new poems

[JCSTREET]

PHEW! thought I'd lost you there hun

Here I am, Doc.

Read this -- Daniel's brushes -- couldn't figure out how to work a boar into it, though.

the sea,
home of storied men,
curls
with crackling courage
crisp as cannons,
captured on your canvas.

nice!

you tweak my naval officer persona there (is there ANYTHING I haven't done)

good to know you lurk in the wings always ready for a walk-on part when bidden

Carl

(I'm just staring at that verse hearing it in my mind over and over)

 

[JCSTREET]

Re: Blues from above

see the cat with the glasses on
plays the blue all night long
hey hey baby what'd I say

smile spread from ear to ear
piano player extrodinaire
hey hey baby what'd I say

Georgia always on his mind
Arkansas next in line
hey hey baby what'd I say

Might have been blind
But he sure could see
Hit the road to eternity
Hey hey baby what'd I say
Hey hey baby it's all right
Hey hey, said Ray- goodnight
Hey hey baby what'd I say
Hey Ray, god bless- sleep tight

_________________________

In memoriam- Ray Charles

Put this on 2 other threads- 1 by accident, 1 on purpose.
Figured I might as well go for a hat trick- he's worthy.

I posted this in an obscure newsgroup for over-50s including bluerinse babies - since someone there had posted a sweet msg re da Man Ray C

hope you don't mind bro

if you do it's too late so you'll just have to take me out and shoot me like an old knackered horse

Carl

 

[Liar]

Brief Friday 11:th reviews.

I'm in a hurry so those will be not so wordy...
But those were the best of the 13 poems dated for the 11:th.

In my humbliest opinion...



Very very good:
........
I don't know Maria by normal jean ©
A not-so-normal Jean claims she doesn't know, and then digs into something very human. So yeah, right. Brilliant.
[color=228822]she is a figment, a fragile pigment
hiding behind words
and her oh-so-perfect feelings
but what you don’t know
she knows
numbness like cold metal fused
frozen tight against splintered bone[/color]
........
Die young, stay pretty by tungtied2u ©
A sharp onlook at a sharp moment and a flash of life over.
[color=228822]Bright white teeth
ultrasonically cleaned
Erased years of nicotine
Bright red Kawasaki
Flash machine
Accented the new look[/color]
........
Witness to the Whimper by jthserra ©
And from one flash of life, to every damn soul on the planet. Jthserra pictures an end of days with a certain poetic justice.
[color=228822]ights might burn for days -- and nights
as automation slowly grinds to an inevitable halt
the silent cities littered in remnants of life.

Any sound would echo
"Who cares, who cares?"
If a forest fell among the trees
naked clothes wouldn't care.
Who would hear the waves?[/color]
........


Very good too, but I have no time to write longer reviews. Just read 'em, ok?
........

looking back down the road by WickedEve ©


Sleep by dreamsweet ©


I dare you not to pounce by annaswirls ©

........


Later, poets!
#L

 

[JCSTREET]

yeah that's what we are man

Deep sea monsters,
clinging to bare rock
and one another,
like nothing else
mattered.



you got it covered

 

[Guest]

Sunday reviews

Good morning poets — I see 'the powers that be', have posted the new poems list. I have 55 poems dated for the 13th to review today, but I am at work, so my reviews won't be out until tonight.

I will get to them as soon as possible.


- neo

 

[perks]

Re: Sunday reviews

Good morning poets — I see 'the powers that be', have posted the new poems list. I have 55 poems dated for the 13th to review today, but I am at work, so my reviews won't be out until tonight.

I will get to them as soon as possible.


- neo

I'll do all the ones that have the 12th next to them, even though they weren't posted until today.

I'll finish it up and have it posted this afternoon too.

 

[SeattleRain]

Re: Sunday reviews

Good morning poets — I see 'the powers that be', have posted the new poems list. I have 55 poems dated for the 13th to review today, but I am at work, so my reviews won't be out until tonight.

I will get to them as soon as possible.


- neo

okay Neo I am jumping in will do this in bits, kids with dad at the store-- starting at the top 4,3,2,1.....

