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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 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 Carolyn Devonshire | Details |

Fleeting Freedoms

Elderly man’s fishing net hangs in his shed
The fish he caught in his backyard stream multiply
Net use was banned; he couldn’t afford a pole
Joy and sustenance gone, a tear falls from his eye

House Bill 875 would ban backyard farms
Forcing vegetable growers to invest cash
In overpriced produce on supermarket shelves
Uncle Sam flexes his muscle, makes his whip lash

The right to freely worship is endangered
As prayer is prohibited in public schools
Government intrusion invades all our lives
Public pleas are not heard by those who make rules

Freedom to choose our doctors is now threatened
Socialized medicine diminishes choice
Speech censorship? Just ask the Smothers Brothers
Who canceled their own show with a stifled voice

As crime escalates, look to the constitution
The NRA spends billions to protect Americans' rights
To bear arms against oppressors while thieves laugh
And sue owners of homes invaded in the night

Can this be what our forefathers had in mind
When they sought to escape a king’s tyranny?
Our rights are being limited more each day
In a nation spawned to promote liberty

Natural disasters prelude Judgment Day
Eerie escalation – tsunamis, earthquakes
But perhaps when the dust finally settles
Those who survive will learn from our past mistakes

Governments will form only to preserve peace
Not to strip away rights ancestors pursued
Don’t blink!  Precious freedoms are now endangered
By those who feel they’re elected to intrude

Copyright © Carolyn Devonshire | Year Posted 2010

Long poem by Monica Contreras | Details |

THE UNIFORM

I noticed the uniform, and the heavy soled shinny black boots
Not the man within it, I apologized.

I remember the clean fresh smell of maleness, as they stormed into the house,
Broken glass, ripped down hangings, a slashed sofa, a pulled curtain,
A sudden maneuver to throw my brother’s bear across the yard,
Such military worries, hidden bombs in a child’s best friend.
Your broken cross I buried in our garden after they left.God, come back to my house, I am 
waiting.

All I saw were figures painted the colour of grass and bark,
with gilded edges traced by some crazed church painter's brush,
faceless with pockets full of bullets and chords,
Their arms intertwined with red eyes and swollen hands of my teachers,
Stiff figures against the soft jeans, sweaters, and knitted hats below.
Standing witness in the yard above watching, I waited for her to die.

Shinny black like the dirt dug from the mass grave,
Full of crumbled human bits, decaying coloured cloth,
while the sun scorched the group sorting the cellular samples
I saw the black boots etched into the bone fragments.
Lost bones of lost loved ones from empty families,

Standing in the desert, I wait for a name.

No, I do not see you the man, just the uniform.
I see the butt of the gun, the dent of the boot, the slickness in the air,
the cruel power of the swirl jungle green print with gold trim.
As a witness God left me, and I was waiting.

Change, let me meet the man,
maybe the waiting is over.

Copyright © Monica Contreras | Year Posted 2010

Long poem by Sierra Biersack | Details |

If I Had The Guts

I know i have kept a lot from you.
I know its not fair. 
I know i should tell you.
I know i have to tell you.

Maybe i can tell you some, but not all.
Maybe i can keep it secret just a little longer.
Maybe i can hide it from you more.
Maybe i can get the guts to tell you everything.

Everyday, i wanna tell you.
Everyday, i hope i get the guts to tell you.
Everyday, i feel bad for not telling you.
Everyday i think about you.

Sometimes, i dont want to tell you.
Sometimes, i just want you to know it all.
Sometimes, i wish i never knew you.
Sometimes, i wish you were all mine.

If i had the guts, i would tell you everything.
If i had the guts, i would tell you how much you mean to me.
If i had the guts, i would tell you your the only reason im alive.
If i had the guts, i would tell you my biggest secret.

Just knowing that i love you.
Just knowing that you may or may not love me back.
Just knowing that i care.
Just knowing that you probably dont.

Breaks my heart.
Breaks my soul.
Breaks my dreams.
Breaks my life.

If i had you, my life would be complete.
If i had you, my life would be perfect.
If i had you, i would be happy.
If i had you, i wouldnt have to search anymore.

I know i should tell you.
I know its not fair.
I know i have kept a lot from you.
I know i should tell you.

But, i dont have the guts, 
The guts to tell you i love you,
The guts to tell you your the reason im alive,
The guts to tell you,
I need you in my life.

