Long poem by
Mike Liquori | Details |
Hard driven by the embarrassment,
His temper Flared bright in youth,
Grinded to sharpness by the glittering coin held tight,
Handed to his Dad in fear,
Slavery is Poverty and vise versa to this day;
The first lessons of the his earlier days,
So Young Lincoln went upon his way,
He flew the coup instead of hitting another nail into timber,
Knowing that it was his coffin the spike driven into it would be sealing,
No more Kentucky hay to bail or seed to lay…
No more indentured servitude for Lincoln,
He swore to God that day,
A Frontier Politician he set a due course,
With vulgar temper and clerical repose,
Dotted with Whiskey, furry and aloof,
Young Lincoln the Politic used his words to shred,
His rival list long, and he knew that they dread,
As he dispensed his paid for frontier limited view,
Castigating, name calling and even assailing mere men,
His words were swords to slice,
Fire breathed to incinerate,
Not the eloquence of a man upon hollowed temples walls,
Young Lincoln set a course,
That would so create,
A life’s lesson learned, but not from sharp worded debate,
He insulted the integrity of an immovable man,
James Shield a political rival of that date,
Someone who needs to learn to heel,
To the Lincolns law of the land,
So a duel was proposed and Lincoln so dared,
To accept the rival challenge,
but only if he could prevail,
Rules were set,
A duel to the death,
Long Sword chosen for his long tall reach,
His rival still undeterred,
removed the sword from the sheath,
So Lincoln threw down a long wood log,
And said to Shield your honor will not allow you to retreat,
What Lincoln did not know,
Was Mr. Shield’s resolve to this matter and would never ever retreat,
No matter the circumstance,
He will stand for his honor,
In front of his own blood splatter,
None of that seemed to matter,
The Duel set to begin,
The middle man arrives,
The Duel called off…
When Lincoln looked into Shield’s burning eyes,
Lincoln sees a truth,
Retreats into a five year slumber,
Nursing his ego and calming all matters,
Learning from errors and books galore,
his embarrassed lack of education,
set a changed in his course,
Learning the Lessons of Shield’s brave stand,
Lincoln never left that day,
And it never went away,
Ignited an understanding of integrity,
Of the righteous path to lay,
But if you think he was born that way,
It was a young Lincoln that had to walk away,
He returned more than a man,
A driven ideology,
Knowing the path ahead,
The future is not through a house divided,
Falling upon itself,
But only together we can stand,
One nation that is undivided.
Long poem by
Robert Ronnow | Details |
Herpetologist meets actress (Cameron Diaz).
If he's funny he's me.
South America or Africa (on location).
In a diamond mind.
The protagonists (lovers), the diamonds, the miners and the minders.
By minders I (he) mean (means) watchers, organizers, supervisors.
As all art must: choose a focus.
The personal is political said Cameron on the night bus to Quebec.
I had never met a girl so willing to make love in public.
Open to it.
To what extent is violence necessary? And
is that the essential question or
should violence be accepted as man's state, fate
a more essential question existing beyond or below
peace or war. Perhaps
the religious and (for the irreligious) sacred injunction
against egregious violence exists
to still ourselves
to open ourselves
to the deeper question. That Cameron Diaz is funny and beautiful
is hopeful. And the telescope and microscope have extended
the eye's appreciation. Under the microscope
Cameron becomes a collection of foreign, alien, uncompassionate,
organisms. Frightening, inexorable, fascinating
to the scientist in you!
To the telescope
vanishingly small, infinitesimal as the farthest sun
smaller by magnitudes of magnitudes of ten
and incinerated in a nanosecond. Gone
from the movie (photographs the contents of which move
for the naked eye).
I cannot help what I do or hope.
Anyway, it's a love story
or science project, socio-political documentary. An essay.
An essay about how it is actually impossible to say what you mean
but it is possible with a lifetime of meditation and study to shut up
and know what you meant.
Now I'm deaf.
I can see Cameron Diaz but not hear her.
The guy, the herpetologist, at first colorless turns out to be
colorful as a bird or snake!
He knows a lot about snakes, and birds! Not only how they mate
but what they eat
where they rest
what they do with their pain. Do they get depressed?
Can they have guests?
