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Poetry |
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Last Updated: 28/09/2008 21:52:16
Cool Hand Luke
By Del Abe Jones
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Paul Leonard Newman
January 26 1925; September 26 2008
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He was a quiet, private, Man
But, a giant, amongst the stars
A philanthropist to millions
And owned and drove racecars.
He was a producer and director
And an actor, beyond, compare
He won almost every award
A great talent, one, so rare.
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His great films will last forever
For, new generations to see
And he will always be with us
In the pages, of our history.
He always said, he was just lucky
But, it was us, who were blessed
For, while he was in this World
He passed almost every, Earthly test.
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The Hole In The Wall Gang Camp
Serving, those Children who are ill
Where they could have fun, just be a Kid
One of those dreams, he did fulfill.
He was a family man, first of all
Married to Joanne fifty years
And he has left, each one of us
Filled, with memories, grief, and tears.
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Survived by Joanne and five Daughters
His Son, Scott, he's gone to see
He's broken the bounds of this Earth
And from his suffering, set free.
He's gone, to a much better place
And, I'll bet he's looking down
With sparkling eyes, and famous grin
And saying, "I'll always be around!"
Rest in peace, Paul.
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Copyright © Del Abe Jones 2008 |
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Poetry - Don't Be Afraid, I'm Here, Stop Crying. By Danny James Archer
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A warm tear falls down your pale white cheek.
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You should be a painter
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I walk straight into
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I once was a soldier
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Yet, another year has passed by
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Even, after all this time gone by
Still hard, to comprehend or understand.
How can a person hate so much
And be so blinded, by their belief
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When salt slides
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When your eyes
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When your heart's
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The manuscripts lie there
And I cry
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Blood drips slowly
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Away, not here,
She flew the nest
Gone like the morning dew
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Mr average
Mr median
Mr middleman,
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Mr mean root squared,
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My spider-sense is tingling,
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a disturbance in the Force,
a sickening twist in my gut
that says:
something is wrong.
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This who I am
I don't care what people think
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so I wrote about my life
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Under the sadness of what might have been an old poem lies torn in the drawer of my dreams
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I come from 'ull, pal
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Its struggled
And juggled
To break from the past
And maybe just maybe
There's light at last
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I'm sat on a bench in Pearson Park.
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My sweat tells me that I dropped a logo,
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On my lap sits a list of all
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I handed over a twenty
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I served my country and grafted hard all my life but you would never have guessed.
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Sing a song of cigarettes
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Poetry - Olympic Pride - Beijing 2008 By Darren Sant
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All that glitters is not gold,
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We remember tanks in the square,
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We recall the flow of red,
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Poetry - Who's that Girl? By Andrea Longstaff
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Nothing exists yet no one is free
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Eleven billion, six hundred eighty million
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I call my lines unique
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The night draws in as the air cools,
stillness lies all around.
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face to face and eye to eye
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