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Here are some songs and stories I have written: Dream Song Wind Scene c 1990 by Peter Neuendorffer Once in a flight overhead You told me we could dream If we closed an eye Two birds break back Stirring me brom black Please go away I'm not ready yet Then light came back No longer wet, Once in a flight above unmade bed Sounds of the day make eyes red Little man in white Atop the elephant of my childish days higher than the steeple chase lunch boxes Father fixed the roof And I dreamed of a Yes a place where Green misty paths well trod by sweaty men and unruly cats A dream scene waiting A dream scene where one word Is spoken. Why we're here On this stone gate To your quiet ocean I don't know Dolphins do a better show for the two white birds are about and time is out Two times now they took my breath These dreams let you live ------------------ Waiting WAITING (by Peter Neuendorffer @1981 by MEWMP I'm not doing much because I'm just sittin' here getting a buzz Watching the fuzz on this tee vee set Waiting for shows that aren't on yet Just watching the funny white noise pattern Broadcast from somewhere on saturn If I never hear from my far-off friends at all It's much more fun than staring at the wall Hey! a commercial: Donut: We met in a local Donut SHop You were a mother and I was a cop We sat sinking our donuts in cups of coffee When my owrds stuck together on Peices of Turkish Toffee Were never eer gonna be seperated Aren't you glad that were related For you're my mother and I'm your son Our lives will forever be more than one We went out and bought a string of Local Donut shops And we only serve Mothers and cops And they all sit sinking their donuts In cups of coffee And they all stick together on Peices of turkish toffee For we are all the kids next door We'll know each other till we'ree a hundred or more So even if you're not so neat or so nuts Stop down your street for a dozen of our donuts! Cause I'm waiting/I'm waiting/I'm waiting/...I'm waiting If I wait on four till 6 o'clock I'll be ready for the report on stock or if I stay pyut till ten minutes till nine i'll be ready for how's your line or if I turn to the other station ...Maybe good old Walter ("standby Walter) finally saved the nation Cause I'm not doing much because I'm just sitting here getting a buzz watching the fuzz on my tv set Waiting for shows that aren't on yet ---------------------------------- Albert c 1990 by Peter Neuendorffer This is a story about a very tired man. As his eyelids drooped down to his nose, the silly old-young pretty boy with the strong leg muscles wrote down this story. I discovered it on a board which I called by mistake the other Tuesday afternoon, as I was playing hooky from work. "...... My name is Albert. I know everything, but cannot remember where I left my ID-card. I carry a note-book to remind me of such things, but I dropped it in the drain while waiting for the 6am bus the other morning. But this is not a tale of misery. It is a tale of tiredness. Someday I will get a good night's sleep. But not today. Let me begin in the middle, because I forgot just exactly how I got so tired all the time. Story (PD) I was visiting the old-age home the other day. The hallways and rooms were mostly empty. Everyone was down at the day room crowded around a very old man. It turned out he was celebrating his 100th birthday that day. Someone asked him "How do you account for your long life?". "Well," he replied, "I decided early in life never to disagree with anyone." "If I don't agree, I keep it to myself. This has kept me in good stead all these years." A reporter piped up: "That's silly. Noone one can agree all the time!" The old man thought for a moment and said: "You know, you're right!" OLD MAN REMINISCES IN VERMONT c 1990 by Peter Neuendorffer -------------------------------- Once while walking in a snowy woodlot, I noticed a feature of a nearby vacant white wooden farmhouse nearby. Next to a large soggy rainbarrel were the remains of a rainspout, immense and fallen down. One can imagine some long-ago fireside gathering inside. Maybe a group of family musicians entertained as a Christmas luxury, celebrating a safe and warm home. The rage of a rainstorm was forgotten. Some inner voices discussed slowly as the band strums and bows. The conceited and restless argue about the prices at the local market, and an embarressed silence reveals to everyone inside a sound of rainwater run wild outside. A silly song on the piano gives way to the host who remembers the importance of the party, and of the help his friends gave him in building the farmhouse. The fiddlers are out of tune. Rain and time wear down the farmhouse walls, my friends. Who will play the music if the house falls into disrepair? And who will fix the rainspout? Or the back porch? And I wondered if the music and evening might have actually played out as I had imagined. Then, My father told me we had enough wood, and I didn't mention my fantasy For it was only a broken old rainspout; and it had begun to rain once again, and , after all, the farmhouse still stood. Surely someone must live there. Christmas 1981 /BOSTON The Annual Meeting c 1990 by Peter Neuendorffer science fiction Tommi Petri turned over his flotation onto his stomach and drifted into a power