How do they judiciously employ violence to organize and defend
The international collective remains insufficiently organized
resulting in violence and threats of violence that interrupt
commerce, procreation (love) and the pursuit of happiness (Cameron
at least for certain populations, sometimes.
Otherwise, most men, most times, live in peace excepting
flood or fire God or man may
choose to impose.
I lay in my bed and listen naked.
Have a good day (Diaz).
The goddess does not exist, except as bone.
Around this time (July)
the queen yellow jacket (redcoat) searches
blind and deaf
for a ledge or cavity to build a city of her descendants
safe, that they can defend.
and sleeping peacefully, overwinter. We, however,
remain active, Cameron Diaz makes winter movies or
love stories in South America, and I
delight to imagine her herpetologist. Or one who
discovers the sun
around which a habitable, understandable, compatible
orb orbs. Or
maybe the movie's about the revolution, soldiers dying defending
this dictator or that dreamer
and the movie completely failing, not even trying, to explain how
the sons and daughters of the dying soldiers (miners) feel
fishing alone, hunting for wisdom, thereafter.
Sure, these men chose violence, not Cameron Diaz, and were not
farmers, botanists or herpetologists
their tools could have been and should have been the telescope or
but are there enough microscopes and telescopes to go around
and did we not (taxpayers, movie makers) encourage them to
defend Cameron Diaz?
Man's world is insufficiently organized to preclude violence
in allocating resources (Cameron Diaz).
When we invade Iraq
to defend our allies and interests
with rockets and rocket throwers, Rockettes and Cameron Diaz
each man (each Diaz) must make his
own individual choice
whether this war
is worth fighting for or the next or the worst.
Go to jail, go directly to waterboard, at the hands of
your local police, chamber of commerce.
Learn how to walk the desert and the universe.
The names of rocks and planets,
that being the only answer to the hyperorganization that is a cancer on
our insufficient organization.
I was reading Foreign Affairs
The Case Against the West by Kishore Mabubami (Cameron Diaz).
How can I relinquish my privileged position
sit still, lie naked
until what constitutes consent of the governed and non-violent change,
to her herpetologist
Long poem by
Xander Martin | Details |
See the phone towers with the lights-
What a world of mischief and sorrow their pattern foretells!
How they twinkle, twinkle, twinkle
In the icy air of night!
While the clouds that are gray
And so boring, seem to snicker
As they watch over the street known as Gay;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Philadelphian rhyme,
To the long-word-I-don't-know-what-it-means that so visually delights
From the lights, lights, lights, lights,
Lights, lights, lights-
From the flickering and the twinkling of the lights.
Feel the ominous Morse Code message of the lights,
What a world of tightly packed buildings and traffic their harmony foretells!
Through the balmy air of midnight
How they ring out their delight!
From the creepy redden lights,
And an insight,
What a lot of lost sleep I once owed
To the white light reflected onto a certain window making it look
Like the moon!
Oh, from out the dormhouse cells,
What a gush of imprisoned restless students wanting the night to end voluminously wells!
How it swells!
How it dwells
On the Future! Now we face
The crushing reality that is this place
To the shining and the lining
Of the lights, lights, lights,
Of the lights, lights, lights, lights,
Lights, lights, lights-
To the electrifying coolness of the lights!
See the now visible sources of the lights-
What a tale of terror, now, their position tells!
In the startled ear of night
How they scream out their affright!
Too much horrified to speak,
They can only shriek, shriek,
Out of tune,
In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the city,
In a fit of desperation from a phone line seeking pity,
Climbing higher, higher, higher,
With a desperate desire,
And a resolute endeavor,
Now- now to sit or never,
By the side of the pale-faced moon.
Oh, the lights, lights, lights!
What a tale their terror tells
Of Urban Society!
How they flash, and spark, and repeat!
What an inconvenience they defeat
Riding the electrical current of the atmosphere with glee!
Yet the eye it fully knows,
By the pondering,
And the wandering,
How the danger ebbs and flows:
Yet the eye distinctly tells,
In each tower's tallness,
And my smallness,
How the danger sinks and swells,
By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the lights-
Of the lights-
Of the lights, lights, lights, lights,
Lights, lights, lights-
In the unique ability and memorability of the lights!
See the final flash of the lights-
What a world of greed and lust their monotony compels!
