"christie" poems
Sometimes, when you listen to their enounciation.
You realize, just how beautiful they speak in their British accent.
Every word expressively spoken.
That you're mermorized by each vocal.
Maggie Smith, the lady of class.
Cary Grant, the man of taste.
Oh, that British voice.
That you might chose , if had you that choice.
Or seek ways to adapt them to yours.
Michael Redgrave/Michael Rennie/Vanessa Regraves
All of them had that lovable voice.
Then you notice the beautiful Julie Andrew.
Words spoke so you see the greatness of the phase.
Which we notice too in Richard Attenborough.
Who reminds many of Richard Burton?
Yes, the British accent.
You just got to love it
Similar to loving Honor Blackman when she speaks.
A great difference from Jacqueline Bissett.
Except written about them with great respect.
Who can't admire the British Accent?
Yes, there's the French.
And I'm not kicking it.
Then , there's Spanish.
Which has more trying to learn it.
But this is about the English and the various style of vocals.
Colin Barker and Prince Williams the Royals speaks so wonderful.
Just like, the man called Michael Caine.
I just have to mention Deborah Kerr.
That also goes for Joan Collin.
It's something about their style of speaking.
Maybe because you understand every spoken word.
Which is level toward the great Timothy Dalton.
And Samantha Eggar and **** Jagger.
Plus, the late David Niven.
And honorable mention to Julie Christie.
Jane Asher, Hugh Grant and several more.
Have you wishing to make their voices be yours.
Yes, the British Accent just so lovable.
And the greatest things about it.
You don't have to be famous to be adored.
Jan 1, 2014
Jan 1, 2014 at 10:23 AM UTC
Purple velvet curtains mimicked purple proses of long dead authors
Auteurs and Anglophiles expressing desire, the desire for Desiree
and she danced, she danced.
Christie too, she danced, she danced
Kick, snare, kick kick, snare, she danced rhythmic hypnosis
Daddy watched from the bar, banal dance of the bandits
And Katzarina, baby in the back, dances for love
Fatherless child begging attention
Dance no more my dear soul, for you deserve more
Lecherous lounge acts, the men in ties
Order another round, girls gather around
Please me, dance for me, ****** and bashful
The purple velvet reminds them of mother
Cruel institutions that decay our psyche
Patriarchal pesticides in pasta and porridge
On the side of the mango, matriarchal monotony
Oh stop this pretentious pillaging of poor prostitutes
You are but a boy at the gates of existence, fear not, for the father and the mother shall hold your hand in the heavenly harem.
Feb 14, 2013
Feb 14, 2013 at 5:53 PM UTC
The wait has been long
Two weeks and counting
As everyday passes
You tell yourself to be patient
And do your work calmly
As though everything is all right
As the minutes turn to hours
Hours turn to days
And days turn to weeks
But still nothing happens
No message from your bank
No credit added to your account
Same old excuses given
Your resolve can no longer hold
Your steely focus falters
You make mistakes
That you would not have made
Even in your wildest dreams
Every hurdle looks insurmountable
The commute to office
Suddenly seems like a marathon
You lash out at strangers
Over matters as mundane
As your typing speed
At home, you drown yourself
In Agatha Christie's finest ****** mysteries
Forgetting that you have to sleep
Just reading and reading
To escape from the mad world around you
Till your eye muscles scream in protest
You clench your fists
Flex your muscles
And sharpen your teeth
As the devil awakens inside you
Ready to pounce on your master
And seek divine retribution
For making you wait so long
And denying you
What is rightfully yours
Jul 18, 2018
Jul 18, 2018 at 11:12 AM UTC
6:45,
this sounds a bit Agatha Christie as if the 45 is out to get me and the 6 being an innocent bystander had a gander anyway.
Well whadaya know Cockney rhyming gets in on the show.
Goosey, Goosey
where's our Lucy did Desi get his bride?
Okey choke me Arbroath smokies,
I love a bit of fish
I wish
I wish
and then I pop
will wishing ever make me stop?
