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Long America Poems

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

See also: Famous Long Poems

Long Poems
Long poem by Robert Nehls | Details |


Conditions were harsh out in Kansas,
For the children and Sarah and Paul.
Neighbors and friends packed up and were gone;
Headed west they could hear fortune's call.
Never sure year to year of the harvest,
So their talents were traded and sold.
Sarah a seamstress, Paul made his knives,
And they spent them like silver and gold.

Fourteen years worth of lessons in Kansas. 
God had always provided their needs.
They trusted in him for direction,
And would willingly go where He leads.
They wanted the best for their children,
Where nature's a little more tame.
Destiney's hand reached out once again.
Opportunity shouted their name.

The Pacific Northwest urged them onward.
Where there's timber and culture and schools.
A talented blacksmith would thrive there.
Sarah had visions of fashions and spools.
They drifted through dreams for their children;
Better teachers and schools, books stacked high,
And a chance to pursue their own future.
Spreading their wings and learning to fly.

To strive and succeed is a blessing.
Fanning flames of creativity.
Possibility coupled with freedom.
Oh, this beautiful land of the free.
For all that have dreams to enlighten,
Where they'll find their true calling and grow.
Expanding on gifts God has given, 
And nothing to stifle the flow.

They sold what they could, packed up the rest,
And were headed out west on the train.
America opened her heart once again,
With her treasures and spirit to gain.
Not sure of the place they would settle.
God would show them the way, this they knew.
Seattle, Tacoma, Portland or where?
Each mile they traveled, hopes and dreams grew.

Mother nature poured out warmth and beauty,
And Oregon welcomed them home.
Overwhelmed with her glory and splendor.
No need to go further or roam.
Bought a place by the city of Portland.
Opportunity seemed to be there.
Some land, a few buildings, a cabin.
God had led them and answered their prayer.

Sarah enrolled the children in school.
They cleaned up the cabin and land.
Traded dresses and knives for things they would need.
And set about doing all they had planned.
Paul hung a big sign outside his shop.
Didn't take long for his skill to known.
Inventor, an artist, they called him, "The Blade."

The loggers and miners would bring broken parts,
And request special tools to be made.
Paul met every challenge with passion and skill,
And a spirit that never would fade.
Each job had a lesson and Paul wrote them down.
And would think about ways to improve,
Hardening, friction, balance and wear,
Then built them to see what a field test would prove.

Neighbors and friends had repairs to be made,
On implements, wagon parts, hinges and tools.
Matthew, Paul's son, would work after school,
And learned that a blacksmith was no trade for fools.
But the fire and anvil, hammer and steel,
Brought a joy he would not be denied.
He made the repairs like a smith twice his age,
While observing his father who worked by his side.

They had to expand to meet the demand.
And they hired a couple more men.
Paul kept creating for customer's needs,
Hired some more and expanded again.
His blades weren't forgotten but set to the side,
Too busy to give them much thought.
His creative talents had never been lost.
He followed the rainbow in search of the pot.

Sarah rented a shop in the city,
Called it the, "Huckleberry Boutique."
Designing clothing beyond the normal;
Made for the boldest and for the meek.
She hired a clerk and three seamstresses.
Was a favorite with women and girls.
Her daughters would wear her creations,
With drapes, pleats, ruffles, flowers and pearls.

Paul raised up the flag every morning.
And the years just went trickling by.
They were grateful for all God had given.
Read from the Bible and didn't know why,
They'd been blessed with so many fortunes.
Their home and family, business and friends.
The children were now off to college.
The circle of life and love never ends.

Mary had hopes of being a writer,
Of people and places, worlds not what they seem.
Martha had worked with her mother for years,
A fashion designer was her greatest dream.
Matthew had learned his father's trade well,
And he wanted to be an engineer.
Invent and design for the loggers and mines.
A fine family business, a noble career.

In time the children were settled in life.
Mary wrote stories and sold quite a few.
"Huckleberry Fashions," was thriving;
Martha now at the helm, the company grew.
And Matthew returned to his father.
Engineering degree, his dues had been paid.
He took over the business and loved it,
And freed up some time for his father, "The Blade."

