Poetry With A Mission



...a thought provoking poetical exercise.

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Follywood

One doesn't have to be a Christian or a rocket scientist
To figure out that Hollywood is a nasty cancerous cyst.
One that long ago released its poison throughout this world of ours,
Planting baleful seeds that grew and bound; and it still, unhindered ploughs.

Yes, people are daily feeding from just a smorgasbord of trash,
As Hollywood — rather, Follywood — shamefully pulls in more cash.
Yes, most of the images seen that Hollywood is churning out,
Just danger, danger, danger, in the minds of everyone should shout.

We inevitably become the very things that we behold,
Hence why those things seen on TV, should be monitored and controlled.
And much more so, where there are children, lest the TV wrongly mould
An innocent tender mind, and thereby, cause more wrong to unfold.

That which invades our precious mind, invades the fortress of the soul,
Weaving a destructive web that eventually gains control.
Yes, whatever gets hold of your mind, inevitably gets you,
Or the children you have bourne; something you could soon have cause to rue.

So many — courtesy of Follywood — are watching everyday
A sullied and duped stream of actors who more trash and harm portray.
And despite being guilty of all that verbal and visual ill,
These actors who seem to have no scruples, are placed on a pedestal.

Buckets full of violence, sickening murders, bashings and rapes,
Are just spewed out unrestrained, which the mind of those who view such, shapes.
Foul language that's plain shameful, and sexually explicit scenes
(Along with what’s gross and indecent), fills both small and larger screens.

Thus, it's no wonder crime is rampant, and society off track,
Given this potent multi-blended hour by hour aphrodisiac.
For whatever gets hold of the mind, invariably becomes you,
Hence why it’s so essential to control whatever is on view.

By Lance Landall


"Hollywood is a place where they'll pay you a thousand dollars for a kiss
and fifty cents for your soul."
Marilyn Monroe.




2.  Another Gig

Another day, another night, another gig, for I'm so hooked on the fame and adulation,
And hence why there is always another venue, hotel, city, or even another nation.
Yes, I’m addicted to the buzz, thrilled by the attention, and thus am caught on a merry-go-round,
As even my name isn't my own — oh well, that’s show bizz, they say — and one reason why I'm booze bound.

Yes, the worse for drink, for that is how I deal with the shallowness and artificiality,
And given that I don’t know who I am anymore, but seemingly just who they want me to be.
It’s pretty much just a game, some momentary fame, for one’s only as popular as the day,
And every day’s a roller coaster — up and down, up and down — press start, press stop, and now press replay.

Oh, how I love those highs, but not those lows, for in-between each gig, it’s just back to being plain old me,
Which means I have more time to think, more time to drown demons in drink, hence why booze comes naturally.
Yes, such is just part of the scene, and becoming more routine, and how I deal with the fantasy,
For it all seems just like an act, something that's more bound to subtract, and tear the soul right out of me.

And thus it could be the death of me, for it's stolen my identity, and simply for their sake,
For I always have to please, forget about my unease, as well as mind those ones who're on the make.
And hence why I’m wanting out, just can’t grasp what it’s all about, and yet, here I am so hooked on such,
For I’ve been beguiled and enslaved by an ego stroking siren — yes, each gig's got me in its clutch.

Thus, another gig, another fix, for the rush I get from such is so much like a drug to me,
And hence those withdrawal symptoms — that is, when the crowd's gone home and we've packed up — and I'm alone with me.
And out comes that bottle again, another drug, one that seems to have just as big a grip on me,
For gigs and drugs seem to go together — and I, can't live without the limelight being focused on me.

Yes, another gig....

By Lance Landall


3.  The Stage

It seems as if everyone wants their moment of fame, hence that somewhat obscene rush for the stage,
Where with an adoring and applauding audience they can egotistically engage.
And as to what drives such, who knows? — though I suspect a number of things, and all propelled by one,
That being, a desire to be some focus of attention, or famous, when all is said and done.

When it’s all boiled down, such is an introspective desire — narcissism, possibly,
For it’s tied in with personal glory, hence the shame oft associated with such, sadly.
That is, that mad scramble over the top of others, the tantrums and tears, accusations too,
All part and parcel of this territory that sees so many who make it going askew.

Though many may claim differently — the truth is as I’ve stated — despite any exception,
For how many would bother if they didn’t get that adoring and applauding reception?
And hence why even in churches these days, applause is desired far more than a humble “Amen,”
Not that I’m condoning entertainment in churches, for there would go that self focus again.