In the silence of the night,
How we shiver with affright
At the melancholy coldness of the air conditioning!
For every sound that floats
From the rust within our throats
Is a groan.
And the people- ah, the people-
They that dwell up in the buildings,
And who, tolling, tolling, tolling,
In that muffled monotone,
Feel a glory in so rolling
On the human heart a stone-
They are neither man nor woman-
They are neither brute nor human-
They are slaves to the system:
And their Internet it is who rules;
And he pulls, pulls, pulls,
A meme right out of his arse!
And his jolly news websites discuss human rights
With the guidance of the lights!
And he dances, and he yells;
Fighting crime, crime, crime,
In a sort of cheesy rhyme,
To the mysterious melody of the lights-
Of the lights:
Keeping geeks, geeks, geeks,
In a stupor which the Internet seeks,
To the throbbing of the lights-
Of the lights, lights, lights-
To the sobbing of the lights;
Taking in, in, in,
All the sights, sights, sights
Of this pathetic tourist trap rat-hole called Manayunk,
To the rolling of the lights-
Of the lights, lights, lights:
To the tolling of the lights,
Of the lights, lights, lights, lights-
Lights, lights, lights-
Oh, the mystery and the history of the lights.
Long poem by
Faith Dye | Details |
My brother is and will always be my Memorial Day
Of course I will always respect every warrior that fought let's say
My brother joined the Marines to get away from our mother at seventeen
she was mean, mentally ill, bossy, and out of her mind in between
so serving his country during the Vietnam War felt better to him
leaving all of us behind, going over there with the body count wasn't a whim
we all cried as he went out the door
mom cried the most and I was just floored
because she yelled and screamed at him all of the time
but today looked like she loved him so much and wanted him to stay behind
if he knew this and didn't have to think that she didn't care for him
his journey may have been so much better with more care and begin
to think of her differently like a loving mom
then when he was detecting land mines and hearing bombs
he may have been more comforted by love
looking at the stars up above
wearing peanut butter on his feet
in the monsoon season
as not give the rats a reason
to bite his flesh and hurt
they could drive you berserk
and the tunnels pray tell
they were a living hell
they would come out anytime
no reason no rhyme
hand grenades in hand
blow you up on their land
It was always a dangerous situation
you never knew when injury was a completion
you'd blacken your face up and find a tree
and sit real still and listen to everything carefully
because one wrong move could mean your life so
you had to be super aware to all the facts before you could go
to sleep for a matter of minutes perhaps a little longer if your lucky
things sure aren't the same since that plane ride all the way from Kentucky
so they put their helmets on their rifles in case they were shot at
they'd think that was their head and they would miss them flat
out right was the goal only some of them knew
and some of them snuck around to the front of you
to blow off your real head and shatter you
and if anyone say "medic" they'll shatter them too
it's just too destructive being there
you're a trained killer and it just isn't fair
You don't believe in Memorial Day, you say?
Don't stay in the states, we should run you away
too many men gave their lives for you to keep you free
we should throw you in prison lock the door and get rid of the key
this celebrates men like my brother, my cousins, good men that didn't come back
the audacity of you to talk bad about this day, disrespect them, the deck was stacked
not in their favor, believe me, we should've sent guys like you, their bodies hacked
to scare them, I wish I could scare you
no your not even worth it to do
anything to drop down to your kind
just remember when you look behind
you, proud men gave you freedom believe it or not
you ignorant bastard you must have forgot
your daddy, your grandpa, somebody you know
fought a war for you and us and you show
to the rest
Happy Memorial Day!
Thanks to all you Women and Men whom keep and kept us safe
Long poem by
Gary Fields | Details |
@one must have lived
on both' sides of
justice to be fully
There are so many
There are oh! So
But, in this day of
Can it really
Their are those who
live in the shadow
There are those who
are on top!
Many have faith in
the interest of
I say some-times' it
is merely just a
----- Now think
about that ----
Do you live in a
state of justice
Or in a state of
Where your strife is
And pales' beyond
Can you go out at
of your plight
Hence: the fear of
going out at night
This reflects' the
type of judgement
That which you
A issue shrouded
in black and white
A deadly combination
of the many social
truth comes' to the
As a human body lay
riddled in the heat
of the night....
If you are stopped
in a store to-day
Do you expect to
make it home?