Copyright © Sierra Biersack | Year Posted 2011

Long poem by Sidney Beck | Details |

AUTUMN IN UDELNAYA WOODS

AUTUMN   IN    UDELNAYA   WOODS



The smoke from the shashlik  fires  made us hungry
So that we could have eaten the falling golden manna from the trees
Offered to two wanderers in this sylvan wilderness.
Not forty years, but forty minutes in which life changed for us. 
It was only a field trip she said, to study the socio-environmental
Arrangement, the attitudes, of couples in the autumnal picnic grounds. 
She needed the truth for her dissertation, she needed my help.
Knight errant in the pursuit of knowledge, that’s me.
In pursuit of her, if the simple truth be known.
She gave me the golden opportunity I had been seeking all summer:
Now the harvest was at hand, and the reaper all too ready.
She needed photos to show the attitudes of the couples
No photos were  needed to show our attitudes. 
We were clearly a couple with attitude, and my socio-environmental
Score matched hers exactly: that’s scientific for “we fell in love”.
Look up! Such a glorious afternoon of yellows, and a blue sky.
Look down! The lake reflecting our faces filled with smiling delight,
Gold underfoot, and her lustrous flaxen hair draped over my shoulder.
The field trip showed the truth, she knew it and so did I.
It was forty years ago : we still remember it, tell our kids about it,
Especially on fall days like today.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. . . . . . . . . .


Written by Sydney Peck  2 October 2011,   and    
Entered  in  Francine Roberts’s  Contest   “A Nature Tale”

Copyright © Sidney Beck | Year Posted 2011

Long poem by Jacqueline R. Mendoza | Details |

Jesus Christ' Parable - Master's Return


Being Prepared for Judgment
MT 24:45-51
MK 13:34-37
LK 12:35-48

"Gird your loins and light your lamps, be like servants who await their master's return from a wedding, ready to open immediately when he comes and knocks.

Blessed are those servants whom the master finds vigilant on his arrival.

Amen, I say to you, he will gird himself, have them recline at table, and proceed to wait on them.

Should he come in the second or third watch and find them prepared in this way, blessed are those servants.

Be sure of this:

If the master of the house had known the hour when the thief was coming, he would not have let his house be broken into.

You also must be prepared, for at an hour you do not expect.

The Son of Man will come."

But if that servant says to himself, 'My master is delayed in coming,' 

Begins to beat the menservants and the maidservants, to eat and drink and get drunk,

Then that servant's master will come on an unexpected day and at an unknown hour and will punish him severely and assign him a place with the unfaithful.

That servant who knew his master's will but did not make preparations nor act in accord with his will shall be beaten severely

The servant who was ignorant of his master's will but acted in a way deserving of a severe beating shall be beaten only lightly.

Much will be required of the person entrusted with much, and still more will be demanded of the person entrusted with more." (Taken from LK 12:35-40, 45-48)

Copyright © Jacqueline R. Mendoza | Year Posted 2011

Long poem by Christopher Goss | Details |

The Wall, The Wall

The Wall, The Wall

I
the world fades from my fingertips
like blood oozing from an open wound
the sky is ripped apart and full of thunder
and my eyes are twisted in pain

shut the door and lock me within
the light is buzzing and flickering
something is about to explode
or maybe thats just my soul

softly touch the wall and it corrodes
the white paint peels and turns black
and cracks appear on the surface
a garbage touch that ruins it all

for years the signs of ruin were there
building up behind fragile white walls
and now i sit here with an open chest
my heart nailed to the damned wall

and as the world fades from my fingertips
like blood from an open wound
the sky outside is bloody and tormented
and i cant begin to see my own reality

II
im so afraid that if i get up ill fall again
damned by the ghosts of the past
the flashing glare of reality looms larger
closing in on me and slapping me

if only someone could open the door
and let me out of this foreboding room
perhaps i could see more than whats inside
instead of slicing myself in half

remember it was your verse that ended me
slicing off my fingers one by one
it was when my heart was nailed to the wall
that i truly forgot how to feel

my sickening screams echo loudly
throughout the confines of my own mind
reverberating down my spine
and leaving me in a shivering fit

as the world fades from my fingertips
like blood pouring from an open wound
the sky outside has faded to a deep black
and i cant begin to see my own reality