assisted dream world which would last him for three months. He was in a world of flowers and purple grass and smoke clouds that had vanished two thundred days before CXQ5 had hatched his recycled brain. Meanwhile the following household appliances held their annual walk off the job meeting. In attendance this Christmas eve were the followeing: 1. the can opener 2. Robbie the Robot Cat 3. The bread box (on leave from the next state of memory) 4. the computer next door 5. the air-conditioning system 6. the grandmother clock 7. the grandfather clock 8. yesterday's moving picture newspaper 0. Tommy Peteri's alter ego on tape 10. The Abraham Lincoln Crossword Puzzle Machine 11. Richard Nixon's ghost image Coffee and Chips were served with copper wire for all. On the agenda was what to do with Master Petri (human) when he was asleep for winter hibernation. A motion was made that Tommy be recycled. It was seconded by the Tommy's alter ego. The Robot Cat raised an objection. The Third Law prohibits human sacrifice. However, she was soon stopped short by a filibuster from the computer next door who was sick and tired of managing the Petri appliances when Tom was out of planet. Yesterday's newspaper raised another issue involving the large amount of light and air and food that Tommy was wasteing, not to mention the phone bill. A vote was taken under the supervision of the Grandmother and Grandfather clocks, and it was decided to terminate Tommy Petri. Tommy woke up in the nick of time, and turned all appliances off, went to work with a pain in his neck, and listened to his new boss discuss energy transferance into the mysterious world of sex, and how once upon a time Christmas day was a national holiday. A picnic lunch with Mr. Bondella 1982 by Peter Neuendorffer My Dear Waverly: On yesterday,I was waxing romantic, and feeling very lucky at noon, while trying to find a park bench on which to sit and eat my sandwich with dignity. You may not see it as clearly as I do now; remembering the moment is an experience of a flurry of winter snow flurried people in browns, whites and grays with the sidewalk they inhabited rapidly accumulating wind blown snow. Surely there is a logical reason for my intense interest in that moment, as pedestrian as the scene was. I had just begun to eat, when a white husky dog, maybe of the Siberian breed, sauntered up, begging politely for some of my sausage sandwich. No, I told it, fairly firmly, but not very loudly, for two-hours wages had gone into my meal. To my surprise, the dog aknowledged complete understanding, and pretended to follow a young couple also passing by, and I last saw this Cerebus of the snow carefully investigating a basement meat market doorway and its dark inviting cavern. It was at this moment, that I became aware of Mr. Bondella. Perched now on my right hand tonight-warmer, I might add-than yesterday, right ear still damp from a spring lad's excersion through the streets and butch cut at the barbers, I recall that I was at this moment aware of a sharp North wind rising and- coincidentally- of the approach of Mr. Bondella, a tallish, graying man floating silently exactly 1 inch above the cobblestones of the marketplace. Famous writers living in your day, Mr. Waverly, said that apparitions of this quiet variety are masters at preventing a clear view of themselves. Doomed to walk across the same market cobblestones, or theater wings, or ocean rocks, they miss the same appointments, boats, and curtain calls over and over, and scare the same people at the same appointed deathy hour. It is no small wonder they shun publicity. However, at that noontime rush, Mr. Bondella seemed unconcerned with doom. While others hurried by, he paused casually to light a large cavendish pipe and peered at the weathervane atop the market, checked a large pocket watch and turned a corner out of sight. It is the chance notice of such a man, who surely was the master of the husky dog,(I knew without question) , dressed in summer brogues, and puffing on a pipe to conceal a wistful smile and sad soft blue and milkiy eyes suitable for a summers day stroll, -it is the chance notice of such a man that brightened my lunchtime at the market. My financial straights must surely improve. I could feel this, and the wind, in my bones. Particularily, the absent glaze of his eyes, the curious mirth on his lips alerted me to the impression that he was not really a ghost, but some successful businessman, perhaps an affluent banker, college president, or greatgrandfather. Perhaps a writer. Yes, a famous writer. A man who used to write himself about witches and branded misfits, a quiet fellow long forgotten by the cigar store owner; whose very cigar store itself had finally been raised in favor of a chrome government building. The temperature turned sharply lower. A little later a threatening sky gave way to more snow. For three days before the streets had been virtually emptied. But now, as the young couplews and lovers walked on errands of mercy and business, I knew I had unmasked Mr. Bondella at last. Where he and his dog were going is beyond me, and I see no point in pursuing them, or their business, any further on this world. I remain, as always, Peter Neuendorffer March 1982 and Feb 1989 Peter Neuendorffer

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