Are you subjected
to the night?
Where justice is
swift a constant
To end up at the
business end of
To the end of
Only to be pondered
upon as a
creature in that
Where you your-self
have just payed
The supreme price
from a flash of
That threatens' to
end your life...
Where some-one else
in his unique
justice amend to
take your life
(Some-call it a snap
decision only... it
such a snap to take
another life) later
to be call a mishap
in the name of
I still say' maybe
acting on a little
In the name of our
Needless too say,
Is this the best
dare I choose?
filled full of
With a truth slowly
only God knows'
What has just
.... And the
reason why so many
Who's brand of
justice would you
survive... In that
Just to stay
which do you
care.... to defend?
Would it be
attributed to the
feat of justice
Or will it be just
Or to the
determination of the
life of just another
man..... Or that
breath of justice
From which he did
To abide and to
of man... Awh! Yes,
The truth depends'
on the end of the
That which is in
your hand..... With
of justice that we
That brand of
justice that which
you may call upon
for the sake of your
Censored in Contrast
Long poem by
W. L. Said | Details |
I grew up in Poortown
A mile down the road
From hard topped streets
Where Miss Eleanor lived
She sat on the front porch
Smoking ready rolled
Eating brought on peaches
And she would hide in back
When she took a dip of snuff
She wore nice dresses
With zippers on the side
And her stockings both
Had seams and no holes
Her shoes were shiny
As a brand new nickel
Miss Eleanor was not poor
And she made it a point
To let everybody know it
She always had a new
Cadillac car to drive
And the sweetest smelling
I was just a boy when she
Called me in her yard one day
Told me how she watched me
In my ragged old overalls
Passing by her gate each day
She asked me how a boy
With no visible means
Could afford to go into town
Most every day and stay
From morning till dusk
She had no understanding
How life really was in Poortown
So I told her best I could
The particulars of my day
How Pa was sick in bed
And my Ma had passed away
I told her I was working for
For the wealthy folk in town
For my dinner and to get my Pa
His medicine he had to have
It felt as though she had
A special kind of glass
That she could use to look
Right on through my lie
Made me feel so small and petty
Then she told me not to go
Into town anymore
But to come to her house
And I would work for her
I show the next morning
To a brand new pair of overalls
And some shiny Brogan shoes
Not new but unlike any I’d ever had
She took me to the back yard
And gave me tasks to do
I worked as hard as I could
Just to make a good impression
Miss Eleanor brought some iced tea
To the settle in the shade
Under the old apple tree
Where we began to talk
All about life and our lot in it
I learned from her and she from me
And when the day was over
And she paid me from her purse
For the work I had done
And not a penny more
She told me plain that the
Money I had earned was mine
And mine alone and if my Pa
Wanted his “medicine” he’d
Have to work for his own
Same as I did for mine
Years passed by and I grew up
Miss Eleanor is gone on now
But she left me all she had
Which to my surprise wasn’t
Very much… You see she believed
That appearances could hide a
Myriad of deficiencies from
Prying eyes, but not the heart
She taught me while appearances
Were important they meant
Little in comparison to character
Honesty and integrity…
So I sit here on the front porch
Smoking ready rolled cigarettes
Enjoying a brought on peach
Watching the endless parade
Of poor and destitute young’uns
I think back to the days
When I would pass by and
Imagine the mystery and beauty
Inside this little stone cottage
And who Miss Eleanor really was…
I like to think when she passed away
That she passed down a little
Of herself to me…
Long poem by
Jesse James Forster | Details |
I remember that day and never looking back
I said goodbye to my family and grabbed my duffel bag
Im off to be a hero just like my grandfather and my dad
Im going to fight for America Im going to become a man
I will make you all proud by protecting all your dreams
Generations of battles war nerve pumping throughout my veins
Familiar echoing war drum beating inside from my angry heart
No sooner than I am deployed the blood shed and death will start
Nothing could prepare me for the violence I would see
I met death with my first kill, and made a deal with inhumanity
My first experience of occupation I fired at every moving car
The rules of engagement were simple kill everything both near and far
Giving candy to little kids all named Michel Jackson, but not to win hearts
But to use them as human shields against the enemy insurgent charge
Women and child seperated from their husbands and father
We were lethal shepherds in armor hurding the lambs into the slaughter