And that’s what it’s all about — believe me — for it’s simply delusional thinking otherwise,
And why in regards to the stage, so many seek and dream of such, and over such fantasise.
After all, it’s an adrenalin rush, one that has folk seeking more, until they’re not desired,
And then what? — given that their everything was built on that buzz, on being applauded and admired.

Yes, there’s nothing more shallow and artificial than the limelight, and more delusional too,
Given that it fills one with pride, an overrated sense of importance, one that isn’t due.
For often those in the limelight are corrupted by its seductiveness, and thus less worthy,
And even a great power for evil, given they so often influence negatively.

When all is said and done, the stage is all about “Me,” the selling of humans commercially,
And those who fall at the feet of such idols, fall victim to the image maker’s artistry.
For were those on stage found amongst those on the street, they’d hardly be noticed perhaps,  even ignored,
Given they’re no better or different to you and I, and often as seriously flawed.

Yes, so many people — most, possibly — are blinded by the distorted rays that bathe the stage,
And seeming just as seduced by its razzle-dazzle, and would find it hard to disengage.
Hence those who perform and those who follow, and those who dream, wishing that it was them on that stage,
Given that that “Me” inside of most would rather not be in the seats, but up front, I would wage.

By Lance Landall
 


4.  The Aging Singer

Yes, the aging singer, his beguiling voice no longer able — at least, not like it could before,
Yet, he still doing the circuit, running on past popularity, and years of built up rapport.
Now no longer able to hold those notes as long, nor quite reach the highs and lows that are still required,
But so loath to leave the limelight, the adulation, even though age and health have cruelly conspired.

Yes, an aging lion, his breathing laboured, his movements less nimble, and his presence less commanding,
Yet, so reluctant to relinquish his throne, and steady ticket sales showing that he can still sing.
But not like before, and such not unnoticed too, thus time now his enemy rather than his friend,
And he a crooner, a singer of past romantic ballads, now well and truly bucking the trend.

Yes, the aging singer, so wanting to soar, but his wings somewhat clipped, the lights no longer as kind,
Thus, what once delighted, now less a reality, and each passing year falling further behind.
And perhaps he has lingered too long, his departure thus overdue, and his audience too kind,
But lost in their memories of days gone by, they’re loath to see him go, and seemingly do not mind.

Yes, the aging lion, singer, younger ones casting their shadow, but not quite a shadow like his one,
For despite their popularity, he’s in a league of his own, and despite that red setting sun.
And in the hearts and minds of those who adore his voice, he will continue to remain on his throne,
For even after his departure, and via their own home, they’ll still savour that lilting baritone.

By Lance Landall




5.  Thinking Of Karen Carpenter

It’s always a tragedy when someone’s life is cut short, and seemingly even more so when they've a gift,
And here, I’m referring to an exceptional voice, one that has the ability to move, touch and lift.
And Karen’s voice certainly did move, touch and lift, and now this Earth is all the less for her  ability,
Which conveyed an unaffected and natural beauty so rarely seen today, given its quality.

So many folk can sing — indeed us all, one might say — but truly gifted singers are more a rarity,
Because though there are many good singers, few singers come under what one might well describe as heavenly.
And it’s the same with musicians, for though many can play exceedingly well, not so many have the touch,
And as a consequence, their playing and ability fails to move us, or to affect us quite as much.

And that ability to move and touch was where Karen’s voice excelled, and why her death seems a greater loss,
And the reason I say “seems” is, because everyone’s life is just as precious as hers, as much a loss.
However, there're those who leave behind something extra special — that is, in the way of their ability,
And as far as I’m concerned, Karen certainly did that, affecting many very emotionally.

Yes, it’s always so tragic when someone’s life is cut short, and as in her case, we all the less for that voice,
And here, I’m talking solely of her voice, not all of which she sang, 'cause songs are very much personal choice.
But suffice to say, that Karen touched the lives of so many, and hence why we should always treat others well,
Lest their life be cut short, and their gift to us be lost, 'cause what’s going on in their life, we can’t always tell.

By Lance Landall


This poem was upgraded 9 February 2020.

Karen Carpenter died in 1983 at the age of 32, her death being due to an eating disorder — anorexia nervosa. The song "Now" which was recorded in April 1982, was the last song that Karen Carpenter recorded.





6.  Lesser Mortals

Take an everyday boy or girl that one passes in the street, and that one hardly gives a second thought to,
And build an image around their ability to sing or play, and soon they’re no longer like me and you.
But rather, someone seemingly out of reach, though desired and sought, even cried over, ridiculously,
Which has me scratching my head, for it’s simply an orchestrated illusion — a game, quite frankly.

