Long Poem Topics

Check out these short poem topics. Find short poems by topic or form.

abortion absence
abuse addiction
adventure africa
age allah
allegory allusion
america analogy
angel anger
angst animal
anniversary anti bullying
anxiety appreciation
april arabic
art assonance
aubade august
autumn baby
bangla baptism
baseball basketball
beach beautiful
beauty bereavement
best friend betrayal
bible bio
bird birth
birthday black african american
blessing blue
boat body
books boxing day
boyfriend break up
bridal shower brother
bullying business
butterfly cancer
candy car
care career
caregiving cat
celebration celebrity
change chanukah
character cheer up
chicago child
child abuse childhood
children chocolate
christian christmas
cinco de mayo cinderella
city class
clothes color
columbus day community
computer confidence
conflict confusion
cool corruption
courage cousin
cowboy crazy
creation crush
cry culture
cute love dad
dance dark
daughter day
death death of a friend
december dedication
deep depression
desire destiny
devotion discrimination
divorce dog
dream drink
earth earth day
easter education
emo emotions
encouraging engagement
england environment
epic eulogy
eve evil
fairy faith
family fantasy
farewell farm
fashion father
father daughter father son
fathers day fear
february feelings
film fire
firework first love
fish fishing
flower flying
food football
for children for her
for him for kids
forgiveness freedom
french friend
friendship fruit
fun funeral
funny funny love
future games
garden gender
giggle girl
girlfriend giving
god golf
good friday good morning
good night goodbye
gospel gothic
graduate graduation
grandchild granddaughter
grandfather grandmother
grandparents grandson
grave green
grief growing up
growth guitar
hair halloween
happiness happy
happy birthday hate
health heart
heartbreak heartbroken
heaven hello
hero high school
hilarious hindi
hip hop history
hockey holiday
holocaust home
homework hope
horror horse
house how i feel
howl humanity
humor humorous
hurt husband
hyperbole i am
i love you i miss you
identity image
imagery imagination
immigration independence day
innocence insect
inspiration inspirational
international internet
introspection ireland
irony islamic
january jealousy
jesus jewish
jobs journey
joy judgement
july june
kid kindergarten
kiss language
leadership leaving
life light
little sister london
loneliness lonely
longing loss
lost lost love
love love hurts
lust lyric
magic malayalam
marathi march
marriage math
may me
meaningful memorial day
memory men
mental illness mentor
metaphor middle school
military miracle
mirror miss you
missing missing you
mom money
moon morning
mother mother daughter
mother son mothers day
motivation mountains
moving on mum
murder muse
music my child
my children mystery
myth mythology
name native american
natural disasters nature
new year new years day
new york nice
niece night
nonsense nostalgia
november nursery rhyme
obituary ocean
october old
onomatopoeia pain
paradise parents
paris parody
pashto passion
patriotic peace
people pets
philosophy places
planet poems
poetess poetry
poets political
pollution poverty
power prayer
preschool presidents day
pride princess
prison proposal
psychological purple
quinceanera race
racism rain
rainbow rainforest
rap raven
recovery from red
relationship religion
religious remember
remembrance day repetition
retirement riddle
rights river
romance romantic
rose roses are red
rude sad
sad love satire
scary school
science science fiction
sea seasons
self senses
sensual september
sexy sick
silence silly
silver simile
simple sin
sister sky
slam slavery
sleep smart
smile snow
soccer social
society softball
soldier solitude
sometimes son
song sorrow
sorry soulmate
sound space
spanish spiritual
spoken word sports
spring star
stars storm
strength stress
student success
suicide summer
sun sunset
sunshine surreal
sweet symbolism
sympathy tamil
teacher teachers day
technology teen
teenage thank you
thanks thanksgiving
thanksgiving day tiger
time today
together travel
tree tribute
true love trust
truth uplifting
urban urdu
usa vacation
valentines day vanity
veterans day violence
visionary vogon
voice volleyball
voyage war
water weather
wedding wife
wind wine
winter wisdom
woman women
word play words
work world
world war i world war ii
write writing
yellow youth
Submit Poems
Get Your Premium Membership

Long Absence Poems

Long Absence Poems. Below are the most popular long Absence by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Absence poems by poem length and keyword.

See also: Famous Long Poems

Long Poems
Long poem by Gerald Dillenbeck | Details |

Romeo and Juliet: The Remix

Three voices required,
Professor,
and two students:
Yang as Fr. Time
YinYin as Sr. Gaia

In a college classroom with Win-Win Game Theory written on whiteboard.

Professor: 
Today we are going to role play 
a Win-Win enculturation game.

We will define enculturation as 
‘the combination of political and economic reiterative relationships and transactions 
within a communicating network 
of choice-making.’

The absence of political-economic co-arising redundancy 
generates systemic dissonance, 
suboptimized positive outcomes, at best, 
in which positive information is lost, 
putting this enculturation game at risk of turning from Win-Win, 
to Win-Lose.

This would result in a suboptimized and, to that extent, 
polypathological outcome, 
useful for recognizing opportunities to do better, 
to do good and fair and justice,
to do Being, fully cooperatively eco-balanced consciousness. 
Maybe. 
We’ll see.

Fr. Time: [In an appropriately low gravelish slow-sucking voice] 
I need to play Yang.

Sr. Gaia: [In a lovely round full-chested soprano] 
I want to play yang as Yin.

Professor:
Good, good. OK.

So. let’s imagine that Yang, 
played by Fr. Time, 
is Romeo Logos, 
and Yin, 
played by Sr. Gaia, 
is Juliet Mythos.