Copyright © Christopher Goss | Year Posted 2012

Long poem by MoonBee Canady | Details |

Queen Esther The Song

(Esther 5: 2)



(Chorus:  Part 1)

Walk In Majesty
Walk In Grace
Walk With GOD
Shining On Your Face
And You Can Walk
Thru Any Place ...
                      Embraced


Prepare Your Steps
To Bring GOD Praise
Keep Your Stride
A Steady Pace
Walk In GOD's Ways
Thru Every Space ...
                     Embraced


(Chorus:  Part 2)


Walk Like Queen Esther
Brave & Beautiful
Walk Like Queen Esther
Divinely Dutiful

and Every Step You Take
Please Pray
and GOD Will Guard You
On The Way


... Walk Like Queen Esther ...



Walk Like Queen Esther
In Love & Trust
Walk Like Queen Esther
and Move On
If You Must ...

and Every Step You Take
Please Pray
and GOD Will Guide You
Through Always



and Walk Like Queen Esther
Walk Like Hadassah
Walk Like Queen Esther



(Main Song)



The King Held Out To Esther
The Golden Scepter
That Was In His Hand

She Was His Queen
The Woman Who Fulfilled His Dreams
One of The Most Beautiful In All His Lands

There Was No Hesitation
In His Heart's Designation
Towards This Woman Who Stood Royal & Serene

She Held His Affection
and Did Not Suffer Rejection
As She Humbly Walked In, As His Queen

But Oh, The Interplay
of Emotions That Day
Between This Woman & Her Loving Man

When The King Held Out To Esther
His Golden Scepter
... That Was In His Hand

* * * * * * * * * * * *


so Walk Like Queen Esther
Walk Like Hadassah
Walk Like Queen Esther


( Walk-On Hadassah - Walk-On ! )


             Written & Copyrighted ©:  9/17/2013 
              by:  MoonBee Canady

Copyright © MoonBee Canady | Year Posted 2013

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 Robert Stoner Jr | Details |

Biker

Biker

the bar was packed and booze did flow
shots of Jack Daniels and doing some blow
Striker was out for an evening of fun 
planning to party and greeting the sun

the music was blasting as the band played on
dancing and rocking into the dawn
leather clad women moved wildly in dance
leather clad men had thoughts of romance

tattoos and patches on vests were seen
knives and guns concealed by the mean
drop of a word or look the wrong way
fists would fly and turn into a fray

the smoke filled room seemed to twist and spin
to Striker this evening was not new to him
the barmaids were serving and taking his lip
long as his money included a tip

two am and the bar must close
Striker was drunk as often he chose
walked to his bike and kicked it to start
shook his head clear as he prepared to depart

onto the highway deserted and dark
the cold air was manna light as a lark
the motor did rumble the pulse of the night
everything felt so perfectly right
 
the center line guided Striker this night
till suddenly blinded by oncoming light
unable to see in the blinding flare
there were no seconds for him to spare

he pulled on the bars hard to the right
racing at speed into the night
the bike it did wobble out of control
whiskey and speed going to take it's toll

the bike went down and into the ditch
his last thought,” ain't this a bitch”
the mornings dawn in flashes of red
the cop said ” DUI, this one is dead”

Robert Gene Stoner Jr ©
11/15/14

Copyright © Robert Stoner Jr | Year Posted 2014

Long poem by Funom Makama | Details |

Dont Ascertain When You Dont Know

Self knowledge equated to the encyclopedia and perceived facts, products of personal reasoning the efficacy of thoughts should not be questioned and assumptions simply made real and absolute Typical of such a thought stamps on convictions that the banana and plantain are the same a superior race surely exist leg size has a great correlation with the male’s genital the measure of one’s success is solely factored in his accumulation of wealth and money is the root of all evil. This mindset can walk on hot coal just to prove these points Columbus was the first European to visit the Americas bulls are colour blind and bats are completely blind women are subordinates to men and a pure heart is one which covers its body from head to toe This mind can even tear its clothes to rags in displeasure to your opposition to issues such as Sydney is Australia’s capital the earth’s evolution is the cause of day and night Africa is a country and its inhabitants exchange morning greetings with the Lion and the Chimpanzee and Neil Armstrong is the first human to journey into out space Despite carrying the internet even to the dreams and having global captions mixed with daily breath assumptions such as these are nurtured religiously, with rigidity and military acceptance the biggest illiterate of the 21st century is one who cannot learn, unlearn and relearn so said Alvin Toffler, the Australian Educationist. Oh sorry! The American futurist

Copyright © Funom Makama | Year Posted 2015

Long poem by Edwin Hofert | Details |

Within The Trenches 911 dispatcher tribute

Within The Trenches

911 Dispatcher Tribute

Nine one one, What's your emergency? Keeps replaying in her head.
When she lays down at night and she can't sleep instead.
Her mind keeps going backwards to when her heart began it's fall.
Memories of the other end the night she got the call.

