? Maybe cause they are always out of town? Or ... ?

LoL it was one of the biggest lies told by guys about their occupations in the 90's in the heyday of internet chat. the more attractive they claim to be the less likely it is to be true....

Oh, the late, great Shel Silverstein. I remember many of his poems, I always like "I'm Being Swallowed by a Boa Constrictor," and "The Slithergadee."

Of course, those were silly little rhymes meant to make us laugh. "Where the Sidewalk Ends," makes us think, and reflect, and smile (or cry).

“Knock! knock!
who's there?
me!
me who?
that's right?
what's right?
meehoo!
that's what I want to know!
what's what you want to know?
me who?
yes, exactly!
exactly what?
yes, I have exactlywatt on a chain!
exactly what on a chain?
yes!
yes what?
no, exactlywatt!
that's what I want to know!
I told you-exactlywatt!
exactly what?
yes!
yes what?
yes it's with me.
what's with you?
exactlywatt-that's what with me.
me who?
yes!
go away!
knock knock...”

Thank you again Shel Silverstein

froglipz, that reminds me so much of Abbott & Costello's immortal "Who's on First?"

Me too Cattleman! That one was always fun for inspiring giggles from my daughters.

I'm sorry to be so solemn, but it is Remembrance day here today. 11th November. We wear our poppies.

This poem was in the newspaper today and it is truely on my mind.


Home to Roost (extract)

By Owen Sheers



I don't remember any of what happened.
Just those howls, like dogs, as we drove out.
The fields and trees all black and green.
Perhaps some of the very first rounds.
But nothing else.

I had to pick it all up second hand,
as my hearing came back in the chopper,
and then again in Bastion.

How when my driver had reversed
he'd hit a roadside IED.
How the explosion had hit a fuel tank, or ammo tin
right under me.
Shot me out, like a jack in the box,
60 feet. And then how it had all kicked off.
Rockets, grenades. The lot.

They took me straight to Rose Cottage.
A special room in the medical centre
deep among the tents and containers of Bastion.
A room for the lads or lasses who'd taken a hit,
which even the surgeons on camp couldn't fix.

It was manned, back then, by two blokes,
staff sergeants Andy and Tom. It was them
who took me in, off the ambulance,
and into their room. It smelt of sweet tea.
"That scent," Andy said to me. "It's the Eau de Toilette. Rose.
The Afghans insist we spray it on their guys."
"Don't worry though Arthur," Tom added on my other side.
"You'll soon get used to it. We did."
And then they laughed. Not for themselves
but for me, I could tell. And they carried on talking too,
chatting me through all they'd do,
as they put what they'd found of me onto a shelf,
saying "sorry it's so cold Arthur",
which it was, like a fridge.
Then they said "sleep well" before sliding it shut.
My first night of three in Rose Cottage.

I saw them again just before I left.
When they slid me out into the light again,
still passing the time of day
as they placed me in the coffin
that would carry me home.
Always calling me by name.
"Not long now Arthur."
"You'll be back in no time."
Gently, they lowered the lid
then, like two maids making a bed,
they unfolded, smoothed and checked for snags,
before draping me in the colours of the flag.

Wow. It is Veteran's Day here, which seems to be the same kind of holiday. This was very poignant and thoughtful. Three (somber) dings from me, Thank you