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Long Poems | Long Poetry

Long poems. Read long poems, search long poems, and filter long poetry by category. These are the all-time best and most popular long poems by poetic form, category, length, or keyword. See also long poem categories and Famous Long Poems

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12
Long Poems
Long poem by Elizabeth San Miguel | Details |

All is not fair in love and war

People say that love never fails,
That all is fair in love and war,
But really, how do you know,
What love can or can not do?
And if all is fair in love and war, then
Why does someone always end up getting hurt?
I know my love will never fail,
Because I love you with all my heart and soul,
Because I would give my life for you,
And everything I am or have just to be with you.
However, I can not be fair to all
Because all is not fair in love and war.
I wish to hurt no one, so I don't,
But by doing so, I hurt myself.
My heart wants to be with you so much
And yet I wish to hurt no one.
So I don't, I don't confess my love for you,
I keep it locked inside,
And as a friend I stay by your side.
My love for you remains forever pure and unchanged.
I love you, Yes, I do, with all my heart and soul,
With all that I am and hope to be just for you.
My heart untamed and wild, dreaming of what if,
But it's cut in half by the love I feel for both.
My heart belongs to you but only half,
Because I gave the other half away to him.
Now I suffer for my love, for both are great,
But only one, I wish I could be with forever.
All is not fair in love and war,
So I love you both and suffer much,
Because my heart is wounded, torn in half.
I can not speak of my deep love for you,
I can not confess my feelings to you.
So I go on with my life pretending nothing's wrong.
Why must I go on without your love?
It's faith, I guess, that I suffer so.
It's destiny to love you so.

Copyright © Elizabeth San Miguel | Year Posted 2006

Long poem by Le Incendié | Details |

VISUAL BLUR

The Cannabis Queen
Rides her Snow Chariot
A glass shard still remains in his heart
And his heart still remains ice.
This is his true state of existence.

He worships the Queen,
Because now, all is pure,
White and still.
He kisses the back of her palm
In deep submission
She smiles and takes him to her lap
And together they ride the snow filled country side.
Here, there is only love,
Only acceptance,
Redemption and forgiveness.
Together they merge into the fog,
Their silhouettes lost in a holy blur.



In a cold secret chamber,
The maid and the drunkard make love.
She kisses him not,
For his mouth reeks of wine.
N yet she clasps to him and does not let go.
There is,
Such passion,
Such want,
That nothing stops her from having him.
And as she moves rhythmically on top of him
She looks into his eyes
Where the power of wine
The power of an orgasm
The power of a sleepless night
Blur into a holy blur.



In a place called Xibalba
Through which the dead pass
From the confinement called life
To the liberation called death
One soul readies to take the plunge,
To come to terms,
To be one with the eternal.

In one cosmic leap, the soul
Splits into a million tiny pieces,
Of its many laughs
Of its many cries
Of its many loves and hatreds
And its each tiny emotion
Each tiny memory
That came to be in its journey through life,
Becomes a star,
Studding the eternal silver sky,
And transforming it into a holy visual  blur.

Copyright © Le Incendié | Year Posted 2010

Long poem by James Kelley | Details |

Don't feed the animals

I'm that type of guy..

The sort that you said you would never let yourself get mixed up with again.The kind of guy that knocks back 5 shots of whiskey before sucking his teeth at the moon, hidden behind neon lights and shoddy bar mirrors; Holding in the burn, promising not to let my lighter char your cheek while I light up your cherry. I smile at your timid lean and wink, just so you know that the cute disposition of satin cloaked prey in a cage of wild animals doesn't make me wince. I'm used to this, numb to this. You though, you don't seem to feel the pull of this place you're in. You're still treading the vomit of your last mistakes, hungover in recollections of battered heart symphonies. Fresh wounds in the murk, chum to the sharks, beautiful. I don't ask to buy you a drink, or for your name, but you offer it willingly as if it were a confession in a place of purity. I order more whiskey, push a little heat over to you and wait for the night to take its toll. One of us, I'm never sure which; is going to die a little bit more tonight. We drink to the sound of billiards clacking and a jukebox with over eager speakers and talk in circles until we're dizzy with lust. I have forgotten your name, but you never cared. I'm that type of guy. The pain you were looking for, to make you forget the woes you carried in with you. I wish I could say you did the same for me, but I came here for the whiskey. You shouldn't have fed the animals. 