Going down to Chinatown
A west end luxury
Peeking at a Peking duck
Which will in turn, turn around to be
a chicken.
Jan 9, 2016
Jan 9, 2016 at 2:07 AM UTC
FEW POETIC REFLECTIONS ON OLD AGE
Dear Poet Friends, after a long break, I have composed a few lines as a very senior citizen and a lover of poetry. If you like the same, kindly Re-post this poem for wider circulation. Thanks and best wishes, - Raj Nandy of New Delhi.
It has been often been said that old age is that period of life,
When all bad habits are given up on doctor’s advice,
And yet you don’t feel all that good while you survive!
Yet I do try to take some solace from Robert Browning’s poem
‘Rabbi Ben Ezra’ which says;-
‘’Grow old along with me!
For the best is yet to be,
The last of life, for which the first was made.’’
Despite my grey hairs and wrinkled face,
With creaking joints and scattered aches and pains,
‘’Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing
For every tatter in its mortal dress’’,
In thanks giving to the Lord and sings his praise;
As I recall WB Yeats’ ‘Sailing Byzantium’, - that
lovely poem from my college days.
As our biological clock continues to tick incessantly,
Getting older becomes compulsory.
But becoming Wiser in wrinkled years remains optional,
A choice our free will has the opportunity to make!
I recall what Agatha Christie had once said,
That an archaeologist is the best husband a woman can get,
For the older she gets, the more interested in her he
becomes;
With due respect to our women whose age is impolite
not ask.
Here I recall what the Pulitzer Prize winner Robert Frost
had once said,
That a diplomat is a man who always remembers a woman’s
birthday and not her age.
I recall the observation of Sartre the famous French philosopher
who had said,
That more sand that escapes from the hourglass of our life,
The clearer we should see through it as a blessing of time!
It is true that we live in deeds, not in years; in thoughts, not breaths;
In feelings, not in figures on a dial, - as James Bailey had said.
I finally conclude by quoting the first stanza from ‘Beautiful Old Age’ by DH Lawrence;
‘’It ought to be lovely to be old
To be full of the peace that comes of experience
And wrinkled ripe fulfilment.’’
-Raj Nandy of New Delhi.
Dec 19, 2019
Dec 19, 2019 at 11:04 AM UTC
There are a lot of misconceptions about Uni
Such as we all live lives like the ones off Hollyoaks
And that in order to survive
You need to be three things:
Beautiful
A party-animal
And an iron liver.
Sorry to disappoint you.
Those things are all nice:
Much like a free side with your sub
Or a red-letter day.
They’re nice –
But they’re not necessarily vital.
It’s not vital you fall in love with the first person you meet
It’s not vital you get with someone within Freshers
Like it’s a race and you’re Lyford Christie.
It’s not vital that you down half a bottle of Jager
To prove to your flatmates you’re a god
It’s not necessary.
Some of my best friends
Are quiet
But they are good
And I wouldn’t want them any other way
When we come together we have nothing but fun.
Without alcohol
Without drugs
Without 2am walkins
I know...
What’s this world coming to?
Nov 11, 2011
Nov 11, 2011 at 3:49 PM UTC
Walking around Widener bookstore
Brown bag 40oz in grip on the first floor
Hurricane
my life and future funneled life a twister whimsical whirlwind
down the hatch guzzle guzzle. Oh, Christie! How are you!? can you see I am a mess? I know Youtell my Chinese girlfriend from our study abroad you saw me a mess in the bookstore. SHe is now heartbroken in chongquing. see ah ha
later im just returning books to get dope money.