Many who become idols, (singers or musicians), aren’t near as good as many who are still on the street;
That is, their talent and star quality is surpassed by many who haven’t made it, whom we daily greet.
And yet, no one bats an eyelid whilst passing these seemingly lesser mortals destined for obscurity,
Who, had they made it too, would’ve received the same generated attention, and more deservingly.

Yes, so many who make it aren’t that great at all, but oft beating those more talented come competitions,
Which aside from being very unfair, and having me scratching my head again, leaves one nursing suspicions.
It’s clear that certain judges, (and members of the public), aren’t up to the job, hence those performances we see,
That come from those who’re hardly deserving of the limelight, or less deserving, whatever the case may be.

Then there’re those inflated egos; those ways not worth emulating that come from many of the  favoured few,
Who, given their sad influence, would’ve been better left on the street, unlike others waiting in the queue.
Others who on top of their greater talent, would’ve been better role models, and less affected by fame,
And nor professing to be Christians whilst behaving in a way that’s contrary — such only to their shame.

By Lance Landall




7.  Rock And Beauty Opposites, To Me

Many years ago now, I had an interesting conversation with a female psychologist,
She being somewhere in her twenties, very attractive, and with a really lovely personality.
Her attractiveness and her charming personality really stood out, which was what flummoxed me,
'Cause she told me she was very much into serious rock music — loud, harsh, anti and angry.

Well, so I remember, 'cause as mentioned, it was many years ago, though it’s remained in my mind,
And still niggles me, 'cause such beauty, pleasantry and rock music, I just didn’t expect to find.
How could such be, I’ve asked myself, and more so when someone has such a pleasant personality,
Or perhaps I’m confusing such with character, such more important than one’s personality.

Music bias aside, and personal preference, rock music's hardly synonymous with beauty,
Nor with character beauty, that which is orderly, harmonious, uplifting, worthy or lovely.
'Cause how can it be given its mind numbing, body assaulting beat, those screeching, howling  guitar sounds,
Which, rather than restorative, simply create an unhealthy state, plus its lack of moral grounds.

That is, those debasing, negative lyrics, along with all that rock’s associated with too,
All of which just doesn’t sit with a sound mind, and nor with psychologists who mental health pursue.
And nor with a very attractive young woman who had a really lovely personality,
Because that which is in one’s mind, and desired, should surely be just as beautiful and lovely.

By Lance Landall


This poem was upgraded 9 February 2020.

“Rock has always been the devil’s music, you can’t convince me that it isn’t. I honestly believe everything I’ve said—I believe rock and roll is dangerous. … I feel that we’re only heralding something even darker than ourselves”
David Bowie (1947-2016)

“When buying a used car, punch the buttons on the radio. If all the stations are rock and roll, there’s a good chance the transmission is shot.”

Larry Lujack




8.  Sullied Talent And Misused Blessings

Handsome, gifted vocally, he struts the stage with shirt open to the waistline, and with sweat soaked body,
At times dodging panties that his female fans throw, their desires clear, their actions vulgar, arguably.
And some who’re plucked from the mass are treated to a raunchy encounter, one they’ll continue to savour
As it replays in their mind well after the event — they still swooning, dreaming, idolizing, in awe.

Well, I don’t know about you, but such doesn’t impress me, 'cause I would rather see them retain dignity,
Something that's lost when both singer and admirer act so ridiculously, let alone shamefully,
'Cause where’s the restraint? Is he a singer or bawdy act? — his manner suggestive, shirt yawning, chest bare,
And no doubt some of those women are married, even mums, who, lost in desire, seemingly don’t care,

Their thoughts just on that man, who, as a memento, passes back (laden with sweat) what he chooses to share.

No, that’s not my kind of singer, regardless of his voice or great song, 'cause such is far from manly,
Something that's more akin to what goes on behind some school shed, where boys and girls act just as shamefully.
And midst such childish expression, there is oft suggestive banter, and lyrics equally unworthy,
And he, a married man as well, who, I venture to say, would later be acting more unfaithfully.

And to think he’s admired, 'cause who would admire such crassness? — surely only those  equally as loose,
And it clear that these women falling at the feet of their god are women he could easily seduce.
A mere man, but a handsome man, one who though gifted vocally too, lets it all down via such antics,
And thereby sullies his talent, misuses his blessings, and degrades such women seeking night-out kicks.

By Lance Landall


This poem was upgraded 9 February 2020.




9.  The Comedian

Yes, he’s very funny, the gags coming thick and fast, and there is that way of his — and oh, how they laugh,
But is he really such a comical guy, and could it be a case of, “If only they knew the half?”
But then again, they could hardly be expected to, and aren’t they just there for the laughs, a cheery night?
And he, having to make a living, having to work the crowd, 'till once again it’s time to shout, “Goodnight!”

