my computer’s finds are nothing close to a pun…

An original sonnet by me.... The spell checker poem from earlier today reminded me of this little pastiche, which I wrote several years ago. I had a blast taking a Shakespeare sonnet and making it my own! I think most writers can identify with the sentiment!

my computer's finds are nothing close to a pun;

words are far more tread than tires are tread;

if fad be funny, why then, its humors are done;

if written in files, floppy disks pile up to my head.

I have seen writings brilliant, fun and bright,

but no such prose seen when at mine I peek;

and in other's writings is there more delight

than in the files that my computer keeps.

I have to write daily, yet well I know

that TV hath a far more pleasing sound;

I grant I never saw Dave Barry go

to my files, never to look around.

And yet, by Heaven, I think my writings as rare

as any Erma Bombeck can compare.

This was my second pastiche; if I can dig up my very first one, which was an assignment for English Lit 101 many eons ago, I'll post it. (I can tell you're so excited to hear the news!) ~ Thanks for reading me!

© Cherié Davidson All rights reserved

A Little Poem Regarding Computer Spell Checkers...

Oh my gosh! When I read this in my e-mail, I knew it would become part of the fabric of my very being. My thanks to the author, whoever you may be, for touching my soul! LOL!

Eye halve a spelling chequer
It came with my pea sea
It plainly marques four my revue
Miss steaks eye kin knot sea.

Eye strike a key and type a word
And weight four it two say
Weather eye am wrong oar write
It shows me strait a weigh.

As soon as a mist ache is maid
It nose bee fore two long
And eye can put the error rite
Its rare lea ever wrong.

Eye have run this poem threw it
I am shore your pleased two no
Its letter perfect awl the weigh
My chequer tolled me sew.

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To The Mothers Who Drugged Us...

[Yep, you guessed it, another e-mail message I felt compelled to share. ~ Cherié]

The other day, someone at a store in our town read that a Methamphetamine lab had been found in an old farmhouse in the adjoining county and he asked me a rhetorical question, “Why didn't we have a drug problem when you and I were growing up?"

I replied, “I had a drug problem when I was young...

I was drug to church on Sunday morning. I was drug to church for weddings and funerals.

I was drug to family reunions and community socials no matter the weather.

I was drug by my ears when I was disrespectful to adults.

I was also drug to the woodshed when I disobeyed my parents, told a lie, brought home a bad report card, did not speak with respect, spoke ill of the teacher or the preacher, or if I didn't put forth my best effort in everything that was asked of me.

I was drug to the kitchen sink to have my mouth washed out with soap if I uttered a profanity.

I was drug out to pull weeds in mom's garden and flower beds and cockleburs out of dad's fields.

I was drug to the homes of family, friends, and neighbors to help out some poor soul who had no one to mow the yard, repair the clothesline, or chop some firewood; and, if my mother had ever known that I took a single dime as a tip for this kindness, she would have drug me back to the woodshed.”


Those drugs are still in my veins and they affect my behavior in everything I do, say, or think. They are stronger than cocaine, crack, or heroin; and, if today's children had this kind of drug problem, America would be a better place.

God bless the parents who drugged us!