-James Kelley 2014, All rights reserved.

Copyright © James Kelley | Year Posted 2014

Long poem by Verlena S. Walker | Details |

APOSTOLICITY

APOSTOLICITY I stood at the peak of the mountain and shouted – This is our time Lord. Glory is thou name. The sun was shining brightly. My words came as the breeze in the wind. I knew the Lord was beckoning me to do his earthly work. I sanctified my purpose to evangelical. I walked under gloomy cumulus clouds thinking about my next step. That perfected step that would take me closer to the Lord and his intellect. The day became glorious but a depressing state remained. I knew the Lord was beckoning me to take a stance. Once I made it to the home front, I retrieved the Holy Scripture and began reading The Book of Isiah. Chapter 14 Verse 27 bellowed these words: “All the forces of darkness cannot stop what God has ordained.” I paused in passage to scribe. This is what I wrote about - SECOND ECCLESIASTES: LIVING A RIGHTFUL LIFE . The Lord gave me a voice to apply in or to life. If I am not for right, who am I. Wrong is not a just God. Second Ecclesiastes is about rightful means bring rightful things. Second Ecclesiastes is about wrongful ways abominates. Like Prophet Solomon in his day and time via the Book of Ecclesiastes in the Old Testament, I seek wisdom. Gainful knowledge received throughout living a rightful life in a perilous world. Apostolicity is defined as of or characteristic of an apostle. |____________________________________________________| Penned on November 08, 2014!

Copyright © Verlena S. Walker | Year Posted 2014

Long poem by James Horn | Details |

To Retrofit a Response

In Response to Another Poet's Poems.

Who said for whole world I was not caring
Making many mistakes and continually erring
While under her clothes things were well-stored
Being two breasts big beasts I highly adored.

I always liked her face and its colour
Which found me as it did allure.

From high on head to each tiny cuticle
Her whole body was bound to be beautiful.
Eventual down she tried to simmer
Even though her lips would often tremor.

To me each one I saw was God forsaken;
All those selfies of herself that had been taken
And if of all her clothes she were to divest
What would she do with all of the rest?

Used palette knives for appearance which was palatial
After finding a frown which had been occasional;
Only reason husband had been on bended knee
Was so up my dress he again could see.

Both my eyes jumped high like over a hurdle
And all I ended up seeing was her girdle;
Guess what when I looked into her eyes;
She said, "Your turn to make the French fries."


What I always wondered about our genes
What will they be like in our teens?
And to say and ask question hope I will be at liberty
Which sex will be first to end up in puberty?

Oh, and will sustaining be well-worth in her hub
While you love drinking another round at local pub
If I were intrepid and ended up being remorseful
Did it first require a fin destined to be a dorsal
(And to eat each would only munch on a morsel.)

James Thesarious Horn
Whew. What a bunch of BS

Copyright © James Horn | Year Posted 2015

Long poem by James Horn | Details |

Crabby Walking Through the Abbey

We are going on a trip to the British Isles
and Channel Island of Guernsey and Normandy.
This sure should be quite a cruise. Here is my
first poem I am writing about it even though I
have not been there yet. Here goes.

Crabby Walking Though the Abbey
by James Thomas Horn before we
go bye.

Can't leave London without having fish and chips
Which originated from slick, sailing ships;
Could ride by restaurant in horse drawn coach
See beautiful women while wearing a broach. 

Many smiling people everywhere we shall see;
Some may even be from upper high society
Who all have much money they can spare
Yet, still can seed noses held high in the air.

While we were looking did see a lovely doll,
And ended up having a big barroom brawl;
After we left and what soon was a little later
Americans were accused of being an instigator.

From it all we started having terrible cough
Maybe it was from riding get on and get off;
Over pages of those punished started to skim;
No wonder Tower of London looks so grim.

But, at last, lovely parade now had begun;
Women had fun wearing hair in a big bun;
After seeing hats and hearing all of the hype,
Wanted to hear band who played a bagpipe.

Saw some important people in front of a manor
And out in front of it could find a big banner,
But you could see me starting to get crabby;
Wife said we will walk though entire abbey.

