I am the crazymad writer,
The crazymad writer today.
I am the crazymad writer,
The crazymad writer, hey hey!
You may think that I’m not serious,
And I might even agree.
I am atill the crazymad writer,
The crazymad writer, hee hee.
Mad Eye Moody, can it really be,
That splendid interpretation, a hero so free?
Who gave up his all for the cry of the truth?
So we could know that good is forsooth.
Yes, they can all Twitter, be it here, be it there,
About American Idol and Celebrities fair,
But can they replace the genius, so fine,
Like Rowling and Dahl – or Wilson’s strange mind?
When next you are shopping in Wal-Mart, I think,
If its bargains you’re after then remember the ink,
On the paper, in the book section, where I’m waiting for sure,
To temp you with my writing so as to open that door.
And when it is open my world of strange stuff,
Will entrance and beguile you; the air will be hushed,
As you read about Alice, the Cat and the Mouse,
Harry Rotter and Jimmy – and Beetle About.
Forget about Powerball, cars and the news,
Never mind Danny Choo – who is he? I muse
Wikipedia doesn’t know me; heck, do I care,
When I’ve got so many readers in the REAL WORLD out there!
Stories for children and young at heart adults
by ME, The Crazymad writer – ARRRRGH!
My eBooks are FREE FREE FREE
Download one TODAY from my Amazon.com shop!
Aliens landed in Ballykilduff,
Aliens landed; that is a fact,
In the dark of the night it happened, it did,
At the end of my garden they landed, then hid.
Breda, dear Breda, wake up, will you please?
Something is happening and I am all in a tizz!
Leave me alone, she answered, I’m beat,
Having said that to me she fell fast asleep.
Donning my gown and slippers I left,
Her sleeping in bed as into the kitchen I crept,
Searching for light, the torch, my best friend,
I opened the door and into the garden I went.
Towards the end of the garden with my torch I progressed,
Then I climbed over the fence into the field with its guests,
Pointing my torch, I rained light upon them,
Aliens a plenty around a spaceship humming.
What are they doing? I wondered out loud,
Signalling my place, my location – and how,
Pointing their guns, the Aliens zapped me with rays,
Blue, yellow and green, orange and grey.
Thinking my time was finished, all gone,
I fell to the ground awaiting the anon,
Sorry about that, one of them said helping me up
We thought you were a cow wanting to eat us all up
What are you doing? I asked with curious eyes,
Seeing them cutting the grass, then taking it inside,
We are refueling our spaceship, he told me quite proud,
We get one light year per armful, he said out aloud.
That’s amazing, I said, can I go see inside?
Sorry, he answered, it’s too small for your like,
Laughing, I asked if there was anything they need,
Yes, he told me forthrightly, can we have some tea?
Tea? I asked, you drink tea way up there,
In outer space, with its atmosphere rare?
No, silly, he replied, it’s to pour down our boots,
We never travel with them empty, forsooth.
You pour tea down your boots? I laughed out loud,
What does it do, make you fly like a bird?
It does, he told me, how did you know that?
Was your mother or father an alien, or even your cat?
Just then I heard something, someone calling to me,
Gerrard, wake up, its morning; here is your tea,
Opening my eyes, I saw Breda, my wife,
Offering the cup of plenty, tea; it’s my life.
Where are my boots? I asked, still half sleep,
I want them, I need them; oh where are they please?
They are under the bed, here, she said, offering them to me,
Why do you want them before drinking your tea?
Accepting my boots, I poured in the tea,
What on earth are you doing? she asked warily,
I don’t go anywhere without filling them first,
Can I have another cup, I asked, because I sure have a thirst.
The moral of my story is this:
Don’t go anyway near Ballykilduff, GIVE IT A MISS,
Strange things are happening down that neck of the woods,
Like Aliens, and Slugs driving campervans – and Fiats to boot.
Crazymad Stories for children and young at hear adults
You can buy this exciting new eBook for only 99 cents
Every morning when I awake
And reach for my paper and coffee cake,
I check to see if my name appears,
Trying to quell my deepest fears
That this might be the very day
When the old grim reaper has his way
It’s really a little game we play!
He’s trying to catch me unawares,
I don’t think that he really cares
When it will be, as long as he can say he’s won…
The game is over… so long… it’s done.
But I must outwit his nefarious scheme
For it has always been my dream
To live as long as my enemies do
Longer is better from my point of view!
So I eat my veggies, drink my milk,
Cream my face till it’s smooth as silk
When I drink my wine, I never drive,
Insuring I will arrive home alive.
I watch my weight, walk a mile a day
And watch out for cars along the way.
I’ve followed the plan to a tee
But there is a problem that I see
I’ve gotten too old to run and hide
As I feel my bones rub together inside
So I’ve decided to lure him to bed
But with someone else lying there instead.
And since love is blind, he will not see,
The victim he smites is not me!
The game is over…so long…it’s done
But he’ll never know…it is I who’s won!
Copyright©2008 Beatrice Boyle
(All rights reserved)
What, what what can it be?
No, that will never take off!
Are you normal?
Do you want to be,
A faceless person in a heaving sea,
With no aims, ambitions, dreams or goals,
Just happily plodding along that road?
Are you slowly dying?
Don’t you feel the magic of each new day,
The sounds of laughter as children play,
The warmth of the sun on your back, so good,
The song of birds, the smell of wood?
Are you passing time?
Don’t you wonder at the sky, so blue,
The start and end so vague to you?
I hear you say, I am happy, still,
So too is an ant that has no will.
Wake up, wake up!
It’s not too late,
There still is time to change your fate,
Renounce the normal, do something MAD,
Shock them all create a fad.
Be yourself, alive with goals,
With dreams and wonders still untold,
Exult life in your own distinctive way,
It’s yours alone; you must have your say,
Lest you slip into oblivion (without a trace).