But, this is a Win-Win Game, 
so Juliet, of the Mythos family, 
chooses to stay planted on lovely Earth 
because she loves the Cinderella story, 
so maybe she’ll just sleep on her decision about what to do with her life, 
and see what happens later in the Prince Charming 
as Romeo Logos 
Department of her mythic romantic life.

With Juliet asleep, 
Romeo Logos storms through life’s stage all blood and thunder. 
Wakes Mythos, 
and they are filled with co-passionate ecstasy for themselves, 
each other, 
and all of Earth, 
and all of Earth’s Tribes, 
and all of the above live happily ever after.

[pause] Why is that not a more satisfying, 
healthier 
story for every time our language and culture 
our political and economic outcomes
trend toward a despairing climatic precipice?

Fr. Time: [speaking as  gravelish Yang—2 packs a day, at least] 
I feel so used up. My health, vibrancy, robust vitality fades.

Sr. Gaia: (as Yin) 
All your over-heated competitive passions for violence and revolution have left me sore! So good riddance, we are finding our Midway, balancing our deductive language Logos family and our inductive autonomic Mythos Memory

of +Romeo-synapse = double-negative Juliet’s optic fractal message to disremember 50% despair = “lose”

as +UracilRomeo = CytosineJuliet, double-bound reverse-temporal Uracil (concave bilaterally equivalent fold).

Fr. Time: 
Sometimes your Gaia Story is too negentropically dissonant with the Logos family’s Golden Rule.

Sr. Gaia:
Yes, but only when Yin as Yang and Yin as Yin are not in appositional alignment, and Yin always plays as a metaphysical future or past tense mythic noun, icon. Yin is never real-time, but half past time and half future time, working her karmic grace to keep these two together.

Fr. Time:
Left alone, you cannot yet speak?

Gaia:
Yes, my Romeo, I need both our co-gravitational “Yes to Life” enculturations,
your politically powerful Logos of permacultural history,
and our economically abundant flowing Mythos
of polycultural real-time double-bound Continuous Quality Improvement resolving outcomes.

Our Midway.
Wu-wei.
Co-Tipping Point of perpetually balancing harmonics.

Fr. Time:
You always were the more strategic Win-Win cooperative player.

Sr. Gaia: 
Oh, Father, I bet you say that to all the girls, and boys,
but you and I both know and love
our co-arising eco-consciousness
of balanced Win-Win culture.

Professor:
OK. Very good. So first, Fr. Time and Sr. Gaia, 
how do you think that game was going? 
Any concerns or insights about Win-Lose suboptimization?

Sr. Gaia: 
It feels like Yang is too Left-brain dominant, 
too competition-default. 

I realize it’s Yang’s role to carry the dense, hot, close inhalation side of gravity’s bi-elliptical wave toward the future,
on which this Universe surfs in timeless eternity,
and I value those political and economic qualities and quantities,
forms and functions,
all those verbal dynamic kins of cultural incarnations
that must continue to emerge
for Win-Win outcomes.

Yet, I am terrified of becoming too thin,
too cool and shy,
too absent,
too chaotically dispersed,
dissonant,
despairing,
suffering,
disappearingly absent,
dead inside,
because I do so love this time as Earth.

I hope we can grow more accustomed
to unearthing together, 
Logos with Mythos,
science with religion,
permacultural politics and procedures with polycultural outcomes
in bicamerally balanced sight.

Fr. Time:
Wouldn’t know what to add to our full-octave throated soprano’s resonant RNA-fractal ring of life’s four temporal seasons,
folding and unfolding her permacultural development Wisdom,
and culture,
and language of yangish verbs 
as yinyin mythic nouns.

Professor:
I followed you right up to the last part. 
What is this Yang-verb with Yin-shadowy noun relationship?

Fr. Time:
Like ‘Earth’ is a yin noun
in PolyCultural language,
while ‘unearth’ is a yang verb.
If ‘UnEarth’ were used as a negative-polynomial noun,
then I guess that would be most everything we know nothing about
except perhaps through our imagined thinning,
cooling,
dispersing future wave of not-yet gravitational absorption
into this great revolving wheel 
of co-arising co-gravitational
Win-Win Being.

Professor:
Well, thank you Fr. Time and Sr. Gaia, Namaste.

So far, well done.

Let the Win-Win Game continue,
Time’s receding bilateral wave
greeted by Mythic 3-dimensional future-as-now space,
spinning our enculturating story of time as space,
gravitation co-arising function
as a 4-fractal RNA-seeded place
with 3-dimensional spatial forms
within each 1-dimensional mythic bicameral NOW
nomial
notch in Time’s evolutionary emergent flow.



.