She could hear a woman screaming, was it a husband and a wife?.
Then she heard the gunshot the night a woman lost her life.
There were many times before when on a call she'd wait.
But she prayed she'd never see the call that came too late.

Nine one one, What's your emergency? He said into the phone.
“I can't find my mommy and I think I'm here alone”.
He tried to reassure her and to keep her on the line.
One more family murdered there wasn't enough time.

So he lives his life these days beneath a blanket of the shame.
As he now bears the burden of his own misplaced blame. 
The rise and fall of all mankind right from the very start.
Buried deep within the trenches inside a dispatchers heart.

Praying still with all their heart someday the world will see.
All that's taking place today is not how it has to be.
Like a ship safe in the harbor still subject to the fall.
Each day a brand new heartache as they're witness to it all. 

Depravity in someones mind who's passions have run wild.
Buried in a shallow grave, now remnants of a child.
Haunted by what's taken place they never will be free.
As they wait for the answer to, what's your emergency?

Edwin C Hofert

Copyright © Edwin Hofert | Year Posted 2015

Long poem by Edwin Hofert | Details |

Footsteps

Footsteps.

She sits there all alone at home and turns down her TV.
To listen to his footsteps walking through her memory.

She hears him as he climbs the steps that lead up to his room.
It's fifty some years later, still the child of her womb.

She can almost count the steps as he moves across the floor.
So real she can't imagine, that he's not there no more.

Through troubled times he wrote the rhymes he used to call his own.
Sitting in his room upstairs where he stayed all alone.

She offers up just one more prayer for peace he'll never find.
Asking God to help him through and ease his broken mind.

She watched him in his early years, she saw right from the start.
This child she once carried, born with a broken heart.

There's not a doctor anywhere, no pill that you can take.
When the heart you hide inside is made so it will break. 

Stacks of poems and rhymes he wrote all clutter up the shelf.
Now he's out helping others, he can't seem to help himself.

So she sits there all alone at home and turns down her TV.
To listen to his footsteps walking through her memory.

Times she watched him struggle, he tripped and then he fell.
Times she tried to save him as his life played out in hell.

Times he felt there's no one there. That's when he turned to rhyme.
He couldn't hear or see her there. She was right there all the time.

Sitting there at home alone she turned down her TV.
Waiting for the footsteps that are now a memory.

Edwin C Hofert

Copyright © Edwin Hofert | 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 William Masonis | Details |

The Ghost Dance Part II

                                                   2.

                                     Waiting for Wovoka

For some time the old ones gazed that way,
When there came a seer,
A man named Wovoka.
Who told them he had heard their voices calling in the night to him,
That voices spoke to him of better times soon to come,
That might be brought forth by a special way and a special dance
That would bring to birth a stronger magic than that of Progress,
That would dispel the evil changes.

They listened and they took heart
With the pitiful fervor of the desperate.
He taught his new believers his way and his dance,
And for a time,
     A fragile time in their trembling twilight
The sacred songs and their meaning returned to the silent brown lands,
And a joy was felt and shone in the proud faces of the faithful, 
And the long lines worn of care cracked and smoothed to smiles.

     The young know nothing of these things now,
     Nor do they care to know.
     Their lives are resigned to the long slow fade.

But the old, huddling close to their quiet cares,
And closer still to the quiet face of death in the shadows of their rooms,
Feel the spirit of a former time lying still upon their hearts,
A thing beyond the shallow grasp of youth.

     They sit stonily, unmoved in their fogs, remembering tales.
     And when no one looks,
     They turn their failing eyes back to the red mesas
     And recall the Dance of the Ghosts.


