John D

Governor Romney has argued that Capital Gains should not be taxed because corporations are already taxed on their CAPITAL thus taxing capital gains effectively taxes that money twice. Now, in Canada, I've read that a corporation's working capital and assets are actually taxed, I guess that's kind of like a property tax -but I couldn't find a table of corporate capital tax rates for the US. In addition, I'm confused by the statement about the capital gains being "double taxed" since I would have supposed that say, a dividend paid out against a stock or similar asset wouldn't be part of the paying corporation's taxable assets, but that it is, in effect, income, for whatever individual or corporation receives such a capital gains payment. Obviously, I don't get it. Can anyone help?

Yesterday, I posted a poem (Minna) and got three replies (that I know of) one from True American, one from Shirley and one from Elys. Today it's been pulled as a violation. Violation Reason: Misuse of the question and answer format

In Yahoo! Answers you must phrase questions in question format, and your answer must attempt to answer the question. Questions or answers must be written in a comprehensible way, and must be written in the language specific to the Answers site to which it is uploaded. You may not post conversational content without an attempt to post a meaningful question or answer a question or otherwise misuse the question and answer format.

I agree poetry can be chatty. I suppose one could post one and ask: "Do you like my poem? (y/n)" or ask questions like "What's the differnce between an iamb and a trochee?" or "Do you like Kipling?" But it's a little sad. I think to have some credibility in this forum as a source of thoughtful answers, we have to post our work occasionally. So. A two part question:

(1) One should we stop posting poems here?

(2) Is there a better on-line forum we should be using?

Answers appreciated!

Mending

In the shade of fish shacks

Above the docks,

Hiding in the late morning

From the hot,

Mediterranean sun,

Raphael's

Dark, gnarled fingers work

The hooks,

Repairing the damage

Of the mero's last defense,

Preparing to reap the sea's bounty

Once again.

Wind Fraud

In Italy (where else?)

Italian finance police (who else?) arrested

two prominent businessmen -- including one

with ties (mafia, not paisley)

to an investor in the Cape Wind project

in Nantucket.

Heh. Heh. He said "Nantucket." What the deuce is "Wind Fraud"???

Everyone has stories.

Heirloom

Heirloom tomatoes in the hands

Of a prince of France,

Beckoning from the glossy page

Of Gourmet Magazine,

Appealed to the eye of a son

Sitting at a kitchen table

Who proposed to his parents a trip

To feed the deferred dream

His mother long had nurtured of travel.

A mother, a father and a French chateau

Made memories for a lifetime,

And when they returned there was joy

And when death came too soon

Uninvited, to dine, and the wine

Was all poured out

And mom was suddenly gone,

The memory of that last trip

Remained fragrant

Like a ripe tomato in a summer field.

Heirloom

Heirloom tomatoes in the hands

Of a prince of France,

Beckoning from the glossy page

Of Gourmet Magazine,

Appealed to the eye of a son

Sitting at a kitchen table

Who proposed to his parents a trip

To feed the deferred dream

His mother long had nurtured of travel.

A mother, a father and a French chateau

Made memories for a lifetime,

And when they returned there was joy

And when death came too soon

Uninvited, to dine, and the wine

Was all poured out

And mom was suddenly gone,

The memory of that last trip

Remained fragrant

Like a ripe tomato in a summer field.

I wrote this as a reply (answer), but then I thought, it's kind of fun. What do you think? Too sappy?

Season Song

Savor the music that all seasons sing!

Favor the songs with your ear as they ring!

The whisper of pines in soft Winter wind,

The roar of rivers when Spring comes again,

The riot of songbirds in Summer nest,

And crackle of Fall leaves when trees take rest.

“Joshua”

Young Joshua stood above the battle.

He clenched his spear, breathed in the smell of blood,

turned to Moses -begged to try his mettle

in God’s unspoken name to fight for good.

Grass whipped round the prophet’s ankles sighing,

not loud enough to mask the clash below.

His eyes, deep wells, filled with tears belying

the faith that hurled his sons against the foe.

And on that hilltop Moses’ time-worn hands

held Joshua’s smooth face close to his own.

He whispered of his people’s promised lands

and all the love and mercy God has shown.

As if on cue a cry of victory

rose from the chosen on the blood-soaked plain.

And Joshua’s eyes grew bright with glory

of this last and latest triumph’s gain.

Together, the young man and the prophet

began to pick their way down from the hill.

The youth leapt down, thinking nothing of it.

The elder walked and prayed for strength of will.

July 9, 2009

Vickey’s Driving coach

The way his thick

black eyebrows meet

(like arrows painted

on the blacktop)

above the bridge of his nose...

the way his nostrils flare

(like twin air horns),

as he looks down at her

bemused, thinking,

"Now, what's she done?"

Reminds her of how safe

He makes her feel.

Behind the wheel

Of her own life.

>>>

Vickey asked a question about writing a love poem for her boyfriend, but my connection's so slow, I can't finish answers or find questions -but I can sneak in a quick post. The way I would start would be to describe something holds some significance -or even some trivial characteristic, building up a metaphor around the image that describes how you feel. (Of course, maybe he doesn't have a mono-brow or a big nose.)

What techniques do you like for writing a poem to a loved one?

Dressed for dinner

We sat at a white plastic card table

Waving at flies, dipping fire-roasted meat

Into spice powder with greasy fingers

When a fat ram, headless and skinless came

In the company of excited men

To be strung just off Alex's shoulder

From a handy hook we had not noticed.

I had the best view of the delivery.

The man pierced the leg tendon and it swung

Glossy, white, wet. Balls of sheep s*** still clung

To the viscera. Blood dripped from the neck.