Copyright © Gerald Dillenbeck | Year Posted 2015

Long poem by jack oritx | Details |

THE TOUR

THE TOUR 
WHOA! 
Stop right there my friend! 
For there’s no place in where you can run and hide  
So stop and listen  
Listen to the voices warning you to go back 
Screaming out to beware of the horror that flows through this young child’s mind  
Opps too late! 
You just had to do it  
Didn’t you  
You just had to enter into the darkness of this fallen soul 
Well don’t just stand there come closer since its to late 
To turn back now 
Ready?  
Okay then welcome to the horrors of this poetic mind 
For in here you’ll hear and feel what’s like to be me 
For you’re in my world now and its not a pretty site 
So where do you like to begin 
Oh I know 
Why don’t we go and see what my heart is up to 
Shall we  
Heart: this is umm oh I’m sorry but you never told me what’s your name is 
Oh well it doesn’t matter 
Heart, do you mind telling my new friend here how you continue to beat inside of this old wrap body of ours  
My pleasure I may beat but what I really want to do is 
Explode from all the voices that whisper to my soul 
Late at night 
Thanks heart and speaking of our soul 
Let’s go see what she’s up to okay  
Oh come on don’t try to run away now 
I tried to warn you before but you didn’t want to listen 
No 
You had dare to challenge the demons that rule over 
My heart, mind and soul 
So let’s just move on  
Hello Ms. Soul, I’d like for you to meet- 
Damn I really must learn your name anyway 
Would you mind telling my friend here 
How you continue to live and breathe through all of this everlasting pain  
Am I breathing?  
For day after day it feels like I’m suffocating from  
All this torment pain that flows through this child’s body 
For if you’d take a closer look inside of this old soul 
Of mines you’d see that I’m slowly dying from the inside out 
For maybe there’s a God above who’ll hopefully 
One day will forgive this child of mines 
Or 
Maybe the devil below who can hardly wait to get 
His ferly hooks inside this soul  
For if we aren’t allow to enter in neither one then  
Please I’m begging you please let me go and allow 
Us to burn in eternal peace  
Whoa! 
Even I’m lost for words let’s just move on before 
You start whining again 
So just sit back and relax as I introduce you 
To the most horrifying part of our tour 
The disturbing words of this child’s poetic mind  
Well thank you for that lovely intro and let me say  
How brave your young friend is for coming this far 
Frankly I never thought you’d make it  
Any way I know that I’m just blabbing for I know 
How you must feel I bet you’re just dying for me 
To just shut the hell up so you could get the hell 
Out of here 
Am I right? 
Of course I am so let me get to the point then you’ll be free 
 To go 
We come into this world without any guardian angels 
To show us how our life is going to be 
For I’m just a young child whose soul’s more than happy 
To welcome the bright lights of an icy hell that fills 
My heart  
And before you open your mouth to interrupt  
Let me save you the trouble since I know what your  
Going to say 
You’re going to say 
That these feelings will not last forever if I just have a  
Little faith 
Well let me tell you that forever has been here and gone 
My friend 
And to this very day this child is yet to believe that her day of faith will ever come 
For I’ve shown you all of my soul’s silence 
I’ve told you all of my heart’s torments 
But most important I’ve shown you the real me 
Not the happy outgoing person that I always  
Pretend to be 
For don’t you think that I’d love to forget how I’ve  
Been raped of all my innocence, faith and trust 
And have them replace with numbness, shame and pain 
But I can’t blame you for the sins of this child’s past 
No 
That would be useless since I could never be the person 
That so many of you wish for me to be 
So that completes the ending of this tour 
How did you like it 
Aww it left you pretty speechless huh 
I had a feeling that it’d well don’t just stand there 
With that stupid look on your face go get the hell out here 
That’s it just turn around and walk away 
Oh one more thing before you go I never did get your name 
Well it was very nice to finally met you God 
Now please get the hell out of here before you get trapped 
Within the walls of this wicked disturbed mind 
Oh hey wait! 
Could I just ask you for one small favor before you go 
I can  
Hey thanks 
Okay umm now bear with me cause this ain’t easy for me 
To ask 
But okay I really never learned how and nobody ever took  
The time to teach me and it’d mean so much 
To me if you’d open your heart just for a second and say 
 A prayer for me then maybe in that same split second I’d learn how to undo all the pain that ever been 
For one day if you shall remember me 
Remember what you’ve learn here today I want you to look down from that holy thorn of yours that you call heaven 
But I warn you, your eyes will burn from all the flames 
But don’t be sad 
For just as so many have forsaken you I’ve chosen to forsaken you 
Since the day I was born 
And yes, I’ll burn and forever vanish in a blink of an eye 
Why? 
You dare to ask well since the day you’ve placed me  
In a place named hell to live 
And love don’t you think its only natural that I would want to die here too 
Just think about it 
Copyright © belong to jack 2006 

Copyright © jack oritx | Year Posted 2014

Long poem by Jana Ross | Details |

Kitchens are Dirty

It was dark out. The stars shone dimly, and the horizon blushed faintly as the birds sang, too cheery for the hour. A chill swept the edges of all the outside world: not cold enough to be truly considered cold, but far from anything to be called “warm.”
	I turned my key quietly, so as not the wake the absence inside—lest I disturb its slumber, which ever wakes. The light over the stove was still on, as I left it every night when I walked out the door. It gave light to the entire room by it, starting from the kitchen and illuminating all the way to me.
	This shabby little place had not quite taken on its role of being a home yet. I moved in about two years ago, but still have not had time to decorate it more than a picture or centerpiece here and there; though that is not what truly makes a home anyway.
No, this is not a home, because I am alone. Homes are made up of more than one. The dwelling of a singular individual is lacking. Say what you like to disagree, but ‘tis true.  My kitchen sink is far too vacant to truly be a home.
	
	When I left my Mama’s home, she told me three things to remember: “Love God,” “Don’t marry the man if he drinks,” and “Kitchens are dirty: clean them.” I laughed when she told me that, because our sink was always full of dishes, our countertops perpetuated clutter, and the floors always wanted sweeping. I laughed because I knew there would only be me to clean up after, which wouldn’t be hard, and I found it silly of her to tell me such parting words: “clean the kitchen.” 
	