Yes, the funny man, jester, clown, seemingly gifted at his craft, his wit as sharp as a surgeon’s knife,
The crowd like putty in his hands, his antics turning them into rag dolls, such fooling his way of life.
But in the quietness of his home, off comes the mask, 'cause the funny man's not always laughing inside,
Given that behind the fooling, an emotional rollercoaster and insecurity oft hide.

And aren’t we all a bit like that, or many of us, hiding behind the jocular, even waggish,
Not so confident within, hurting or lonely perhaps — yes, the truth oft quite another kettle of fish.
We feeling inadequate, so wanting to be liked, or could there be something else that’s amiss within,
A desperate cry for help lying behind that jesting, that clowning around, that laugh or cheeky grin?

The world's full of comedians, some working via the stage, others just an everyday type of clown,
Who, via the hilarious, seek to break the boredom, draw attention, or misery attempt to drown.
The wit coming thick and fast, his amusing way having others doubled up in fits — oh, how they laugh,
When if only they knew what was so often behind it all — yes, if only those laughing knew the half.

By Lance Landall


This poem was upgraded 15 March 2020.




10.  Ribald Stand-Ups

I know a good comedian when I see one, love a good laugh just like anyone else, but hey,
When they succumb to crudity, foul language, somehow taking others down, I’m off, on my way.
At the end of the day, good comedians can make it without going down that avenue,
One that any fool can get his laughs from, 'cause there’re plenty who applaud such, lower themselves too.

My idea of a good time filled with laughter doesn’t include smut — in other words, what degrades,
Which is why I leave such stand-ups to it, 'cause one’s presence there, that smutty outpouring simply aids.
And besides, what goes in our mind stays there, 'cause our minds are computer memory banks, you see,
Where we live mentally, and why I like keeping that place clean, 'cause what resides there, speaks of me.

So no, no back street alley for me, bawdy, blue, below the belt, callous, cheap shot comedy,
Which the comedian who wishes to retain his dignity avoids just as much as me,
'Cause why would he sell himself short, gaining fame from what betrays the inner man, soils those who hear,
Who, doubled up with laughter at such crudity, the next day and oft thereafter, go and share.

I enjoy a good laugh, but I don’t like leaving feeling soiled, hence the expression, “Good clean fun,”
'Cause there’s nothing more regenerating and healing for body and soul, when all's said and done.
And it’s lovely to hear others laughing, and if it’s us who’s making them laugh, I hope all’s well,
And by that I'm meaning, that what we're saying or doing, in another’s mind will healthily dwell.

By Lance Landall


This poem was upgraded 15 March 2020.




11.  I'd Mind Those Lyrics

Within this world in which we live, there are clearly two forces operating, and affecting everything,
That is, either for the better or the worse, including all those songs that we listen to, or even sing.
And hence why we should pay a little more attention to the lyrics of any song, for one thing is clear:
Those lyrics are the product of either force, and therefore good reason to mind what it is we choose to hear.

Yes, so little thought is given to lyrics, which may have their basis in the occult, or a disturbed mind,
Or they may simply be the product of silly and faulty thinking that’s so typical of humankind.
And yes, they may seem quite harmless, but consider how often they can run through our mind, or us parrot them;
Words and sentiments that leave an imprint, which rather than entertaining, we would be wiser to condemn.

Or certainly should condemn, for certain sentiments can stir and fuel an unbalanced or rebellious mind,
And is it any wonder when behind such lyrics, a certain wildness and very angry beat we find.
Or a composition that excites lustful passions, be it via its rawness or its sophistication,
And thereby appealing to the lower rather than the higher, thus aiding a deterioration.

Yes, we really need to watch both, but certain lyrics being repeated in our mind, or via us vocally,
Can stain, soil, taint, or injure, for words have a power of their own, and certain sentiments especially.
Hence why I’d mind those lyrics, for repetition is often used by mind manipulators, who well know
That certain phrases oft repeated in the mind, baleful seeds can sow, or better thoughts and thinking overthrow.

By Lance Landall




12.  The Scriptwriter

The purpose of life is to not only make the most of it, but to lose oneself in that which is worthy,
Daily saying, doing and producing what is truly beneficial, acting soundly and constructively.
Otherwise, we’re just wasting our allotted time, and even that of others, time that’s too precious to waste,
Which the scriptwriter so oft does on both accounts, polluting minds and widening the couch potatoes waist.

