h2g2 The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy: Earth Edition

A little thingy from last night:

No Title (yet)

Fate's a rascal
Dreaming of green fields
As it turns out
A nightmare it was
Stuck in the quicksand
Amidst the green fields
What am I doing here?
I thought
As the green subsided
And faded to yellow
But my hand is still above
My hand is still above
My hand

Sad one.... Have strength One-Eye... Brighter days will come!

(And how is this for a pick-up:

Do you think you can spare some time?
You see, I got this bottle of wine,
and later tonight
'less you put up a fight
I'm gonna take your hands in mine )

Oh, puhleese!

No good, eh?
...
Ok, back to the writing desk...

I liked it! Then again, I suppose it wasn't intended for the likes of me

BTW; that's justs the way I write, wether I'm actually down or not. I've written very few poems (if you can call it that) with a positive ring to it. At least, they weren't intended to have a positive ring, but the reader is free to form any opinion he/she want's.

Thanks One-Eye, but you're right... you're not target audience here... But then again.. who is? I don't know...

I used to write fairly depressive stuff before... Good therapy... Then I found that writing light, happy stuff was good therapy as well... as long as it didn't become sarcastic of course... or satiric... Everybody has his or her own style, best to stick to it, but trying it's borders every so often...

I like to steer clear of both types by simply writing stuff off the top of my head that vaguely rhymes. that's pretty good therapy too!
For example:

From the top of my head I'd like to relate
A tale of Christmas, of love and of hate,
For some men delight in, while others despise,
the tiny, the tasty, the hallowed Mince Pies.
"A pie filled with minced meat?" the knowless one cries
"No!" 'tis with minced fruit we fill our mince pies,
And soak them with brandy if such is your wish,
And top them with sugar, an excellent dish.
But don't eat to many or, like my grandpa,
You'll explode and make a terrible icky mess all over the lounge, dining table, and that turkey... well... I don't think 'll ever touch white meat again. Quite put me off for life...

Hah! You're witty indeed,
But are you mindfull in deed?



I'm certainly not....

Plenty more crup where that came from.

Think of it as mind-slag; the by-product of some other intellectual process. Much like a dream, no beginning, no end, its thread defined only by the eye of the beholder.

That was almost poetry in itself...

No, I'm not mindful in deed, but my Jedi master points it out to me on a daily basis and I'm working on it.

I liked it! Whatever the writer deems as good potrey or indeed poetry is good enough for me! And it would me terribly dull and sad if everybody wrote as depressing stuff as I do!

An over-stuffed bird
On a table for eight,
A little place card
Upon each pretty plate,
Frilly lace napkins
Tucked neatly aside
And fingertip bowls --
No grease will abide...
"Are they here? Are they coming?"
Said a wee tiny voice
From the top of the stairs,
"Mommy, what is rejoice?"
The patter of footsteps,
A knock on the door,
And a family of three
Is now joined by two more.
"Gramma, Grampa!"
With a skip and a hop
And a big flying leap
They are welcomed -- kerplop!
"Did you bring me some presents?
Can I stay there this week?
Do you still have that kitten?
When are we gonna eat?!"
"Look, Mommy! Aunt Tilly!
And she brought Uncle Jim...
But where's Uncle Jesse?
No wait, there, that's him!"
Then they all gather round
For the feast of the year...
Season's Greetings to all,
With bright hopes and good cheer!




'Nonnie

Splendid!!

Liking the Christmas theme that's starting to happen here!

Me too...

And now for an old Classic... (Just read this one to wee one for the first time ):


'Twas the Night Before Christmas
or Account of a Visit from St. Nicholas
by Clement Clarke Moore (1779-1863)

'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there;

The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads;
And mamma in her 'kerchief, and I in my cap,
Had just settled down for a long winter's nap,

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below,
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer,

With a little old driver, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name;

"Now, DASHER! now, DANCER! now, PRANCER and VIXEN!
On, COMET! on CUPID! on, DONDER and BLITZEN!
To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!
Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!"

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky,
So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,
With the sleigh full of toys, and St. Nicholas too.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.
As I drew in my hand, and was turning around,
Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound.

He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;
A bundle of toys he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a peddler just opening his pack.

His eyes -- how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow;

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath;
He had a broad face and a little round belly,
That shook, when he laughed like a bowlful of jelly.

He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself;
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread;

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk,
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose;

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight,
"HAPPY CHRISTMAS TO ALL, AND TO ALL A GOOD-NIGHT!"


(I'll go back to mine later. )

Thanks Nonne, I loved that one!

Me too. Tis indeed a classic!

We three kings from Orient are,
One in a spaceship, one in a car,
One on a scooter beeping his hooter,
Chewing a rubber cigar

Also classic, but a rather different style.

Tonight the sky burns,
With the fule of the Ancients.
The sun scrapes painfully across
The feathered sky all downy,
downy.
The tumbling hill,
Now is covered with Snow.
And trees stand like figures
Ever watching in stillness,
stillness.

Let us toast to infinity!

~~~George~~~

George, that is almost how I felt today when I went deer hunting (with a camera). I saw deer yesterday, and the day before that, but today? Nope.

Everything very quite in the forest,
me all alone,
no one in sight,
only sounds my own breathing
and the snow crunching beneath my feet,
growing dark,
trying to follow a deer trace,
ending up knee-deep in snow,
turning back,
a sudden movement
in the corner of my eye,
turning head,
nothing there...

Spooky, that's what it was... Cheers!

Dearest Titania,
I am fortunate enough (or unfortunate enough) to live in the quintesential small town, where the biggest news of the week goes something like "Sarah went to the store and squeezed all the tomatoes. The best thing about my dreary little town is it phenominal weather conditions, being in a valley, a wetland, and at the confluence of two rivers, all at the same time, leads to floods, storms, hail, and THE most spectacular sunsets you could ever see. The entire sky turns blood red with indigo fringes and five minutes later, it is pitch black. I hope you enjoy this poem aswell.

They act:
Devices completely in clarity,
Like two radio sets, the power of the reciever
Involved in recieving
A lost signal. A secret wave.
A transmitting station depends on,
The clarity of the transmitter,
The sensitivity of the message.

Let us sit back and rest with a nice cuppa

~~~George~~~