just ignore and let this one die

Ann that is scarily good!

*purrs loudly*

If it doesn't rhyme it is prose.

Pep (Poetry is a subset of prose)

ok, I'm off to bed...night guys

I must respectfully disagree, Pep. Poetry is the art of rhythmical composition, and is generally distinguished from prose by its metrical form.

Prose:

–noun

1. the ordinary form of spoken or written language, without metrical structure, as distinguished from poetry or verse.


Perhaps these literary forms are defined differently across the pond.

Did a little exploring after I saw AM Radio's The Quiet mentioned here. I stumbled across a great little gas station next to a wheat field, also by AM Radio.

The Refuge and Expansion, in the Welsh Cove sim.



A great build but for some reason the ground is very soft.

my first game was Runescape.

There is a sim crossing at that gas station

Except for the dweeb stuck in the ground, very Hopperish.

Dweeb? Wow, tough crowd here.

Sorry Tex. I thought that pic was originaly posted by the Toy Devil Boy.

I guess I should have said dolt?

Oh well then, dolt is an improvement. I hope.

If you don't count Pong and my Atari 2600 and the 60 games I had for it,

My first game was "Bruce Lee" on the Commodore 64.

My first PC Game was the original "Alone in the Dark", which was running on my old 486SX-25Mhz Packard Bell (no sound, no cd drive) and whopping 4 MB of RAM.

Crap! I'm liable to spend less time in SL again!

Over the weekend I picked up, along with Spore, a wireless Guitar for Guitar Hero at BestBuy. It was only $10!!! Might get another!! Then I went to GameStop & got Guitar Hero 3 for $24.

Now I just need A) My wrists to stop hurting and B) Longer fingers!!!

I played Minesweeper once.

Tex- every time I have been there I fall thru the ground- rez a cube and sit on it, stand and u will be fine... near there though I am not sure where exactly from there, steely and i found lovely mountains with waterfalls and - of course- a store - I tried to find it again and could not - maybe he took an LM, I will ask. Worth the exploration, the access is thru some sort of Tunnel in the Sky type opening that teleports u- you really have to know where to look.

Life is poetry - it is song and symphony and each one of us writes our own verse; whether we build it out of prims, like AM Radio, or write it out in the hundreds and thousands of tidbit-drama we participate in every day. Hell, we know cyber can be extremely poetic- we have all enjoyed Yosef's lyrical postings right here .

Call it prose, call it sonnet- it is an uplifting of spirit and a sharing of our so very human hunger to reach out and share our selves. Poetry - in all it's forms- says "see me, know me- hear me, understand me". I think it binds us in a great human chain - from rap to Beethoven, from finger paints in the Lascaux to Rodin to SL sculpties- art is poetry, poetry is art and it lives in all of us, it is our human birthright I think.

Here is a favorite poem of mine:

Patterns
by Amy Lowell


I walk down the garden paths,
And all the daffodils
Are blowing, and the bright blue squills.
I walk down the patterned garden-paths
In my stiff, brocaded gown.
With my powdered hair and jewelled fan,
I too am a rare
Pattern. As I wander down
The garden paths.

My dress is richly figured,
And the train
Makes a pink and silver stain
On the gravel, and the thrift
Of the borders.
Just a plate of current fashion,
Tripping by in high-heeled, ribboned shoes.
Not a softness anywhere about me,
Only whalebone and brocade.
And I sink on a seat in the shade
Of a lime tree. For my passion
Wars against the stiff brocade.
The daffodils and squills
Flutter in the breeze
As they please.
And I weep;
For the lime-tree is in blossom
And one small flower has dropped upon my bosom.

And the plashing of waterdrops
In the marble fountain
Comes down the garden-paths.
The dripping never stops.
Underneath my stiffened gown
Is the softness of a woman bathing in a marble basin,
A basin in the midst of hedges grown
So thick, she cannot see her lover hiding,
But she guesses he is near,
And the sliding of the water
Seems the stroking of a dear
Hand upon her.
What is Summer in a fine brocaded gown!
I should like to see it lying in a heap upon the ground.
All the pink and silver crumpled up on the ground.

I would be the pink and silver as I ran along the paths,
And he would stumble after,
Bewildered by my laughter.
I should see the sun flashing from his sword-hilt and the buckles
on his shoes.
I would choose
To lead him in a maze along the patterned paths,
A bright and laughing maze for my heavy-booted lover,
Till he caught me in the shade,
And the buttons of his waistcoat bruised my body as he clasped me,
Aching, melting, unafraid.
With the shadows of the leaves and the sundrops,
And the plopping of the waterdrops,
All about us in the open afternoon --
I am very like to swoon
With the weight of this brocade,
For the sun sifts through the shade.

Underneath the fallen blossom
In my bosom,
Is a letter I have hid.
It was brought to me this morning by a rider from the Duke.
"Madam, we regret to inform you that Lord Hartwell
Died in action Thursday se'nnight."
As I read it in the white, morning sunlight,
The letters squirmed like snakes.
"Any answer, Madam," said my footman.
"No," I told him.
"See that the messenger takes some refreshment.
No, no answer."
And I walked into the garden,
Up and down the patterned paths,
In my stiff, correct brocade.
The blue and yellow flowers stood up proudly in the sun,
Each one.
I stood upright too,
Held rigid to the pattern
By the stiffness of my gown.
Up and down I walked,
Up and down.

In a month he would have been my husband.
In a month, here, underneath this lime,
We would have broke the pattern;
He for me, and I for him,
He as Colonel, I as Lady,
On this shady seat.
He had a whim
That sunlight carried blessing.
And I answered, "It shall be as you have said."
Now he is dead.

In Summer and in Winter I shall walk
Up and down
The patterned garden-paths
In my stiff, brocaded gown.
The squills and daffodils
Will give place to pillared roses, and to asters, and to snow.
I shall go
Up and down,
In my gown.
Gorgeously arrayed,
Boned and stayed.
And the softness of my body will be guarded from embrace
By each button, hook, and lace.
For the man who should loose me is dead,
Fighting with the Duke in Flanders,
In a pattern called a war.
Christ! What are patterns for?

i have. if i read it (after posting) and find it too critical or snide i will delete it and start over. i don't want to be mean or offensive.... i'm pretty straight up and don't sugar coat, so sometimes my words are taken wrong ... so in those cases i might delete... typically tho, i stand by my opinions, (and leave them) even after proven wrong, and so it goes. no need to delete, Mari.

and now i want to hear your question.

(edited to add the part in parenthesis)

/me nods.

hi Mo. how are you?

i do that too.

hi Claire! every time i come in here to post, you are leaving for bed. sleep well.

OMG! you so totally pulled it off. *claps*

cute too. thanks for indulging me. and, a new trend of special requests begins.....

i meant my first internet game.

some of those i have never heard of.

*waves to 3Ring*

Hi there! All is AOK in my neck of the woods. You?

@Amara...that poem was heartbreakingly lovely. Thank you.

Threadies, I just wanted tell you how much I enjoy your company, here in this thread, in other parts of the forums, on both sides of the street, and of course, inworld. I laugh, I cry, I groan, I am renewed.

same. *waves back*