To me you are (poem) by Julie E. Painter on AuthorsDen

To me you are
by Julie E. Painter → (All Poetry by Julie E. Painter)
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To me you are... My best friend, my brother,
He ran toward my office, my work to attack. I heard a loud clatter and then a big crack. He streaked to the keyboard and leaped with a clatter. I flew to my Windows, 98: "What's the matter?" The Catbert perched with paws fairly flying. "My book is deleting!" I heard myself crying. And there in the email that I thought was protected A McAfee note proclaimed, "Virus Detected." The book was erasing, one byte at a time, "Harlequin will fire me. I'll get not a dime." Quicken's While The Evil HR Director ignored me. The voltage protector was screaming in pain The heart of my hard drive was losing its brain. Floppies and CDS, in rank disarray, Lay littered before me to my great dismay. The printer kept spewing the book from before this. "Not that one, the new one!" I barely could hiss. He sprang on hind legs, then arching his back, Said, "Just take the Kill Fee, you incredible hack. Go back to your day job; stop screwing around, And if you want a nice kitty, try accessing The Pound. On EarthLink, on Dot com., on AOL, too Get on with the havoc. We've got work to do." And I heard him exclaim tax program dissolved before me, >ere he drove out of sight, ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ 　 Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám 　 Hear with a little Bread beneath the Bough, A Flask of Wine, a Book of Verse Beside me singing in the Wilderness Band ThouB Oh, Wilderness were Paradise enow! * The Moving Finger writes; and having writ, Moves on: nor all the Piety nor Wit Shall lure it back to cancel half a line, Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it. 　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　 Now that I have found you I live in the NOW: Present company, exceptional. 　　　 Ecology I think that I shall live to see the day when food When capsules pills and wonder gels will fill me up throughout my cells. When vitamins and distilled water will take the place of food that aughto. And harvest time will come in labs. Instead of corn we We getting uptight and often ruse. Then never will our children know the fun of eating fallen snow. So far from nature when people went outside to play, they to a hell that where fishing sun and fun don and no one hears the water lappin =s no good for me.=ll eat Zestabs.=ll live in capsules like our food,=s hideaway=ll now descend in elevators=s free of alligators,=t happen= I hope that I shall live to see SOME kind of food that And out of science work to save Until that time, Lord make me brave. Julie Eberhart painter 1972 　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　 Writing a Wrong 　 The writer writes and having writ moves on to other works while those undone can ponder, miss her touch; the tinkling keys they love so much. What thinks that writer in the midst of musing, that search for clever phrases not confusing? Where will she land that sailing ship of folks and fools, unwinding there like kittens rolling spools? Another romance titillates the senses. Dark tales hold readers in suspense. A literary gouache that causes sleep induces dreams the reader cannot keep? It's all within the skills that we unfold, awaiting choice, expunging trivial from bold. Our job, if we accept the charge: Perform the deed the world wants to disparage. So woe is me, a writer with a verse, an idea headed out to be accursed. Exposing muse's heart and mind, our dreams indifferent and unkind betray our thoughts when they are left behind. Julie Eberhart Painter 　　　　　 Julie Eberhart Painter 　 To me you are...** My best friend, my brother, my father, my mother, the heart of my soul, a journey to stroll... You a source for this rhyme. Beloved and esteemed, more valued than dreamed, I cannot declare half the pleasure we share. My thanks go to you, and the God we live through. =s good for me.=re a gift just in time, "Let's crash Mystery Writers; they deserve a good blight. And to all you Romantics, these words of advice: Don't write sex scenes at Christmas, that's really not nice!"