Shameless and exposed.

Then the ax came out. In a few wet "thuks"

Intestines, liver and heart spilled out

Into waiting hands, and the ax worked on

Splitting the neck, chest and pelvis. Limbs splayed

Like the wings of a butterfly. Dangling

Two big balls were the last reminder of

The animal's vitality, and these

And all were laid flat over burning coals

And the world was filled with the delicious

Smell... roasting flesh consumed mucho gusto.

She said: I think that is enough for me.

What are your thoughts on the poetry of Sarah Palin? I'm not sure if she's mad, or brilliant, or both...

[see links]

Shatner reads Palin:

http://tv.yahoo.com/blog/shatners-palin-poem-rocks...

Palin as anti-poet:

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/john-lundberg/sarah-...

Desktop Daymare

“Pčela tko brujanje, te nikada postati pospan?”

~ Vrinhōd Ghajuċ

A nine hour day is not so long

unless the write is going wrong.

My brain may freeze a beat or two.

Computer screams in royal blue,

“Error!” In a minor key,

the sad, sad song she sings to me:

no quiet moment in my head,

the chatter of the breathing dead

fills every way with any means

-and rattles in my waking dreams.

A limerick is a five-line poem with a strict form (AABBA), originally popularized in English by Edward Lear, which intends to be witty or humorous, and is sometimes obscene with humorous intent.

And who couldn't use a laugh?

A crazy old fellow named Dave

Would gibber and grimace and rave

To his neighbors' delight

He moved far from sight

And now makes his home in a cave

How about you?

Summer at Six

Rushing to the train

In sticky clothes, vision fogs.

The pressure falling

Like the sun and the smell of

Damp earth and brickworks

Breathing across the plaza.

Still and still only,

A few, precious, cool drops squeeze

From summer’s clenched fist

To moisten my lips.

Baked

My maples wilt

In the Summer heat

Leaves yellowed

Or curling

In bitter defeat

Weeds and vines twist

Scrabbling thin fingers

Chip away

At mortar

Still the heat lingers

No welcome here

Doors and windows closed

AC blasts

Each his sad

Quarantine imposed

Come bravely here to visit me

I’ll offer you some sweet iced tea.

Russia. 105 men recently emmerged from a 105-day experiment intended to simulate a trip to mars. The experiment was the second for the institute, whose previous effort in 1999 ended in scandal when a Canadian woman complained of being forcibly kissed by a Russian captain and said that two Russian crew members had a fist fight that left blood splattered on the walls. Russian officials at the time downplayed the incidents, attributing it to cultural gaps and stress. Soviet engineers also tried a similar yearlong experiment, but that was interrupted because of unending conflicts between crew members.

While officials at the Institute for Medical and Biological Problems praised the experiment as a success and promised to conduct a 500-day simulation experiment later this year, some veterans of the Soviet or Russian space programs doubted its value. "This is nothing but a test for a long isolation of average people," A two-time cosmonaut Valentin Lebedev wrote in an opinion column published in the Sovietskaya Rossiya newspaper daily last month. "Such an experiment has only vague relation to understanding the possibility of interplanetary flight."

SO, my question is are trained astronauts, based on their psychological profiles as they are selected now, the best choice for an extremely long mission to Mars -or are they high-stress prima donas who'll tear themselves apart half way in? Is this an argument for more "average joe" qualities in space traveller selection?

http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20090715/ap_on_sc/eu_ru...

Too reals

You’re too real –almost surreal.

If you were a beast you’d be a Squirreal

Chewing your nuts and living Arboreal

If you lived in the sea you hide in the coreal

(And I’m not trying to pick a quarreal

With Mureal, you, or your brother Darreal)

But you are as ugly as an old congereal

Wearin’ a coat dress in yellow nitreal

All slathered thick in products by Loreal

Tryin’ t’light up the sky like an aurora boreal

Babe we’ve got to talk of your faults in the plureal

‘Cause if you were real killer I know you’d be sereal

>>>

All right, yes, it's demented.

Still on the Clock

The debris of another wandering day

Washes up on the living room floor

Cushions and toys and bills left to pay

And unread magazines by the score

I start to clean half-heartedly

Time, it seems, outsmarted me.

The thumping and screaming that comes

From upstairs means the kids aren’t asleep

Before me the dishes and flatware and crumbs

Lie un-scrubbed and un-wiped in a heap.

Four hours for home work and ten hours for pay

Still leaves me ten hours at the end of the day

There’s still time for reading and writing to you

A quick note or a poem or reflections in prose

And when my love’s with me there’s time for that, too

But how we got old? Well, now everyone knows.

Two hours for me time, eight hours for sleep

If you wrap it in plastic, I’m sure it will keep.

Really? I'm not sure 'bout that. What do you think?

Joshua

Young Joshua stood above the battle

He clenched his spear, breathed in the smell of blood

To Moses turned and begged to try his mettle

In God’s unspoken name to fight for good.

Grass whipped round the prophet’s ankles sighing

Not loud enough to mask the clash below

His eyes, deep wells, filled up, the tears belying

The faith that hurled his sons against the foe.

And on that hilltop Moses time-worn hands

Held Joshua’s smooth face close to his own

He whispered of his people’s promised lands

And all the love and mercy God has shown.

As if on cue a cry of victory

Rose from the chosen on the blood-soaked plain

And Joshua’s eyes grew bright with glory

Of this last and latest triumph’s gain.

Together the young man and the prophet

Began to pick their way down from the hill

The young man leapt thinking nothing of it

The elder limped and prayed for strength of will.