 

[SeattleRain]

First my apologies, I have not been able to read poems lately-- so I am terribly out of practice. Upon reading the first several, my mind was saying "wow" I read comments and these people know how to review a poem. So these will be short recommendations. In my opinion which is much more humble than it used to be


Savage Wolf wow'd me through all of his Minesota choruses today:

Feeling Minnesota-5th chorus -
Feeling Minnesota-7th chorus -
Feeling Minnesota-13th chorus -
Feeling Minnesota-22nd chorus -
Feeling Minnesota-36th chorus -
Feeling Minnesota-37th chorus -
Feeling Minnesota-41st chorus -

I hope to go back and leave comments on each of these, they deserve their own attention, like septuplets on their birthday. Show some love. Here is 36: I love the condensed phrasing and rhythm of these poems-- would love to know the story behind the numbering.

Feeling Minnesota-36th chorus
by SavgeWolf ©

36th Chorus

pulling up my collar
to the wind...up
central avenue I walk
city streets surrounded
by old buildings...the
type with storefronts
two or more levels
of dives called apartments
above...from university
to 37th the past is
alive time has lost
it's veil, its curtains
behind a lexus is horse and buggy
on the side walk
hoop skirts and loafers
all moving through time

Tara Paints us a seascape with borrowed brush: There were lines I loved, some I did not quite understand, but the entire picture is very lovely
Daniel's brushes
by tarablackwood22 ©

**********

night rests
its weary wings,
draws air
like desperate dreamers,
bouncing birds
on waves of white.

Okay my favorite so far, I love this poem, I want to live inside this poem if they would have me....


Ice To The Core!
by hippiedude ©

Damn I cannot pick favorite verses, did I say that I love this poem and cannot wait to get my eyes on the next one... lucky us! Intelligent, rhythmic, paints the picture without so much detail to prescribe our imagination-- and the feel that makes me want to let my imagination take me somewhere new.

Ice!

…coming and going—
the place was one time portal pitched
rising through the silver street cloud
looming over the glistened pavement—
scattered with amniotic consonance.

.......

Inside they talk flag, soot staggered, brain stained revolution.
Ice! I tell you the place had edge—
amber smooth and metallic faces,
Ice! To the very core.

I gotta read this one again later and leave a PC--
the Temperature of vapour

by RazzRajen ©




oh my goodness, what is with the hippies today? They are making me speechless. I love this-- it speaks for itself.

Freshness 97.675% and counting
by killallhippies ©

Paris is dead, smile for the camera,
Do a little dance like a good little girl.
It's beautiful. Sweat dripping,
Lands on the face of the one you love.
Blind to the presence of god in the corner
Of the bar where he sits drinking his beer.
Too many more days like this and I'll be broken.
Just another perfect day
Out on the rim...

Of the glass.

~

... it is too quiet down there, I gotta go see what the wee one is up to... be back soon.....

oop I just realized Seattle was logged on, oh well, anna will just have to sleep it off.

I am so glad I reviewed today, got to see some new (to me at least) names that I might have missed otherwise.


SeattleRain

 

[normal jean]

Brief Friday 11:th reviews.

I'm in a hurry so those will be not so wordy...
But those were the best of the 13 poems dated for the 11:th.

In my humbliest opinion...



Very very good:
........
I don't know Maria by normal jean ©
A not-so-normal Jean claims she doesn't know, and then digs into something very human. So yeah, right. Brilliant.
[color=228822]she is a figment, a fragile pigment
hiding behind words
and her oh-so-perfect feelings
but what you don’t know
she knows
numbness like cold metal fused
frozen tight against splintered bone[/color]
........


well, ( deep breath) Im kinda shy ( hoping you cant tell I am lying), hehe, but I wanted to thank you for mentioning my poem about her.....I appreciate it more than you know

 

[perks]

okay, from the bottom of the 12th poems

What would you pay by MissIntrigue
I saw a bunch of cliches that normally would make me tear my hair out and poke at my eyes with sharp needles, however.
I started to enjoy it. I think I'm a form junkie. I just loved the construction of this poem, and ignoring my usual gripes, I was moved by this little poem. I'm reminded of published poets who turn a cliched phrase into something that means more in it's naked form. I believe this little piece has some merit, in it's ideas and structure and sometimes in the nuance of its rhyme, once I get past the first few spotlights and listen to its message instead of getting lost in the overuse of the terms.

A Certain Kind of Magic by flyguy69
w00t. I like this one too. This poem is a complete thought. I thought it was so well written. And if this is any indication of his normal voice, I will be reading him more often. It is an erotic poem, but it melds thought and action beautifully and without crass rhyme or blunt physicality.