     







Copyright © William Masonis | Year Posted 2015

Long poem by Gail Foster | Details |

They Never Went To War

They never went to war; they stayed at home
The young, the old, the unwell and the dead
The women who were not allowed to roam
The men who tilled the fields and baked the bread
Some sat in darkness waiting for the rap
Of letterbox, and soft white feather fall
The silence broken by a dripping tap
Dark shadows cast by street lamps on the wall
The little lads who ran behind the train
That took their fathers off to certain death
Who waved until their arms ached in the rain
Who ran until their lungs ran out of breath
Old men who yearned for youth; just one more chance
To feel the blood flow, hear the battle cry
To wear the uniform and take a stance
To stand with other men, to fight and die
The crippled and the mad, the deaf, the blind
Escaped the fate of many thousand men
Some angry that they had been left behind
Some thankful that they’d never fight again
Women, who with their sleeves rolled ploughed the land
Lit candles, raised the children, hid their tears
Made ammunitions with a careful hand
Kept watch and saved the night time for their fears
So many stayed at home, and stayed alive
And suffered pain and loss, regret and guilt
That they were left, that they were to survive
Within the house such sacrifice had built
Their many names are not inscribed on stone
Those sorrowed souls, so haunted by war’s ghost
Were left to stand and mourn the dead alone
Listening to the trumpet sound the post

by Gail





 

















Copyright © Gail Foster | Year Posted 2015

Long poem by A. Kathy Moss | Details |

Among Elk

Up before dawn, a feeling has drawn 
You into the mountain and trees.
Till the silence within, upon the whispering wind
A chime of bugles tease the breeze.
That majestic call, that is heard each fall
Since before our forefathers birth
And for those who take time, through rim rocks and pine
Listen and value their worth.

Each note high and low as each bugle ballad goes,
No two ever the same
They are all unique and if a chance to critique
Upon our hearts they claim.
We are put into state and can hardly wait
For the dawn of the upcoming morn
To glimpse hoof print in stride or a patch of hide
Or a tip of antler horn.
Just out of reach, lessons he’ll teach to those who play the game,
The tension and pull of a phantom bull, a soul never to tame.
While waiting and yearning, eyes straining, ears burning, 
Ringing till you can’t hear a thing,
To early to late, can’t hardly wait,
Patience like a bee sting.

Like a ghost in the night they filter through site
They tease and bugle and  brag,
As tell tale sign, weave and wind
Through timber, rocks and crags
Where a sapling tree, used to be
Now a twig broke scarred and torn
Velvet left there and shed of hair 
To tell the rut has been born.
Strong elk scent, down wind is sent
 From their bedded layer    
They are up once again and start to transcend 
 Letting us know they were there.
A little to late can change a state
Hopes almost fell,
But all rise again when a bugle begins
For among elk, we dwell.

Copyright © A. Kathy Moss | Year Posted 2005

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 jeffry cohan | Details |

if you crossed ELVIS with michael jackson you'd get michael presley or vice

  A BRIDGE OVER THE RIVER QUIET

‘Tis the infancy of yet another day
And I hear it crying for its bottle now
But I know the sun is no child anyway
It can be a sadistic son and it will teach you how  

I live under a tunnel on the highway’s right
Yet wrong I may ever be
I found an old mattress the other night
so discomfort doesn’t bother me

Today yesterday is but an artifact
An ancient find to hunters of the past
But it seems the sun and Satan have some sort of pact
Alas, whatever it is will probably hold fast 

I’m lucky enough to live with my lover
She’s agreed to live free along with me
And often when it rains we needn’t run for cover
The umbrella is our love to be

The term “shelter” means different things to different people I know
Shelter to some might mean a mansion in France
To people like me and my lover “shelter” means just somewhere else to go
Moved by an emphatic embrace and the lives we each enhance

To us rain, cold or snow doesn’t mean we get up and go
It’s the tortuous sun we know will eventually come
So we weather the weather knowing all we need to know
For my lover and I may be homeless but neither of us is dumb

Now let’s get back to the infant son and the fear of it’s adolescence
Because as we know children can often be rambunctious and rude
In the heat of mid-day we suffer an adult son’s insolence
And being fully grown it only treats us kindly when its in the mood  
                © 2011.….free cee!