Yes — the scriptwriter — he or she behind those soaps and sitcoms that are so full of anything but what’s best,
Actors relaying their frivolous or debasing lines, coupled with same antics, in which stooge-like viewers invest.
They mentally manipulated, shamefully educated, and in a sense, programmed-cum-hypnotised,
Which most viewers would no doubt strongly deny, for such is often so subtle that it isn’t recognised.

Oh, the hours these scriptwriters must spend penning such, when far better things could be written, their effort our loss,
For all such does is steal precious time, assault or foul the mind, and too regularly another line cross.
Yes, inroads, breaches, trespasses that viewers even come to demand, having become bored with lesser ills,
The scriptwriter only too happy to oblige with more rubbish that one’s conscience eventually stills.

And so it goes, they misusing those precious hours far better spent on that which would far better educate,
That which would improve rather than worsen, that which would rightly inform and uplift rather than titillate.
And they thus using their talent in a way that would leave behind a positive, valuable legacy,
Their time well spent, their time on Earth a blessing, and we all the better off for their wisely used ability.

By Lance Landall





The following poem is based on the assumption that Dynamo is genuinely doing what he is doing and that it has not been staged somehow.
This poem also contains a degree of Christian content necessary for the purpose.


13.  As For The Likes Of Dynamo

I know a man who once was involved in the occult, he now a Christian, one
Who before his conversion attended a Satanist church, which all should shun,
For many who get caught up with the likes, soon find that when they desire to leave,
Wicked spirit beings seek to prevent such, beings who love to ensnare, harm and deceive.

Yes, we’re talking about fallen angels here, both they and their master very real,
This having been verified by folk who encountered them, went through that ordeal.
And this being why we shouldn’t play with the occult, but take it seriously,
And why I’ve more to convey here, for believe me, it’s evil territory.

Okay, back to that man I mentioned…

Well, on him becoming a member, professing faith in Satan openly,
Accepting him as a great god, supreme ruler of Earth, (all being heresy),
He was able to claim one of many gifts then bestowed; and these on any,
Who, according to this man, do likewise, their desire being granted instantly.

Yes, we’re talking about something supernatural, and enter Dynamo,
He a well known magician from whom the supernatural is seen to flow.
And hence his doing what humans aren’t capable of, other than as I’ve said,
He levitating, walking on water, reading minds — all why his fame has spread.

And I, convinced fallen angels are supporting, lifting and feeding him, and,
Responsible for some of those things that some might still consider sleight of hand.
And I, given the rapid, rampant, widespread increase in such activity,
Convinced humanity’s being set up, such fulfilling biblical prophecy.

And hence the proliferation of mediums and psychics, they being fed too,
In order to mislead mankind who no longer truth and right seeks to pursue.
Well, far less so these days, thus most more apt to follow the likes of Dynamo,
Who puts on a very convincing but devilishly orchestrated show.

And thereby folk kneeling before the altar of a devil, and blind as bats,
They wandering after New Age gurus and mystics, those modern Cheshire cats,
Those who’re often endowed with certain powers like Dynamo, or are aided,
And whose borrowed signs and wonders far too many souls and homes has invaded.

The truth is, that fallen spirit beings know all about us, and thus pass such on,
Enter the likes of those mind readers and crystal ball gazers who simply con.
And some of them even thinking that they are gifted when they’re simply being used,
And why all those deceptions of Dynamo and company should be refused.

Given spirit beings know no walls or doors, and can reach through such, it’s very clear
That some magicians are being aided, and psychics fed what such beings know and hear.
All why those who dally with such beings and then seek to be free of them soon find
That such beings aren’t working in anyone’s best interests, nor those of mankind.

Folk can laugh at the Bible and its warnings, but hey, why are such coming true,
And all its warnings about reaping and sowing? — hence those things many now rue.
And then there’re those things afflicting society, those dark clouds looming ahead,
And all because sense, wisdom, truth, light and selflessness has largely up and fled.

I admit that many magicians are very clever, even Dynamo,
But some things cannot be accounted for, and with him, I believe such is so.
Yes, there’re devised things that see one walking on water, seeming to levitate,
Which he no doubt uses too, but there’re some things that no human could orchestrate.

So beware those Dynamos, for who knows who or what’s behind them come those acts,
And I believing an evil force that watches with interest, and oft backs.
For trickery and those evil spirit beings have long been bedfellows, you know,
And hence how they con, and more seeds of error, confusion and destruction sow...

Just like many programmes on TV.

By Lance Landall


“Now war arose in heaven, Michael and His angels fighting against the dragon [Satan]. And the dragon and his angels fought back. And the great dragon was thrown down, that ancient serpent, who is called the devil and Satan, the deceiver of the whole world — he was thrown down to the earth, and his angels were thrown down with him”
(Rev 12:7,9, ESV).

