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Long poem by Mario DE PAZ | Details |

Dante's Divine Comedy III Canto translation

“Through me you enter the city of woe
Trough me you enter the eternal pain
Through me you go to people lost below.

Justice inspired my highest factor reign;
I was created by act of divine,
Supreme wisdom and the first love as main.

Of all created things the first is mine
Unless eternal, and I eternal last.
Who enters here must any hope resign”.

These words in color of obscure contrast
I written saw on top of a big door;
So I: “Master, their meanings me harass”

And he to me, as guy with a shrewd  core
“Here you must abandon any bad mind;
Of any cowardice must die the bore.

We reached the place I told you, so remind,
Where you shall see the people full of pain
Who good of intellect have lost behind”.

And when his hand on mine put to remain
With happy face, giving consolation,
Told me deep secrets in a fashion plain.

There sighing, tears, cries of desperation
Were filling all the air empty of light,
So I had to cry with desolation.

Strange sounds, screeches with horrible insight,
Painfulness words, furious rage tones,
High and hoarse voices, and sounds to incite

Were doing much noise, which there high intones
Throughout that turbid air for endless time,
As when swirl wind moves sand and little stones.

And since I had so wrong my own head prime,
I told: “Master, what is the noise I hear?
Which is the people here bummed in such grime?”.

And he to me: “This forlorn way of here
Assume the dreary souls of those men past 
Who with no blot or laud a life had mere.

Among that evil choir are badly classed
Of angels who neither became barely rebels
Nor faithful to God, with selfishness vast.

Heaven to shun less beauty them dispels,
Nor can welcome them the deepest hell,
Since for no sinner are of glory wells”.

And I: “Master, what is  so hardly fell 
To make indeed them strongly to complain?”.
He answered: “Few words to you I will spell.

For these of death the prospect is in vain,
And their blind living is so badly low,
So that of any doom have envious brain. 

Of their renown worldwide there is no show;
Compassion and true justice them despise:
Don’t care for them, look simply and go low”.

And I, looking, saw a flag of big size
Which run whirling around at such a speed,
That looked to me to stop unworthy guise;

And back was followed by a crowd indeed
Of people, which I would never believe
That so far a large amount was death’s deed.

After who he was I reached to conceive
I saw and knew the shadow of the one
Who mean refused his great role to receive.

At once my understanding was thus done
That it was the sect of those captives here,
Not pleasing God and his enemies none.

These evil-born who had never life clear,
Had naked bodies and strongly harassed too
By blowflies and wasps which were flying near.

So doing blood was streaming their cheeks through,
Which, mixed with tears, fell to ground at their feet
Where it was picked up by pesky worms not few.

And since I looked back for a view complete,
I saw people nearby a large stream;
So I told: ”Master, you now me repeat

So that I know who are and for what theme
They have to look ready forthwith to pass,
As I descry in this light lack extreme”

And he to me: “Clear will be things at last
When our steps walking we shall bring to rest 
At the sad bank of Acheronte vast”.

With shameful eyes low looking at my chest,
Because I feared by speaking to bore him,
Silent to the river I was at best.

And came us towards of a  boat aboard
An old man, white for his ancient hair,
Shouting: “ Woe unto you, oh souls abhorred!

You have no hope to see the heaven air
I come to bring you to the other bank
In the eternal dark, warm and cold scare.

And you right there, of living souls your rank,
Divide your path from these ones who are dead”.
But when he saw I was not moving flank,

Told me: “Different ways, and ports instead
You have to reach, not here, to freely pass
A lighter vessel conveniently will lead”.

My guide to him: “Charon, don’t you harass:
So is the will up there where is the sway
To reach the will, and put no more contrasts”

After the fleecy chicks calm had to stay
To the old pilot of the livid slew,
Who flames round his eyes had to display.

But those souls, which were weary and naked too,
Forthwith turned pale and started to chatter 
When heard the meaning of words so askew.

Blasphemed God and their relatives latter,
The human beings, where, when and the seed
Of their seed pearl and of newborn scatter.

They then all joined and came compelled to cede, 
Bitterly weeping, at the wicked bank
Deserved by any man of God’s fear freed.

