Tag Archives: poem

Christmas in Heaven

Christmas in Heaven, What Do they Do?

They all Come to Earth, to Spend it with You.

So Save them a Place and one Empty Chair.

You may not see them, but They Will be There.


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I’m dead and I’m feeling better

I’m dead and I’m feeling better,
Black and white, Vampires all around,
And oh, I must be getting bolder,
The need for blood is trying to get me down,
To the bodies, where it’s flowing away,
Sometimes I just don’t think I should to it,
But I then know it’s more than worth the waiting,
For another chance to drink some sweet warm blood.
Come on drink with me.
There are bodies with warm blood flowing away,
Sometimes I just don’t think I should drink it,
But yet I know it’s more than worth the waiting away
For another chance to drink that sweet warm blood
Come on drink with me.

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Posted by on October 22, 2016 in death


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On Death

The pale, the cold, and the moony smile
Which the meteor beam of a starless night
Sheds on a lonely and sea-girt isle,
Ere the dawning of morn’s undoubted light,
Is the flame of life so fickle and wan
That flits round our steps till their strength is gone.

O man! hold thee on in courage of soul
Through the stormy shades of thy worldly way,
And the billows of cloud that around thee roll
Shall sleep in the light of a wondrous day,
Where Hell and Heaven shall leave thee free
To the universe of destiny.

This world is the nurse of all we know,
This world is the mother of all we feel,
And the coming of death is a fearful blow
To a brain unencompassed with nerves of steel;
When all that we know, or feel, or see,
Shall pass like an unreal mystery.

The secret things of the grave are there,
Where all but this frame must surely be,
Though the fine-wrought eye and the wondrous ear
No longer will live to hear or to see
All that is great and all that is strange
In the boundless realm of unending change.

Who telleth a tale of unspeaking death?
Who lifteth the veil of what is to come?
Who painteth the shadows that are beneath
The wide-winding caves of the peopled tomb?
Or uniteth the hopes of what shall be
With the fears and the love for that which we see?

By Percy Bysshe Shelley

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Posted by on May 18, 2016 in death, poems


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My life is forsook!

I am a Vampire, he said staring at her,
A very old Vampire, you can tell by my skin,
My eyes and expression give also a hint,
While my pointed, sharp teeth give more than a hint.


I can see by your skin, he answered, I do,
And also your eyes and expression; it’s true,
But the stare on your face has cast a strange spell,
Making me trust you, despite not feeling well.


Still staring at her, the Vampire replied,
You’d never believe me; you’d think I had lied,
If the stare on my face was gone; it’s a fact,
No one would trust this salty old Cat.


Without offering her a chance to reply,
The Vampire went on with his horrible lie,
Then, creeping closer and closer on the cold deck,
He pounced, lashed out, and bit her bare neck.


Feeling the hurt and the blood running down,
She said, I was such a daft clown,
To have trusted a Vampire because of his look,
Drained of all blood, my life is forsook!

Scary stories


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One Golden Groat to spend in the mystical kingdom of Onishia

(see Wot, Nott, Kakuri and the HU BA HOU)

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Posted by on May 25, 2015 in poems, vampires


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A Life in the Poo

Good times are coming, I know they are near,
The best times, for sure, in a number of years;
I’m counting each day on my fingers and thumbs,
Until the recession has passed and the bad times have gone.

Then, when the money is flowing again,
I will thank those people, both women and men,
Who stood up to the bankers and politicians; it’s true,
That saved us, how they saved us, from a life in the poo.


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Roald Dahl


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Be Careful What You Wish For

Arnie the apple hung from a tree
in an orchard a mile wide.
And every day the pickers would come
and haul dozens of apples inside.

They’d pick the prettiest of the bunch,
filling their baskets and pails.
But they always passed by Arnie,
ignoring his whines and wails.

“Please pick me!”, Arnie would cry
each time the pickers sauntered by.
“I want to go inside with you!”,
cried Arnie till he turned bright blue.

But the pickers ignored him day after day,
while Arnie hung there in dismay,
trying to nurse his shattered pride,
dying to be picked to be taken inside.

Each new dawn he’d do a trick
like spinning around on his twig.
But the picky pickers never stopped
for apples that weren’t big

or juicy or red or bright or sweet.
Poor Arnie was none of these things.
He wasn’t completely quite full grown
and he had some nicks and dings.

He dreamed what it was like inside;
lights and music all around.
Arnie just wanted to go there so badly
he flung himself to the ground.

The next day the pickers came along
and saw him lying there.
They took him inside and Arnie thought,
“This is it! I’m finally there!”

But when Arnie the Apple looked around
he realized his dreams were false,
’cause in less than 15 minutes
he was Arnie Applesauce.

(C) 1998, Arden Davidson


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It’s Monday!

May no gift be too small to give, nor too simple to receive, which is wrapped in thoughtfulness and tied with love. Good morning! Happy Monday!!