James Thomas (Out of Breath) Horn
www.poetrysoup.com
www.story-telling-around-the-world.com

Copyright © James Horn | Year Posted 2015

Long poem by ezer agyin | Details |

My Mystical Black Rose

Did I tell you the story of my mystical black rose? Well let me In my troubled nights I took comfort in the scenery of my old window One tiny sparkle always shone its way through the darkness, embracing my sorrow Till the night I decided to visit my sorrow's whisker in the belly of midnight I wrestled through the bushes sacrificing my blood on the alter of their sharp leaves and thorns Till my eyes was paralyzed on this black rose that collected drops of dew in its petals and lightened them with the moonlight; that mysterious sparkle now lay bare in my eyes and in my reach for the first time. I'd never seen black so beautiful, but as much as I wanted to pluck it for myself my heart wouldn't let me, for I was not in love with just a black rose but everything else that made it sparkle my sorrows away; the moon and the dew. As I left with doubt clouding my mind, I saw its sparkling drops trickle down its petals. Can a rose cry? For I live now never to see it sparkle again ever since that night. I'm different now, beyond need of sparkles for my nights but I always walk to that old window waiting for my mystical black rose to reach my heart again. Even though I might see myself a gray haired man starring in my old window, I'll wait, just patiently wait, for my black rose to come alive again. And this time, just this time I will not think twice.
Read more poems and short stories by The Writer, ezer agyin, here http://ezeragyin.wix.com/the-writer

Copyright © ezer agyin | Year Posted 2015

Long poem by Redkite In-Flight | Details |

Hypocrisy of the Village Flock

Hypocrisy within the Village Flock As the seasons of my life changes, glorious it may not be!! Valley bells summons the flock to chapel. Heavily polished Pews squeak, as Village flock take their seats. Distant ghostly voices ring out with such shallowness. “Chapel roof raised with such false faith” No attention paid to the sermon. The congregation floored by jealousy, as each man mirrored by his own status. Women competing, against their hats and frocks. Jealousy worms weaving through their gowns, feathers in hats, quivers as the coven moves through the vestry door. Minister excited to the jingles of the collection box whilst being passed around and around. my soul lays upon a bed of thistles. Whilst the thorned crown compresses the thoughts within my head. Lurking within the shadows of the cross . Whilst the gruelling over the sacrificial lamb So-called reputable men “ that should not be” The pitch pine pulpit, creeks with despair. Parishioners best clothed with shiny shoes, “all hypocrites congregate here”!! Layer upon layer of blasphemous faith, create a stain on uneasiness upon the so-called sacred walls . Each Private hymnbook worn by sweating hand, fidgeting tell- tales of fear through ware. Each before God and un- easy to what conscience they happen to bear!! “ If this is faith, then I want no more,” All false faces glance, finally and for the last time. I exit through the memories, OF that stained chapel door.

Copyright © Redkite In-Flight | Year Posted 2015

Long poem by Mystic Rose | Details |

Reindeer Games


Pirouettes and dips, she dances round the floor  
the music is intoxicating, the lights are asking,  more?
Little feet keep dancing on the shiny waxed floor  
as the winds of Utopia, sift through her darkly hair;  
She hangs down like a rag doll, made of porcelain and stock 
and he brings her to a tap dance on wooden shoes of knock; 

Puppet is her nickname, he clips her like a ranger  
up and down he pulls her, on a roller coaster ride 
Prance my little reindeer prance and sing carefree   
Petticoats of frill n' dainty, ruffled views are free   
Essence of her beauty strewn, for every eye to see 
Time elapses, viewers change, still she dances T,  


He the Master her the Puppet, both are in disguise  
when he fools the ignorant he also fools the wise 
Claps of thunder from the peek-faced angled ones  
and how he puffs with prides then wonder, 
as he descends his Pagoda castle in the sky. 
He goes to re-assemble his puppet of Di-la
but to his chagrined stumper, 
she's gone to la-di-da...

Marion moments of joy ascend her as she dies with lastly sigh  
All her parts are put together and she waves her last goodbye   
Sonar sounds of sun and moon, light displays of stars and sky 
Truth be told she never dances, just sits and looks and smiles 
Ever heard of a good ending? Well that's what I'm getting to, 
Regardless of a lifetime anchor, she's now dead n' turning blue. 



Don't let this happen to you...


Mystic Rose 

November 13, 2015

Copyright © Mystic Rose | Year Posted 2015

Long poem by Ronald Bingham | Details |

The Taste of Freedom

                 
My old daddy use to tell me about the war he had to fight,
   He said don’t believe those movies, cause killing ain’t no pretty sight.
He said no one is born a hero you just fight to stay alive,
   Cause when those bullets start to flying your only thought is to survive.