Angular Woman by sandspike
Love the concept and thought. The structure felt a bit angular, but that was well matched to the point of the poem, and when I was finished, I saw the complete woman and the sharp blunt edges were softened by the complexities of her. One thing, and maybe I've got too many hours invested with a three year old, but "bikini bottom" is the town where spongebob squarepants lives, and the whole idea of that threw me for a loop in the middle of her. I'll just blame nickelodeon. Hopefully you read the poem before I mentioned this, because if not, it's horribly ruined for you now. Don't think about elephants, don't think about elephants!

waking the undead by bluerains
there are definitely some poetic phrases in this poem, but the overall thing leaves me feeling like I just got run over by some words trying to be a poem but not making a point. Loved "dragonfly bands", hated the "listenening" typo.

Coffee Break Fuck Poem by Liar
okay, this is a poem that reads the way I love a poem to be. It's all slick cerebral slam, the way poetry was meant to be. Makes me want a real job... all of a sudden. Reminds me of the days of Icingsugar and denis hale, however his voice is a little less blow your brains out and a bit more subtle. It's an intelligent piece that creeps into your mind and slips down a bit further and toys with your southern bits.

North by toward a word
I'd like to thank him/her for making me look up the word torpor, that in itself was the best part of this poem. That word, along with the title and the screenname merited at least a mention.

Shapeshifter by tathagata
dude, you know you used "hidden desires" as the first line of your poem, right? k, just checking. That put a reaaaaally bad taste in my mouth, but since I read you last time and liked it, I decided to read on. Not a bad poem. Some great thoughts and imagery, but nothing that really made me want to shift my shape at all, ya know what I'm sayin? Really, I might have to tease you about the whole "hidden desires" thing for a long long time. PS. do not read any of my poems, or you'll have tons of fodder with which to torment me too. Heh. Next time, sugah. I have faith in you. I've seen your really good stuff.

Off to the pine woods by Maria23<shit, and some other numbers I forgot>
This poem reads like classic poetry. You know, like whitman and all those good poets. I just love reading great form wrapped around a simple story of nature and beauty. This gets a "well done" from me. Ok, like I ever say that. It's kickass, girl. I'm impressed that it didn't sound forced. I wasn't too fond of the "squawk" then "hawk" that was the only time your form felt obvious for me. It would have been tons worse if the hawk had been first, though. I would have seen that squawk coming a mile away. Still, that's being picky. I loved the poem.

I Want a Child by JCSTREET
HA! your theory is the reason people want kids all the time. I can't wait to see your poetry after the practical.
Now, to form... Your line breaks are altogether amusing/frustrating, for me. When I read this aloud I'm wondering what your point is for making me breath there. I think that possibly your breath will be all out of sorts when you get a kid too, so maybe it works. Other than that little bit of strangeness, the poem was well written with different bites of sound and imagery that makes a tasty meal, maybe not for a child, but definitely for me.
I have no beef with your poetry, only your theory that you're old enough to have a kid. Hell, I don't think any of us are ever really "ready". *laughing* good luck.
PS. I have one three year old that I will rent out. She might cure you of your want. *laughing*
PSS. you still have to give her back to me, I do love her most of the time

The Promised Land by twelveoone
I really want to like this poem, but parts of it are so convoluted that I really don't get it. However, there are certain sentiments that I can sink my teeth into and relate to. I love the little rays of blasphemy sunshine, but altogether I'm still trying to figure out what the fuck twelve is talking about. Still, it's rather interesting, to the point, that I can't stop reading it. Like the rubik's cube of poetry.

Okay, I mentioned most of the 12th's poems in one way or another. If I didn't it's because I neither liked nor hated it, which means it cultivated my apathy. Probably not what you want your poetry to do. I think I'd rather have someone hate something I wrote than have no feeling toward it whatsoever. Poetry is about envoking a feeling within your audience. It's up to you, the author to steer the proverbial emotion ship. Not a bad day for poetry overall.
Thanks for letting me blab on. I'm outtie.

