Introduction
Yes, a little digression, and because I can't help myself, a little bit more again.
When finished with this page, simply press your BACK button.
Dear Everyone In The World, Again,
By the way, our apologies for the space junk.
Avoid noisy, neon descents lest you encourage rubberneckers and tyre kickers.
Mind out for primitive remote controlled look-alikes.
Parking can be limited and expensive, thus country settings preferable.
Remember: Lock it or lose it.
Don protective clothing, and wash hands after returning to flying saucer. A period of quiet rest or mild sedation
may be necessary.
Approach the human species with care, containing your mirth.
Attempts to help could prove problematic, and your presence will no doubt appear alien to them.
A human disguise might prove helpful.
Mind the litter.
Avoid retaliation.
Various customs may shock, confuse, irritate or amuse.
Do not partake of any human substance designated as food or orally certified lest you incur the following:
a) Slurred speech.
b) Blurred vision.
c) Disorientation and other physical malfunctions such as wind and irregular bowl motions.
d) Mental aberrations.
e) Severe irritability.
f) Noise intolerance.
g) A loss of stability.
Infrared cameras may be necessary where one encounters bouts of smog caused by human invention.
Avoid taking photos that may painfully remind.
Avoid those zones where humans are injuring each other.
Avoid taking samples due to contamination.
Severe electrical interference may occur at any time and volatile man-made weather patterns.
Mind four legged ambushes, and electric two wheeled assaults.
No current service centers for UFOs, and compatible parts most unlikely.
Speed restrictions apply.
By Lance Landall
When finished with this page, simply press your BACK button.
"Every cup of seriousness should have a teaspoonful of cheer, and every
cup of merriment should have a teaspoonful of care."
The poet, author
cup of merriment should have a teaspoonful of care."
The poet, author
Dear Everyone In The World,
I
wouldn’t mind calling in on you all — that is, individually — but such could prove
quite a difficulty, and I with limited time on my hands, actually, and
so (and also thinking in terms of quick rather than slow), I have
decided on a bulk email, which, providing there’s no glitch, and unlike the
proverbial snail, should reach you all rather speedily — in fact,
almost immediately, given advanced technology, but providing
you’ve given me your email address, of course, because one can’t ride
without a horse, and so, having said all that, and donning my visitor’s
hat,
please let me proceed, in order that my email you may read, and at your
leisure, of course, because I'm really not one to force.
It has
come to my attention (and all why I’ve sought to mention, though
this somewhat belated), that we appear to be related — family — because our
anatomy strongly suggests such, and I certainly know this much, that
there’s quite a human resemblance, okay, not to mention that amazing DNA,
and thus something rather clever at play.
And so, with all of this in mind, I’m quite confident that we would find — soon, that is, be it hers or his — connections
of some sort, if my drift you’ve caught, and that being, my dear fellow
being, and like I said, if my point you’re seeing, that we all appear to go back
quite a long way, indeed a very long way, I’m compelled to say — yes,
I’m talking about quite a lengthy history, a very detailed and somewhat
complex ancestry, and with same origin at the bottom of it all,
regardless of whether one’s slim, cuddly, short or tall — yes, because there’s
still those matching threads, like our rather intelligent communicating
heads; brains, in other words, even if we’re sometimes away with the
birds.
Now, it’s also quite possible that we’ve actually met,
despite our paths not having been set, you having been here, say, or me
having been there, say, but simply unaware, yet so near, a situation
that I’d like to rectify, and hence this electronic
try, one having to start somewhere, and such being better than nowhere,
thus your response to this digital letter of mine — though not all at
once, mind — would certainly go a long way, and at the end of the day,
we might be startled to find, if you’d be so kind, that we actually
have the same family tree.
Yes, a mighty California redwood tree, if you will,
with endless branches that might very well thrill, hidden kings and queens (there nothing like majesty), a few
odd skeletons, maybe, and the chance of fiends, possibly (though we’ll keep the
latter quiet, huh, lest it mar, and also tar), but not to fear, nor shed a tear, it up and onward
with the search, I having no wish to besmirch, but to just catch up
with you all, and simply have a ball — and oh, all those intriguing
tales to tell, which no doubt copious books would fill, though far too many to
read, I dare say, but hey, we can just talk and talk and talk, ay.
