Poetry Writings Artwork and stories from Neil Furby

Nov 30, 2006 at 09:45 o\clock

A very Russian comment! Now I understand


"Men are strategists, women are tacticians," she said. "A woman can think out a crime down to the tiniest detail, create an intricate web of events and figure out how one can get away with it. Of course, this is a generalization, but look at it this way: For a woman, a sock on the floor disrupts all her efforts at cleaning because she thinks tactically. She has cleaned up, and the house must stay that way. A man thinks strategically. [For him] a sock is not a problem because his wife is a good housekeeper."


Nov 28, 2006 at 10:52 o\clock


The years fall off her, as in another poem, tougher,
and there, on the tree-lined boulevard, she walked lightly,
leaning on her stick. Mom, I said to her, I want you
running like a girl, running on the boulevard,
I want to photograph you running on the boulevard,
but she didn’t run, my mother, I photographed her weeping,
the leaves falling around her. Nothing has changed
in 56 years, she said. Sat on a bench on top of a rocky mound,
as she did many years ago, forgetting the inflammation in her gums
and the pain in her knees. With a soft, quiet face, listened to the leaves.  

© 2005, Dorit Weisman

© Translation: 2006, Rachel Yakobovitch

Nov 27, 2006 at 01:55 o\clock


Farewell my friend

Farewell, farewell my friend

 the words fare and well subscribe

Memories flicker to the fore

Our movie a comic tender time

The credits our make

The story line write  on the run

Hope a sequel is being made

sometime in the near or far


@ N Furby


Nov 24, 2006 at 19:55 o\clock

Where have all the Bloggers gone


Clicked on the top blog 50 list

Looking for these blogs

But like walking through a party

in the fag end mornig light

words and visions a sudden full stopped

Lifes ended in this particular net space

No words of message where abouts

just the tell tale dates

Tomb stone epitaphs

They have gone to another cyber space

@ neil furby


Nov 24, 2006 at 11:10 o\clock

Sausage inflation

It was a chance remark at the sausage sizzle outside the Red Shed that sent me off to compile a rescue plan for this New Zealand tradition.


“How come the price of a sausage is still only a dollar? “ I said to the Rock and Roll club member as he folded my sausage into a slice of bread.

“The only way that we can keep it at a dollar is to reduce our margins.”

It will soon not be worth doing

He replied ‘ tapping his sausage lifter in double time.


So here is my marketing plan to save this NZ icon using other marketing plans of our great corporations



Deliver the sausage in different colors and offer delivering the product to the purchaser at varying speeds charging a surcharge that reflects the speed from order to delivery.


Electricity Companies

Make sausages in different shapes and color and cut the bread in varying shapes.

Offer all these together on the grill and charge a sliding scale price for the sausage plus a surcharge for the labour cost of transporting the uncooked sausage to the grill. from the grill to the bread, and the whole from the seller to the buyer.


Petroleum Companies

If a pig sneezes or a cow trips up increase the selling price of sausages immediately.


Liquor Industry

Decrease the size of the sausage but charge the same price


Loyalty Cards

Offer a sausagebuy card where if the buyer purchases a thousand sausages they get one free.


Anyone willing to help make a commercial or a  bill board hoardings contact sausresc at getsmart @paradise.net.nz.


Nov 23, 2006 at 23:47 o\clock

Cruz bar where we hold Poetry Cafe


Nov 23, 2006 at 23:42 o\clock

Bird on the pathway on my walk today A King Shag


Nov 19, 2006 at 00:26 o\clock

Farewell to Nancy

Fond farewell Nancy Good fortune in Melbourne Australia
Fond memories

Nov 18, 2006 at 23:49 o\clock

And God is a dangerous lover

And God is a dangerous lover

 When we clasp our hands and pray

No response from this invisible other

 He never has anything to say  


 We build churches, temples and mosque

 Write words upon words in his name  

And millions of people have been lost

On bloody crusades for gods gain

@ N Furby


Nov 18, 2006 at 09:45 o\clock

Quakes and quirks

Eathquake last night 3 15 am while the rain lashed down and the fog rolled in

I always seem to wake up before  the actual shake because there is always the very low pitched sound which starts the earth rolling

We seem so vunerable on this blue planet and as the ice burgs float by this land as never before things are really hotting up

Well to change the subjet to cooking here is an old Yorkshore recipe

York Chocolate Pudding

6 oz of plain block chocolate

3 tablespoons of black coffee

A knob of butter

1 desertful of Rum

3 medium eggs separated


Nov 17, 2006 at 01:52 o\clock

Talking to the cows

One of my walks is along the coast where graze a herd of cows.

 I have always tried to pat one of these cows on my way along the path but have never got near them.

(http://alicejonathan.blog.co.nz/  )      Alice has given me tips such as not looking the cow in the eye and walking in a sideways shuffle.

Sometimes as I am going through this approach I feel she might be having me on as the cows always bolt off and other walkers  take a wide berth when passing me  as I attempt this action.

Also I forgot to say the left arm has to be extended horizontally towards the targeted cow to simulate a horn.

Still one day I might succeed ...............





