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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 |

PAUL AND SARAH - PART TWO

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.
"BLACKSMITH FOR HIRE, KNIVES CUSTOM MADE."
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.
"SPREAD YOUR WINGS SUPPORT GROUP," stood very tall.

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

TITLE:
       Xenophobia

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, 
                                                 Honor,
                                              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.


  
ThePoetMike 

Copyright © Mike Liquori | Year Posted 2015

Long poem by Robert Nehls | Details |

PAUL AND SARAH

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 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
      Diaz)
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
      microscope
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 Xander Martin | Details |

The Lights ft Edgar Allan Poe

I 

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. 

II 

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! 

III 

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! 

IV 

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, 
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 poem by Jacquie Davis | Details |

Black


They walk the streets as black, And even night

Won´t cover them

From seeing their children turn to red on the ground

They will soon bury them in,

Just because the white in mighty blue

Thought black means something bad.

And then we stand up and say, that police brutality,

Must mean we all think all police are crooked.


They talk their talks as blacks, we deem them

Inevitably hooked. They argue till their face turn

Green and eventually blue.

Just because this is the corner were they hang,

Police was called for dispatching a gang

And the violence ensued, brought blood

To an old war record of perhaps crimes.

And then we stand up and say we had to man up

To the scourge of society, while real crimes walk free.


She walked the streets as black and as it happens

to be, the white man she saw loved the black in her.

She came for help but help never came, for we are

led to believe, those blacks just like their high games.

She must have been drunk, she must have forgot.

That she gave consent, to this all mighty white God.

And yet there we stand and call her a slut,

But also say, we must treat all crime equally and protect

Our society´s dear ladies.


She went to school with black, all the colourless

Called her shady, but her high grades were the highest

In the class. But the teachers eye wandered on that with

suspicion and called her in to ask her if she was cheating.

Her dreams of Harvard almost lay, in the hands of one man

Who thought black does not equal smart and cannot

possibly be winning. But we stand up and say, that equal

chances are everywhere, like we once said that the ghetto

was not really there and the money flowed equally to

every square. We stood there and said nothing really.


Harvard was in the hands of this black man, not from

Basketballs or doing cart wheelies or whatever reason

We think black men only enter Harvard. His teachers

Frowned when he entered the room, said: these other classes

Are at the end of the hall, son, and watch silently when

He sat down, before cautiously resuming his idea about

why people might never really need safe spaces

And we stood there and said we are proud of our fellow men

Who got into there with our help, although he did all the work.


And then we talked about positive discrimination

Right over their heads, silenced their comments.

About that it is the thing needed to give black fair chances.

So they at least were chosen on the merit of grades

And not the numbers that turned to white when choice came.

And now we say it is unfair, that a smart white dainty girl

Did not get into Harvard, although surely her grades much be

higher than her black ¨sister? who came not on merit because

They had to chose her, and even when they scream:

THIS IS NOT HOW POSITIVE DISCRIMINATION WORKS.

THIS IS A WORLD THAT CHOSE YOUR WHITENESS OVER

MY HIGHER GRADES EVERY FUCKING TIME,

We come here and we say: Things should not be done this way.


And after Harvard she still carried her name, when for hope

to sway the world on her credentials, she got rejection letters

To the tee very sophisticated and it was rather clear,

They did not read her letters, oh no dear, she got rejected

Just because of her name. The blackness of a name.

The skin tone in the letters of the alphabet that came to

define how people called her, followed her, clawed at her

From a piece of paper that rejected her melanin.

And the moment they call themselves black,

Call their lives black, their wives black,

We say: What´s up with that?

We don´t see colour at front or back.

We never saw colour like that.

Copyright © Jacquie Davis | Year Posted 2016

Long poem by John Hamilton | Details |

Sept 11,the day the world stood still

It was a day like every other day, sunny and warm they said
New Yorkers smiling and happy, looking for their daily bread
Taxis were darting here and there, planes flying everywhere
Children were going to school, parents laying down the rule.

Plans were made for later that day,
Meet you at 7, no, make it 8. I'll do my best not to be late.
Don't worry baby, I don't mind at all, Just please, remember to call.

Who could have known that waking up that day,
that things would happen in an unusual way.
To change forever, the way we think and feel
The events we saw, yes, they were real.

No way to deny it, it was on the news,
With our own two eyes, there were hundreds of views.
over and over we watched, hard to believe,
what we just witnessed, what did it all mean?

What an unusual sight, that plane in flight,
just before the ninth hour, when it hit the tower,
How terrible we thought, answers we all sought
Like, why did that happen, how could it be?

That a plane hits a skyscraper, in plain sight,
In broad daylight, not the dark of night.
Was it pilot error? How could that be?
The tower was right there, for him and all to see!

That moment was special, that moment in time,
when the whole world was watching, yes, stopped on a dime.
We saw the flames burning, our hearts they burned too,
would there be any survivors?... Who knew?