Well,
I’d better leave it there, lest boredom set in — oh dear, not so, I pray
— so please respond and share, but no monkey business, okay, just that
little old (or young) human you, and thus none of that missing link
ballyhoo, though do help yourself to a banana or two, because
I’ve heard they’re very good for you, and no, you won’t metamorphose, I
promise you, such nothing but a hairy story, naughty and hoary, as if
concocted by a jealous ape in a zoo.
Looking forward to hearing from you, and you, and you....
Your fellow human,
Lance, alias Me or I.
P.S.
I may also send a follow up email, so please keep your eyes peeled regarding any mail.
I
was also going to suggest a family reunion, but the logistics somewhat scare
me, if you follow me, so if you’ve any ideas, given my fears, I’d love to know.
Dear Everyone In The World, Again,
Due to your overwhelming response that caused the internet to crash, and quick as a flash (or so he'd like to think — well, kind
of thing, such having a flattering ring), and after me saying, "Not all
at once," and after the problem weighing, another bulk email
will have to do, otherwise it simply taking me years and years, which,
to be honest, would hardly do, and given I'd no doubt be
underground before meeting most of you.
Look, I'm kidding, okay, I
hardly rushed off my poetical feet, and hey, perhaps you're shy (and
that's okay), or perhaps you're away, off on safari, deep in the
Amazon, high up in the Himalayas, possibly, even temporarily marooned on an island
somewhere, or missing, and all why I wouldn't hear.
But truly now,
I would really love to hear from you, and even a shortish note
will do — ANYTHING! — so please, pretty
please, because I'd hate to think that I've
relatives out there that I've never met, that human umbilical cord,
don't forget, and whereby we're related somehow or other, hence
that common expression, sister or brother — I mean, isn't that
exciting, and hence my
writing, we like passing ships in the night, no land in sight, and thus
no rhythm or rhyme, and soon gone time, and hence my final plea, dear
uncle, aunt, cousin, nephew — WHATEVER! — we still connected,
invariably.
But no responding all at once, no, and my writing being rather slow.
Once
again, looking forward to hearing from you, electronic pencil or pen,
but fingers crossed this time, midst my rhythm and rhyme.
Your fellow human,
Anxious Lance
P.S.
If you are away, off on safari, deep in the
Amazon, high up in the Himalayas, say, even temporarily marooned on an island
somewhere, though not if you're missing, just to be clear, I'll leave the computer running until you get back, okay.
And lest my emails are intercepted by extraterrestrials who might be
interested in making same contact:
interested in making same contact:
An Alien's Introduction To Earth
By the way, our apologies for the space junk.
Avoid noisy, neon descents lest you encourage rubberneckers and tyre kickers.
Mind out for primitive remote controlled look-alikes.
Parking can be limited and expensive, thus country settings preferable.
Remember: Lock it or lose it.
Don protective clothing, and wash hands after returning to flying saucer. A period of quiet rest or mild sedation
may be necessary.
Approach the human species with care, containing your mirth.
Attempts to help could prove problematic, and your presence will no doubt appear alien to them.
A human disguise might prove helpful.
Mind the litter.
Avoid retaliation.
Various customs may shock, confuse, irritate or amuse.
Do not partake of any human substance designated as food or orally certified lest you incur the following:
a) Slurred speech.
b) Blurred vision.
c) Disorientation and other physical malfunctions such as wind and irregular bowl motions.
d) Mental aberrations.
e) Severe irritability.
f) Noise intolerance.
g) A loss of stability.
Infrared cameras may be necessary where one encounters bouts of smog caused by human invention.
Avoid taking photos that may painfully remind.
Avoid those zones where humans are injuring each other.
Avoid taking samples due to contamination.