Every morning is a wonderful blessing from God. It stands for hope which gives us another start at what we call Life. Have a good morning and great day! Happy Monday!!

The difference between me and a bear is the thought of you couldn’t make me hibernate for more than 7 hours. Good morning. Happy Monday!

A morning thought, a morning prayer, a morning wish for a good person who makes a good morning for other peoples’ lives. May God bless you always. Happy Monday!!

The breeze has awakened the earth, The sun gave brightness to the earth, Birds gave melodious music to the earth, Then its the time to wish my sweet friend Good morning. Happy Monday.

roald dahl

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Posted by on May 18, 2015 in poems


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Treating Each Day As A Sunday

A Poem by Nikhil Parekh

God created all seven days of the week alike; to bask
in the glory of Nature’s bountiful endowment and
It was man who embraced a festoon of spurious
idiosyncrasies; frolicking in the aisles of divinely
heaven only on a Sunday; while he perspired worse
than a dog; on all other days…
God created all seven days of the week alike; to
poignantly blend with the mesmerizing beauty of this
colossal Universe,
It was man who murdered himself with his own framework
of rules; celebrating only on a Sunday; while he
tossed and squirmed like an insipid worm; all other
God created all seven days of the week alike; to
majestically fulfill your duties; let the enchanting
stream of shimmering moonlight; pacify you beyond
eternal times,
It was man who disdainfully messed up life with
manipulative business; ruling like an unconquerable
king on a Sunday; while he literally licked the dust
of the roads; on all other days…
God created all seven days of the week alike; to
philanthropically march ahead with all living kind;
soar through the crimson clouds with a desire to be
triumphant glittering in your eyes,
It was man who coined tyrannical definitions of his
own; rejoiced and hugged his family only on a Sunday;
while critically lambasting them with his frustration;
on all other days…
God created all seven days of the week alike; to dance
in the aisles of uninhibited freedom; benevolently
assist your ailing mates in inexplicable pain,
It was man who acted more insanely than the
devastatingly insane; adventuring through the hills
only on a Sunday; while he compellingly measured each
of his nonchalant footsteps; on all other days…
God created all seven days of the week alike; to test
your true mettle on this planet; celestially sleep in
synergy with the unveiling of the gloriously star
studded night,
It was man who profoundly consulted the heinous devil;
tossing his children only on a Sunday; while kicking
them in the uncouth world outside to earn their own
bread; on all other days…
God created all seven days of the week alike; to
rhapsodically inhale the scent of roses; romance and
disseminate the gift of love; as each night descended
It was man who savagely chopped his own feet with his
axe; feeling the richest man alive only on a Sunday;
while he spat irrevocably on his own treasury of
brilliant fortune; on all other days…
God created all seven days of the week alike; to
explore and unite with all the exotically wonderful
organisms wandering on mother earth,
It was man who wanted to consume knives instead of
supper; wholeheartedly unleashing his heart out only
on a Sunday; while he jailed himself and his comrades
together in a jail of claustrophobic despair; on all
other days….
And if you couldn’t listen to God; I know for sure you
would never listen to me; even if I quit life to tell
you; to live life like a king; each day of the week,
Don’t worry I have better alternatives still; you
remain blessed writhing like a commercial commodity
all your lives; while I was definitely the wealthiest
man alive; treating each day as a Sunday.

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Posted by on May 17, 2015 in poems


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Twas the night before Christmas

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 our brains for a long winter’s nap,
Then 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 head, 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.”

christmas stories by the Crazymad Writer

Merry Christmas, everyone!


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Oh, I wish I’d looked after me feet

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Oh, I wish I’d looked after me feet,
And spotted the perils beneath,
All the miles that I walked,
And the shoes that I bought,
Oh, I wish I’d looked after me feet.


I wish I’d been that much more willin’
And provided more space for the fillin’
To pass up winklepickers,
From respect to me kippers
And to buy something else with me shillin’.


When I think of the miles that I trekked,
And the hills that I climbed without a heck,
Potholes, big and little,
Ruined my feet, so very brittle,
My kippers are horribly fecked.


My Mother, she told me no end,
“Good feet are always your friends”
I was young then, and brainless,
My shoe choice so careless,
I never had much time to spend.


Oh I showed them the new shoes so bright,
I flashed them about with delight,
But up-and-down walkin’
And kickin’ and rushin’
Played havoc with my dainty delights.


If I’d known I was paving the way,
To verrucae, corns and decay,
The pain of arthritis,
Gout and detritus,
I’d have thrown all me show shoes away.


So I sit in the podiatrist’s chair,
And I hear his diagnosis in despair,
Telling me what I should have done,
And the shoes I should have donned,
“They’ll only last,” he’ll say, “for a few more days.”


How I laughed at my Mother’s false leg,
As she struggled with it clunkin’ beneath,
But now comes the reckonin’
It’s me it is beckonin’
Oh, I wish I’d looked after me feet.

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