Paul and Sarah had time on their hands.
And they knew what they wanted to do.
There were poor, unfortunate souls reaching out,
To the churches for shelter and food.
With compassion and love for their neighbors,
They would share God's sweet bounty with them.
And help them to reach their goals and their dreams,
While freeing themselves from poverty's hem.

There were businesses all around Portland,
That would also be happy to share.
The churches united, a great common cause.
There was guidance, training, housing and prayer.
A scholarship fund was created,
And watched over by Sarah and Paul.
Volunteers vowed allegiance and honor.

The Board of Directors and all those involved,
Gave their smiles, compassion and heart.
No one expected a salary or wage.
Brushstrokes creating a fine work of art.
A foundation with nothing to gain,
But the blessings that God has to give.
Helping others to reach for abundance.
Then passing it on so others may live.

Paul made his knives when he had some free time.
Gave them as gifts to family and friends.
Sarah designed just for fun now and then,
And followed the industries fashions and trends.
They were thankful for all of God's blessings,
Independence and dear Liberty.
Where all have a chance to make dreams come true.
Oh, this beautiful land of the free.

Copyright © Robert Nehls | Year Posted 2016

Long poem by Zachary Alvstad | Details |

Xenophobia pt 1


Heed the warning
This isn't for the faint of heart
Verbalizing my deepest yearnings 
They're bound to be a bit tart...

Because where I'm from is called the Bible Belt
Where folks in queues to catch the garter belt
Where peoples dreams take constant pelts
And kids psyches be full of welts
From parents saying, "the sky's the limit!"
Then they grow up and only hear about limits...

Get real kid, this is how it's always been
You hear that? That's the worlds smallest violin
I swear sometimes I can feel the world spin
Like, if we don't change now... When?
Used to be paralyzed by the illusion of sin
Poked my comfort zone with a safety pin
Don't let 'em steal your heart like the man of tin
I made it out by the hair of my chin

Growing up, my favorite question was "Why?"
23 years later I can't quit asking "Why?"
Why? Why? Why? Whyyyyy?
Sigh... I just can't turn a blind eye
Imitation is suicide, rather die than comply
Curiosity'll make my brain pop, 1,000 p.s.i.
9,000 miles from home lookin' at the same blue sky,
Thinkin', It's crazy how one decision can change your life

Day to day nothing seems to change
Then looking back nothing seems the same
Where did all the time go?
You really do reap what you sew... 

Maybe I bite off more than I can chew
I'm just trying to broaden my view
I'm just trying to learn something new
In hope of reaching heights visited by few
Yeah, I definitely bite off more than I can chew
But someday I'll reach heights visited by few
So I'll keep musin' 'til I become the Muse 

Let me share some thoughts from abroad
I'm currently chillin' in Asia on Cambodian sod
The way the world's been portrayed is 100% facade
The American Dream... Aka the American Fruad
Blindfold your brain, here comes the firing squad

Day by day, I feel my prejudices melt
I can't put a finger on some things I've felt 
But I'll always accept the cards I've been dealt
Cause I'm the dealer...

Hit me.

Only brought one bag, traveling light
Do I own things or do they own me?
Less is more, it's black & white 
That's old wisdom, Linear B
Who's to say what's wrong or right?
I guess in time we'll see...

Don't know if I'm lookin' for somethin'
Or if I'm runnin' from somethin'
Both, Either way the answer's within
I can't lie I miss home now & then
But Ima keep runnin' until who knows when

Been gone nearly 6 months, quite awhile
What's home? I haven't found it yet
Slidin' thru these countries like socks on the tile
Learning so many lessons from people I've met
Like, Did I really choose my lifestyle?
Or, was it chosen from a finite set? 
Single file, line's longer than the Nile
The world's a lot different than on the TV set...