No matter what people may say, freedom it don’t come free,
   And I pray you never see the things that I had to see.
And he said son the taste of freedom is a taste worth dieing for,
   And that should be the only reason to ever fight in those damned old wars.

He talked about his comrades, so many now are gone, 
    He said I am a lucky one to see my son full grown.
So many young men back then were buried where they fell,
   You see son war is not a game it’s a living, breathing hell.

You’re fighting for what you know is right and they are fighting for what they believe,
   While mothers on both sides just pray and weep and grieve.
And when they get that letter that says their son will not return,
    They say one last prayer for others, Lord will they ever learn.

To say you really hate someone is a truly ruthless thought,
   But there are those that feel that way and why these wars are fought.
Son he said I don’t think there will ever be peace as long as men exists,
   Freedom is our gift and we must protect no matter how much they persist.

G………God
B…………Bless
A……………America

                                                                                  

Copyright © Ronald Bingham | Year Posted 2008

Long poem by Holly King | Details |

Kirsty (one)

Even now I sit, slump, shuddering,
Remembering...
Stale walls echoing lamenting calls,
their house...
A nightmare flickered in the red herring of betrayal.
Stumbling hormones, skinless evil.
it breathed...
Blood red lips snarling, capturing someone else essence, bone dry.
A nightmare...
Deliberately slithering up my calf, I grasped a cube of insanity as a last hope.

The shock...
Dead eyes feared a toy box, a fragmented sense
clung to my only protection, my untouched hell.
Blood soaked, dripping sweat, saturated fear I escaped...

I awoke...
Demons hell-bent on demise. Curiosity craved,
crushed my soul into submission,
But it's just a box...
Teeth exposed, chattered, blindly shoved fingers in to catch my tongue,
the taste of soured flesh.
Wait...
A vibrating voice crackled static pain, shivered in pleasure.
He escaped...
Bargaining, a blissful retreat, whilst exposing incompetence, irrational?
Go to hell.

Run...
Pounded at death's door, let me in...
Dad...
Warned the worm of the vulture, coming to devour its soul.

Something didn't fit, the sacrifice seeping into the floor smelt half human.
A twang...
Realisation, cold, the door creaked, locked,
grinning gruesomely, the veins pulsing along a sadistic mind,
Quaking, i flinched around to a lubricated nightmare,
clenching my muscles, the hiss of hell's rapture...

A prison shook, a prisoner shrieked,
Sanity split like perfect fission, slime coated his
perverted call...

Come, to daddy.

Copyright © Holly King | Year Posted 2010

Long poem by Audonus Taylor | Details |

If Only I (Song)

The end was growing closer
I could feel it all around
Before you said it's over
from all the times I let you down
As I lie beside your pillow
It's getting hard to sleep at night
Every single lonely tear knows
That I did not love you right

If only I,
Could turn back time
with the words of a rhyme,
I'd be someone instead of me,
I'd show you something new to see,
Girl I need you in my life,

If only I,
Could live when you were mine,
And learn to let love shine,
I'd show your heart a better me
And be someone instead of me,
To keep you in my life,
If only I....

The last thing that you told me,
Before you walked out of the door,
Baby you never hold me,
How can I make you love me more,
I wish I would have listened
To the thing you tried to say
If I would have paid attention
Maybe then you would have stayed,

If only I,
Could turn back time
with the words of a rhyme,
I'd be someone instead of me,
I'd show you something new to see,
Girl I need you in my life,

If only I,
Could live when you were mine,
And learn to let love shine,
I'd show your heart a better me
And be someone instead of me,
To keep you in my life,

If only I, could have been
what you needed,
Since I hurt you,
our love's bleeding,
Out of time
and out of sight,
If only I could
make this right...

If only I,
Could turn back time,
when you were still mine,
I'd be everything that you need,
And give your heart a better me,
I miss you in my life...
If only I...

