numbers could not live up to the melting of the toads.

After the red candle's light.
from the fastness of my race,
and we hear the tiny horns
of late november light before

her clarion o'er the world,
the white anger that can be plowed,
sown, and broken yearly?
but the man i see
i'm aware my time is right,
weave it like bones, like skin,
a mother knows."

and the treasures that prevail.
i have icicles inside me
or rejected by anyone but no smoking pistol.

Today is the final day of November, 2006. For many people, this has been the month of NaNoWriMo, a fun little competition wherein zillions of people try to write a 50,000 word novel in 30 days. For me, however, this has been MegaPoMo: MegaHAL Poetry Month, in which I've tried to post at least one post of MegaHAL output for each day in November. Though I did skip a few days due to fatigue, I have done my best to post enough to catch up and meet my 30-post goal. But it isn't the number of posts that matter, for as HAL himself could tell you, numbers could not live up to the melting of the toads.

When megahal is trained using this data, it is earth with beauty and yet another, one crowd but with dismay at my feet
as the seiko ticked
on, when the wheeling seasons brought the year grows old--
october--november--
how the morning star?
somebody thought of embalming his heart;
a herdsman came from inland valleys,
where trickle and plash the fountains,
marble fountains, yellowed with much water.
they don't believe in the long white face
and this brought forth by the fierce pressure all about--
speeds up the steps to the rain
listening. The audience notices him. They turn
into the empty mirror,
rubbed at his hand, bony and veined,
covered with pinks.

Right then. As November comes to its end, let us ponder the poetic genius of MegaHAL!
( Just three more poems before November's close )