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Archive for January, 2010

Untitled 1&2 (Please C&C)

                               Untitled#1
                         by Ryan Andrew Jarrett
                     I am alone, the dark messager.
                  My message is not clear, even to me.
                              This is it :
        Everything has been done, said and slapped on a T-shirt.
                       I am waiting for the voice.
              The voice that will lead us into the future.
                   What is the point, before it comes?
                  We are all creatures of our society.
                There was a time when I had my own voice,
             but that was a shame, I only thought I had it.
                      I had voice … I had choice,
                          Now there is nothing,
          I am an empty shell, lost in the sea of nothingness.
                               Untitled#2
                         (The Open Eye Sees All)
                         by Ryan Andrew Jarrett
                    I have become the old blind man,
                    I have turned my back on society.
         I am unoriginal, my thoughts have been around forever.
                 They were thought of by many before me.
                  Undoubtityly thought of as original,
  only to come to the conclusion that they weren’t … just as I have.
   Whats so special about a person who comes to conclusions that have
       already existed for decades, century’s before  their birth?
              Nothing … I am the creation of my society.
   Since they created me … let them deal with what they’ve created.
                    I AM THE Y BOTHER GENERATION !!!
                     Why should I bother to bother?


From Ryan Jarrett

Please visit my Webpage @
 http://www.undergrad.math.uwaterloo.ca/%7Er2jarret/

Last Updated : June 10th 1998

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Who wrote 'misunderstood'?

There is a poem, I think called ‘misunderstood’ which starts:

Misunderstood, we move along asunder

Who worte it?  Does anyone have the full poem?

Thanks for your help.

Chris

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Boxes-comments?

Boxes piled in storage
And a trunk full of you
Exiting my life
As abruptly as you
Used to exit my body
Roll over, fall asleep
No chance now for more
Than that hasty "nite"
Or the "gotta go now"
Would you have stopped?
Would it give you pause?
If you knew what I know
If you heard her cry
Crying in her bed at night
And that I hate you for
This, this burden on me
The "why mommy"
The gross curiousity
Of well-wishers and
The awkward words
And I hate you more
For this sack of guilt
Laid on my hands
To deal with afterwards
This load of shit
That’s all you’ve left me

That…
And a trunk full of you.

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poetry, stories and art:

http://members.tripod.com/~knightmayor/gkhb

your comments and opinions welcomed.

ljs

anyone wanting to publish this, just contact me.  (i’ll say this just in
case.)

otherwise enjoy the fairytales too!

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Re: Mrs Dickinson, I don't think so

I really enjoyed this one. I thought the personalities were rather apt.
Thanks.
K.G.

- Hide quoted text — Show quoted text -

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COMMENTS PLEASE : One Way Ticket

Hello, Can I have your comments please – thanks – John

                        One Way Ticket
                        ————–

                The underworld is dark and deep
                   with Nameless Things that do not sleep.

                Their slimy paths run here and there,
                   beneath the earth, inside their lair

                And when the dead are laid to sleep
                   in lowered coffins in the deep
                        they do not wail or sadly weep.

                The soundless word is sent to all
                   who live in that horrific hall –

                `Come quickly brothers! – Death has sent
                      the husks of those so lately spent,

                 In Life their evil made them rich
                      but *now* they`re ours!
                                            – so
                                                Life`s
                                                  a bitch…`    

(c) John Holt 1998
—————————–
"Teach me the art of forgetting; for I
 often remember what I would not, and
 cannot forget what I would."
*******Saying of Themistocles (512-499 B.C.),
         as recorded by Cicero****

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COMMENTS PLEASE : Present Imperfect

Please comment – thank you – John

                     Present Imperfect
                     —————–
                     I have to get away somehow
                     and find another place.
                     Away from broken promises –
                     away from your smooth face.

                     Oh yeah! – you say you love me
                     but I can`t believe that`s true
                     I saw the shock in your big eyes
                     When I caught her with you.

                     You shouted `Wait, hold on, stop there,
                     this isn`t what it seems!`
                     But *she* still held your `smoking gun`
                     And all I held were dreams.

                     I have to get away somehow
                     the trouble is, I find,
                     that though I`ve torn your letters up
                     you`re always on my mind………….

(c)John Holt 1998                    
"Teach me the art of forgetting; for I
 often remember what I would not, and
 cannot forget what I would."
*******Saying of Themistocles (512-499 B.C.),
         as recorded by Cicero****

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COMMENTS PLEASE: The Failure

Could I have your comment please? – thanks – John

                        The Failure
                        ———–

        Through twisting lanes of past events
                 my thoughts all ran to hide.

        In avenues of things-that-were
                 my ego took a slide.

        I nursed a cherished hope
                 but reared a false illusion,

        shattered are my plans
                 all smothered by confusion.

        I am an architect of no renown.
                 The dreams I built just yesterday

        Have
             crumbled
                      to
                          the
                               ground.                          

(c) John Holt 1998
—————————–      
        ___________________________________________________________
        |                                                         |
        | `Of course we sponsor charitable causes and we`ll help  |
        |  you out here, it`s just gonna cost you, that`s all…` |  
        |                                                         |
        | ******* "Brother Can You Spare A Tax Break"  ********** |
        |_________________(ME 1998)_______________________________|

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COMMENTS PLEASE: The Bunglebird (An Epic Tail)

Another `nonsense` verse to follow the more brilliant one I observed
here recently. Please comment – thanks – John

            The Bunglebird
            ————–

The Bunglebird is a curious fellow
He flies from tree to tree
His beak is a dirty mustard yellow
And it bangs against his knee.

       His nest is on top of the Germwire bush
       Where it hangs by a piece of string
       And he threatens the sky with a noisy "shush!"
       When he feels inclined to sing.

His favourite food is the Bottletop leaf
Which grows when the moon is high
So he crawls to its roots in the night (like a thief)
And his smile is ohhhh! so sly!

       He ruffles his plastic wings at dawn
       With contentment after the search
       And contorts his face in a satisfied yawn
       As he clambers back onto his perch.

© john holt, 1997
————————————————–
`My father and mother were honest, though poor–
  `Skip all that!` cried the Bellman in haste,
`If it once becomes dark, there`s no chance of a Snark–
   We have hardly a minute to waste!`

     (**The Hunting of the Snark (Lewis Carroll)**)

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COMMENTS PLEASE: Something`s Coming

Please comment – thanks – John

        Something`s Coming
        ——————

           Tapping, tapping, in the night
            something awful – full of fright.
             Something dark, something small,
              something downstairs in the hall

                Something lost, something found,
                 is it square or is it round?
                  Something shuffles, has it feet
                   or claws or hands to tear up meat?

                    Does it scream – or is it mute?
                     Whatever it is I fear the brute.
                      Now it`s breathing on the stair
                       and in my bed I say a prayer.

                        I never used to fear the gloom
                         but now I shiver in my room…….      

(C) John Holt 1998      

"The moving finger writes
    and having writ moves on.
 Nor all thy piety or wit
    shall lure it back
    to cancel half a  line,
 nor all thy tears
 wash out a word of it."
         ** from `The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayaam`**
             (Edward Fitzgeralds` translation – 1858)

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