LAter
Oh, I see you are stocking that Stranger Camus
Langston Hughes
English 102
I drift in my own “end of summers night”
still dreamin’
still falllin’
Dropping, stumbling, the house of German exchange professors
Sequestered on speed *****
Welcome to Chester
Corpse exquisite
the Bride resides in physics-compartmentalized-drawers
hiding refuge from the storm
He was Alone
( Most of the time he got weirded out easily)
Feb 11, 2015
Feb 11, 2015 at 7:53 PM UTC
the left side of every entrance tells me
a singer-songwrite about the fashion
in which you once entered a room..
glassing around your iris in false
-search for something to pretend
you are not paying attention to
me as much as you are to what
is in front of you because you care
so much.. beyond a comprehensible
dust-jacket mind-map lick-my-toes
and prove your
LOVE..
I kid, I kid, you love me, you
needn't prosthetic yourself into
a dark misogyny over there.
it's always strange to consider
how strangled you become in
flashy jackets bought forever
at a thrift-shop cash-register
and oh good ******* the
employee is no employee he's
a volunteer and he's been here
forever sweet mr. christie (avoiding
the obvious reference because Judaeo
-Christianity does not make
Good
Cookies)
processing your purchase--
perhaps soon it'll be dollars
to counter. dollars have found
her--
awake
Nov 16, 2013
Nov 16, 2013 at 5:37 PM UTC
When the saints...go marching in
Oh when the saints go marching in
Oh how I want to be in that number
When the saints go marching in
Of all the saints, I want to know
The ones who write, I'd love to meet
Oh how I'd love to meet all the authors
When the saints go down the street
E.A. Poe...even Thoreau
Hemmingway would be ok
Mailer and Andrew Taylor
I'd learn to drink like a sailor
when these saints come strolling in
The Writers Guild...I'd be fulfilled
Meeting writers long since dead
Just think of what I'm learning
All that knowledge in their heads
I'd love to know, I'd love to know
Is Bill Shakespeare who we think?
Christie, Austen and Dickens
This is where the whole plot thickens
When the saints go marching in
Is it the best, of all the books
Is the bible just a tale
Can you think of someone better
When Melville speaks about a whale
Capote sits, while Chaucer reads
Bronte knits while Stoker bleeds
Oh how I want to be in that number
When these saints go marching in
The list goes on, oh on and on
There's just so many who've passed on
It's a list that leads by example
When these saints go marching in
Oh when the saints go marching in
When the saints go marching in
How I want to be in that number
When the saints go marching in
Apr 1, 2013
Apr 1, 2013 at 11:20 PM UTC
The air smelt of doom
Mystery hung in the room
No one was allowed to leave
Right on the job was Mr. Steve.
One by one they were called
He had them mauled
With questions often uncouth
But he had to get to the truth.
The smart as well as the shy
Had something for alibi
The tall and lean Mr. Brown
Said he was out of town
Ms. Percival said she wasn’t there
Had gone out to see a theater
Mr. Hubbard was stubbornly quiet
His face pale and ashen white
Ms. Christie who leant on a crutch
Was talking irrelevant too much.
Each one of them denied having heard
Any sound that could take them off guard
Tim the butler slept through the night
Janice heard nothing after putting out the light.
Mr. Steve fumed as his vexation grew
Knowing for sure not all said was true
The ****** has been committed by one of them
Who could it be in this hide-and-seek game?
Was the offence committed for material gain?
Who could benefit from these men and women?
Or could it be, more ghastly and strange,
The ****** was done as an act of revenge?
He couldn’t find flaws with any of alibi
There was no evidence to nail down the lie
He found it unsolvable, and that irked Mr. Steve
His reputation was at stake as a great detective.
Apr 11, 2013
Apr 11, 2013 at 8:09 AM UTC
Many a times, when I am alone
I just find myself thinking of the fun
Collecting pouring water, drenching in the rain
Sailing my paper boats in the small drain
Catching frogs from puddles of water,
in matchboxes
And throwing them on young and old with giggles and smiles
Smearing the silver, golden color on my friends
Of the butterflies that we picked in the sunny garden
Feasting on dollops of homemade icecreams and chuskies (ice lollies)
Listening to stories of kings n demons by granny
How could I forget that fight with parents
To stay awake all night during summer or winter break
To watch uncountable movies on the rented video player
Or to read Agatha Christie, Enid Blyton in just one sitting
There was a different story all the time
for each of my tantrums and fantasies alike
And a unique reason for enjoying every season
Oh! How I wish I could have a time machine
To take me back to my childhood innocence
I really miss being a little kid O my Lord!