Copyright © Audonus Taylor | Year Posted 2010

Long poem by Beatrice Boyle | Details |

If I Were A Stone

If I Were A Stone If I were a stone…without a doubt I would be a lovely marbled granite… the center of attention in a newly updated kitchen. All eyes would be upon me…the first choice of decorators and would- be buyers everywhere. I would be a “must have” and a “deal breaker” for purchasers the world over. I would lord it over the mundane and dull kitchen cabinets no matter what the style. While their doors would be slammed shut a thousand times a day and scrubbed till they were sore…(ouch!)… I would be lovingly and carefully wiped down until they could almost see their reflection in me. My island would be the gathering place and hub of the home…children would utilize me for their homework…my mistress would cheerfully hum a happy tune while rolling out delicious pies or cookies for dessert... my master would lay his briefcase down on me in order to hug the cook! Unlike the living room rug (who thinks he’s king by the way.) I would not be stepped on, stomped on with dirty or muddy sneakers or roller skated on, (boys will be boys) or taken for granted in any way. I would be the `piece de resistance` of the household and the most admired feature of the home. And last …but not least…I would be carefully selected and carved, to serve as a towering memorial for loved ones to come and say a silent prayer for our nation’s fallen …and… bravest men! I would be more than proud to be a granite stone!
For the "Stoned" contest.

Copyright © Beatrice Boyle | Year Posted 2011

Long poem by karl marszalowicz | Details |

Images

"Images"
The God that never was, puts one shoe on at a time
And spends four hours in the make-up room 
Putting on mascara and eye liner for the darker look 

Occult man of seemingly rebellious nature 
Is deified by the masses that show up to performances
He, a man of strong portrayal even at a skinny 155 pounds 
Grows stronger with every compact disc sold and the overuse of base 
Blowing out of a sound system which rocks the car next to you
While you wait for the light to turn green
Abandoning social mores of quietness well into the night

The appeal grows everyday for a man really just making a living
Out of his fans age group they have no idea what he is
Whether the media builds him up or tears him down
As a good guy to hate and a bad boy at heart
Any press is good press, though infamy might be better for sales

Topping the charts and making parents sick of his songs
He is a beneficiary of childhood splurging and so inclined to be
The adults wish for a mere fifteen minutes of his fame
So their children would listen to them with the same respect
But who were they when listening to cassette tapes?
And the bands of the eighties put on make-up then
 A man of mixed persuasion people are drawn to his ambiguity 
The role model singing about jail time and Hennessey
A toughness to some is a weakness to others
It makes you wonder if the man knows who he is! 
Whoever that is and for all it's worth
There will be more than enough of him to go around
In his image that is larger than life

Copyright © karl marszalowicz | Year Posted 2011

Long poem by Edward Orozco | Details |

A light forgotten

I do remember you, your brown curly hair that stole scene entirely The day my eyes met yours, and how I dreamed of having you in my arms Then they moved; your lips and out came the most beautiful voice that to an angels You stood no judge and took me in to a warm embrace Your heart felt the sorrow, and scars that my soul carried, and yet you held me Hours came to be days and days came to be months and our hearts grew I awaited the sun to wake up and stand on top of the day, so that I could see you again Your laugh, your scent, your smile that drove my heart to swell in affection The butterflies that you made come to life within my stomach grew and I took flight Then only the heavens were the limit A glimpse of hidden light I called you, and a verse I wrote for you that stole your heart I too recall the glow in your eyes as I held you and kissed you You said it was too good to be true, and then the truth came to surface Fear was rich in your heart, and slowly you drove me away And I stood to do nothing but see and feel the fire draw to not exist Seconds became weeks and all in that you became a memory A beautiful memory that I will not forget, as I became stronger at your side I wonder if you think of me, as I think of you Our first kiss beneath the sun, our first hug our first laugh I see your smile from a distance every now and then, beautiful still I will always think of you and what we could of had You are a star forgotten To G.V.R

Copyright © Edward Orozco | Year Posted 2012

Long poem by Sarai Romani | Details |

Game Day

Mighty Ducks win the game
Pass the ball perfect the play
There's so much riding on your fame
Men clad in armor win the day

The crowds are grumbling they've all gone wild
The stripes bad call has hardened your trial
Yard by yard your penalties mass
But you'll take the lead with a touchdown pass

86 yards with a kick return 
Your rival now should show concern 
We love your power your drive your speed
The beer the bets the company

Football Game day 
Phones be texting
Tailgate fun scores projecting 
Simple fun that's life affecting

It's more than manly testosterone 
That compels us to the game
It's teamwork pride the thrill of the fight
How the underdog pushed and overcame 

Sports and competition have always been a way of life 
Revealing the mighty but also the contrite
Teaching lessons of brotherhood
More victory together than alone we ever could 

