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Little Bear Feb 2016
A person who has good thoughts
cannot ever be ugly.
You can have a wonky nose
and a crooked mouth
and a double chin
and stick-out teeth,
but if you have good thoughts
they will shine out of your face
like sunbeams
and you will always
look lovely.
An Excerpt from The Twits by Roald Dahl
One of my favourite quotes
:o)
Leone Lamp May 2021
Shel Silverstein and Roald Dahl
Live just down the hall
From each other
Somewhere in my mind

'Cause these ***** old men
Are known to have penned
Many favorite kid books of mine

But they also worked blue
And wrote more than a few
Naughty songs, novels and rhymes

They stayed true to their style
They'd go the extra mile
Their ****'s guaranteed to blow minds!
Just a fun connection. Both these famous children authors dabbled in ****. I thoroughly enjoyed their works as a kid and got even more of a kick out of them when I discovered their adult material. It's all pretty outrageous. Head on over to youtube and check out Shel's "Stacy Brown Got Two" for a nsfw laugh.

~05/19/2021
Cunning Linguist Mar 2014
The most important thing we've learned,
So far as children are concerned,
Is never, NEVER, NEVER let
Them near your television set --
Or better still, just don't install
The idiotic thing at all.
In almost every house we've been,
We've watched them gaping at the screen.
They loll and slop and lounge about,
And stare until their eyes pop out.
(Last week in someone's place we saw
A dozen eyeballs on the floor.)
They sit and stare and stare and sit
Until they're hypnotised by it,
Until they're absolutely drunk
With all that shocking ghastly junk.
Oh yes, we know it keeps them still,
They don't climb out the window sill,
They never fight or kick or punch,
They leave you free to cook the lunch
And wash the dishes in the sink --
But did you ever stop to think,
To wonder just exactly what
This does to your beloved tot?
IT ROTS THE SENSE IN THE HEAD!
IT KILLS IMAGINATION DEAD!
IT CLOGS AND CLUTTERS UP THE MIND!
IT MAKES A CHILD SO DULL AND BLIND
HE CAN NO LONGER UNDERSTAND
A FANTASY, A FAIRYLAND!
HIS BRAIN BECOMES AS SOFT AS CHEESE!
HIS POWERS OF THINKING RUST AND FREEZE!
HE CANNOT THINK -- HE ONLY SEES!
'All right!' you'll cry. 'All right!' you'll say,
'But if we take the set away,
What shall we do to entertain
Our darling children? Please explain!'
We'll answer this by asking you,
'What used the darling ones to do?
'How used they keep themselves contented
Before this monster was invented?'
Have you forgotten? Don't you know?
We'll say it very loud and slow:
THEY ... USED ... TO ... READ! They'd READ and READ,
AND READ and READ, and then proceed
To READ some more. Great Scott! Gadzooks!
One half their lives was reading books!
The nursery shelves held books galore!
Books cluttered up the nursery floor!
And in the bedroom, by the bed,
More books were waiting to be read!
Such wondrous, fine, fantastic tales
Of dragons, gypsies, queens, and whales
And treasure isles, and distant shores
Where smugglers rowed with muffled oars,
And pirates wearing purple pants,
And sailing ships and elephants,
And cannibals crouching 'round the ***,
Stirring away at something hot.
(It smells so good, what can it be?
Good gracious, it's Penelope.)
The younger ones had Beatrix Potter
With Mr. Tod, the ***** rotter,
And Squirrel Nutkin, Pigling Bland,
And Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle and-
Just How The Camel Got His ****,
And How the Monkey Lost His ****,
And Mr. Toad, and bless my soul,
There's Mr. Rat and Mr. Mole-
Oh, books, what books they used to know,
Those children living long ago!
So please, oh please, we beg, we pray,
Go throw your TV set away,
And in its place you can install
A lovely bookshelf on the wall.
Then fill the shelves with lots of books,
Ignoring all the ***** looks,
The screams and yells, the bites and kicks,
And children hitting you with sticks-
Fear not, because we promise you
That, in about a week or two
Of having nothing else to do,
They'll now begin to feel the need
Of having something to read.
And once they start -- oh boy, oh boy!
You watch the slowly growing joy
That fills their hearts. They'll grow so keen
They'll wonder what they'd ever seen
In that ridiculous machine,
That nauseating, foul, unclean,
Repulsive television screen!
And later, each and every kid
Will love you more for what you did.
A brilliant read from one of my favorite authors,
If you don't know his books or influence, shame on you.
Little Bear Feb 2016
And above all,
watch with glittering eyes the whole world around you
because the greatest secrets
are always hidden in the most unlikely places.
Those who don't believe in magic
will never find it.
Roald Dahl was a British novelist, short story writer, poet, screenwriter, and fighter pilot. His books have sold over 200 million copies worldwide.
poetry is stupid
it makes no sense
how does a turltle in the sea of immortality
translate to life is good
poetry *****
it should all be burned
id rather eat 10,000 ducks
poetry is the worst
and i am not the 1st
to say that poems are crap
they are better when they are rapped
ogden nashes poems are to short
while charles bukowski is a flat out perver
there is so much stuff better than poetry
like playing on a minecraft server
or watching TV or playing video games
even going to school influences less pain
poetry is for fools
that only like to drool
in front of a piece of paper
and write poems, well im a hater
and rhoald dahl makes the worst poems
critisizing the television
how do u get the news and the weather
and learn about politicians
so i end here
and if ur reading this
ur a queer
Waiis Su Mar 2013
In the book Going Solo,
Roald Dahl wrote about a woman
Who refused to eat anything with her bare hands
Instead, everything had to be handled with utensils
Knife in one hand and fork in another
She described the satisfaction of fruit cutting
The inexplicable joy at cleanly cleaving peel from flesh
Skill precise as a surgeon
Cutting it up according to Nature's dotted lines