Severe electrical interference may occur at any time and volatile man-made weather patterns.
Mind four legged ambushes, and electric two wheeled assaults.
No current service centers for UFOs, and compatible parts most unlikely.
Speed restrictions apply.
By Lance Landall
No, of course I don't believe in aliens. Okay, fun over, and now that little bit more,
and with humanity in mind again:
That world within us, is not the same as that world outside us,
If Only Everyone Just Sang
I sat in silence and listened to the beauty of his voice, and deeply thought,
“Is this how angels sing?” Such resonating strongly, hence those emotions fought.
And yet that feeling of moisture in the eye — oh, that song, that music, that gift,
Sound so stirring to one’s soul, it kind of melancholy, and yet with a lift.
His waffling baritone unforced, firm and yet tender, lofty and yet humble,
My heart as if captured, and hate in the world looming as madness, my mind still.
Oh, if only such beauty was felt everywhere, in every heart and mind,
We no longer the cause of ills on Earth, eyes as if opened, no longer blind.
Yes, if only everyone just sang, if only everyone just sang,
And we, on every worthy word and fine musical nuance were to hang.
Our lives lost in such beauty, no longer caught up in the selfish and petty,
But immersed in chords of love, a visible song, renewed humanity.
By Lance Landall
That others hurt because of us is a real tragedy, and even more so
Given human intelligence, that ability to understand and know.
We far from ignorant, our inner self aware that it’s wrong to wound and kill,
Something cosmic telling us, and why over such, we can’t feel comfortable.
Yes, there being a source we’re connected to, such surely undeniable,
’Cause intelligence such as ours couldn’t just evolve, nor via determined will.
No, we not a thing, nor a creature, but a human, and quite a mystery
Given what we know about ourselves is pretty small, thus humble we should be.
And aware of the incredibleness of human life, each others value,
That uniqueness and individuality that makes me, me, and you, you.
All why it’s not alright to hurt or harm, ownership of others being no one’s,
Yet still those moronic fists and guns, which even higher intelligence shuns.
By Lance Landall
We all start off with dreams, and dreams are okay, but along comes reality,
That which leaves many dreams in tatters — yes, that which seems to plague humanity.
All why we’re better to settle for contentment, catching a dream where we can,
But where such alludes us, we continuing on, there being other days to plan.
We all like to dream, but life’s really all about us making the best of things,
We hardly living in Paradise — and oft from the hands of others, ill springs.
We living amongst predators and charlatans, the evil and the angry,
Many of the latter having been wounded too, and hence their own sad cruelty.
And thus hopes so oft dashed, and why those little things in life aren’t quite so little,
But to be enjoyed for their own sake, those things we take for granted, like being well,
Having our eyesight and hearing, thus able to read and listen, walk and talk,
We still having our own life’s blackboard, and therefore, that creative use of chalk.
And how it’s used depends on us, whether we’ve an attitude of gratitude,
Our birth having given us a chance we mightn’t have got, enter aptitude.
We effectively having nothing to lose, and when it comes to hurt and pain,
We simply being there for each other, thus acting like raincoats in the rain.
By Lance Landall
We live in a world where millions are paid for a Rembrandt or a Picasso,
Yet a life not fetching anything, hence that precious blood that is seen to flow.
One made up of canvas and oils, one made up of flesh and bone, a heart and mind,
One a thing, one a someone, but, “Going, going, gone,” that painting so enshrined.
Yes, one to be coveted and visited by thousands, and day after day,
The other given little thought, left under rubble in a state of decay.
Yes, hours spent on meticulously restoring one, preserving its life,
And the other as if but a ruined canvas that one might take to with a knife.
A man, a woman, a pregnant woman, a child, a baby, someone’s loved one,
Someone who can think, see, hear, smell, taste and feel, until some sad reason is spun.
Yet that ageing painting locked in a vault, or surrounded by security,
Even if you wouldn’t want it on your wall, perhaps a Salvador Dali.