“The coming of the lawless one [anti-Christ] is apparent in the working of Satan, who uses all power, signs, lying wonders, and every kind of wicked deception for those who are perishing, because they refused to love the truth and so be saved” (2 Thess 2:9,10).

“And I saw, coming out of the mouth of the dragon [Satan] and out of the mouth of the beast [past cruel power] and out of the mouth of the false prophet [End-time cruel power], three unclean spirits like frogs. For they are demonic spirits, performing signs, who go abroad to the kings of the whole world, to assemble them for battle on the great day of
God the Almighty” (Rev 16:13,14, ESV).




14.  Hi, Frank

Hi, Frank, I have to say that you certainly got far more attention than me,
But then, you were on the stage, and I just some Joe at home with his family.
Yes, no one taking much interest in me, and hey, probably not you too,
Had you not become famous and all that, many swallowing that ballyhoo.

You sure sang well, and attracted the ladies, but you no different to me,
Just another man, just as flawed too, but oh, how you got treated differently.
All one has to do is become famous, huh, and then you’re something else, it seems,
A god of sorts, suddenly desirable, unreachable, except in dreams.

Yes, it’s crazy, I say, ’cause only yesterday you were just a bloke like me,
No woman turning her head, but come stardom, one’s got it all, apparently.
Yes, it’s a head scratcher, ’cause were you pumping gas, folk wouldn’t get out their car,
And I guess that’s why so many shallow souls reach for that very same flawed star.

And many so young, it going to their head, though they’re hardly alone in that,
But it’s sex, booze, drugs and who knows what else, they not having a clue where it’s at.
It pretty much a lie, you see, because it promises what it can’t fulfil,
It mirage-like, something that is and isn’t so, and yet, how it casts its spell.

Yes, you did alright, Frank, they still remembering you fondly, but hardly me,
I home come nights, don’t go away much, aren’t so tempted to act unfaithfully.
No, I just another man, and few will remember me, but hey, that’s okay,
’Cause death puts us all on the same footing again, we soon humbled by Earth’s clay.


By Lance Landall




15.  A Lament

It seems that those days are gone where crooners graced the air-waves, and had us listening like some captive slave,
Yes, beguiled by singers who truly knew how to sing, unlike those over which the younger set now rave.
Oh, how we appreciated the beauty of a gifted voice, a song well sung, and easy on the ears;
Singers and songs that have faded into the background, or that have sadly disappeared over the years.

Yes, there is nothing like a beautiful voice, or a harmonious blending of talented voices,
And given the many good singers and great material back then, we were spoilt with teasing choices.
And also with lush orchestrations that backed those singers, and that fell with giddy favour on the ears,
Only to lose out to the commercial, money driven groups and bands, that have robbed of those pleasant years.

Yes, times have changed, and few young people have such an appreciation, having never known such beauty,
Their ears tuned to music that knows nothing but beat and noise, and they, more than happy with banality.
And as a consequence, now amongst the crowds whose hearing is damaged, given amplification rules,
And where a desire for music that’s worthy to be called such, and beneficial to the soul, quickly cools.

No, the music wasn’t perfect way back then, for that time had its less than worthy singers and songs too,
And backing that also yielded little growth, but rather, stunted ones taste for better, hence that, “No thank you!”
Yes, those curled up lips at the thought of such beauty that once graced the air-waves, now lost to much younger ears,
And isn’t that the way, for as the years go by, more and more of anything worthy slowly disappears.


By Lance Landall




16.  The Cost Of Today's Music

Gerry passed the requested spanner to his father who used it to tighten the sump nut — the oil change done —
A father and son combined effort, and Gerry’s father most appreciative of the help of his son.
They duly tidied up and both washed their greasy oil stained hands, a hot drink and biscuit waiting patiently,
Such gratefully seized upon as they rested their backs against the seats in the sunbathed conservatory.

Music waffled soothingly from within the home, crooners of years gone by, cheery relaxing melodies,
But such hardly the kind of music that the oft assaulted ears of the younger generation would please.
Though not the case with eighteen year old Gerry, he having been exposed to good music from a very young age,
And now enjoying it as much as his father, rather than whatever music might be the current rage.

Gerry’s voice broke the silence. “I love that tune, but whenever I turn it up at work I get howls of protest.
It has such a nice melody, not that the younger ones at work see it that way, for all they do is jest.”
Gerry’s father put his drink down. “Well, son, they haven’t grown up with such like you, such being common fare round here,
And we did take pains to create an appreciation for good music, lest you too, son, good music jeer.”