With no stress, worries or care in the world...!!!
© Neeloo 'NeelPari'
Sep 26, 2018
Sep 26, 2018 at 9:54 AM UTC
Agatha Christie audiobook
drifts out across the dark room
all she can think of is of the one o' clock
shipping news, a swaying, seasick tune
calling to far off boats & sailors
adrift alone somewhere
thinking of their homes
a cold beer, she thinks will do
she would be writing
but no words come
she draws the duvet cover
closer round her shoulders
her lover's ghost
watches her silently
Sep 4, 2015
Sep 4, 2015 at 11:33 PM UTC
…For Now
the people I know are talking taxes, the price of heat, ******* food!
The people he serves
wipe their spoons on silk napkins, slap each others’ shoulders
take each others’ wineskins, corkscrews in their eyeballs,
walL sT. on their grins
The people I know get up in the morning, every morning,
everyday (in every possible way) to get to work,
work all day, then come home tired, a bit more afraid
The people he serves are out of his league
truly rich men with swash-buckle needs
avarice men with bundles of greed
to lay upon the stooges who desecrate the dream
who pick up the court jester and let him play lead…
we fund them both – the rich man and the clown
dress them up in emperor clothes, bow down
to their blows, we take it all and plead for parity,
wipe their smell from blistered hands
cuddle in cameraless work-cells
with a smartphone or a podcast jam
The people I know talk about the government
the inequality, the lopsided way it’s rigged,
the unfairness in squeezing every dime
tell each other things like – ‘chin-up’ ‘don’t give up’
‘nothing we can do about it anyway’
The people I know,
talk
Apr 5, 2014
Apr 5, 2014 at 11:58 PM UTC
What if I love you, Ms. V?
It will make me shine like the Sun
Never again, will I be alone
My heart will beat at the speed of an aeroplane
Like a top, will my brain spin
Like a flower, will my face bloom
And from ear to ear, will I beam!
What if I love you, Ms. V?
Talk for hours and hours, we can
About any topic under the Sun
Be it Harris Jayaraj music
Or Indian or international politics
Or chicken vs mutton
Or travelling in trains
And can I go on and on
Trust me, never will I get bored
Of course, neither will you get bored
I will make sure of that
No matter what!!
What if I love you, Ms. V?
A shoulder for you to cry on, will I be
With anything and everything, can you trust me
I keep secrets
As well as Hercule Poirot connects the dots
In any Agatha Christie ****** mystery
And never will I be in a hurry
So, you can take your own sweet time to open up
Or for that matter, can you yap and yap
And I won't mind a bit
After all, every single relationship requires a lot of effort!!
What If I love you, Ms. V?
For you, am I ready to change anything
To ensure you keep smiling
Just not my character or nature, of course
To do anything for you, am I not averse
Just not anything unethical or immoral, of course
I will be there for you on your best days
And of course on your worst days
After all, love doesn't come without its share of pain
And as we all know, there is no gain without pain!!
What if I love you, Ms. V?
Definitely, will it change my life
If you are to become my wife
But yes, not so soon of course
To deciding anything in a hurry, am I averse
I will give you all the time and space you need
It's part of love, will I add!!
What if I love you, Ms. V?
Well, I hope you will love me back
If yes, then will my life be free from anything and everything dark
I will be one of the happiest people in the world
Even all the gold in the world
Cannot give me THAT feeling
Because, to me do YOU mean EVERYTHING
If no, then thank you for giving me the opportunity
To write this piece of poetry!!
Sep 24, 2024
Sep 24, 2024 at 7:24 AM UTC
I.