There isn’t much to clean now. I wash my dishes after I use them generally. There are times, however, that I will long for a sinkful and either leave my dishes a couple days, or else clean every dish I own…it isn’t the same though, cleaning up after no one else. 
As I wash them, I know every meal that was upon them, how every bite tasted. And no meal stretches further than one plate or bowl, and perhaps a cup. I wash the dishes of ghosts—dishes only dined upon by absence and sometimes dust. I could wash dishes and never have to change the water, because the dishes were empty to begin with, most of them. I don’t even have need to fill the sink, really. It uses more water to do so, than to just soap and rinse my meager usage.

At Mama’s, I always had to wash to dishes, it seemed. Or perhaps it was just that my turn always seemed to come again so soon. For hours, I stood in the kitchen, my belly pressed against the wet countertop and my arms up to the elbows wet, itchy, and covered with suds. 
It took what seemed like all night long to wash the dishes for our whole family, and all the while, it seemed they kept coming. Every few minutes, one of the other children would come in with an empty cup or bowl they’d been using at some point that day, and set it on my counter. Oftentimes, I would stare at them in disbelief as they entered the room to perform this heinous act, knowing I was expected to clean that too. They just looked at me, set down the object of crime, and left, usually some part of them laughing on the inside, because they too, knew the feeling that I was experiencing from this slight interruption, because they’d had the same treatment when it was their turn.

But not to worry (no, no, never worry), there shall be someone someday to come into my life. We shall have dishes for the two of us. Yes, and maybe even a small bowl too after a while, and another, and another. Maybe. But what if this shan’t ever come? I suppose I shouldn’t know the difference really, seeing I’ve never had it, and so should not concern myself with its absence, nor dare even to consider the feeling of a loss. No, I suppose I ought to just continue to wash my dishes and not wish for too much, because wishing is dangerous.
I tried wishing before. When I was a small girl, I used to lie awake for hours, wishing to not hear the things I heard in the night, or seeing the things I saw, or crying the tears I cried. The cries from the other side of the wall, my mother in her ache of this life. The shadows moving across my room as they played out scenes of my demise and the villains who would perform them. Every saline ocean of the floods of the depth of my soul, staining my cheeks and swelling my face for the following days. 
Yes, wishing is dangerous. It fills up the soul with some kind of hope that doesn’t seem to ever come. It strengthens the heart with faith, that is forever in peril of being strangled, shriveled, left to decompose on a sweltering sidewalk, in the middle of August (Ah, but the heat does feel nice; just to lie in the sun and feel the tingling all over my body—that could be nice right now). But wishes want for fruition, and fruit does not always come, no, not for a tree like me.

So, I eat my food, and I wash my plate, and I turn out the light, and I go to sleep.

Copyright © Jana Ross | Year Posted 2015

Long poem by Rozalia Polnik | Details |

Soldier

I’m here, in this terror.
 Blood, blood puddles everywhere
like after a demonic storm of rain, but instead it’s human red liquid .
Splattering,
leaking and escaping.  
More of it appears
at each second .
Tick, splat. Tock splat 
two more bodies morphed into
devastating dead corpses floating in scarlet lakes. 
Lives lost; heartless killing!

 It could have been me. 
Boom! Went the exploding grenade ... I couldhave been dead, but I’m still here. Around me soldiers running away from thestomp of guns like human ants marching rapidly from their hunter, without a plan and without the guarantee of survival. 
Millions of bullets shooting in
every direction, I cannot even detect from which direction they are coming
from. 
Murdering happens here because of forced hatred, 
which is inhumane... whoever
started the chapter of this horrific and barbaric dystopian novel should be ashamed.
On my side – dead intimidating bodies of my friends that I will never see
talking again- that have risked their lives for this country. I respect them.
 Ilooked at my blood covered hands; my blood is still within me. But for how much
longer? Some nearly dead people gasping for help, wishing to be at home right
now... 


...


Remembering the smell of freshly baked delicious bread that
was placed on the table every morning. My little daughter running happily down the
stairs ready for school, and my gentleman-like elder son always pulling the
chair out for her. My wife always had everything so well managed I just don’t
know how she did it, but I love her she is the best thing in my life. We all sat
with smiles on our faces and the sun peeking in on us happily shines on our
tired faces. Optimism flowing from all of our souls except mine. They all were prepared
to start the new day. My children for school and my wife for work and to cook
something ambrosial for us to eat at dinner. 
She would have put a lot of work in to her cooking, but yet I still
complained, I yelled at my children and never had time for them as I was so self-centred.
I hurt their feelings forgetting to go to their school plays, I been so
horrible-definitely not the kind of dad they would deserve... Can they ever
forgive me? I hope I get another chance, show them a different life, they
should be able to depend on me –most importantly, they should be able to trust
me. I hope it’s not too late to show that I have learned, from my mistakes. I
want to praise them as they deserve.


...


Holding back
tears full of regret, my morals are confused and my mind is apprehensive. Will
I ever see my family again? I am going insane. Now I wish I stayed home, but it
would seem like I’m giving up, after all this did teach me a valuable lesson in
life .This war is sickening to the stomach filled with brutality and ghastly
behaviour. Cold blooded, temper less and outrageous; actions. 


Pain –
everyone is feeling pain that is unimaginable. Here braveness and risking play
a very important role… If no risky decisions were taken we all would probably be
dead by now. I see people crying, young soldiers crying like babies as they
weren’t aware of the level of danger that was waiting for them. Now they just
want to believe it is just a dream. Factually speaking, all what is happening
is a test of self will and goodness. On how you will behave towards others in
life threatening circumstances. Will you be into act of selfishness?  