Don't go there, someone might kidnap you
Or kill you, mindset courtesy of the news
Come take a walk in someone else's shoes
And see how the U.S. of A is viewed
I think you might be amused...
The bad guys... Who's who?
Your nationality, did you choose?
Your religion, did you choose?

We all have the same inherent desires 
To be loved, understood and cared for
To have food to eat and some attire 
a roof over our head, that's all that's at the core

Imagine one lives the exact same life as me 
But he was raised without Christianity
He's damned for eternity?
because of our incompetency
to realize & manifest universal equality...?

Other advocates believe their story's infallibly true
Same way you talk about yours 'til your cheeks turn blue
Older generations think we need to get a clue
The irony is, We inherited this world from you
You told us most of what we thought we knew
So don't be mad when we try to start anew
And we challenge everything you said was taboo
Because history seems like never ending déjà vu
Sit back, relax, and forget what you're used to
Because it's our turn to lead the coup
Honing my foresight on when my child will be two
I wanna be someone he'll be able to look up to
I wanna leave a world where he won't just make do
To fit in he won't need a pair of $100 shoes
And instead of war we'll use our words & peruse
You going to wake up or hit snooze?
What's your excuse?
Honestly, what do we have to lose?

Maybe I bite off more than I can chew
I'm just trying to broaden my view
I'm just trying to learn something new
In hope of reaching heights visited by few
Yeah, I definitely bite off more than I can chew
But someday I'll reach heights visited by few
So I'll keep musin' until I become the Muse

Times are changing Mom & Dad
Global consciousness shift, this isn't just a fad
Growing up our world was much different than yours
Surf the Internet and check anythings source
We won't sit back and let things take their course
It's simple, you want me to code it in Morse? 

. . . _ _ _ . . . 

Boy, why's your writing gotta be so coarse?
Uhh... Why do half of marriages end in divorce?
It shouldn't be a chore
Neither side thinks their the source
Did you forget about all those scriptures you endorsed?
All those Sunday morning worships you enforced?

What if time was our currency?
and we fostered self-ésteem?
What if it was as easy to be nice
As it is to be mean?
What if the forest was church?
And the universe was our God?
What if our prayers were meditation?
And no one told you who to laud... 

Maybe we aren't content with kneeling to pray
Maybe we want to put our actions into play
Instead of asking "someone" to allay our dismay
Man, These days a lotta things seem like display
Ostentatious piety, I see thru that like an x-ray
Look, I'm just sayin' what y'all are scared to say
Let's stop all the bleeding... Vitamin K
And show love like it's always Valentine's Day...

Copyright © Zachary Alvstad | Year Posted 2015

Long poem by Anthony Amero | Details |

Being American

I live in America, as in the United States of America, and that used to mean something. At least to me it did. And it’s not so much in how I was raised but in how I was couched by my country. While I was never one to really fall into the “mom, apple pie, hot dog and baseball” America ideal, I did believe in the land of the free and the home of the brave, where all men are equal and rights for all men. And I still do believe that ideal. Yet this country of mine keeps despairing me as I continually see a degradation of those ideals over the last fifty years. And I have this following theory.

We are a melting pot of all societies and prided ourselves on accepting everyone. But take a look at that for a minute. Look at Europe and Africa and their history for a minute, I did. Throughout recorded history Europe and Africa kept all religious and racial differences segregated in their different countries, or areas, and fought each other over ideological differences and over the generations a deep-seated, in-bred hatred developed for each other developed. Wars were begun for the simple act of mingling with other races or religions. This is fact, look it up. Now flash-forward to the new country, America, with its open borders accepting the oppressed, where all flocked to start a new life. Now you’ve got a huge influx of natural enemies flooding a nation and now they are supposed to just drop their in-bred prejudices? Play nice after centuries of discord? But for the Civil War, I’m surprised we haven’t erupted into total anarchy. But the whole point of this is that these people want to come here and keep their culture, their identity. I see no fault in that and don’t blame them, but that brings me right back to my original question, where, or more fundamentally, what, is it to be American?

