I didn't realize that sites like Zoho existed. I am a Word fan so I tried not to judge Zoho to harshly. I created an account and set about playing around in Zoho. Since I love poetry, I typed out one of my favorites by Marge Piercy. I was able to pick a different font and make the title red. I also inserted a picture. There weren't many formating options for images, but the finished result was decent. I wanted to put a boarder around my poem but did not find an option for that (that is not to say it doesn't exist). The real problem came when I tried to post my poem to my blog. The help section said I should click on the "Publish" option on the tool bar. I searched for 30 minutes for the "Publish" button to no avail. This is dissappointing because I thought this was a really nice selling point for Zoho. If anyone figured this out, I would love to know.
Zoho would be useful for me and my school work. Since I do some of my school work on my lunch break, I have to save said homework on a flash drive at home and REMEMBER to bring it to work. With Zoho, you could access it anywhere. Although, I think I might wait a while to try something like this. Homework is precious you know!
Anyway, since I could not post my poem from Zoho, I saved it as a .pdf on my desktop and will try and paste it into this post.
OK, I am not able to post the .pdf file so I will just paste the poem.
WHAT'S THAT SMELL IN THE KITCHEN
All over America women are burning dinners. It's lambchops in Peoria: it's haddock in Providence; it's steak in Chicago: tofu delight in Big Sur; red rice and beans in Dallas. All over America women are burning food they're supposed to bring with calico smile on platters glittering like wax. Anger sputters in her brainpan, confined but spewing out missiles of hot fat. Carbonized despair presses like a clinker from a barbecue against the back of her eyes. If she wants to grill anything, it's her husband spitted over a slow fire. If she wants to serve him anything it's a dead rat with a bomb in its belly ticking like the heart of an insomniac. Her life is cooked and digested, nothing but leftovers in Tupperware. Look, she says, once I was roast duck on your platter with parsley but now I am Spam. Burning dinner is not incompetence but war.
By: Marge Piercy