Still to this day when I close my eyes their screams become my ghost
Eight months inside the hole, I lost myself, I lost all of my hope
My dreams become a horror for my nightmares have now over filled
And from my cup and my eyes their blood will be poured and spilled
I look at a tattered picture of my own family back at home
But can not smile or remember or I too will come undone
Numb by design, programmed in fear, and not to feel
Compassion has left me alone, I am cold organic steel
Casualties of war are corpses I ran over in the valleys and the fields
Im a killing machine a 1014 an M16 are the swords that I weild
A modern day holocaust ordered to kill anything posing a threat
But when getting fired upon from a crowd its hard to identify a target
Lock and load Little Elvis once again it's time to kill
Weapons forged against us lay in the terrain and hides in the hills
RPG fires into defending walls as bullets fire screaming past my head
Machine gunners leveled that f@@#ing building while my comrades are laying dead
Adrenalin pumping fuels the plans for my next attack
Hot flashes of steel pierces my skin as shrapnel shreds through my flak
People who were in prayer were no safer from their deaths
Bodies still burning, in pieces, or taking their final breath
Children run through my site with tears inside their innocent stripped eyes
She was no older than ten as she watched her little brother die
Deafened ears fall upon me, blood now is my fate
Hell is abroad in this desolate God forsaken place
Soldiers took trophy pictures of their faces with the dead
Who is the enemy I wonder, this doesn't make any sense
The boy who left home to become a man he never did come back
His soul still wanders the Tigris River lost forever to Combat
For all of my fallen friends, heroes, and families. You are always with me and will see you soon
Long poem by
Christine Phillips | Details |
I have heard of it,
I was in it,
I have imagined it,
But I am yet to experience it.
What is this dream?
Who is this dream for?
Is it a dream for the wealthy and the powerful?
The politicians and the Gangs?
The Cartels and the Mafia?
Drugs and substance abuse?
Is it a dream for organized crime?
Sabotage, and hopeless?
What is this dream?
Is it a dream for big cars?
Credit card debts?
Is it a dream for freedom and justice?
Inequality and racisms?
Or is it a dream for peace, unity, love and compassion?
Some people have been dreaming too long,
And it’s time to wake up to reality?
Everyday hundreds of people are killed in the streets of America,
Children are murdered in the schools
Businesses are robbed,
And illegal schools, and colleges are established on a daily basis,
Innocent people get hurt every second
And the security system is tainted with bribery and corruption
What is this dream?
Rags to riches or riches to rag?
Aunt Mary is a successful doctor;
She left her beautiful home by the beach;
She resigned a good paying job;
She leaves her husband, and children
behind in search of the American dream
But she ended up in a rat infested brown stone,
apartment in lower Manhattan.
She works three jobs,
flipping burger and scrubbing floors to make ends meet,
And at the end of the month she can barely pay the rent,
She cannot eat a proper meal
she has to pay it back to the American dream.
My ink has been dried up for many years,
The weather was perhaps too cold for my ink to flow,
I have resorted to the computer
but the keys were frozen too.
What on earth had gone wrong?
I might have been in America too long
My creativity was put on hold
because I was too busy trying to achieve my dreamless goals
Everyday thousands of people from across the globe
landed on the shores of America;
Thousands of people have lost their lives
in sunken boats, and extended journey across desserts
some people have spent months travelling from country to country
with the hope of reaching America
only to be subjected to the materialistic dream.
A dream that will one day reduce them to nothing,
A dream that will make them work night and day,
A dream that will cause them earn their bread the hardest way.
Somewhere along the road
the real essence of this dream has been destroyed
And new meaning has been added to i.,
What happen to the ideals of America?
Where is the success and upward mobility?
Where is the fuller,
and better life that everyone anticipated?
Can we still achieve prosperity and success?
Does this dream exist at all?
Is it a dream for some?
Or is it a dream for all?
Open your eyes and recapture the American dream.
©2013 Christine Phillips
Long poem by
James Fraser | Details |
On that day, in Aug 45
Bomber over the city that's very much alive
Nervous crew, cloudy day
Pilots instructions, open bomb bay
The words above as the pilot has said
What happens next the World dreads
The catch releases as Little Boy goes
Are they really enemies, are they really foes?