“Parents who don’t take such pains are hardly acting responsibly, or, (and this next thing far too often true),
Haven’t had the benefit of such themselves, and thus really know no better — such not an excuse, mind you.
For the duty of every parent is to take whatever steps they can to find out what’s best for their child,
And in every way, otherwise that child is all the less for such, and worse case scenario, running wild.”

“Most of the music that is out there today is far from good music, despite the younger set thinking so,
Their ears not having been trained to register good music, and they thus slaves to what they’re fed on the radio.
Yes, such being devoid of wholesome lyrics and musical beauty, it restless, wild, shallow, sex and beat ridden,
And given it’s all they seem to want to know, it’s all they will know, truly good music remaining hidden.”

“They’re just not interested, Dad” Gerry quipped. “No, son, and if I may use the following analogy,
It’s like only having had spicy food, say, and thus food without such seeming bland, though it best quality.
And as far as spicy goes, such being very unhealthy, and hence why those who always have their food spicy
Oft end up on dialysis machines; and so it is with today’s music — it too, acting negatively.”

“You see, it’s not just what we eat, but what we read, watch and listen to that affects us for better or worse,
And why as far as the mind goes, and even things physically, today’s music is often more a curse.
And why an appreciation for good music isn’t around the same, nor good music, needless to say,
For the music industry is driven far more by money than good taste, and why worse keeps coming our way.”

“Another problem with the music of today is that it’s usually bound up with moral decay,
And by that I mean, images-cum-gyrations borrowed from strip joints and porn flicks, which sees kids further stray.
And hence those unfitting mental associations with different songs, wholesomeness losing out once more,
All such suggesting an even bleaker future, because we all become what we idolise and adore."


By Lance Landall




17.  Reality's Not Far Away

Don’t get too caught up on fame and fortune, ’cause reality’s not far away,
One reduced to that same operating table where some surgeon has the say.
Most facing such somewhere along the line, fame and fortune losing out to fate,
That diagnosis that can change everything, or that even comes too late.

“Leave your pride at the door,” it’s said come operations, and hospital stays too,
And certain cruel diseases stripping pride further, others attending to you.
Mister Sophisticated suddenly as helpless as a child, in pain too,
Fairytale castles and the likes meaning nothing, friends deserting you thought true.

Yes, fame and fortune attract, but once the limelight’s gone, that attraction’s gone too,
Lame or scarred ducks left swimming in a pond of their own, curtains hiding the view.
Life needing to be built on something more sure, not spotlights, image or money,
’Cause sooner or later something invades that fragile land of milk and honey.


By Lance Landall




18.  With Music In Mind

You know, it’s been said that music is the universal language of mankind,
And it’s also been said that music is to the soul what words are to the mind.
Oh yes, how people wax lyrical over this piece of music or that, and,
Where lyrics are found too, poetry adding to that magical wonderland.

But having said that, there’s music and there’s music, so what are we taking in?
The soul needing what’s healthy too, junk food and soul trash only fit for the bin.
Yes, we the richer or poorer for it, it either callous or kind, and so,
We choosing very carefully, lest instead of a friend, we’ve embraced a foe.

By Lance Landall


You may wish to read my article In Defence Of Easy Listening Music which can be seen on my page There's More To Be Said.





This older poem was upgraded 14 March 2019.

19.  Re Michael Jackson

Whether you’re a Michael Jackson fan or not, you’ve got to admit that his life was indeed a tragedy,
And by that I mean, he really didn’t stand a chance — well, seemingly so — lost in a world of fantasy.
Such was possibly his way of coping, or was he searching? — a little boy lost — damaged internally,
Yes, not only disfigured facially, sadly, but also scarred, messed up, and tortured emotionally.

(Not that this excuses wrongdoing)

And who knows why, exactly, although there is a degree of evidence, and certain clues, but even so,
’Cause there’s always more beneath the surface — such being, that complexity that's within the human mind, and oh,
How deep some wounds can be, that even midst genius, can have folk acting oddly, bizarrely and wrongly,
And then, due to such behaviour, cruelly ridiculed by a world that doesn’t understand such injury.

(Not that this excuses wrongdoing)

And without excuse, for even if not understanding such folk, we should never treat the damaged cruelly,
But rather, should try to understand them, at least as much as one can, thereby acting compassionately.
’Cause why on earth add to someone’s injury, and didn’t he suffer enough, having to live with it all?
Perhaps a vulnerable, insecure and frightened soul, who into some comfy hole, may've wished he could crawl.