I believe the original creators of the Declaration of Independence were visionaries. It bothers me at times to see various Facebook posts and other mentions of such things saying they were racist, or this, or that. I do believe there was a lot of that in many of the implementers of the document, but not really in the actual architects. Why do I believe that? Mostly for this statement: “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness”. And the 11th Article of the Bill of Rights confirms the Declaration thusly: “The enumeration in the Constitution, of certain rights, shall not be construed to deny or disparage others retained by the people”. Yet in this country, just like in the mother countries of Europe and Africa, we suffered from racism and bigotry.  I believe this goes back to my theory of the melting pot of people who came to America. They couldn’t overcome their bigotry or racism or hatred just because they came over here, although some really tried. Yet I believe the architects of the Declaration were far-sighted enough to not try to create some sort of Utopia either, but rather a working, self-sustaining country that was governed by the people, for the people. The biggest problem as I see it was that it got too big … that’s not totally true. The biggest problem as I see it is politics and the “American Way”.

When is the last time you heard a politician run a campaign and only talked of the issues that concerned the people? I only see and hear them talk of negative things of their opponents. Why would I vote for anyone who tries to smear their opponent? How is that helping me or my neighbor? How is that serving the public good? How is that engendering trust? It’s not, in my opinion. And the “American Way”? Americans are far too smug, too fat and happy. There’s very little strife so we take way too many things for granted. Don’t believe me? This may seems simplistic and a little childish, but take your household chores for example. We live in a country where you can wash your dishes in hot water, can even use an automatic dishwasher, can even wash your clothes in an automatic washing machine and electric dryer. We have so many modern, electronic conveniences that it’s actually making us dumber. Don’t believe me? How many of you have lamented the young cashier at the convenience store who cannot make change unless the cash register tells them how much to give back? Basic skills are being eroded because of the useless conveniences we keep making in the never ending quest to make our American lives easier. It’s disheartening, really. Maybe it’s just me and progress really isn’t that bad, but I see proof everyday of the dumbing of America, and if you’re of a certain age I believe you see it, too.

So I see this huge country I live in, called America, filled with so many diverse people living in … harmony? I don’t know, I still see racial problems and still can’t figure out why. I have a very simple philosophy on life: while we’re not entitled to material things, every person is entitled life and respect to be who they are, so long as they do not intend to hurt others. And, for the most part, I’m happy enough and I am oh, so grateful that I live here, in America. I can say what I want, I can worship who I want – if I want – and I can aspire to become what I want, if I’m willing to work hard enough. And you can disagree with me, if you want. We have that freedom. Because we are living in America, and we are free. For now.

But I do worry about the future America and what it may devolve into.

Copyright © Anthony Amero | Year Posted 2016

Long poem by Mike Liquori | Details |

Lincolns Lesson learned

                                  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, 
                                              and glory,
                                    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.


Copyright © Mike Liquori | Year Posted 2015

Long poem by Robert Nehls | Details |


He was born in backwoods Missouri.
1840 the year he arrived.
Conflict, sickness and hard times prevailed.
Through it all he grew strong and survived.
Skills to live were a gift from his father.
Faith in God from his mother each day.
Never taking his freedom for granted.
Understanding the price one must pay.

He quietly moved into manhood. 
With his siblings he stood sure and tall.
Proud to be part of his family.
Then, the young man heard destiny's call.
Not sure of the path to be taken,
But, he knew he must find his own way.
Calling on God's Divine guidance,
And His strength, love and joy for each day.

Well, for five years he worked in the mill, 
Preparing for what life will bring.
A wagon to build, horses to buy.
Then Sarah walked in and made his heart sing.
Sometimes, one can feel like a shadow;
Incomplete in an unfulfilled dream.
That's how it was for Sarah and Paul,
Till they flowed into one life stream.

Sarah's family were all back in Boston.
She left them to find, her own destiny.
Consumed by the pioneer spirit.
How she longed for the land of the free.
She made it as far as Missouri,
With a plan to move on further west.
Then Paul walked into her life and she knew,
That he'd become part of her quest.