Nov 16, 2006 at 12:16 o\clock

I am number 50 in the rankings

Most frequented weblogs

Most frequently visited weblogs during the last two weeks






HOmadeBlah. Entertainment for my sick amusement. The things I love. Things I hate. Things I love to hate. Neat.




simple plan rocks


Aw Diddums


Beefy Or Peachy


Weblog von Patricia Wegenast


All The Small Things


Backstreet boys


Home Grown Country Girl


Social Democracy Now




Weblog of Bryony


I cry through my skin.


Bible Gems


Dolly Cartoon Madness




Weblog sarita


Drenched N Wine


*Like It or Not...This Is Me*


a new start?


WITP 2v3


Sound Words for Pilgrims


Answers to Life's Questions


Weblog of Ghostgirl


Weblog Culos


Weblog of Nadine


Weblog of Kristyn Deere


Janey Godley’s Blog


The Front Porch


diary of a lost soul




Weblog of xuefei


Sex - Dark Side of The Moon


Fishcake FanFic Forum


Planet Nergeedor




Word of Truth - Guidance from God's Word






America from the Inside


Weblog of Lois and Dougie - the daily musings of a lady and her cat




Angel's Mindless Chatter


The Fatslayer Chronicles


Majeres' Musings


Weblog of Brooke Bonham


susan elsagir's


Poetry Writings Artwork and stories from Neil Furby

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Nov 16, 2006 at 11:51 o\clock

earth mate

Moon shine the seed  on  cold place

A flower grew  in the space


Tentacles weaved between the pulses

Full bloom we could not be

@n furby

Nov 14, 2006 at 20:56 o\clock

Man is dogs best friend


Nov 14, 2006 at 20:50 o\clock


 We pin our tags of trust on the cliff top called hope

But the life weather clock ticks on

@neil Furby

Nov 13, 2006 at 04:35 o\clock

Thinking about thinking can be dangerous

I went for a walk up Mount Kaukau yesterday and as I walked back down the numerous steps I began to wonder about the wonder of the human brain how it can instruct the body to carry out numerous tasks and still have the ability for day dreaming.

Yes you guessed it by making this  function active in the conscious mind messes it all up and the legs lost the message train and did not step in time  

So pain became the overpowering sensation every other sensation or movement depressed for a while

Well so I picked myself up and did not think any thoughts till reaching ground level

Try it folks if you dare but might be better on the flat not walking up or down or even worse driving a car






Nov 12, 2006 at 11:21 o\clock

Santa Blog see links

I worked all night

I spent last night. The whole night in the workshop.  There was a problem with one of the machines that the elves use for splitting wood for the toys and it went down.  A piece of wood got stuck between a few of the gears and just where it was made it really hard to remove and cut out. After we got it cut out we ended up replacing the main gear which took some time to get right.  Everything is fine now.  It was just a long night so I think I'm going to go get me some milk and cookies (choclate chip) <my favorite) and head off for bed. 

Looking over my shoulder as I type, it seems that Rudolph is snuggled up down at the bottom of it.  It must have had a long night as well.  I better go for now.



Nov 10, 2006 at 09:31 o\clock

Figure and juice bottle


Nov 7, 2006 at 21:37 o\clock

Black white and the grey between

Black white and the grey between

And in the black of night the pinprick light replies

A falling void enters

and received in echoes madden

An inner clawing at the heart

  a howling retort

Where, when, what, I hold the key and toss away the door

Stomp in, stomp away,

the wolves surround I quiver,

the mind darts, a slip dawn surrounds

Bird music sings head,

a beat beating down

Hear a laugh,

aside a whispered interlude

Your face a snarl,

your eyes your very being a quiver

The arrow shoots, to walk away to breathe the cold cold air

Or to shake the curse,

self shouts reasons whispers

Hold in hold in or loose everything @Neil Furby

Nov 7, 2006 at 01:00 o\clock

Poetry What is it ?????


Poetry reaches here and there by soaring. It points in the wrong direction and heads off there regardless; it directs us to the ossuary, to museum drawers in bloom, to birds and the green facts of nesting.

Poetry is the lesson of the doubtful person, pausing. It is implicit in the life of an expert on things and an authority on nothing. Poetry is a
series of controlled blunders.

Poetry is living elsewhere; the city radiant with all of its ideas; the open throat of days we inhabit with abandon. Poetry is an apartment in the north where my story began, filled with the rhythmic ratchets of frogs.

Poetry sits on our cluttered bureau like a choice slab of cheese. A poet is a guest who likes people because they taste good. The poet reveals a trap for forms of magic.

Poetry dances with happiness at the start of the new feast. It is the second spring of our tango across the tundra. Poetry is change, like a
chord the tension snaps.

Poetry is Ice Age Man in the cave of himself, making effigies of beasts and killing them before he goes out on the real hunt with the magic of that killing on his side. Poetry is the migration of a herd of animal

Poetry is troubles swapped for something fresh; the monstrance containing the host. The dead, the beloved, the detested - these are some of its objects.

Poetry stills to a lagoon at low tide. Its dredge hauls yield a final treat we share.

Poetry - the upturned saw blade of its kiss; its crucial first cut.

© 2006, Andy Brown

© 2006, Andy Brown