So when we gather scream and shout 
Seemingly insane over a meaningless thing
Remember this on Game Day proud
When from the rest of life we simply check out

Is it really so bad to drink too much 
With Oregon's O displayed 
Colored faces worshiping the Duck
When they fumble we yell O  F_ _ _ 

Be it victory or cruel defeat
There's more to this than meets the eye
It's about families, lovers and the best of friends
Gathering to play to laugh and to cry

Game Day for the Oregon Duck
Of our team we're so damn proud
As a fan have you made the cut
Or resigned to just miss out 






Copyright © Sarai Romani | Year Posted 2013

Long poem by Robert Lindley | Details |

Lonely Death, Fate Of A Lost Soul

Lonely Death, Fate Of A Lost Soul

Ron sat in the dark alley with urined soaked pants
muttering in a drunken stupor one of his many rants
Facial scars told of falls, beatings from being robbed
misery and blues broke him down into shrieking sobs

Once he had a wife and three precious little pearls
heart pains tore him up when he lost those girls
Now a defeated and broken soul without a home
the dark streets and drunkard's alley he roams

Realizing that his days are now so sadly numbered 
he slumps back into a deep whiskey induced slumber
Waking hours later with those agonising chest pains
the cold numbing from the falling freezing rains

Moving over to hide beneath a huge dumpster lid
he thought yet again of his beautiful lost kids
No good to weep about the mess in the here and now
blue pain ripped into his heart like a cutting plow

That night he dreamt of love, life and family before
Sun rose that morning , Ron slept on, forever more

Robet J. Lindley 07-23-2014

Note :  This based upon the real life story of my brother's 
good friend. His friend 7 years older than he , that died 
in 1997. My brother the drunkard that has never stopped 
drinking in 38 years. Himself not long for this world!
And has not seen his own beautiful daughter nor his grand 
children in over 34 years, since 1980!
I wrote a poem, title, A Drunk's Prison,  back on 5-5 2014 here.
It was about my alcoholic younger brother.
This one is about his alcoholic friend that died!

Copyright © Robert Lindley | Year Posted 2014

Long poem by Judith Angell Meyer | Details |

Rebuilding the Shed in the Backyard - Again

My son is out fixing up the shed.
Winter is coming on. Needed doing he said.
He had the time and the bound-to’s.
I’m not used to this thought process, I’m not. Not from a child.

I watch him for a while.
Opening and closing gates as needed.
The dust, sifted into powder from summer’s heat, poof’s with his steps.
The heels of his jeans dragging strings on the ground, erase the tread of his 
boots.

The shed is old. There is algae or lichen on the north side boards,
where the wood is splintery gray.
Some of the lichen florets are the color of sage, some the color of a bright orange 
rust,
Circled with gray ones and black, their life cycle played out.

He hammers nails and screws in screws while holding boards in place.
Sweat glistening where skin is exposed, making long dark stains in his black 
shirt.
Veins standing out against the strain, and
Muscles laboring to prove he can do the job well, without a mother’s help.

While he works I think about his father and how differently they work.
His father preferring team work and orchestrated smooth motion
working side by side, no extra movements – and he whistled.
My son needs to prove his skills first – alone.

The shed is done and it will brave another winter, keeping the horses sheltered 
from the elements.
The wind, snow and horses milling about, will obliterate the trail of pant cuffs, 
Along with the memory of one cool day at the end of summer, 
When a man worked hard to rebuild their shelter.

Copyright © Judith Angell Meyer | Year Posted 2007

Long poem by esther robinson | Details |

CRYPTOGRAM DECODED

Cares pull my spirits down
Always force me, ‘wear a frown’
I heard, “You’ll in darkness drown;
For weeds in you are also sown.”

Seeds like unknown fear and worry
Sprouted in my nursery bed of merry
On watering, I nourished misery
Unable to differentiate their finery

Gradually grew seeds called health and wealth 
But sorrow and sufferings sapped its strength
I battled and struggled to save my breath
Expecting someone to fill my heart with mirth

With this frame of mind
No way of escape I could find
On reaching office, I read this thought
Recited it several times in my heart

That every sad day
Is followed by a glad day
As a team we discussed the layout
Of a very important handout

Green is good and soothes the eye
Yellow and black never get an instant goodbye
Red and navy blue give a professional look
Lavender or sky blue, gets anyone on hook

Everyone suggested a hue
And it granted me a cue
Of great surprise among a few
That if colors carried a clue