She shared in his hope for the future.
More than willing to stand by her man.
To homestead some land out in Kansas,
Start a farm, raise a family, the plan.
An American flag and the bible;
Wedding gifts from Paul's mother, she cried,
"May God keep you safe in your travels."
His father looked on, full of pride.

They hitched up the team to the wagon,
Bid farewell to their family and friends.
Headed out, into unknown adventure,
Where America's dream never ends.
There were challenges met on the journey,
With a spirit that will not concede.
Swarming locust, dust storms, rivers to cross,
But, they knew where their victories lead.

They traveled through Kansas with hope in their hearts,
For a place where a family could thrive.
Where crops could be grown, a church and a school,
And a town that was fairly close by.  
They found peace in a county called Morris.
Felt like home with some trees and a stream.
Quarter section of land with some promise.
Here they'd build their American dream.

Sarah tilled up some ground for the garden.
Paul began to envision their home;
A cabin with walls strong and sturdy;
A pole with the flag his mother had sewn.
Neighbors came by to lend them a hand.
Soon the cabin was built safe and warm.
Sarah with child, Paul worked on the barn.
And they were secure from the storm.

Well, the days went by, as they surely do.
Then the weeks, and the months, and the years.
Three little children now ran through,
All their struggles, and laughter, and tears.
Paul raised up the flag in the morning.
And they read from the bible each day.
Grateful for all God had given them.
Before meals they held hands and they'd pray.

There was Mary and Matthew and Martha,
Their dog Bo with big ears and brown nose.
Sarah tended the garden and children,
Cooked the meals and made most of their clothes.
Each child was given chores to be done,
Learning honesty, friendship and pride.
Their Pa, a pillar of honor and strength.
And love, the wagon they all would ride.

Paul learned to farm, he planted the wheat,
And hoped for a high yield each year.
But nature can rip through the best laid plans,
Searching for options, it soon became clear.
The forge and the anvil sat waiting,
For the skill that Paul learned as a boy.
He had to provide for his children and wife.
And his knife making brought him such joy.

Between mending fences and planting,
Hunting and harvesting wheat that prevailed;
He worked in the shop with tools that he loved,
Making knives that his customers hailed!
"Nothing less than a fine work of art,"
"An extension of one's very hand."
But Paul ever humble, thanked God for his skill,
And kept working the steel and the land.

Neighbors helped neighbors in times of need.
Being friends reached beyond a passing hello.
They shared in the blessings God gave them,
Through fire and hail and hard driven snow.
While the children grew up with a purpose, 
And a love for this land of the free.
Knowing God is the source of their freedom.
We the People are given the key.

Paul and Sarah provided their family,
With shelter and clothing and food.
Safe from harm and the fury of nature.
Giving love that would always include,
Paul raising the flag in the morning.
Holding hands and a prayer for each meal.
Sarah reading them all bible verses.
Sunday worship to nourish and heal.

They had found their American Dream.
In the land and the friends they had made,
And the freedom to raise up a family.
To choose their own way, and the price to be paid.
From a distance it looks like survival,
But with God, it's a blessing indeed.
Life, Liberty, the quest for happiness.
Planting love as the ultimate seed.  