Paintings more valuable than people?! Can you believe it?! Well, so it seems,
Carpet bombs, mines, gunfire, or deliberate starvation destroying their dreams,
Outright targeting or collateral damage — in other words, DISPENSIBLE,
But not that oil painting, the other at the discretion of whoever’s will.
Discretion? Well, that’s a nice way of putting it, the truth even worse, sadly,
And some preferring their own image, a portrait of racism or bigotry.
Hence those retarded mental palettes, selective oils, and why we soon see
Mental paintings removing certain people from life’s picture, ignorantly.
In painting terms, one brushstroke and a person’s gone, no longer on life’s easel,
Which should have the hairs on our own brushes bristling, we angry over such ill.
A life’s a life, not a thing, no matter that artist’s clever presentation,
And this all why we should see every human as a precious creation.
Yes, it’s an outrage that a painting can be worth more, treated more preciously,
Thus one in a museum, one in a morgue, oils over blood — oh, the irony.
A picture may be worth a thousand words (or canvas painting, in this sad case),
But never more valuable than a single member of the human race.
By Lance Landall
and with humanity in mind again:
That world within us, is not the same as that world outside us,
but is our world alone, where our conscience, our dreams, our
vision, our path, operate on their own; and without threat,
where love's on the throne.
They're All The Same To Me
I don’t care whether someone’s rich, poor, black, white, a waiter, surgeon, Muslim, Jew, atheist or Christian,
'Cause they’re all the same to me — humanity — brothers and sisters; and as far as my circle goes, still in,
'Cause all belong in this world, none less worthy, nor higher or lower, and I thus there should they call on me,
'Cause that’s how things should be, just how I would like them to treat me, and given we’re all one big family.
So I'll not betray them, kick them when they're down, gossip behind their back, stab them in the back, hold them back,
Nor lay a hand on them, fool them, rob them, mock, threaten or manipulate them, nor get my own back,
'Cause what would such say, and all it would do is, drag me down to a level that wouldn't benefit me,
A level I’ll not sink to, 'cause it’s just a dead-end street, something that works against rather than for, sadly.
I don’t
care where they’re from, nor what their past was like, or whether
they’re short, tall, slim, fat, cross-eyed or ugly,
'Cause they’re all the same to me — humanity — brothers and sisters, worthy of thought, time, love, care and mercy.
So on their behalf I'll speak, hoping that they'll do the same for me; and if they don't, it still won't stop me,
I thus true to myself, conscience clear, actions transparent and impartial, thus acting honourably.
I’ll decide for myself what they're like, not what I’m told, letting them defend them self, and overtime grow,
Given that we all err, ebb and flow, deserve another chance; and as for others, what do we really know?
Hence why I won’t label or pigeonhole them, misjudge them, cruelly joke, whether they’re three or ninety three,
And why on their behalf I'll battle, 'cause everyone's deserving of the same freedom and liberty.
I don’t care whether they're liberal or conservative, a meat-eater, vegan, prostitute or tramp,
'Cause they’re all the same to me — humanity — brothers and sisters, whether in this camp, that camp, or camp,
'Cause all are precious, and the greater their need, the greater my response, 'cause the test of our decency
Are the misunderstood, different, disadvantaged, vulnerable, suffering and minority.
By Lance Landall
This poem is repeated twice elsewhere on my website.
If Only Everyone Just Sang
I sat in silence and listened to the beauty of his voice, and deeply thought,
“Is this how angels sing?” Such resonating strongly, hence those emotions fought.
And yet that feeling of moisture in the eye — oh, that song, that music, that gift,
Sound so stirring to one’s soul, it kind of melancholy, and yet with a lift.
His waffling baritone unforced, firm and yet tender, lofty and yet humble,
My heart as if captured, and hate in the world looming as madness, my mind still.
Oh, if only such beauty was felt everywhere, in every heart and mind,
We no longer the cause of ills on Earth, eyes as if opened, no longer blind.
Yes, if only everyone just sang, if only everyone just sang,
And we, on every worthy word and fine musical nuance were to hang.