(Not that this excuses wrongdoing)

Yes, outwardly displaying a certain confidence, but inwardly crying, caught between two worlds, somewhat,
And midst it all, doing certain things — claims of child molestation — that his life, character and career would blot.
And then his death, its timing an outrage, many would say, but isn’t that the way it goes — and why, who knows,
’Cause such is so often the way with the emotionally injured, on whom life such tragedy bestows.

Not that this excuses child molestation.

No, not that this excuses child molestation, such an unconfessed crime robbing one of eternity,
And conveying that the heart and mind (even lifetime) have been corrupted by cruelty and depravity.
Oh, how such evil should pay for its sin, gnash its teeth and rend its clothes, but many having gone to the grave,
All why I’m a believer in a day of judgment, divine justice that will fall on all who so behave.

By Lance Landall


Sad to say, Michael Jackson dabbled in the occult from where it appears some of his music emanated, and such is no doubt one reason why both he and his music deteriorated over time.




20.  Talent And Sins Are Two Separate Things

If anything convinces me of two forces, it’s that good and bad in us,
The bad I attributing to a devil, the good to a God called Jesus.
Hence that switching back and forth that goes on, we kind of like a Jekyll and Hyde,
And those two forces fighting for dominance, we on a ladder or a slide.

All why there’s more criminals outside than inside, those in jail just unlucky,
Not that anyone should get away with crime, and why jails there must always be.
And some of those inmates being writers, singers, artists and musicians, say,
Whose worthy produce many stop buying, when outside there’s just as much decay.

Yes, if only we knew what many of the rest are up to, though still on stage,
Hence why talent and sins are two separate things, our own sins filling a page.
A great book a great book, a great song a great song, despite that person in jail,
And so, we not throwing babies out with the bathwater, aware how we fail.

And therefore,

We accepting what came from their good side, rejecting what came from their bad side,
Thus encouraging good and discouraging bad, lest further this sinner slide.
However, we weighing carefully, some connections very close to the bone,
But minding that we’re not indulging in a contemporary way to stone.

Yes, too many rushing to judgment, Facebook full of those who've rocks in their hands,
Even before some case has gone to court, thus in the waste bin great talent lands.
In other words, the produce of someone’s good side, too bad they might turn around,
And if they do, where will their good produce be found, and why should their past still hound?

Oh, how oft we’ve acted badly ourselves, yet to our own products we still cling,
Those good things that our talent created, and here, hypocrisy’s seen to ring.
Yes, we not dumping our things, but their things, one rule for them and one rule for us,
Yet, we too having acted like that devil, rather than that God called Jesus.

So mind what you’re dumping, and what signal it might send, even say about you,
A beautiful painting a beautiful painting, no matter if done by who.
Good springing from good, evil from evil, and none of us free from sin or blame,
Yet dishing it out to others, confusing their good produce with any shame.

Yes, talent and sins are two separate things, unless that talent is used for ill,
’Cause then we’re looking at partners in crime, both the heart and that produce unwell.
We assessing the situation, mindful of our own faults and failings too,
And how the wounded tend to wound, having chosen the same dark force to yield to.

By Lance Landall




21.  Don't Toss Good Because Of Bad

If someone’s creation is a worthy thing, perhaps a set of paintings, say,
And you find that that person raped, say, why throw their beautiful paintings away?
Surely those paintings stand alone, they something good that that criminal has done,
And hey, would keeping those paintings be more likely if that rapist was your son?

A telling question, I suspect, yet worthy creations and sins worlds apart,
Each being the product of two compartments existing within the same heart.
The good compartment we accept, the bad compartment we reject, acting fair,
A great book a great book, a great song a great song, hence why sense is needed here.

But no, out goes the baby with the bathwater, feelings running high, askew,
So off the bookshelf, no more air time, and as for those paintings, they’re tossed out too.
Oh, when will we start playing grownups, bearing in mind that good folk err too,
That a rapist can turn the corner, “And as for my creation, what did you do?”

And what would you say? You having tossed what one should applaud, that excellent side,
Confusing and discouraging him, and why rather than rise, further he’ll slide.
And so, we not selling our house because the builder who built it raped someone,
But appreciating his worthy contribution, any good that he’s done.

However, too many are judged guilty before they have even been to court,
Losing their job or position, possibly because of someone’s false report.
So much for blind justice, that lady with the scales, it public opinion now,
Strong pressure coming from certain quarters to which cowardice is seen to bow.

Anger and not sense steering, others caving in, dropping any good too,
That person penalized before a court finds the accusations false or true.
It all like going back in time — mob rule — messages going from phone to phone,
It all shameful and wrong, and seemingly the contemporary way to stone.

By Lance Landall




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