Copyright © Robert Nehls | Year Posted 2015

Long poem by Justin Bordner | Details |

Grit And Guts On The Gridiron - 1

Mud and leather
dirt and nerve
bloodied laughter
collision to serve,
distance, drive and demolition
battle axe ambition in the wild air
muscle and mind joined in steeled instinct, 
a stitched pigskin ball, the grail of the Fall
to fumble it means spleen infamy
while intercepting it invokes Victory's voice,
in the huddle a plan is revealed firmly by the Field General
and the men move into attack formation
as the Defense swaggers with malice to menace the neutral zone,
the Quarterback becomes a hollering harlequin
inciting misdirection,  feigning action, teasing the tigers
suddenly the warword is exclaimed,  "Hut!"
the warzone is afire, bodies are banging
torn green turf spicing the nostrils
the sound of ripped jersey threads intones brute surge
metal facemasks scrape within frenzied scrimmage, 
spines in the audience stiffen in anticipation of vengeance
chop blocks and head slaps are underway
the Passer fakes pitch right and bootlegs left
Linemen begin to froth in a riptide to the flank
the Center neutralizes the Nose Tackle with leveraged strikes to the ribs
a rolling block by the Right Gaurd collapses the rabid Defensive End
as the Tight End belates a blitz
but suffers a forearm to the throat by a snarling Linebacker,
beyond the tumult of the titans upfront
the sprint and dash of leopards and lions is on,
well rehearsed and timed patterns are disrupted disrespectfully
in one on one pawing and punching
the Receiver is desperately defiant
as the Cornerback pursues him like a cold psycho,
the ball is launched in last second leadership
and it flies like a spinning rocket
the Quarterback takes a helmet to the jaw
no infraction, just a simple payment for the price of honor, 
through the flurried air the ball crests and cruises
coming down into the action with immaculate velocity
one target, two claimants
two strides, one prize,
a single step separates them from glory
the football finds the Receiver's flexed fingers
like a Lady's love bombshell
death itself could not wedge the catch
the score is his,
brought down to the earth
by a horsecollar tackle
the pain is sharp, the victory sure,

This was American football before the 21st century,
before the glitter and gimps
when gladiators roamed the torn grounds
and stood for their Nation's Anthem, 
I often think about, and admire
the men who sacrificed themselves
in order to make pro football a wonder throughout the world
the coaches and players who succeeded
in bringing a sophisticated and savage war into professional sport,
men like Red Grange who once said to kids,
"Football teaches you how to take a lick without crying about it,
and how to give one without bragging about too...",
I'm inspired by the 2 minute drill Johnny Unitas invented,
it's strategic efficiency and how it won championships,
Johnny's first pass in the NFL was a pick six againgst the Bears in '56
yet he believed in his arm and heart,
becoming a legitimate American icon,
while in the pocket, aiming for glory
Unitas was struck in the face by a Rusher's paw,
in the huddle his nose was gushing blood thickly,
his teammates were concerned for their leader,
Johnny scooped some mud off the field
and stuffed it into his nostrils telling his Center,
"Its alright baby, we're gonna score!",
Jim Brown, impossible to intimidate, 
he ran to be bold, he believed bruises were gold,
"Concrete Charlie" Bednarik laid out Frank Gifford
at the Polo Grounds in 1960 with a one arm death strike,
when Minnesota still had the balls to play outdoors
they procured the "Purple People Eaters" of the '70's,
cerebral and horned, harassing backfields demonicly,
getting to three Superbowls in fours years
the Viking were exorcised each time, never wining the trophy,
their Defensive Tackle Allen Page
is the only defensive lineman to earn the MVP Award
and after retiring became a Judge,
Lambeau Field, aka. "The Frozen Tundra"
is the Mecca of of pro football,  theater for a ruggid religion
it is the oldest, it is the fittest, 
green and gold are the colors of the pigskin sanctuary
and in it's open knave battle is celebrated, 
trailing the Dallas Cowboys 14-17 late in the 1967 Championship game,
Bart Starr, a stoic assassin,  and greatest Quarterback of all time,
with wind chills negative 40 degrees in Green Bay
told his coach Vince Lombardi that he could win the contest
with a QB sneak at the 1 yard line,
Starr stood behind his Center,
arms outstretched like a militant martyr, 
staring with serene lethality into Bob Lilly's burning eyes,
he took the snap, spearing himself forward into the savage den,
it was the "Ice Bowl", and its emblematic of self sacrifice, 
in 1972 the Miami Dolphins achieved the unimaginable, 
the perfect season, 17-0, their "No Name Defense"
and Running Back Larry Csonka,
more a killer whale than a dolphin
outsmarted, outpunched, and outscored everyone,
they will be forever undefeated, 


Copyright © Justin Bordner | Year Posted 2016

Long poem by Robert Ronnow | Details |

Cameron Diaz

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,
      selfish, self-organizing
organisms. Frightening, inexorable, fascinating
to the scientist in you!