 


 
The Loudness is outrageous, shoot! Bam! Boom! Pam! Shut in
from every viewpoint ... My orientation is fading- I’m unable to concentrate incapable
of stabilizing my thoughts; my heart is pounding five times more rapid than its
usual beat. I have no idea where to secrete; none of what others examine seems
to work. Where’s my group? 


Maybe they left me behind. I have to take every possibility
into consideration; but teamwork is important here as it’s leaning on reliability
and forgiveness. Life is the most precious thing you can ever have. We all have
a life which is on same tier level. But, killing a life just shouldn’t happen.  We all will die one day its natural .You cannot
escape unpredictable death. No matter how much you would want life to pause it
won’t- for anybody. I’m sick and tired of this place I will get out of here
alive... I think, I have to do it for my family.


My family that I long to back home, I know I will adore
every single second spend with them. I just pray I return safe and sound and
can cuddle my wife again...

Copyright © Rozalia Polnik | Year Posted 2015

Long poem by Eileen Manassian | Details |

I See You Looking at Me- Collab with DM

I see you looking at me
There is an old pang in my chest
there where your hands used to caress
where your lips loved to roam
there where you called your home
There is an old flutter now
What is that in your eyes?
Is it real or just a disguise?
I see you looking at me
That way….

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

No, it can’t be
And in that instant your memory consumes me
   A roaring fire lighting the room
   Shadows dancing on the walls 
   We are drunk on desire
    .....breathing you
    .....holding you
    .....caressing your breasts
    .....kissing your body
    .....tasting your love upon my tongue

Unbelievable . . . panic seizes me
Don’t look at her -- flee
But in that moment my shattered heart
Leaps with joy 
I see your eyes 
    ....and I feel the earth
    ....moan with delight

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I wish the world would go away
How can this be?
It must be a dream...
I turn away from your stare
Look down at my shaking hands
I'm breathless...overwhelmed
I need to think....
Why now? Why here?
Out of nowhere…you appear
Oh, but....I want you
I sneak another peak
As my mind brings to my eyes the memories
It seems just yesterday
you looked at me that way
    ....when you undressed me
    ....when you caressed me
    ....when you made me understand
how a body can speak
the language of love
Never before
Never since....
has my body spoken
with the same eloquence
That language I first learned with you
I want you
But....the pain won't go away
you were too proud to say,
"I'm sorry"
Oh....but my lips are getting moist
hungering for your kiss
I look your way
My heart will give me away
Thundering in joy
It won’t be still!
    .....Let me think
    .....Let me THINK!
Oh...Oh...but....I want you
Here you are….
You’ve made it over to me
Here you stand
Looking down at me…
Reaching for me….
Oh…

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Taking you into my arms – lifting 
Your eyes -- dark pools of honey
Your lips – full . . . moist . . . inviting 
Our bodies embrace – I am home
My prayers for another chance – answered by your kiss
Our words tumble over each other
Tears, laughter, kisses . . . relief
My beautiful darling – I’ve missed you
   ....Your smile
   ....your touch
   ....the way you look at me
Making love until the dawn
Our bodies intertwined 
My head resting upon your breasts
Listing to the rhythm of your heart – my heart
How beautiful you are my darling – 
Your love is fragrant and radiant
Filling my heart with light  . . . 
Look – I am glowing from within . . . 
But…wait…what’s this?
I feel a stiffness creeping into your body
WHAT –  fear seizes me – I can’t breath
My darling – abandon the hurt, the pain I have caused . .
I am on my knees begging 
   your forgiveness
   your love
How can I prove my love – 
   earn your trust?
I won’t leave – never again!
I love you
need you
you
you . . . 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
 
What if you hurt me again?
This time....I won't recover
This time….I won’t survive
It has taken so long
for this heart to mend
Down on your knees
Your eyes plead
I see the tears gather
Can I risk it?
Can I?
But then again
Can I risk going back to the emptiness
that you left behind
A life without you
was only days and nights
of longing...for you
My fingers reach
For those unruly strands of hair
You turn your face into my palm
Planting a kiss
Your arms go around my waist
as you rest your head against my body
We're lost to the world
Our moment
Our truth
You're finally home
I bend down to whisper
"Stand up and walk me home
There is a language….
I want to hear your speak to me.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

And that night
In our hungry bed
The eloquence of our shared language
The body syllables of desire
The sound units of passion
The language of our love
Was heard by the world