Calls were made, to say I love you,
Life's been good until now, it's been good loving you.
Say goodbye to the kids for me, tell them be strong,
Tell them daddy loves them...goodbye, so long.

We saw a man falling, from way up above,
Who was that man? Did he not feel loved?
or was he just desperate, to escape the heat?
We all watched in horror, as he fell to the street.

So many were dying, it was too hard to bear,
Many just couldn't get down the stairs.
Some just stayed put, thinking help will come,
What they didn't know was, the damage was done.

The bravest ones, I saw that day, firefighters, on the way,
into the fire they would run, climbing higher and higher,
To save others lives...from that raging fire.
They did not know then, it was a tragic mistake,
All they knew was...lives were at stake.

Many escaped from the tower, running for their lives,
we saw them running with terror in their eyes.
So many people were running just like the others,
They were their fathers, mothers, sisters and brothers.

...And then suddenly another plane appeared!
Was it coincidence, orjust something weird?

When it hit the second tower, at that very hour,
it became crystal clear, that it was just as we feared,
It was not a mistake, someone asleep at the wheel,
It was an attack! that one and all, we would feel.

From that day forward, everything would change,
The world was unrecognizable, suddenly so strange.
Innocence was lost, and war came at great cost,
We learned that terror, was more than just a word,
It was what we all saw, felt, and heard.

So now here we are, so many years later,
Is your pain, grief and fear, lesser, or greater?

Only God can help us now, with all of our fears,
It is he, who promises, to wipe away our tears.
And pain, death, and all of our sorrow,
Will all be gone, in what will seem like tomorrow.

Yes, God will surely help us, I know he will.
But, still it's hard to forget, Sept 11

The day the world stood still.

John Derek Hamilton   
December 20,2012 
Final revision October 13,2015




Copyright © John Hamilton | Year Posted 2015

Long poem by Max Siewert | Details |

Public History

I sit here steeping in the History 
of Our Land, a class, my eyelids dense.
Our Flag hangs in the corner of the class
Red and White folds in deluge, licking the
framed portrait of our Thomas Jefferson,
our founding father, the slave holder. 
My teacher, stern at his pulpit, recites
to silent rows of desks and students,
to the classroom, he recites Our Constitution:
“We hold these truths to be self-evident,
that all men are...” my pen drops, my sight blacks
yet I can see through the stars and the stripes,
the desk legs tremble and I hear Ocean -
seeking depth in the sands of my inner beach
I can see true Lady Liberty
kneeling in the dirt. She’s draped in the dull
jade gown which she filched from the Iroquois,
Catawba, Choctaw, and Creek. The Natives
who shared their fish, corn, wisdom, and shelter
with the savages who would betray them
eventually, steal their hunting grounds,
burn their homes, rape their women and children.

I see why she stoops so low now, and how
her crown pines for the Nature that once was,
Nature that hides now in the oaks which had shed
their trunks and rotted into divinity.

So deep is my reverie that the scepter
held by Lady Liberty does not shine,
guide, shimmer, nor teach, but instead it falls -
falls in black ash clouds, falls like grime culled from the backs
of Germans, Italians, Chinese, from
the farmer who brought his family by ship
to polish the shoes of Christians who called
him yellow. Or the daughter, destitute,
and attending to men in brothels for coin. 
Or the minister, told that he knew not
the word of God and would be spurned heaven.
They will never hold the scepter, and so
it falls like stinging sweat from the fissured
palms of Africans, Irishmen, and Jews.
There was the grandmother of eight who stole
what time she could from her master to teach
her son, daughter, and grandchildren how to read.
There, in a gutter, lived the lonely wife
who left home in wake of famine and still
had to bury her children in the mud
and abandon them to the Earth.
And there was the street-sweep who knew the burn
of cold spit on his forehead, kept his eyes
cast down to the dirt, still held onto hope.
Altogether, all together they were Americans.
Beckoned by Lady Liberty’s gilded staff
and enticed by her golden siren song
to the eastern coast of teeming land where
they first beheld its radiance, as if
only in a dream, then ceded life’s breath
to paint with Truth the lungs of Our Land
and the sickly veins of its governance.

I hear the collective voice of lives past:
the dying utterances of the slave,
the immigrant, the first woman to vote,
the soldier, the farmer, the criminal, 
and the jailer, and they are one ocean,
and their voice is the persistent undulation
of the swelling-then-receding tide.
Their waters will cover her feet and lick
her shins until she falls like cornhusk,
Lady Liberty, Lady of Ideals
now empty, on her knees and in the sand.
And the men, women, and children will come
clad in white, blue, black, brown, red, and all
to form a circle of one,
one nation and one people gathered here
together to cast a single acorn
into the pit she left behind
and declare this Their Land.

My eyes open and so too do my ears
to a teacher sleepily sputtering at a lectern
spouting a message addressed to all,
addressed to none: “...we mutually pledge to each
other our lives, our fortunes, our sacred honor.”

Copyright © Max Siewert | Year Posted 2016

Long Poems