To the telescope
vanishingly small, infinitesimal as the farthest sun
only smaller
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
(amateur botanist)
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 nest.

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.
Most cities
prosper, undisturbed
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,
      Cameron Diaz,
to her herpetologist
is known.

Copyright © Robert Ronnow | Year Posted 2015

Long poem by Ronald Tirino | Details |

Prisoner of the matrix loaded

Prisoner of the Matrix loaded
Prisoner of the matrix loaded

Cattle within the herd
cages within the slaughter
Profiteers prey upon the wounded
Branded comodified beings consumed
In consumption
Led to the plunder of themselves
Within the plotted grids of bondaged earth

Still between the ranting cheers
On the verge of winters coming
Man made structures of our makings
Chemical worlds implode upon themselves
Shadowed light distorted
With the DNA rekindled
Of the place we are found today

Cameras follow in the distance
In the cold mechanical establishment
Within the ministry of fears
Passive apathy of its loathing
Within the banality of our times
We become our own police
And become the servants of its master
Do its masters bidding without its knowing
Loss of self within the crowd
Alone within its distractions
Censored from their thinking beings
To express what’s needed
Established laws to rule the herds
Silenced voices amidst the waving grass
Gate keepers limit access to
Those denied to speak

Like foot prints upon the open mind
Moving toward the light we seek

Elders of the red skies clouded
Still they dream of pastures plenty
Caretakers and protectors of the land
Spirit walkers of mother earth
Witness to age were under

Ubiquitous standardized markets
Manufactured all the same
Conveyer belted tasteless products
Mechanized world all but dead
In Orwellian times today
Categorized labeled and distracted
Controlled within the mind itself
Isolated alienation from the nature of ourselves

Institutions of their orders
That mold the way we are
Reinforce and established rules they use
With the power of its authority one day
Shall come to rest

Within the machinery between the shadows on the walls
With in the world we tread
Beyond the facades of constructed systems
Beyond the status quos
Which validates its own existence

Empires expanded till they fall
Jails so filled which become our homes
Lands so plundered
Till all but bare
In the guises of doing good 
Endless wars where wealth is made
Where church and state are one
Randian worlds of the abyss
Compulsive obsessions within its greed
To plunder all that bleeds

Through the status quo’s of its normality
Obeying laws with hands held high
Where cold steel of bullets fly
Amidst the children in the streets

Walk with me oh my brother
Heads held high and knees not bent
For which the calls of freedoms coming
Within the everywhere of nowhere

With all things one and no divisions
Within the center of its core
in the seeds that become the trees
where reality is one
in the non-doing of its doings
transcends the emptiness within its fullness

cries from the abyss that no one hears
with all its lies distilled
fractured men in fractured lands

sleep of the machine
wakes to greet the urban sun
shinning cities from afar gloss over
what lies within 
amidst the streets at shadows edge
homeless by the score
migrant slaves that do its bid

prisoners of the matrix loaded
six of one before its other
in the village of nowhere standing
stands a man upon its shores

outstretched arms within its reaching’s
tries to climb beyond its gates 
and escape for freedoms sake
declares his mantra for its calling

a freeman not a number
he will make no deals
his life his own 
not be pushed or be filed
stamped indexed or be numbered

numbered six he seeks the one
which he finds is he himself
the enemy deep within 
conflict between the individual of 
its collective
amidst the social constructs that we build

conformity within normality
its own instructions of mass destructions
within the mass extinctions of our day
standing still we feel alone
amidst the urban deserts of decay

authority of intimidations
Institutions of dehumizations
within the inquisition of the mind

mass distraction rituals 
of the daily grind
mass consumption of entertainment
fill our brains beyond the 
rapture of its pain

beyond the myths of their creations
within the prisons
though pawns within their game
break the chains is destined
within the dignity of resistance

Socratic dreams of realization
critical minds extending
calls forth in its freedoms coming

within the matrix 
waking from its sleeping dream
knowing what is true and real
to feel the pulse of living being

unplugged outside of its inside
between the knowing and its walking
where hearts and mind embrace
as one