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The story of a chance encounter between two old lovers
~~~~~~~~~Love lost and love found~~~~~~~~~~
A Collaboration by David Meade and Eileen Manassian

Copyright © Eileen Manassian | Year Posted 2015

Long poem by Loch David Crane | Details |

The Mojo Trick

The Mojo Trick
Loch David Crane
June 1979

Sweat-sticky and hot! The P. I. is not
	a comfortable place to be;
but sit here and perspire (as though by the fire)
	and I'll tell a tale to thee.

I was coming alive in a Philippine dive
	after Mojo and San Miguels;
 the raging fire in my stomach went higher
	but my sea legs rode out the swells.

I began with a pitcher of Mojo that hit
	a spot in my appetite;
and glass after glass I drank till the last
	and soon was feeling just right.	

Then a hostess sat down in a low-cut gown
	and asked "I sit with you tonight?"
And I nodded OK in a nonchalant way
	so she seated herself on my right.

Now the hostesses here are all drink San Miguel beer
	And the same is served all around;
but it don't show much class to charge five times' a 	glass
when serving's the same size per round.
So you pay a dear price to drink beer over ice
	which is how it is served in P.I.;
if you buy a girl beer when she says "I work here,"
	then she knows you're a Big Spender guy.

So I looked at this girl and my mind began to whirl
	and the Mojo played a trick.
Her face was so funny – a nose like a bunny –
	I wouldn't let her flick my Bic!

I won’t call her ugly, but with that funny mug she'd
	make customers run and hide;
you could send that girl in to a crowded room; then
	watch as horrified man stepped outside.

So as I drank my beer with a grin ear  to ear
	I said "My name is Billy, I think."
She was hardly demure; she said "My name is La Tour.
	I love you no lie.  Buy me drink."

Well I should have said "no," and let the chick go
	but I wasn't alone in the place;
and the thought of all night with this dog was a fright
	though her body was nice – but that face!

I thought "just one more brew,” cause I'd only had two,
	and I said that I'd buy her a drink.
Then she gave me a grin with her toothless brown chin
	and my self image started to sink.

But because I was shy (I'm just that sort of guy)
	I just couldn't tell her to leave;
so I stared at the band and I drummed with my hand
	and I brushed off the lint from my sleeve.

Well the music was fine; but the bar girl's next line
	was to say "Are you married, young man?"
And I saw my way out and lied with a pout –
	told her I had a wife in Japan.

So she finished her beer, and was soon gone from here,
and I ordered two beers to celebrate;
I was lucky, I thought, not to get caught
	between her and a magistrate.

For the Philippine girls wear long dresses and curls
	and use perfume and makeup for baits;
for to marry a guy, seaman or G.I.,
	means a free trip back to the States.

Then a man from the crew asked me "What's wrong with 	you?
	Why did you let that girl go?"
And I told him her face was scare spots off an ace
	but he looked back at me and said "No."

I called for "beer 12" and started to delve
	into my pocket for money;
my friend said "I'll buy," and his cash didn't lie,
	and "Mind if I sit with your honey?"
I said "you can do just what you want to do,"
	and I said that I couldn’t look at her;	
but he thought she was cute, had a nice bod to boot,
	so I nodded to go ahead after.

But beer thirteen made my vision grow keen,
	and I saw what a prize I had missed;
"I have drunk too much brew!   She was beautiful, too."
	as I saw him voluptuously kissed.

I thought "How could this be? She said she loved me! "
	My hand shook; my ice cubes went clink.
I heard her say to him "My name is Tuptim.
	I love you no lie.  By me drink."

So I smiled. I was glad; I was no longer mad
	'cause the Mojo had clouded my eyes;
I realized then she was after my friend, 
	and I hoped he was quick with his lies.

So it's "sailor beware!" In Olongopo there;
	where the girls fish for guys in the bars;
and though I often roam, I always come home,
	– single! Thanking my lucky stars.

– By the Phantom of the O2 level

(O1 and O2 are Officer’s and Civilians’ quarters on the USS Kitty Hawk; I taught English aboard several ships at sea, in the Program Afloat for College Education.)

Copyright © Loch David Crane | Year Posted 2014

Long poem by Vee Bdosa | Details |

The Death of Tutankhamen

       THE DEATH OF TUTANKHAMEN

                 I.

The king is dead--and layed within his place,
  and night has fallen as it did before,
within his tomb he hides his golden face
  and waits to live and breath and love once more;

a grain of sand will last as long has he--
  young man--did they not tell you in your youth
That time will fade away, and secretly,
  while you await, to feel and know the truth?

And Tutankhamen, time will not reveal
  the secrets of the past, they fade away--
and all the things you long to know and feel
  are gone before they see the light of day.

  How old are you, young man, four thousand years--
  or just as old as all our hopes and fears?

                 II.
You're just as old, I guess, as any dream
  and just as far away as space permits,
improvident sometimes, and yet we seem
  agglomerated to a life that fits--

We come and go--in circumspectful daze--
  disgruntled in our youth, and growing old,
and never seem to see the proper ways
  and disinclined to hear the things we're told--

exhonerating all that we have known,
   who take until there's nothing left to give,
for life is just a path that we have flown,
  from other dreams, where other dreamers live.

  This mass we call "myself" will soon return
  to heaven space, or maybe it will burn.

                  III.

The power in us all is dominant--
  just as the time of Tutankhamens womb,
from birth we go through life--intransigent
  and hope the best will be beyond the tomb.

We hope that space is part of better things
  just as belief--in Akhen Atens day,
we feel the same as did Egyptian kings
  who looked at life as where they'd choose to stay;

exacerbated, as we live and grow,
  to better space, than what we have and feel,
and though it's part of life we do not know--
  it's just as dear--and just as harsh and real.

  How old are we? Not one could estimate,
  and if they did, they'd tilt the hands of fate.

               IV.

The pylon gates that lead to peace of mind
  are open to the ones who search at night,
but truth in life is sometimes hard to find
  and pyramids block out the glow of light--

while deep below--mastabas hold the past
  and keep it safe--from any mortal eyes--
with stores of grain--while sun gods gold and cast,
  stare into space--where only darkness lies--

and Tutankhamens silence is a thing
  to last five thousand years of growing old,