 

[tarablackwood22]

[B



Tara Paints us a seascape with borrowed brush: There were lines I loved, some I did not quite understand, but the entire picture is very lovely
Daniel's brushes
by tarablackwood22 ©

**********
quote:
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
night rests
its weary wings,
draws air
like desperate dreamers,
bouncing birds
on waves of white.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
[/B]

Thanks, Seattle ....and give anna a kiss for me.

 

[tungtied2u]

Originally posted by Liar ........
Die young, stay pretty by tungtied2u ©
A sharp onlook at a sharp moment and a flash of life over.
[color=228822]Bright white teeth
ultrasonically cleaned
Erased years of nicotine
Bright red Kawasaki
Flash machine
Accented the new look[/color]

Thanks for the mention Liar. And to all those others who gave feedback and voted. Much appreciation.

 

[killallhippies]

thanks for the mention seattlerain.

also, everyone else who's commented so far. it's appreciated.

 

[tungtied2u]

Re: Re: Blues from above

I posted this in an obscure newsgroup for over-50s including bluerinse babies - since someone there had posted a sweet msg re da Man Ray C

hope you don't mind bro

if you do it's too late so you'll just have to take me out and shoot me like an old knackered horse

Carl

Carl, I'm honored you think it's worthy to share. (putting away the gun for now).

 

[SeattleRain]

Go Bulldogs!

here it is


and Mom goes “coo coo” and I say
talk to the kid like an adult, it will
internalize that and go to Harvard

like Daddy did

-30- May 2004

yes perhaps but if you speak to him or her in a voice that is melodius and pleasant, rhythmic and high pitched, he or she may actually internalize that the human voice is something nice to listen to

and go to Yale or better yet Stanford

(they need a tongue in cheek smiley)

 

[Maria2394]

Thanks Eve and Perks

thank you for mentioning my poem Off to the pine woods. yes, my scrub oak is now emptied of blue jay babies..

I guess this is practice sadness for when my girls, now ages 21 and 15 leave home ( i know, you probably think- shes 21 and still at home??) she is in school and I promised..so thats all there is to that for now, but she does have a job which is more than i can say for me...my 15 year old has one too

well, thanks to everyone who left comments and sent private FB, means a lot to me. I know at least one person, left anon mail thought I was dead, but if they really thought i was dead, why would they write? sounds like something I would do.....well, somthing i have done...hehe

thanks again to you all
smoochies, maria

 

[tungtied2u]

Re: Go Bulldogs!

yes perhaps but if you speak to him or her in a voice that is melodius and pleasant, rhythmic and high pitched, he or she may actually internalize that the human voice is something nice to listen to

and go to Yale or better yet Stanford

(they need a tongue in cheek smiley)

My brother went to Yale Carl , but I won't let that stop me from sharing this with you.

In bed at night
Tucked up warm
my wife and I and
in between
a giggling, grinning presence
tasting chocolate
sipping Guinness
(never too young for the finer things)
rest her on your belly
nuzzle her neck
(ahh- baby perfume- new life)
soft fists curl around your pinky
wispy hairs tickle your chin
responses are swift and honest
no ulterior motives
happy smile, sad cry
tired sleep
sleep the sleep of babes
sleep the sleep of peace
sleep gift of the gods

 

[champagne1982]

Go! Read and comment on this poem O Horrors!

Sometimes, I just feel like I'm posting to the wind, which in the Himalayas would be fine, but it kinda sucks here in the prairies.

So, yeah, vote too.

 

[JCSTREET]

"(they need a tongue in cheek smiley)"

Yes--I never really understood why they didn't have one of those Seattle--nice to see you posting--please don't be a stranger.

if it's any consolation I didn't go to harvard--it just fitted the poem

Doc

 

[JCSTREET]

Prose Poem Prolix

I've filed this prose poem online but i don't know if literotica will accept it as a poem so I'm taking a risk and posting it here

A LAYMAN’S GUIDE TO ENGULFMENT

By JCSTREET © 2004

Something has to give way soon.

I am watching her hand. It is small like the hand of a child and this is meet. She is not genuous. She carries the mixed grill of her life on an empty stomach and a smile. The texture of the skin on her hand is like that of a map of desert… filigrees where the clay has been deflowered by drought; the canals of Mars seen at a great distance.

I am practicing seeing beyond the blunt outlines of things. There is an etheric quality that comes in the half-light, half-sleep of dawn. Her hand is a lifeboat on the sea of my misery.

