Picture Perfect

I was recently introduced to Calvin and Hobbes - what is perhaps the most popular cartoon since Snoopy. In America, at least. Featuring in American newspapers, it ended it's run in the year 1995. 10 years later, in the year 2005, I got hold of it (ok, so, it took me some time to catch on. All the best things in life takes time).

I would recommend the feature books to anyone. Go. Library. Get. Now. Hysterically funny - and what more does a cartoon need?

Back in reality, I have launched a new blog, dedicated to politics, religion, and any other issue which I decide needs to be ranted on, such as the great truths of Colgate Original Toothpaste, or the liklihood of the whereabouts of faries being in people's back gardens (though looking at some people's back gardens, any fairy living there would certainly need a tetnus shot). This doesn't mean I shall abandon this blog. No. No sir. Though I fear this is what shall happen shortly, when I finsh my holiday in England, and head back to the middle east.

To summarise, this was a completely useless entry. Oh. One more thing. I have some more poems, which are here:

February Toil

In the winter nights gone by,
I lay upon the whitened ground,
To observe the blackened sky,
All voices quiet, there's not a sound.
I lie entrenched upon the earth,
Allow yonder snow upon me fall,
Recall once more memories past,
Written up in stars so small,
Upon a sea so very vast;
Then write our moments up there too,
To then recall in later days,
All the things we've done,
And marvel at the misty haze,
All the time the moon's ablaze.
---------------------

My favourite topic appears to be love. Or lack of it. This, therefore, makes a change, does it not?

On the surface, yes. This poem appears to be about the author (me) lying on a street looking at the stars, and letting the snow fall on him, whilst he "recalls memories past." The title "February toil" is ironic therefore inasmuch as it doesn't befit the actions of the dude in the poem. What sort of toil is lazing about? Exactly.

If one looks a bit further, however...
There is a secret message hidden in the poem (I do so love hiding messages in poems. It makes for more of a challenge. The quality of the content of the poem is sometimes sacrificed, however) which can be discovered by taking the first letter of the first line, second of the second line, etc. all the way up until the words "Then write our moments up there too." One guess as to what the message reads.

The last 4 lines also contain a hidden message, but follow completely different rules to the above, rules which I shall not divulge now, or ever. The message in this part of the poem is the name of the person to whom this is addressed.

Cat, stop speculating. You don't know her.

The reason why I chose a disrelated topic to the hidden message is because the girl in question resides within a household which values literature, and would request to read anything I gave to her. Obviously, it wouldn't do to hand a mother of about 40 years of age a love poem for her daughter now, would it? No sir. No sir, not at all. Hence, no one would ever guess at the true meaning of the poem, unless they previously knew what it would contain. Clever brain things worked all this out in my very own brain.
----------------------

A single day,
A single hour,
A single minute in which to say,
How much you've meant to me each and everyday.

Oh, to gaze upon your pretty grace,
To take the image of your face,
To etch forever in my heart,
And recall from their it's every part.

Oh, to sit with you once more,
Perhaps to gaze across a shore,
And when the day is done,
We'll watch the setting of the sun.

And enveloped in cloaks of dark,
We'll sit and watch the mark,
Which through the sky shines bright,
With an everlastingly pure light.

Before we'd know it the night is done,
And though from us it's forever gone,
It will live forever on,
And be my dearest memory.

But sadly it could never be,
For there's another one for she,
But oh, how much I woulg give,
If only I were he.
-----

A slightly different version of the above poem is posted here.
This poem is, as you've guessed, in keeping with my tradition of writing about impossible relationships. As it happens, it's about the same girl in the first poem, above. No messages, no nothings, such the surface.

I don't think it's possible for me to ever be with this particular girl. I have a knack of liking those I can never be with. Peculiar. It's not as if I go about looking for people to develop a major crush on, then realise the possibility of ever getting together is about as big as George Bush converting to Islam. Which is not very big at all. Meh. Still, it could be worse. We could live 3,000 miles apart...

Oh. No. It couldn't be worse: we already do.