Our lives lost in such beauty, no longer caught up in the selfish and petty,
But immersed in chords of love, a visible song, renewed humanity.
By Lance Landall
Because Of Us
That others hurt because of us is a real tragedy, and even more so
Given human intelligence, that ability to understand and know.
We far from ignorant, our inner self aware that it’s wrong to wound and kill,
Something cosmic telling us, and why over such, we can’t feel comfortable.
Yes, there being a source we’re connected to, such surely undeniable,
’Cause intelligence such as ours couldn’t just evolve, nor via determined will.
No, we not a thing, nor a creature, but a human, and quite a mystery
Given what we know about ourselves is pretty small, thus humble we should be.
And aware of the incredibleness of human life, each others value,
That uniqueness and individuality that makes me, me, and you, you.
All why it’s not alright to hurt or harm, ownership of others being no one’s,
Yet still those moronic fists and guns, which even higher intelligence shuns.
By Lance Landall
Us Making The Best Of Things
We all start off with dreams, and dreams are okay, but along comes reality,
That which leaves many dreams in tatters — yes, that which seems to plague humanity.
All why we’re better to settle for contentment, catching a dream where we can,
But where such alludes us, we continuing on, there being other days to plan.
We all like to dream, but life’s really all about us making the best of things,
We hardly living in Paradise — and oft from the hands of others, ill springs.
We living amongst predators and charlatans, the evil and the angry,
Many of the latter having been wounded too, and hence their own sad cruelty.
And thus hopes so oft dashed, and why those little things in life aren’t quite so little,
But to be enjoyed for their own sake, those things we take for granted, like being well,
Having our eyesight and hearing, thus able to read and listen, walk and talk,
We still having our own life’s blackboard, and therefore, that creative use of chalk.
And how it’s used depends on us, whether we’ve an attitude of gratitude,
Our birth having given us a chance we mightn’t have got, enter aptitude.
We effectively having nothing to lose, and when it comes to hurt and pain,
We simply being there for each other, thus acting like raincoats in the rain.
By Lance Landall
Oils Over Blood
We live in a world where millions are paid for a Rembrandt or a Picasso,
Yet a life not fetching anything, hence that precious blood that is seen to flow.
One made up of canvas and oils, one made up of flesh and bone, a heart and mind,
One a thing, one a someone, but, “Going, going, gone,” that painting so enshrined.
Yes, one to be coveted and visited by thousands, and day after day,
The other given little thought, left under rubble in a state of decay.
Yes, hours spent on meticulously restoring one, preserving its life,
And the other as if but a ruined canvas that one might take to with a knife.
A man, a woman, a pregnant woman, a child, a baby, someone’s loved one,
Someone who can think, see, hear, smell, taste and feel, until some sad reason is spun.
Yet that ageing painting locked in a vault, or surrounded by security,
Even if you wouldn’t want it on your wall, perhaps a Salvador Dali.
Paintings more valuable than people?! Can you believe it?! Well, so it seems,
Carpet bombs, mines, gunfire, or deliberate starvation destroying their dreams,
Outright targeting or collateral damage — in other words, DISPENSIBLE,
But not that oil painting, the other at the discretion of whoever’s will.
Discretion? Well, that’s a nice way of putting it, the truth even worse, sadly,
And some preferring their own image, a portrait of racism or bigotry.
Hence those retarded mental palettes, selective oils, and why we soon see
Mental paintings removing certain people from life’s picture, ignorantly.
In painting terms, one brushstroke and a person’s gone, no longer on life’s easel,
Which should have the hairs on our own brushes bristling, we angry over such ill.
A life’s a life, not a thing, no matter that artist’s clever presentation,
And this all why we should see every human as a precious creation.
Yes, it’s an outrage that a painting can be worth more, treated more preciously,
Thus one in a museum, one in a morgue, oils over blood — oh, the irony.
A picture may be worth a thousand words (or canvas painting, in this sad case),
But never more valuable than a single member of the human race.
By Lance Landall