-----

She works for Justice and the word, when I walk in front of the ancient copper-roofed buildings in the winter sunlight, rolls through my brain like a worm dancing on slick ice.

Justice!

Justice is muted broadloom, open-plan offices and spare, light wood which has been brought from Scandinavia to be fashioned into desks and side tables on which justice is done.

In one of these there are many books, muted in color; leather-bound with ribbons of gold foil that shine like glow-worms at night—fireflies of flagrante.

Although I stride confidently through the lobby of Justice. I am perennially challenged by a guard who demands identification. I pull out all manner of cards from a plastic wallet.

They ladder down to the floor like daisies that have been woven into a chain in Taiwan. The guard is satisfied but it is required that I sign a book giving certain personal details and locating myself in time.

But, once on the elevator I can pass for a lawyer.

She disagrees.

“It’s the mukluks,” she says.

The confident strides across the lobby of justice; the perennial challenges by the guard; the raining down of these daisies which grow in profusion like a chittering lifeline down the palm of the hand; yes, even the signing of the gold foiled tome . . . these things are just.

These are the passports to her hand, gleaming like wax in the sun which seeps through the copper-hued windows in the justice cafeteria.

The coffee here is bad. It has been justly criticized.

Her hand is a window through which I see light beyond the bars. When I pull on her finger the channel changes and I mold the landscape until it fits the mood of the moment. She is silent through all of this except for small sounds which she makes from time to time. These are the sound of a woman in love.

The waxen fingers frame the dream.

Walking to Justice on a grey day is with foreboding filled. Fluorescent light wrestles to the hand; turns it to crystal. There are blue veins under the skin; fingers frame icicles and parking lots; fast chicken franchises and public libraries from which the titles of books have been stolen.

She is silent through all of this, except for an occasional moan. Surely Justice and mercy shall follow her all the days of her life.

I don’t know what I should have done had I not had her hand to hold.

In the eastern part of the city I am slathering layers of creamcheese onto wholewheat bread. The sun is falling into the snow, hopeless-caught in nets forged by trees but, later, dropping free over the escarpment of the Ottawa River down to a juddering death in the Gatineau Hills in nearby Quebec.

The creamcheese slathers into the holes in the bread and the holes in my belly. It bypasses the holes in my heart.

I have recently been to a warmer place. From my vantage point in the grass, just above the sea rocks, I could see clearly the delineations of West Coast cedar bark.

Far above the topmost branches, clouds and seagulls skittered off an imaginary carrier deck. Their late afternoon cries were sullen. They fell a long way before splintering the rocks with noise.

Lap, lap, lap went the water, casting an oily gaze over sad tendrils of kelp, transiting the littoral.

I was lying very still in the grass, smoking one cigarette after another and building a bank account of hypothermia that would help death come quickly when I slipped quietly into the sea, later in the day without television coverage, to swim to Japan.

Clouds bunted each other on the afternoon stage and then roiled away—hurt and crying. Patches of blue appeared from time to time and there would be twin-engined aircraft flying very high and issuing a clear moan that was haunting. There was something anachronistic about these aircraft. They had the quality of conjuring a sad, rainswept, 1942 afternoon in Kent.

It was a monochromatic afternoon and this produced the second image, which was that of an arctic coastline. If this could be imagined then it was easy to see the high-flying aircraft as missionaries of mercy, whisking an appendix-poisoned Eskimo to some distant operating table in Frobisher Bay.

That image would, of course, suggest the attendance of a medevac nurse—one of those doughty Britishers, trained in midwifery and called to the north by the promise of adventure, money and a doctor-husband.

The woman who is trying to destroy me is one of these.

There was a time before darkness fell when waterfalls of sun flowed out of the sky onto the islands far out in the Strait of Georgia. I think I may have experienced some small Dedalian epiphany then, for the scene brought a flash of déjà vu which was later identified as the color plates contained in some childhood book. It may have been The Water Babies, by Charles Lamb.

Whatever the source, this small fluttering of the heart convinced me to abandon my record-breaking attempt.

There are moments like this in all lives; charting the tacks and heels of sailing ships, no matter how ragged the canvas.

Anyway, the decision meant a long walk to the nearest telephone and a short, voluntary stay in an institution designed for the treatment of the insane and poor in spirit. It was a wise decision.

Vermont in winter is crazy.

