"When the flush of a new-born sun fell first on Eden's green and gold,
Our father Adam sat under the Tree and scratched with a stick in the mould;
And the first rude sketch that the world had seen was joy to his mighty heart,
Till the Devil whispered behind the leaves, "It's pretty, but is it Art?"
from Rudyard Kipling's The Conundrum of the Workshops
Poetry: Poems of Cyberia
- His ancient monitor delivers her --
- a pixel vixen with seductive scroll.
- 300 baud downloaded her -- demure,
- yet sultry, soft, and so, <oh my> so *slow*.
- He dreams to touch her amber ASCII words,
- but circuit shyness <shuffling feet> prevents.
- His bashful stares ensure his screen is burned;
- embarassed by his crippled drive, he frets.
- His fingers hover just above the keys.
- Upset and losing patience with himself,
- he <gulp> t-taps "Reply", as thoughts careen;
- then hunts and pecks and jumps into her thread.
- Sweet Cyber takes his hand <caress> and <sigh>
- they forge their <aaaah> electric love online.
Copyright © 1995 Claire A. Schaeffer