I think you would look brighter with a fresh coat of paint –
a pale blue would suit
your face looks red,
like someone described to you
how you looked in your skimpiest underwear,
like he used to say how much he loved
pushing down on your hips,
melting you into your aqua sheets
II.
the cherry blossoms look promising this time of year
I feel a longing to chop them down
and press them into all the books I own
I promise you that I will comb my hair 100 times in return
I will iron out the stretch marks on my skin –
I won’t pull at it, I promise!
stay vibrant
III.
in the middle of the night,
while I am surrounded by strangers,
home will call and exclaim:
I made fresh scones
and the smell followed me all the way to the top of the tower!
and
I finally took two steps
towards the German shepherd
that terrorizes me on the way
to Christie Pits!
and
he told me my eyes were like
the blue of his favourite childhood jean jacket –
he told me I felt like home.
IV.
my two brothers might have long, swaying limbs when I touch down
mom’s arms might wrap three times around me
she will say,
“I love your peonies growing the length of your spine”
and water them as I lie on my stomach
dad will have feet made of concrete
but his body will still be like palm leaves
I will have to laugh at my own jokes
and ice my own bruised knees
for a while
V.
above all, I wish for the following:
sturdy legs that don’t give out after I’ve walked the length of a strange station
searching for a runaway train
a glimmer from the sweet Parisian rain and the blissful Spanish sun
a new set of lenses with broad castles and rough cliffs and extensive oceans
a jar full of foreign voices, bright smiles, truths
and the fullest heart –
I hope to find me.
May 7, 2015
May 7, 2015 at 12:29 PM UTC
Friend, let me tell you
You can never trust a human
If you give them a nugget of wisdom
They will only bare their teeth to consume it
And rip it to shreds
No matter how beautiful
They'll then take slaves to gather up the pieces
And put them in tastefully colored packages
Designed by scientists
Hoping to sell themselves back to you
-at a profit.
It doesn't matter if it's poison
These jokers will horde it
If we imagine love as a baby
Then the humans had a late-term abortion
Everything is so self-serving
And insanely distorted
The only thing that matters
Is what they think they are worth
-in the markets
I'm so sick of this
You ******* numb-nut, half-wits
You're just too ******* selfish
I'm done with the nice guy ********
I'm disappearing like Elvis
Am I alive or dead?
I can be both, it's no Agatha Christie mystery
I've never been happier to introduce you
-to disappearing me.
May 4, 2014
May 4, 2014 at 3:18 AM UTC
She reads Agatha Christie
Taking breaks
To imagine what the weather is like in France
She opens the window to feel the storm
I imagine her glasses fog up
And when she blinks
Her lashes clean them like windshield wipers
She’s cynical about love
And foreign to the touch
She shuts out all the lust
That's range. Porcelain to dust
When she is overcome
It’s with a demon
From a console
Raging to life like a tantrum
If I could have her any way
I’d take her covered in fake blood
In the foyer of a haunted house
Mounted in a ripped up blouse
Her lips matching the color
Of the dye in her hair
Dip my romantic in her cynicism
Keep the window open to let the city listen.
Oct 6, 2016
Oct 6, 2016 at 11:59 PM UTC
The Party’s Over
First Ray of Sunlight bangs on the front door,
mop and bucket, green disinfectant, God knows
she’s seen much worse. Start with Giuliani
broom his shriveled heart, pour bleach in the dank dark
corners of his soul, load Newt onto a cart but
come back for Christie, got to watch the back.
Spray all the baseboards, maybe tent and bomb,
bag up all the empties, filthy bottles of ignorance,
butts of hate floating in the dregs.
Open the curtains, let in the light, watch them scuttle
for the drain, don a hazmat suit and head upstairs
“The Donald” lolls in bed tangled up in stinking
sheets of free media coverage, bedding soiled with a bladder
full of lies and self-regard.
The rest of us will slink out the back, Lord knows
we enjoyed the bread and circus, we love a good carnival
geek when he bites the heads off chickens.