The thick hammered ice—stretched like a pelt over the lake—belly laughs when I walk on it, and the cries of fishermen come to the ears from a great distance. This is even before the wine has been opened.

When the wind blows, it welters over glist-ice sculptures the shape of beef kidneys. One crouches down and shoots directly into the sun with a camera stopped down to £22 at a two-thousandth and polarized.

Fishermen frozen against this scene then appear as moon-scaped Inuit; speared for a seal hunt.

These are just some of the things you can see and hear in Vermont in winter.

When her hand goes to Vermont, it goes in woolen mittens painted in gay colors. They might be blues or reds or yellows. This gives a fresh aspect to the texture of the hand and lends breadth and texture.

Robert and I get drunk here on California Chablis, while his wife splits wood on the hydraulic and feeds the cows. It’s a total, dehumanizing rush. Robert has no time for sadness.

Her hand is the one that pushes the Jim Beam bottle out past the frightened, haunted trees where even the tongue of a salamander could not find it.

The trees say good morning with whipcracks; bursting in the dawn.

----

Pity the St. Bernard with the frozen, broken paw. We rushed it all the way to a vet in Swanton, but it recovered anyway.

Her hand is a cunning wielder of scrabble words. I challenged ploctyx, but when she rearranged the letters to spell “love”, I wept; placing the letters carefully on a triple word space for 19 points.

None of this helps me free myself from the woman I love; the woman who is trying to destroy me.

But! It gives to time . . . a certain alacrity.


-30-

 

[SeattleRain]

Round two, moving on--
This was rough- tough, many people have read this one already and have posted many complimentary comments-- go give it a peek if you haven't. I like this tungtied person.

Rough start
by tungtied2u ©

I raped my wife on our wedding night
We were best friends
yet hardly knew each other
In an attic of an old hotel by a river
The honeymoon suite
Became a living hell

Night Time Comes To Tell
by hippiedude ©

please, everyone go read this if you haven't and ask hippiedude to stick around here, I want to read more



Posting the whole thing. I read it several times. Got a feel for the sporadic rhyme scheme (the only kind I can honestly enjoy) I could not be there completely, but I really wanted to be. I think the first two lines will stick with me for quite a while

Within
by Torrid Reverie ©

Somewhere hidden is a jewel.
Within her I am made a prophet and know all things.
To retrieve this treasure I must only dream..
But still, I only dream.
I could be rich, I could be fed.

I could defeat this hunger and smother the dread..
Of her not coming home.
And living a constant reverie.
Within her, the truth will come to me.



GO READ THIS POEM, now I mean it, even if you already read it, go go go.

Bridge
by Basilisk ©
-stood splay footed in the rain,
under the rain,
in pointed toed boots that
Shined,
like his teeth-
Not graceful razors,
Nothing so kind


Damn I feel like I have woken up a little bit, to get to read some of these poems of poets I have not been exposed to yet. Damn!There sure is a boat load of talent here.

okay I am leaving the rest to dear Neo, gotta go buy a cell phone on eBay. I lost my third one damn it. I need GPS or something.



In awe, inamoured, and feeling quite privelaged to have had the opportunity to read, ponder and recommend a few of the wonderful poems out there.

it is a good day to be alive and aware of this place


good night! Be kind and please give us some new poems again tomorrow.

damn look Eve already has an H, I am off to read it... let Neo review it, but let me say already-- it is awesome, that is one thing in life I can depend on.


SeattleRain

 

[Maria2394]

JC,
I once had a tongue in cheek smilie, but when he left he took his tongue with him, left me with just the smilie

 

[dreamsweet]

thank you for the nod, Liar.

 

[lostandfounder]

Re: 12th (in no particular order)

Sorry it took me so long to say it but, thanks for the mention WickedEve! I may have to rework the poem though...the idea I was going for was more of someone wanting love so badly that it hurt rather than lost love...oh well, re-word it until I get it right I suppose.

Sorry and thanks again!

Nightmare
by lostandfounder ©

excerpt:
Resting her head on his lap
Fingers running through her hair

A love that has always been
And will always be

Suddenly

The malicious whine of an alarm
And she sits up in bed



Finding love gone is a nightmare in lostandfounder's poem.


~~~~~
[/B]

 

[tungtied2u]

Re:Rough start

Thanks for the kind words SeattleRain. And thanks for all the reviews - quite the motherlode.