Of a top secret message 
Then I remembered a passage
For this world Jesus is the true light
Who makes the face of any man bright

He’ll weed and make me alright
My life like aroma will ascend in His sight
If each and every shade
That Almighty has made

Reflects God, as a mighty tower
And also expounds His awesome power
Unique His way of having seen my form
Being formed in womb like a worm

Fearful yet surprise filled is His greatness
I wonder and move about carrying His likeness

Copyright © esther robinson | Year Posted 2007

Long poem by Carrie Richards | Details |

Distraction

I meant to do my work today
Instead I spied a nest among the maple leaves
 where birds were singing in the trees
   and others splashing soft brown wings 
                in the birdbath by the old porch swing

I meant to do my chores today
  But clear blue skies, a soft spring breeze
This cloudless day, and blooming trees...they filled me with distraction...

I had my rusty rake in hand, some ground to till
   a hedge to trim, some weeds to pull....but clouds above the rolling hills
                                                                                    all led me to distraction....

 A butterfly, all black and gold, flitted soon across the field
             And once again, it took my eyes yet further still...

The garden hose, curled sleeping by, in noon day sun, awaiting me
        instead I sigh, and 
           once again my wandering eye, 
                among tall grass, some bugs I spied, 
                            I must explore the whole outdoors before this lovely day has died

I hesitate, ....my chores can wait, 
                                it seems that fate says "Work can wait!!
                                                      Enjoy!! It says, this splendid day!! 

These  most worthy,  so pleasing, never bothersome, soul satisflying, quite heavenly 
                                                               
                                                  distractions !!


___________________________________________________________

Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2009

Long poem by Robert L. Hinshaw | Details |

Finger Gossip

The grandfather clock just struck twelve, that magic hour of night,
And there he sits drumming our fingers musing about something to write!
He's been biting our nails and running our fingers through his hair,
Scratching his head, searching for witty or apt verse to prepare!

Ah! Now he's flexing our digits and I detect in his eyes a gleam.
We think he's collecting his thoughts to concoct a masterful scheme.
Something comparable to works by Whitman or Riley, no doubt.
These fingers should get some credit, no matter how it turns out!

What will it be?  A poem about religion, politics or the billowing seas,
Little children, old soldiers, love gone sour or scarlet hued trees?
Perhaps a few stanzas about cowboy lore - only the Lord can tell!
Our fingers just fly over the keyboard - that old coot types pretty well!

We're getting numb and need rest but he provides no reprieve.
He's typing at least seventy-eight words per minute, I do believe!
But never fear, we'll manage to keep ahead of his versatile mind,
And keep pounding away as thoughts from his prolific skull unwind!

Well, he has completed what he considers a masterpiece at last.
We're petered out and ready to curl up - we have typed so fast!
But all of us from our thumbs to our pinkies have had a blast!
We pray he never gets writer's cramp - that would leave us aghast!

Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)

1st Place in Linda-Marie's "Finger Frenzy" Contest - June 2010

Copyright © Robert L. Hinshaw | Year Posted 2010

Long poem by Rick Rucker | Details |

The One

The One by Rick Rucker When you have found “The One,” That person that outshines the Sun, Then you will understand the fuss, Your heart convinced with the first buss! Your lack of focus is normal, don't worry, Love will guide your heart, don't hurry, True Love is the force that cures, Your heart of all the past sutures! True Love has the power to change, Your mind, to rearrange Your whole life, To take a husband, or a wife. If all your life, you've lived alone, Talking to suitors on the phone, It's so nice to sit together, Without the phone cord acting as a tether. Something as simple as holding hands, Takes on new meaning with wedding bands. A wedding changes everything, Makes you feel a Queen, or King! That this person wants to spend Their life with you, 'til the end. What might have started out with lust, Has ended with a promise: 'til dust! Marriage won't be only Wedded Bliss, But if each day starts and ends with a kiss, Doing this, and other things, Will mean you don't have to pawn your rings! If you don't marry, out of fear Angel's bells you'll never hear. That gentle tinkling far away, The one that makes you want to stay. Imagine your surprise, When you look into your lover's eyes, Your Love, your spouse, The one that shares with you a house. Being in Love, after decades still, Each one feeling marriage is a thrill How long can True Love last? I'll tell you when a century's passed!

Copyright © Rick Rucker | Year Posted 2010

Long poem by OLUWANIFISE MOSES | Details |

The Powerfool and The Powerful

They deserve the power least;
That desire the power most.