Sunlight is the best disinfectant but this
may require gasoline and match.
Oct 8, 2016
Oct 8, 2016 at 10:01 AM UTC
by James Bruce
You’re the top!
You’re the top!
You’re a Millard Filmore,
You’re the top!
You’re the Girls of Gilmore,
You’re lucidity’s not Huckabee’s weird views,
You’re an immigrator,
A great debator,
You’re not Ted Cruz!
You’re the style,
Of a Ronald Reagan,
You’re the smile of a foxxy Megyn,
Were you Hillary, you’d be pilloried, and flop!
But if Donald, Ailes’s the bottom, you’re the top!
You’re the top!
You’re the Wall of China,
You’re the top!
You’re acute angina,
You’re hyperbole that’s a felony in Queens,
You’re Rand Paul’s mama,
Barack Obama,
You’re full of beans!
You’re the star,
Of the G.O.P. camp,
You’re a jam on a Christie bridge ramp,
I’m a crippling loan, a Roger Stone, a flop!
But if baby, Jeb’s sunk lower, you’re the top!
You’re the top!
You’re a well-coiffed dandy,
You’re the top!
Your hair’s cotton candy,
You’re assets vast that cast a glow of Trumpf
You’re a Carly visage,
The Greenwich Village,
You’re Friedrich Drumpf!
You’re demure,
You’re a friend of pollsters,
You’re the spur on some heels with holsters
I’m not fit to race, too commonplace, a sop!
But if Donald, I’m rock bottom, you’re the top!
Oct 1, 2016
Oct 1, 2016 at 11:42 AM UTC
at night I can fall asleep by counting the rolls of fat on my stomach
a steady, calming, everyday weight that doesn't feel as bad as it looks;
but sometimes what I feel seems foreign, and I am restless
because I once had a flat stomach and I can remember how that felt,
almost.
in the mornings I wake up,
get out of bed
and mark the start of each new day with the very first collision of my thighs.
I think that I don't hate my body as much as I should.
I feel sorrier for whoever has to see me like this than I do for myself.
these are things I tell myself; I think I may believe them.
I notice my round stomach trying to escape the waistline of my jeans
I have picked and pulled at the stretchy skin that drowns my arms
I have sat down and gaped at the remarkable resemblance that my thighs have to a pair of lumpy, fleshy, potatoes
somedays I say " it won't look that way when I stand up"
those are good days.
& I remember all of the clothes I have given away to christie
two beautiful coats that I had picked out myself not all that long ago,
and they were loved very much
and worn very little
and they were bought by my mother
two beautiful coats that press my arms so tight that I can't move them
not even to take a drag off my cigarette or unlock my car
they look like they were made for her.
my jim morrison shirt that was black&white;& I bought it at the boardwalk on venice beach out of the back of a pickup truck barely thirty feet from the ocean
my jim morrison shirt that I cut last spring to the midriff and beaded it myself for an hour on my dorm room floor, had my roommate hem it & never wore it again.
it looks like it was made for her.
& there are days when she comes home from the thrift shop,
with full plastic bags of dresses, and lace, and florals, flannels and blouses
and she'll say "lookwhatIgotisntitnice?andofcourse you can wear it too."
and I don't know if she actually means it
sometimes I think she does & I don't know how that makes me feel
and I don't know if she actually means it
but we both know that I'll never ask.
Mar 29, 2015
Mar 29, 2015 at 3:55 PM UTC
A Strange Man from a Far Distant Star.
A strange man from a far distant star;
Comes to teach us, to show us the future.
To show us a new direction, a new path to follow;
To stop us becoming, our own killer.
The future is orange, in this ungodly land;
The fire burns brightly, for this galactic traveller.
We must all learn, how to understand;
The message he left, which could change our future.
We must help him return, to the planet he left;
To let him show us the things, that are buried in our heads.
This psychedelic spaceman, with his orange platform boots;
Travelled to the moon and beyond, fighting aliens and fixing robots.