I tried it on the same fruit
Somehow it just didn't feel right
Too refined, too silent

Unlike the practised deft peeling with bare fingers
Fingernails digging into the fruit, both refusing to compromise
Until eventually, the rind gives way and a cut is made
And from that same opening, tearing outwards
Sounding like strips of velcro are slowly being separated
The uneven globe of translucent orange flesh coming naked
Its pith shielding you from its full bright glory
Pulling it apart by halves, and then quarters, and then tenths
Each crescent shaped carpel in its mouth sized perfection
Sacs accidentally bursting, fingers sticky with juice

That is how an orange ought to be peeled.
alexandra  Oct 2014
dahl
alexandra Oct 2014
you like your lips on my neck
and hate the knowledge of my cigarettes
mint, stale living in my hair
the great mass of it you like
to lose your fingers in
and i look at my body like the storyteller did
detached from my feet floating ten stories above them
and i've forgotten how to write and
i never liked to rhyme
and i'm rigid in your arms
Trevor Gates Jan 2013
Hello again, and welcome to tonight’s program


A wonderful show it is, for you that is…


A beautiful imbalance of provocative wonders


Simmered together in an elixir of intoxication


The modern day alchemist roams the night for the eyes of sensuality



The midnight occupiers of the everlasting void



A world you understand but can’t comprehend



A life you comprehend but don’t understand



The unsaid pleasures of private fantasy



The untold fantasy of malevolent pleasures





Please come in



Don’t be shy



We’re all here



Waiting for you



Yes this way



Keep walking till you see the door



Yes



This is the door



The door for you



16



Room 16



It’s unlocked



It’s ok



Please



Walk in



This is your door



This is your mind


This is your door to your mind


Room 16





Where were you when you were 16?



Do you remember that one night that changed everything?

That one girl?

That one boy?

Finding yourself….did it happen?



Did you feel misunderstood?

Or

Did you misunderstand others?



I remember only too well.



The stories I faced

The ridicule I endured



“You need to be punished” said the stepfather-person, “But since you think you are old enough to make your own decisions, here’s one for you.  Now it’s either you or your cat.  I can either gut you or gut your cat…decide now, Which of you doesn’t get gutted?”



I look up at my little cat, squeezed underneath his massive arm


I didn’t put it past him that he would hurt me in an unimaginable way


I point to myself, saying that I didn’t want to be gutted.


“Wow.”  The stepfather-person says, “You must not love your own pets.  Some person you’ll turn out to be.”


He tosses the cat to the ground and leaves to his room.


The next day the cat is gone.



What cruel manifestations we are of all our sins


What dark creatures we are, yet we are terrified of the monsters underneath our bed


The monsters in the other room
The monster that sits at your dinner table
The monster that beats your mother
The monster that kicks you into a bookshelf
The monster that strangles you
The monsters


The monsters we all have the potential to become



But do we?



I’d like to think that some of us can become angels instead

Not monster or demons

But some do

In fact

Many of us do

Many of us become the monsters we covet.

What are you?


This has been tonight’s program.  We’d like to thank the academy and all who made this possible:  Quarters, Jimi Hendrix, Ronald Dahl, Marilynn Monroe, Bret Easten Ellis, watches, Eastern Promises, A history of Violence, Daniel Day Lewis, Rebecca Hall, Cocteau Twins, tomatoes, graphic novels, There will be blood,  red gel pens, gold frames and all the little people.

Thank you and please visit us again.
Not really a poem, but a writing exercise I developed.  I treat it as monologue directed to an unknown audience/reader.
bobby burns Apr 2013
mornings are better
when wrapped up
in strawberry kiwi
paper and burned.
-
like gene wilder
and roald dahl
with lickable wallpaper
cut up into skins.
-
a mile took more
effort than i thought,
and i'd rather replace
the tar in my lungs
with love,
but no one
likes to shotgun anymore,
and the man i've written
so much about
has pulled a move
more fitting me
than him,
-

— The End —