And I saw the duo on the road,
Together on a journey in a tussle,
Behold! The powerfool and the powerful.
The powerfool: a powered fool, the power-fooled:
Tooth and nail he fought,
Burgled the mandate, picked a race,
Unwary was he that
Power-fool-ness is not powerfulness.

They deserve the power least;
That desire the power most.

I was fated to behold it all:
How the powerfool took the hold by force,
The power bought he, with the blood of the innocent and the guiltless,
Who in allegiance went, their duty to do.
How the powerful came calm with query;
And chased after the powerfool 
In a slow steady struggle sealed 
In patience, persistence, perseverance…

They deserve the power most;
That desire the power least.

I was fated to know it all:
How at the first three junction of the road
Which was destined for four,
The auctioneer’s label was hung on the truth;
Our trust betrayed for a trifle;
And our lynchpins victimized with riffle.

They deserve the power most;
That desire the power least.


But the fool cannot but fool a fool.
At the fourth junction I saw it:
As the powerfool in a derisive confidence
Met his dreaded waterloo in a corner,
Where stubbornness is stupidity,
And where all help is no help;
Caught unawares; the end of the road in sight.
And the powerful in a gallant gesture,
Given the power that to him belonged,
Sighed VICTORY AT LAST!

He that laughs last laughs longer;
He that laments last laments longer. 

Copyright © OLUWANIFISE MOSES | Year Posted 2011

Long poem by OLUWANIFISE MOSES | Details |

The Powerfool and The Powerful

They deserve the power least;
That desire the power most.

And I saw the duo on the road,
Together on a journey in a tussle,
Behold! The powerfool and the powerful.
The powerfool: a powered fool, the power-fooled:
Tooth and nail he fought,
Burgled the mandate, picked a race,
Unwary was he that
Power-fool-ness is not powerfulness.

They deserve the power least;
That desire the power most.

I was fated to behold it all:
How the powerfool took the hold by force,
The power bought he, with the blood of the innocent and the guiltless,
Who in allegiance went, their duty to do.
How the powerful came calm with query;
And chased after the powerfool 
In a slow steady struggle sealed 
In patience, persistence, perseverance…

They deserve the power most;
That desire the power least.

I was fated to know it all:
How at the first three junction of the road
Which was destined for four,
The auctioneer’s label was hung on the truth;
Our trust betrayed for a trifle;
And our lynchpins victimized with riffle.

They deserve the power most;
That desire the power least.


But the fool cannot but fool a fool.
At the fourth junction I saw it:
As the powerfool in a derisive confidence
Met his dreaded waterloo in a corner,
Where stubbornness is stupidity,
And where all help is no help;
Caught unawares; the end of the road in sight.
And the powerful in a gallant gesture,
Given the power that to him belonged,
Sighed VICTORY AT LAST!

He that laughs last laughs longer;
He that laments last laments longer. 

Copyright © OLUWANIFISE MOSES | Year Posted 2011

Long poem by Sahitya Poonacha | Details |

The Injured soldier

He fell, fell to the ground
At the gunshot that created such a sound
Nobody took notice of the injured soldier
He was left there lying as the war grew thicker.

He screamed from the pain growing in his shoulder
Nobody realized the pain he would suffer
Trampling feet and screams grew monotonous
The injured soldier tried to ignore the pain that was so venomous.

He made a decision for himself
If he was to survive he'd have to help himself
Nobody was going to come to his aid
Not when each one was looking out for their own head.

He winced in pain as he got to his feet
He wouldn't give up now, not when he still had an army to beat
His shoulder cried out to him in vain
He had already chose to ignore the pain.

He took his rifle up
He adjusted his helmet and refused to give up
He kept fighting till the war was over
Each soldier fighting for their country, their home and their lover.

When the war was done and the battle was won
Every single soldier put down their gun
the injured soldier's shoulder still bleeding
now blinded him with pain and made him lose all feeling.

This time they gave him attention
This time he was treated to friendly affection
He wondered what would have happened if had given up that night
Would they have still won after all that fight?

But he was glad he hadn't for he would have been seen
As a pitiful injured soldier who wasn't keen.

It's the choices we make
And the chances we take
That set us apart
Only when, of course, the decision is made from the heart.

Copyright © Sahitya Poonacha | Year Posted 2011

Long Poems
12