His special silver suit and his shades made him cool;
He's got some moon dust for his baby
And a piece of rock from Mars for her school.
Untouched land, heading back to his land.
From a forgotten traveler; from a psychedelic spaceman.
From the strangest of strangers, here comes the man from Obsidium,
With his tin *** space rocket, which runs on petroleum.
The spaceman's here, to show us the way;
To travel the stars, using his galactic space map.
One step for mankind, that was taken by a monkey;
Has let him take us to the stars, but he's never coming back.
This journey is one way, the destination is Obsidium;
He will bring us into contact with his peers and all sorts of aliens.
We can bounce on the moon, with a lack of gravity;
Finding new alien species, on the volcanoes of Mars.
This adventure will be joyous, with occasional tragedy;
But our mission will lead us, to travel to new stars.
The first question he asked was who will win the Human race?
And do you think Linford Christie, would win Britain first place?
Or would a pioneer win it, so they could claim it?
Like they claimed the native America; I guess they'd just steal it.
Then he said "Come with me and I'll open your minds;
Show you Jupiter, Venus and Pluto’s endless mines.
We can leave this place called Earth and explore a new galaxy;
We can race a shooting star, we can do anything.
But you must give up this life that you take for granted
And beam up with me, into my funky spaceship.”
(C)2005 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Jun 15, 2018
Jun 15, 2018 at 4:58 PM UTC
It has been stamped with dispassionate blue ink,
Signifying its future lack of suitability to sit on the shelves,
Having been elbowed aside by this and that year’s thing
(And the book had not been checked out since the mid-seventies,
Perhaps some young man all but short-circuited
By the prospect of a bathing Julie Christie,
Or some female counterpart shedding bell-bottomed tears
Over doomed love, which, in her cosmology,
All such things were fated to be)
Placed in some temporary cardboard casket
Which once held bananas or copier paper or ancient time cards,
Sitting cheek to elbow with cookbooks, breathless biorhythm tomes,
Buffeted about forces unseen and beyond its control
As it faces the uncertain and uneasy prospect of possible reclamation.
Dec 10, 2017
Dec 10, 2017 at 5:23 PM UTC
Dear Gov. Chris Christie,
Years ago, when the citizens of the state of New Jersey voted to
approved medicinal cannabis. You stated that you weren't quite sure
you should allow this because of children. And the treatment of curing children's cancers were then delayed, for about two years. Just this Monday, you passed on signing a bill that would increase the age of tobacco use to the age of 21. Were you not thinking of the safety and health concerns of the children then? So, what you're saying is: Hey kids! If you want to catch cancer and die young then that is okay
because it is LEGAL. But, if you want a natural remedy to cure your cancer.. well, you fill in the blank. So, do you you really care about the health concerns of children? Do you Governor Christie? Do you?
Awaiting your prompt reply,
The Poet
Jan 21, 2016
Jan 21, 2016 at 12:02 PM UTC
Many a times, when I am alone
I just find myself thinking of the fun
Collecting pouring water, drenching in the rain
Sailing my paper boats in the small drain
Catching in matchboxes frogs from puddles of water,
And throwing them on young and old with giggles and smiles
Smearing the silver, golden color on my friends
Of the butterflies that we picked in the sunny garden
Feasting on dollops of homemade icecreams and chuskies (ice lollies)
Listening to stories of kings n demons by granny
How could I forget hat fight with parents
To stay awake all night during summer or winter break
To watch uncountable movies on the rented video recorder
Or to read Agatha Christie, Enid Blyton in just one sitting
There was a different story all the time
for each of my tantrums and fantasies alike
And a unique reason for enjoying every season
Oh! How I wish I could have a time machine
To take me back to my childhood innocence
I really miss being a little kid O my Lord!
With no stress, worries or care in the world...!!!
© Neeloo 'NeelPari'
Nov 14, 2018
Nov 14, 2018 at 1:22 PM UTC