Copyright © Ronald Tirino | Year Posted 2016

Long poem by Tina Medina | Details |

Trust, Trust, Trust

Trust, Trust, Trust
By Dr. Tina Medina
Whether it is Benghazi or Kansas City,
You will call and she won’t answer
The pattern and practice is established
You will call and she won’t answer
That is why I do not trust her
Trust, trust, trust
It is at the heart of all matters
If trust can’t be established, then what happens at home…everything may be in disarray and scattered
If in Benghazi, no compassion and love for fellow man was shown
What will happen here at home?
Please hear me, you will call, but she will not answer
She had her chance to save lives in Benghazi
She may fry you like BBQ in Kansas City
Now I know I am getting creatively drastic
But, we do have the BBQ sauce and the pits, that woman is not legit
For 13 hours, our brothers cried out for help and mercy
And no help came
Now who is playing game
Let me remind you, no one came
We are the ultimate super power, yet no one came
How the hell does that happen and when did we stop hearing the pleas of our people
Those cries were probably heard spiritually from all the world’s church steeples
A true leader will act and command for help at all cost
There was a time that no American lives would ever be lost
Come on now, 13 hours there were cries for help to our nation’s Secretary of State
Yet were the mics on mute because the pleas were drowning out their public relations debate
She and Obama had access to everything – Army, Navy, Air Force and Marines
Yet they did not do a damn thing!
Human life was the cost
And to be honest, those lives did not have to be lost
Please hear my plea
Those lives did not have to be lost
I rather call out to Jesus because He is the only first responder
Too bad, we can’t write Him in on the ticket
Because 13 hours of waiting is a sign of poor leadership…it is a deficit
No one came because it was not politically adequate for her
Yet can she wash the blood off her hands with frankincense and myrrh
All the spices and riches from the Middle East cannot make this issue of trust simply go away
We Americans are not stupid, nor will be fooled by statements of delay
When asked about Benghazi
What difference does it matter….that is what she had to say
You see in these aspects of true leadership when it involves life and death
What difference does it matter! The harshness of her tone is a bit scary
What difference does it matter!!!
Let me tell a secret that you make know now or perhaps have forgotten
And this will make the story even more rotten
We live in a Jack Bauer “24” hour live-feed, real time Big Brother is watching your tail life
Our state of technology is off the chain
Those people did not have to suffer and die in vain
Come on now, do you think really think that the American people can’t filter through the political strife
We are all not playing Pokemon and forgetting about real life
The truth of the matter is that you were very lame
I have the constitutional right to write what I feel has just been a bunch of smoke and mirrors…plain out game
Just to find out that for 13 hours, no help ever came
Please, please let’s stop playing hide and seek games
The truth is very, very clear
Some of us simply don’t trust you because you did not answer the call from Benghazi
The question, we as a nation should be asking is what is she going to do in my city?
Let’s break it on down to a personal level
At any time during the 13 hours, she could have responded
No actions show that there is a lack of compassion and she is disheartened
How can you let people die?
When you got the eye in the sky!
We could have called down hellfire and saved the day
But you all wanted to play!
My heart goes out to the families of those four men as their lives matter more today
Because they represented their nation and fulfilled their call without any delay
Perhaps in God’s plan to wake up this nation
Their sacrificed lives will allow us to see the true revelation
The job takes moxy, strength, heart, love of people, and pure dedication
A true God ordained leader that is called will do all of their best to save the life of a brother
Action, fight, defend, lead, grow, pray, make things happen, be creative and save is what this nation was built on... there simply is no other

Copyright © Tina Medina | Year Posted 2016

Long poem by Xander Martin | Details |

The Lights ft Edgar Allan Poe


See the phone towers with the lights- 
Glowing 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, 
Incandescent 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- 
Stacked 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- 
Evil 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, 
All Alone 
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.

Copyright © Xander Martin | Year Posted 2015

Long Poems