Good words, well written, better the world. Good literature betters the world immeasurably.
4 October, 2016 • 6:59 pm 0
4 October, 2016 • 6:44 pm 0
The far throwers
From a distance and in the dark
Can hit their target in the heart.
A dart with poison’d tip
From a root that only they
Do know where to seek
A secret that the far throwers
Of the dark do keep.
Malcolm D B Munro
5.15 pm Tuesday 4 October, 2016
4 October, 2016 • 6:32 pm 0
I worked as a team of Project Engineers of varying nationalities. My closest friend of the time was also Dutch, Dirk Knorr, who worked next to me. Anyway, we had wag, David, Welsh. Officed just across from Richard. I wore clogs for a week or two. Richard needed to see something and so I dashed off to my office to get it, kicking off my clogs as I ran down the corridor. I’ve always been a bit of an enthusiastic sort of fellow.
I go into Richard’s office to resume our work and sit down. Richard is laughing uproariously.
“Ho, ho, ho,” he says, “That was funny!”
4 October, 2016 • 5:30 pm 0
In response to a reader who said,
“I liked the vats poem very much!!!!!”
who had just, in a previous email,
pointed out a spelling error in another
poem.
“The vats poem”
The vats are full of slime
poured into over time
with wine that once was fine,
surplus, subsidised, to sell
it would bottom out the price
and leave vintners with grapes
unplucked, rotting on the vine.
And so they take the grapes
and do what vintners do
to make of them fine, sweet,
polished, unsurpassed dark wine
with such a heady bouquet
that wafts nostrils,
makes them quiver,
of the cognoscenti,
but do not bottle it
nor sell it in vats to feed,
heaven forbid, “You know
they feed this wine to pigs.”
the swine, but charge
for their labour instead.
Malcolm D B Munro
Tuesday 4 October, 2016
