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THIS POETRY GALLERY HAS BEEN CANCELLED DUE TO LACK OF INTEREST

A Positive Indifference
By Mamasimios

A lack of interest, or so they say,
Cancels March the third each year,
But that word "lack"? It rankles me;
So negative, void and drear.

When the weather yet looms with winter,
Bleak and grey outside my door,
I long for words more positive,
Words more forceful, fixed and sure.

Perhaps this day could be cancelled,
Because we burst with apathy.
We are plum filled up with boredom
And replete with lethargy.

Our torpor is monumental,
Our insouciance unsurpassed.
We are immovably half-hearted;
Our listlessness is unsurpassed.

Oh, can't you see the difference
That our choice of words decrees?
I don't have a "lack of interest" --
I have a surplus of ennui!

I am heedless and inactive,
In this I am concrete and confident.
Feel free to cancel March the third,
I am positively indifferent.

Cancelled due to...
By Larkspurlane

A day for those of us
With a penchant for laziness,
A day for we who would rather
Stare idly at clouds passing by
In a periwinkle sky than
Celebrate raucously in downtown
Neopia Central --

A cancelled day,
Reserved for those who wish
To rest, to watch sunrise and sunset
Paint glories of gold across our
Favourite view,
A day to join dreamers
In quiet shadows between trees,
A day to breathe.

This Poem Is Cancelled
By Lily2b18

This poem is cancelled, it's ghastly, it's true.
Nobody likes to read words;
This poem is cancelled, it makes me feel blue,
But they much prefer things to be heard.
This poem is cancelled, no one shall see
The rhymes and the stanzas and phrases.
This poem is cancelled, it just tortures me
That this isn't just a phase.
This poem is cancelled, it was last year, too,
And the year before that, and again.
This poem is cancelled, not even a few
Of these words can be written in pen.
This poem is cancelled... but wait just one bit!
I'm feeling quite woozy from shock,
If this poem is cancelled, why did it submit?
It's a veritable paradox!

Cancelled Due to Lack of Interest
By Brilliance109p

Let's think about the 3rd of March.
My friend, I ask you this,
Why is it that we have a day
Too boring to exist?

It's printed on our calendar,
The third of when we run,
What is the reason we have this day
Now really? There is none!

Nobody wants to celebrate
Such a meaningless event.
The day's almost as interesting
As plain sourdough baguettes.

It's due to lack of interest
It's cancelled, that's a fact.
It's gone but yet it still is there
As plain as white and black.

Some Neopians, they count it down --
It's such a thrilling wait!
I think it's just because we like
The chance to celebrate!

March the Third
By Wicked_summer

Today is cancelled; it's simply not here.
No start, no middle, no etch of an end.
But how, when the day just isn't there,
Could a person give a gift to a friend?

I would head to the caverns, under the ground,
My disguise: inkstains on my fingers, a cup of
Congealed tea, a distracted expression.
Sound does strange things, in the black. It bends
And twists, and echoes back on itself,
A snake made of chatter. And poems. And tales;
With my shabby, moulting quill, I would write
And capture the music of stories and words.
(And inkstains on fingers, and Borovan devoured
In the last shadow of the torch.)

I would climb and climb till I scraped the clouds,
Where snow falls soft, and close, and white.
I would steal the song of the dead pines' shrouds;
I would steal the stars from the night.

(and other things:
tease the hum from faerie Spyder's wings
as it spins its webs of ice and
sings)

I would go to Meridell, heroes' home,
Where folks are, well, disinclined to roam;
The grass would sing its greenness to me,
And I'd pick a note from every tree.

I would head to the Woods, where leaves fade.
I'd borrow the song of a bright-eyed maid --
"Give me my autumn, when all else is said,
For autumn remains when all else is dead."

And

I

Would

Brave the sea, for the steady
Heartbeat of waves. For the
Sound
Of
The feel
Of salt against skin.