As he lands without a sound
As he plummets into Japanese ground
As he ignites his awesome power
As he sprays his atomic shower
An eternity clears in hours I hear
No City which once was here
Where are the people, no where near
In Oppenheimer do I detect a tear
If that's the worst the USA tells
Nagasaki is next as the death toll swells
Lo and behold that day has come
The second city is indeed gunned down
This Uranium gem as the Yanks declared
Our troops at war will all be spared
Not to think of these Japanese folks
Who in Atomic ruin, their lives now soaked
Buildings gone where they once were
Populations vaporised without a care
This Mushroom shape will shadow forever
This day in History will never sever
The following day as I look around
A bustling city which has no sound
I stand here bleeding from burns and sores
Skin dripping my family torn
All around me broken burning shapes
Trying to make sense of what this all makes
What could have created such destruction as this
On these cities where yesterday was bliss
I limp down my street in imaged spree
Shadows of neighbours I will never see
Silhouetted in shape in many forms
Is this my World, it's not the norm
Weeks have passed as I start to feel ill
Once I was ten, now I feel nil
Body sored with lacerations and boils
This human life now entering it's toil
As I look to the sky some birds still soar
Those lovely doves I will see no more
My life fades as my eyes gently close
Should anyone receive those blows
Now I'm gone as I look down, where once a city, now no more a town
Once there were dots all running around
Most are gone, blown from our ground
Where mediation was never met, discussions were never said
Two cities, many dead
( Lyrics by Queen )
Teo torriatte konomama iko
Shizukana yoi ni, Hikario tomoshi
Itoshiki oshieo idaki
Let us cling together as the years go by
Oh my love, my love
In the quiet of the night
Let our candle always burn
Let us never lose the lessons we have learned
Are our lessons learnt, time will tell
Berlin Wall, barriers fell
Is it a start, or a start to come
Is this race always on the run
We need to look and look around
No more we hear that whistling sound
It's seems to be a more silent kill
Typical Human, in it's typical will
Re-posted in memory of 'Theodore Van Kirk' the last of the 'Enola Gay'
Long poem by
Mike Liquori | Details |
By being real,
I mean really, real!
With harsh truths that need to be freed from our fragile lie,
It is easy to say, or see "thugs", "punks" in the streets of BWI!
But as I remove my eye from looking to weak,
and look from within at human torment,
I see a generation lost.
These are just scared kids!
By in-large they are alone,
fatherless and some homeless,
But all in pain,
And deep seeded need.
What a joke to hear "land o'plenty" while on a bleeding, bent knee.
They are a generation lost upon the sea,
A ship sailing in the dark,
With no port to see,
No destination to guide with faint distant light.
The cities are tinder boxes of oppression's disenfranchised youth...
looking to be heard, in the follies of the absurd.
Where do they go?
When will we lend an understanding ear?
or what do they say when it finally hears...
DO you want the answers that they live?
The reply given in reality with the caps flying from a nine?
Weaving and dodging all the god forsaken years.
As any kid will do,
its the best they can do.
In the freshness, the excitement,
They rush like a river broken free,
from the walls of opposition,
that was holding it back,
not only with our words, like "Your fenced off from that"
but also in action,
Cities full of scars.
We must truly see the system is rigged from them to me.
Never really thought much about it,
We all know how white and easy answers can be,
But lets get real, fanning the fires flames,
is all they feel.
Burning them insane!
The failure is now upon all of us,
my people, our time,
Our clock just struck twelve!
Not just the white and black men,
But also all the others on planet earth accompanying with them!
The black brother must acknowledge, how they let the child down,
while the white man acknowledges that we pushed them even father around.
In the end..... we both let everyone down,
and then never came 'round!
Baltimore the city just showed up to say,
Get you acts together,
And start building docks right away!
Make no more haste together,
Get your kids to the harbor,
Now! Start today! Because you've wasted all the tomorrows!
As my eye is father opened,
What if that was me?
Who spiked a pillar in a sandy spot out to sea?
So I wrote this up,
Where I started to say,
resolute on the matter,
that just maybe,
we can build a dock together and get some kids back safe,
No more black or white pillar,
just one great giant dock.
My safe American Family!
Complete with an anchor and the rope to adhere,
courtesy of The Poet Mike?
I do hope you all really hear.....