at best--his wish was but to be the king
  within a life that's cast and locked in gold--

  and Akhen Aten knows he is okay
  that's why he will not lead his soul astray

               V.

but Akhen Aten hides his face at night--
  and southern breezes cool the scorching air,
and any sound is whispered soft and light--
  because there's no one list'ning anywhere;

nomadic tribes have perched upon his rock,
  and never knew that Tutankhamen hears--
each sound of life--each key that could unlock
  his mortal soul--if they would use their ears,

if they would see--the sun god is a friend,
  and leads to light, where Tutankhamen sleeps,
how many minds would see his mortal end--
 is not his death--though in our mind it creeps--

 and takes away the youth of ev'ry man
 and sends it to the time where time began;

             VI.

How old are you--young man--why do you stare?
  The world awaits for you to raise your soul--
though fettered to the wind--and ev'rywhere,
  in time a dream will make you free and whole--

to walk again--the Valley of the Kings
  and ride upon the waters of the Nile--
where spirits bathe, and Nephritite sings,
  the secrets of the past--for yet a while,

the world is obdurate of any scheme,
  that brings new life--once death has made its' call
though greater men than you--have known this dream,
  not one still hides behind his secret wall--

  and no remains--stay hidden to the past--
  if golden chains are known to hold them fast.
© ron Wilson aka Vee Bdosa the Doylestown Poet

Copyright © Vee Bdosa | Year Posted 2014

Long poem by J. W. Earnings | Details |

Your Outlandish Maze and My Time of Anguish and Cheer

In the mirror, I see my face melt away in shame
And, yet I still hunt for game…feeling this shame without a well-thought-out name
I hunt you down to catch some inspiration
I’m not looking for fame…I want to see you flourish with anticipation 
But, my heart’s pumping with aggravation  
Why do they put labels on me? Why do I devour their debris?
Perhaps, it makes them feel satisfied… to know that I had a psychotic breakdown
Why me? How did I end up in a mental institution? I wish I could flee…
I wish I could…I wish I knew
The true answers…but I’m left to question my own actions…
Not to seek satisfactions…
I want to be set free…
From poverty…
angst…
and anxiety…
How can you comfort me…how can you save me… 
In this time of tribulation?
Do you sense my distasteful, hideous frustration?
You are a supportive companion, I see…
I still think of you fondly…of course I do, you see…
I think of you being with me possibly
I’m gazing dreamily at your sparkling eyes
Were you aware…(didn’t you know…) 
I was waiting for you on the other side of the barbed wire fence? 
Tears collapse in the palms of my right and left hand, 
Drenched in desolation and I’m seeking repentance 
Where are you? 
Where did you go off to?
Are you grazing in your own outlandish maze? 
Fear arise from their deathbeds and lands in my mind (a misery magnet as it is)
Don’t plant regret that catches me off guard
Life can get so hard…life can get so hard…
It’s something I’d discard if I had the guts to do it
I’m a distressed, demented and determined bard
But, I’ll become a flourishing, upbeat, and earnest poet 
One day, I wish to be a light that illuminates the reader’s mind
Grace in your own maze – you can’t have my land! It’s a land only I could understand!
I must stand tall and make a triumphant stand!
I hope you don’t mind me being blind temporarily
This test of being blindfolded is difficult and gets me out of my shell completely
I’m a deck of playing cards with a missing card, however, I’m played with all over again, waiting for the battle to begin
Pushed in the margins… pushed out of shape, indulging myself in this one particular sin!
Where’s my kith and kin? They are in my heart, deep within! 
I can taste a smile creeping in..it’s such a surprise – a gift I prize
I will never despise it, 
But don’t you know that I’m not wise and trapped in my poverty pit?
I’m staring longingly at your crackling, dazzling eyes that singe with fire
Your grin is what I hold dear – 
Tt’s a gift that I prize…
Giving me natural highs
You fought the battle and the wind whistles in our ears…
Sorry for releasing these tears that have been in captivity inside of me
It has been in captivity in me for so long, longing to be free…
I tell the voices in my head to leave…
In Christ’s name, will you leave?
Just let me breathe for a second…I can’t believe 
 I didn’t tell you that I care for you so much…
I’d give up my life for you
Vanity is not what I reap this time
I’d sacrifice myself for you
Spending time with you is wicked and sublime – 
It’s another mountain to climb
It’s another arduous adventure – time flips like a rusty dime
I’d do anything for you…I’d give you satisfying vibrations, vibes and chills
You gather merriness in the flower hills
You harvest paradise and sprinkled it upon my wings – this feeling never kills
This feeling never kills my positivity 
Do you long to flee like me? 
Do you wanna sprout with me like a nourished tree?
You fought my battle and you looked after me when I was alone at home
You shot the predator down (YOU MADE A BULL’S EYE!)…he was tracking me down like a spy…
Life holds such a significant meaning…despite the gray clouds 
That frown upon me so…like an envious enemy, wearing hatred shrouds
Nothin’ but gray skies blanket my eyes…
I’m pretending to be included in the crowd
When I’m alone, I don’t feel alone with God keeping an eye on me
I pray earnestly and willingly…

Copyright © J. W. Earnings | Year Posted 2014

Long poem by T Wignesan | Details |

The crime is snowed over, Translation of Pierre Emmanuel s Il neige sur le crime

The crime is snowed over, Translation of Pierre Emmanuel’s  Il neige sur le crime

Are we buried under snow holding our silence
in what immense Cimmerian (collision) of terror ?
The mouth kept open in the shriek of interminable shade 
lips held fast in the frozen depths
we disturb the slumber of the Dead with our yelling
mute – calling Whom, alas ? We howl by the sepulchre
the absence of a name stretching towards a solitary Name : 
but the Voice suppressed down our throat strangles
the liberating Name which could call back on its feet.
The head in the tomb and touching our lips
the lips of these the dead that we shall become tomorrow,
we continue to live in spite of it all but let’s conceal our 
                                                                                     breath
for fear of dispelling the silence gathering around us
for God could oblige us to confront ourselves
and more than the Fear of Him, we are (indeed) afraid.

Fire over the snow
Fire at those still alive
What matters is that blood saturates this land/Earth