 







Copyright © jeffry cohan | Year Posted 2011

Long poem by jeffry cohan | Details |

i NEED a quarter o, i AM sorry I MEANT A QUART OF VODKA

  A BRIDGE OVER THE RIVER QUIET

‘Tis the infancy of yet another day
And I hear it crying for its bottle now
But I know the sun is no child anyway
It can be a sadistic son and it will teach you how  

I live under a tunnel on the highway’s right
Yet wrong I may ever be
I found an old mattress the other night
so discomfort doesn’t bother me

Today yesterday is but an artifact
An ancient find to hunters of the past
But it seems the sun and Satan have some sort of pact
Alas, whatever it is will probably hold fast 

I’m lucky enough to live with my lover
She’s agreed to live free along with me
And often when it rains we needn’t run for cover
The umbrella is our love to be

The term “shelter” means different things to different people I know
Shelter to some might mean a mansion in France
To people like me and my lover “shelter” means just somewhere else to go
Moved by an emphatic embrace and the lives we each enhance

To us rain, cold or snow doesn’t mean we get up and go
It’s the tortuous sun we know will eventually come
So we weather the weather knowing all we need to know
For my lover and I may be homeless but neither of us is dumb

Now let’s get back to the infant son and the fear of it’s adolescence
Because as we know children can often be rambunctious and rude
In the heat of mid-day we suffer an adult son’s insolence
And being fully grown it only treats us kindly when its in the mood  
                © 2011.….free cee!

 







Copyright © jeffry cohan | Year Posted 2011

Long poem by Odin Roark | Details |

Energy's Suffocating Gallop

Energy’s Suffocating Gallop
                                  by Odin Roark

Ancient blood soaked sand
Plumes its sticky residue
Beneath rapacious hooves 

Dust storms of evil stampeding beside pipelines
Goad flow to tankers
Where ubiquitous black gold addiction 
Steers toward pervasive profit-docks  

Behind sweat lathered greed
Winds of historic baggage
Tether their historic words and song
Blessings and curses
Exciting swirling vortexes

Windmills of molten fire
Entitlement’s rape and pillage of breath
Of pores once absorbing purity
Evil’s global bubble
Appearing as mankind'

Robed in white zealotry
The blinded hawk-minds
Embrace the Middle East predatory contaminant
Wallowing in solipsistic riches forgotten
Awake only to pick tomorrow’s gluttonous prey

The world turns on turbine propulsion
With oceans bowing to its slavery
Delivering liquid smokestack suffocation
Silent killers preparing ghosts 
Of time’s new-century-plague 
Ignored

As oil gorged tankers find port  
Release their pandemic sleight of hand
A destruction as innocent as rabbits from a hat
Charms the ignorant
Beguiles the wannabes

Wheeled transport
Delivers the demise of children’s hearts
Left to take a number
Unaware there is no lottery
Only loser-consciousness 
Adult indulgence clinging desperately
To evil’s mane and tail
As it whips gullible eyes
Into cataract submission

Alien life hovers above
Grieving the minions destined
To find black energy’s ashen dust
Sprinkling its fool’s gold
Upon a barren planet

Copyright © Odin Roark | Year Posted 2013

Long poem by Sierra Cowan | Details |

As I Stand Here Waiting

The world keeps spinning on,
but I wish it could go backward instead.
Who have I become, where have I gone?
I don't even know what goes on inside my own head.
I am not this person I have become,
I never was and thought I never would be.
This is someone else,
This is not me.

My priorities have shifted,
I value things that once meant very little.
I search for things to fill the gap,
but only find things that are noncommittal.
Happiness in one night packages,
is what fills my life now.
I'm not sure why,
I'm not sure how.

I want more,
but do I deserve it?
This battle is repeated inside my head,
but I will never truly admit it.
I know I could do more
I know I could be greater.
But in my own head,
I am a master debater.

I'm so afraid of failing,
that while I hide that's exactly what I'm doing.
I have so many hopes and dreams,
but are any of them even worth pursuing?
What if I fall flat on my face?
In front of everyone I know and love?
But then again I could be better than I expect,
go beyond and above.

You never know what the future holds,
only what has happened in the past.
In order to make your future what you want,
you better live in the present while it lasts.
Seize each day,
and do what makes you happy.
For no one can see what lays ahead,
whether it be great or crappy.
I may not know who I have become,
but I do know who I want to be.
I want to be present in my life,
no more being an absentee.
The past is the past,
and the future lays before us.
The old me,
I will repossess.

