Cyn
Kansan,
You are tops.
I lick your chops.
They’re so delicious
As art, quite nutritious.
Feeding my pitiful heart,
Inspiring me to work on art.
Increasing my angst, low self-esteem.
I wrestle with my tablet and then dream
We meet, I gaze behind your seamless eye
Into your mind, some secret to spy.
Talent so kaleidoscopic
Such mad skills, what makes you tick?
Fooling Godly preachers;
I’m in the bleachers.
You soar above.
All my love,
I am
Spam.

I've grown quite fond of forum posts
That make me laugh much more than most
Images that made me roar
Daring words that I adore

Dinosaurs and soldiers who
Decorated things taboo
Costumes that were quite insane
A wonderfully demented brain!

What else is there that begs for love?
That cutesy tuft of hair above
And voice that I was shocked to hear
Was oddly pleasant to my ear!

Sparkling eyes and fiendish grin
that speak of mischief deep within
You joke about your portly frame
Just more for us to love I claim!

But now your posts are far too few
I think that many miss you too
I for one do wish to see
Much more of you my sweet monkey!

There once was a Textor named Merbley
who wrote lovely stories superbly.
Wielding words sharp as swords,
she won lots of awards,
and defeated all challengers verbally.

When a head-to-head contest arose,
with a keyboard she vanquished her foes.
When it came to Romance
not a soul stood a chance.
None could match her impeccable prose.

At the top of the Text Hall of Fame
carved in letters of gold, is her name.
And the thing I find oddest
is that she remains modest —
so humble, she puts me to shame.

Long-eared beagle of modern lore,
Above mere mortals you do soar.
Your eyes are bright and true.
Your panting tongue and smiling face,
Your tiny paws in warm embrace,
Each day our love renew.

Gentle romance, but not hardcore,
Leave me begging, wanting more.
In truth you make me blush
Stopping just short of ripping lace,
With sweaty palms, my heart does race.
Bright red my face does flush.

Coveted eights with ease you score.
Share your secret, I do implore.
With envy I am green.
The trophies line your mantle place.
I hang my head, abject disgrace.
Awed by your regal mien.

I try as I have tried before.
To emulate what I adore.
In your shadow I reside
Your comments they do not lambaste,
Yet myself I still do debase.
As my feelings I confide.

When I enter a contest and I think I might win
The sight of other entries wipes away my grin
And the votes keep coming, lower each day
Crushing my hopes and washing them away

So it was only natural when I saw the subject line
‘Photoshop Mentor Program’ — the chance was mine
I read through the thread and typed ‘mentor please’
And into my world came the great Qofcheez

She has trophies and medals and stars galore
Her karma’s so high it can’t rise anymore
She decided to give me a much needed hand
Despite the time zone in her faraway land

With three entries so far she’s helped me along
She knows what is best and she knows what looks wrong
Her tutorials make chopping so easy and fun
She’s always been patient since the start of day one

Qofcheez, I write this to thank you so much
With your help it will be victory I too will touch
Though my average vote has yet to pass 4.5
It’s toward that gold trophy I continue to strive

His talent is truly amazing,
A gold-littered path he is blazing.
He uses his quill
With astonishing skill,
And the bar he is constantly raising.

As the morning sun bursts with orange flames
And the golden sea calmly shuffles out,
I hear all men whisper a thousand names;
Bella, Sweetness, you know there is no doubt
Your name I'll roar above the thousand cries,
Above the thousand tears when lovers mourn.
My love for you, my sweet, is without whys,
With you in mind I'll never be forlorn.

Blueness veils the darkness crowned in the west,
Silence signals lovers are now in awe
Of the golden sun, brighter than the rest.
My love, I know that you are twenty-four
And we've never met, but, please don't ridicule,
For I love you, my Ozzy-sweet, MollyCule.

In ev'ry life, there's one true friend
we know will stay, to bitter end,
who knows what goals we dearly seek,
who guides our path when we are weak.

It is less known, but mostly true:
Companions help us all here, too.
Protecting us from errant word,
and making sure our needs are heard.

That can be hard for them to do:
A challenge met by special few.
Indeed, some textors use their aid
even at Worth, to make the grade.

Diogenese's one such guy
whose forum posts could go awry.
His partner works to keep him true;
makes sure his writing has a clue.

Tis not easy; there's little fame
in keeping Text from being lame.
Is it wrong, or bad? Not very.
This special friend's imaginary.

We thus fete them, in rhyme and song:
Diogenese and Flagon.

LadyMin, Fraeulein, where are you?
Worth is so blue!
Hear all the sobs
Now you’ve two jobs.

Forums are stagnant, wits are slow.
You have to know -
There is no kink,
No friendly wink.

Worse, no entries from your soft hand,
Your place to land -
Pasty with grief.
Bring us relief.

Minute Poetry
The Minute Poem is rhyming verse form consisting of 12 lines of 60 syllables written in strict
iambic meter. The poem is formatted into 3 stanzas of 8,4,4,4; 8,4,4,4; 8,4,4,4 syllables.
The rhyme scheme is as follows: aabb, ccdd, eeff

source

As commas are laid to rest,
Fragments joined, run-ons split
Attributions punctuated
And emotive fires lit.

Proofing finds another error
Which involves another word
The word filter decided to change
Into something too absurd.

Syntax and sin taxing
Grammar found in fault
Verbs and nouns in disagreement
Hyphens spread like salt

After the spell check
the just one more reading
eyes blurrier than old bifocals
the limit no more exceeding.

It is in the reading
the pudding finds its proof.
Each plot a bit more twisted,
Every character raises the roof.

Textors exercise their craft.
Wringing out grief or mirth.
Drawing a picture in the mind
Showing what words are worth.