Words enough snow down to cover up the blood

It snows over the Shriek of long sighs of absence
the glossy smiles over twisted lips
It snows over wounds of pale hands, capable
of simulated caresses like those of naked tortoises
It snows weighted flakes, the glaring white of the blind
which fill the great orbs the eyes of the dead make
It snows a gentle down of murder on the plains
just as troublesome as the slumber of assassins
The Shriek sans end reaches up to lunar heights
where trees are shorn of their barks : listen
the strident whiteness of vast deserts populated by men
where abandoned stones howl in the face of death.
The Night, the immense snow Pièta of an ebony Christ
looks at the shadow cast by rifles pointing towards her 
                                                                                 dead son
the shadow of murderers projecting over the snow
-- she feels the breath of that Shadow on her feet                                
the horror freezes her over up to the stars ah crying
« Fire » so that at last the salve explodes and downs
these shadows of rifles these over-sized canons
But the tears of this great Death
shall alas get the better of this snow.

     (from the collection : La liberté guide nos pas, 1945)

© T. Wignesan – Paris, September 28, 2014

Note : Pierre Emanuel, b. May 3, 1916, d. September 22, 1984 at Gan in the Basses Pyrénées, was one of the most prolific of XXth Century poets. His corpus also included books of critique and a novel. Rejected by a distraught mother at three weeks, his parents emigrated to the U.S., leaving him to be brought up by a paternal uncle, according to Anne-Sophie Constant who selected and prefaced his Anthologie Poétique, out this year. Upon graduating from the University of Lyon where he studied literature, he taught for some years before heading the English language services at the RTL and writing for Témoignage Chrétien, Réforme and Esprit. President of the French Pen Club (1973-76), he later headed the French National Audio-Visual Institute and the Cultural Affairs Commission of the VIth Plan. Elected to the French Academy of Letters in 1968, he renounced the honour in 1975 in protest at the election of Félicien Marceau. For a time, he also headed the International Association for Cultural Freedom. As a poet, he had already made his mark with his first collections : Elégies (1940) and Tombeau d’Orphée (1941), followed by a steady stream of some forty collections thereafter. Received – among many – the Grand Prize for Poetry of the French Academy in 1984. A-S. Constant quotes from two interviews on his inveterate independence : « Je ne me sens pas la vocation d’un maître, et je ne veux aucun disciple. » and « Je suis un poète et un chrétien. »
                                            T. Wignesan

Copyright © T Wignesan | Year Posted 2014

Long poem by Tiffany Diaz | Details |

William the Great

See as a child having a child he was my saving grace, allowing me to refocus my path to a better place, Where he could grow and flourish, So I developed him to nourish, Through my soil which had been tainted by pollutants, pollutants in which an inner city child cried on the stoop from broken a home, so I better him within that broken home, Unrealized of the broken pieces that would become his home,
I never realized the long term effects, As my selfish needs for him to better me                                                                                                                                                                                         over shadowed the brokenness from which he was conceived

And yet created for his purpose, He losses his way, within steps of his of his mother, within words of his father, Lost in what people say, what they think no longer allowing him to think for himself, Believing in them enhancing his self doubt, So he dilutes himself losing his where abouts

*Although he is William the great*

My baby I always said----Where there's a will, there's a way, And baby you are that Will in your better day................

I cried when you were a baby not knowing what your cry's meant, But I figured them out in another sense, And as you developed your speech, I stopped hearing your cry and conformed  to your reply, loosing that sense, When what you say is not really what you feel, I'm realizing!!! So I try to listen to the depths of your silent cry, I try to see pass your strong embodiment of strength  

Whats real My Love, is if you saw you for what I see in you , you'd realize you are that Will, that will live greatly beyond when I am gone and dead, You are that Will in my heart that screams of triumph beyond you cry of brokenness, I know I gave you a broken home, I know at times you feel alone, Upon my empty ears of greed, My kisses and hugs only masking your needs. Over shadowing your needs in my struggle 

Baby I SEE.....I'M LISTENING.......Facing me---I know I stopped listening a long time ago, but Will you have the will! My boy you are beyond your inherited name of my first born, William the meaning of determine protector, Baby protect your will, tell me what you feel and don't spare me, Is it hate, Is it Love, Is it loneliness, Is it that I have yet to earn the title of #1mom...Baby tell me, Drop all you bombs, Don't worry about me.... I'm still your moms!

Broken Down Will derived the equate of  desires---MY LOVE-- helm meaning the helmet in which is your brain, Your gift evolving from you name, You are the Great!
The one who bettered me, now needs me to be the one who betters him, But I can't do it for you, all I can do is be there for you 

My son you are enough, My son you are a king, My son all is possible.... if you believe what you see, The images of your real hopes and dreams, They could be!, but you gotta forget about Mami and daddy, That dream will never come true baby........ Because I refuse to welcome you back into a broken home... And although you step upon shattered glass, I promise you I'm clearing your path-- Brooming all the fragments of left behind broken pass..

Baby  take your name, earn you place, make a difference upon the generations in which you have no relations but share a name.. Baby change it, If you want your own meaning----- embrace it---- if it doesn't mean what you want, Give it a new meaning

Me right here ---Mami----will stand tall and Proud because my King for you I stand Proud.... Never ashamed to say it out loud--- I am Proud!!! In your darkness seeing you light-- I am Proud!!! Of all you are and yet to become despite the bumps in the road, your tank is full so choose your path... Baby I am proud!!!!
Because despite my lose in guiding you, You are winning as William the Great!!!!

Copyright © Tiffany Diaz | Year Posted 2016

Long Poems