I would seek out the dancers -- you know the ones --
With thistledown hair and obsidian eyes?
With fiddles and pipes of bones and glass;
They would play the bittersweet sound of goodbyes.

I would visit the Island, sunny and fair,
The colours more vivid than any I've seen.
I would capture birdsong and witch-Kyrii's glare:
"You will find you forgot to paint your ear green."

And one last sound, rich and mellow --
Yes. This wouldn't work without a cello.

Thin threads of music, read not heard,
I would weave them into a concerto great ...
But today is March. It's March the Third.
Sorry, dear. It'll have to wait.

Cancelled
By Autotune

I regret to inform you that
the poem you are currently reading
has been cancelled.
It has mysteriously disappeared.
Since when? Just this morning in fact,
though it did look rather down
yesterday, when we were at Pizzaroo.
If you wanted to speak to it, you
can leave a message.

I regret to inform you that
the poem you are currently reading
has been cancelled.
Abducted by Meepits, perhaps?
Alas, I doubt we shall ever
hear about the poor thing again.
Let us mourn the passing of
a kinder, sweeter, gentler poem
there never was.

I regret to inform you that
the poem you are currently reading
has been cancelled.
Why, it has taken leave on
such a short notice --
holidaying in Shenkuu, perhaps? --
that we have been unable
to locate an adequately
poetic, respectable replacement.

*Snores*
By 7splat52

It's March third... I think!
Now I'm on the brink;
What was cancelled today?
Not even TNT will say!

Why was it cancelled? Why was it boring?
Why am I all of a sudden snoring?
Through the crowds of Neopia Central, I run!
I can see TNT's office and... there! I'm done!

I knock timidly on the door;
I'm trying not to snore.
"Hello?" says a groggy voice;
It's as if I have no choice.

The words slip, tumble out of my mouth:
"What was cancelled today? Why? How?"
The door swings open and I see them all:
On chairs, tables, floor, they're sprawled.
"TNT! What happened?" I scream.
On her chair, Snarkie leans,
"We told you in the calendar; today is boring!
In fact, so boring that everyone's snoring!"

I suddenly feel how tired I am;
My eyelids droop, and onto the floor I slam;
Before I know it, I'm asleep on March third;
What day this used to be, no one's heard.

I guess that's just how boring this holiday was!
So today, sleep is all anyone does;
Because today is so terribly, terribly boring!
So boring, in fact, that everyone's snoring.

One Stolen Day
By Concertogreat_8

this one day we awake
puzzlement on all faces
and coldness deep in bones
outside, no risen sun

the heavens are dark and cold
the air is unearthly still
the neighbours line the street
gazing at the frozen line
the horizon stilled to dust

the buildings lie cold as stone
no light to shine upon their faces
nothing moves, not a Miamouse
the sidewalks are all cold

down my street the procession goes
a line of shapes in dressing gowns
I recognise them but faintly
for in the dark of day appearances are strange

with murmurings we slowly shuffle
perplexity voiced aloud
and haltingly it becomes clear

our day has been stolen
taken far away
I wonder where, I really do
perhaps we may yet find
an answer in the darkened sky

we walk a procession through frozen stillness
a slice of time sheared away
vanished into the underdeep
as this day, third of third month
Neopia goes to sleep.

Cancelled Due to Lack of Interest
By Sarika_ambrielle

History was made on March the third;
Please read this poem and spread the word.
Wednesday was cancelled due to lack of interest.
This news is simply the biggest,
Though most will find it a bit absurd.

Tuesday was fun and Uni Day,
A wonderful day to train with no pay.
Thursday returned just like that,
But it won't be silent, more like a splat,
Yet Wednesday clearly just faded away.

So how does a day simply disappear,
And do you think it is really sincere?
Perhaps the staff just wanted their day,
A day to just simply play and play.
I'll bet they didn't even shed a tear!

I'm beginning to suspect foul play;
I hope the site doesn't go astray!
The week has only just begun --
This is not the time for fun...
At least next year it'll be a Thursday.



Total Poetry Pages : 1903

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