Copyright © Sierra Cowan | Year Posted 2013

Long poem by Mystic Rose | Details |

Ten ways to deal with negativity

1. Give up the need to complain
Take responsibility for your feelings and thoughts.  
Do what can be done to feel better and change the situation?
2.  Similarity Attracts
Good brings about good and bad brings about bad
Ask yourself, “How am I feeling? What energy am I releasing?”
3. Don't believe everything you think
Look closely at the negative messages you project 
Are they really that bad or is it your head playing games  
4. Focus
If you are resisting and won't change the way you look at things,
Then give yourself time, be patient, you will when you’re ready. 
5. Don't make other people’s problems your own 
Don’t adopt others negative pattern. Focus on solutions, not problems. Offer that and nothing else.
6. Taking ownership
Don’t blame or criticize.  Take full responsibility for your thoughts and feelings and take a different approach.
7. Come with your own positive energy
Focus on making yourself happy enough that you have great positive energy, and you will see the negativity cringing away from you 
8.  Be part of the change you'd like to see
Flow with life events, don't resist them.  Live in harmony and be the change you wish to see in the world.
9.  Awareness and acceptance
Knowing your own darkness is the best method for dealing with the darkness of others
10. |Move forward
Find a path that allows you to go on with your life without the negativity of others.  The more we act a certain way, the more we believe in it.  So act positive, and 

Copyright © Mystic Rose | Year Posted 2015

Long poem by michael romero | Details |

lossing my ship.

Locked in my cabin I can bare to think
   turn to the rocks and let it smash and sink,
       our voyage's end seems to be on the brink,
           alas  a RAIDERS ship now turns to a mild drink,
"captain" a voice at my cabin door screams out,
    as I reach from my sward and stand firmly stout,
         " our ship lyes in the thickest of fog and without,"
               if I listen to the words they are words of doubt,
I steady my hand with a drink and my fate as well
    I open the door and the a crushing angry sea I smell,
        one step out and calm my ship sits still and without yells,
             looking into the eyes of the broken I see withered shells,
how could this be this is my ship and it escaped me,
     a tyrant in my days of old I sit calm speechless as a tree,
          no mutiny no sabotage only a crew unwilling to hear my plee,
              a ship over run by blind servants and disregard for my decree, 
the ski clears as the seas water turns blue,
     a smile from faces as if waiting for an accrue,
         a dead mans ships drifts on waters and starts anew,
               my body plunges into the sea and even at my death I knew,
the soul tamed by ones lovers kiss has no purpose,
      a mans word floats unheard willingly disregard and missed,
             and a captain can only rule until another strips him of his ship,
                   now forgotten and gone this ship floats lost and unequipped.  
  
       
              

Copyright © michael romero | Year Posted 2008

Long poem by Rhia Madison Thomer | Details |

[IN]SANITY

I've counted the bars of my prison walls. 3 sides of 10 bars; 30. One solid wall,
cold, wet, molded concrete.
I've lost count of how long I have been here,
I hardly remember when I got here, but, it’s been winter
for a long time.
I've forgotten what it is to move in grass and amongst other bodies.
I am chained in here,
thick steel cuffs chain me to the wall.
I've counted the faces, whose names I can't remember,
and then lost count of them
as they flash and flicker, fast forwarded in my mind.
I've been motionless for a long time,
I’m not sure I even remember what movement is.
I’m not sure I can even remember to move.
I’ve forgotten who I am, my name, how old I am
how tall I am, my features, likes and dislikes;
there are no mirrors.
I’ve been nameless for a long time, and there is no one else
here in this vast blank expanse but me and these bars,
and one wall.
I’ve realized I don’t even know what I am
and that panics me, but I know not what this feeling is?
What Is feeling?
I’ve thrown myself at the bars, clawing at the nothing
that lies behind them.
What Is nothing?
I’ve discovered there is a name that echoes and echoes In the vastness,
how do I know that name?
Is it mine, yours, theirs, his, ours?
I’ve remembered, the memories crush into me,
a weight I had not known for unknown amounts of time.
No go away! Again, please...
I’ve tried to forget,
but the white walls are somewhere out there, waiting.
and I? Why, I do not even exist.
[IN]SANITY

Copyright © Rhia Madison Thomer | Year Posted 2009

Long Poems
12