Charon demon, has ember’s eyes with swank,
Moving to them, is now collecting all;
With paddle beats whoever sits or sank.

As leaves which faded drop down during fall
One after the other, until the bough
Sees all his spoils fallen to ground to stall

So the wrong seeds that Adam could endow
Themselves throw from beach one by one,
His nod follow as a bird to call now.

So they above the obscure wave just run,
And before they the other bank descend
Another new swarm on this side is done.

“My dear son”, then told me the master friend,
“The wretches ones who die in God’s disgrace
From any country here come to their end;

The river crossing are ready to face,
Because divine justice now them spurs
So that their fear deep desire must displace.

Here no a good spirit ever occurs;
So, then if Charon is to complain with you,
You ought to catch well what his speech incurs”.

And when he ceased, the land obscure to view
Trembled so loud, that owing to my freight
My mind of lather still perceives the dew.

The tearful ground created a wind rate,
Which suddenly flashed a vermilion light
Winning my senses knocking down my state;

And I fell down as man who sleeps at night.


Long poem by David William Breidenthal | Details |

Sing To Me Your Lullaby with Sexy Style in California

*Chorus*
Sing to me your lullaby with Sexy Style in California right now
Oh paint a delightful smile on my face and make me laugh with joy and happiness 
somehow…
You’re my ultimate addiction – you lift me higher than cloud seven
I gottah keep pace to run this race the right way…so, I want yah to stay here for a 
little while
Alright, you’re making my day…you are like my cherished Haven
Satisfaction is ours, baby…nothing’s in my way today! We’re runnin’ thee extra 
mile!
Can you see it like fireworks in the sky?
Did you ever wish to be free
Like those mockingbirds and jays in the aqua-blue sky? 
You and I will receive the ability to fly
The ability to show off our inner glow…yah know…soooo…
And we’ll be putting up a show…yah know…yah know…let the wicked wind blow…
oooh ahhahah ohhh…
Take away my flaws…my worst fears…my weaknesses
Give me a big applause for trying my best and can you motivate me to beat this 
race?
Let go of all worries…my bad memories…replace em with my strengths and clean 
up all of our “emotional love” messes
Gather around me, my stinging, beautiful bees…I’ll try to pass the test…and you’ll 
do the rest just in case…
I get pleasure off of your applauses…your full attention…give up your aggressive 
side and your anger…take out the trash that’s filthy with strife and clean up your 
act! We need peace and that’s a fact! You need to give me your surreal 
satisfaction…We feel like we’re top dog right now! Who’s boss? We are! Come on, 
sistahs and brothahs, let’s BODYQUAKE! Let’s dance! Let’s embrace this terrific, 
tranquil trance! I fancy you, baby…don’t hit the brakes…
Sing to me your lullaby with Sexy Style in California
Don’t stop, darling – stay with me for a long while! I know – I act silly and 
immatcha! 

*Bridge*
Me: I’m wingless…I’m invisible…
I’m incredible...yet, I can do the impossible
Fighting negativity, so I can be me – 
Instead, I invite positivity and kiss sunlit glee 
Everyone: You’re a gift, not a curse
You’re a cure – you’re a lullaby in reverse…
Everyone: Rehearse to me our freedom
Rehearse to me our liberty 
Rehearse to me your satisfaction
Rehearse to me – we’ll take action! Oooooh yeaaaaah
I was once stuck in the pit of my misery and poverty…He’s my Amazing Grace and 
more – his words are tattooed everywhere in my body…
But now I’m free as a bird out of her cave

*Chorus*
Beyonce and others: Sing to me your lullaby with Sexy Style in California 
Don’t stop, darling – stay with me for a long while! Let’s break the law and let’s 
shop at the mall
You’re my ultimate addiction – you lift me higher than cloud seven
I gottah keep pace to run this race the right way…you made my day by giving me 
the energy and confidence to run the extra mile
Alright, you’re making my day…you are like my cherished Haven
Satisfaction is ours, baby…nothing’s in my way today! 
Can you stay here for a while? You sing to me your lullaby with a sugar-and-spice 
style!

Sing to me your lullaby with Sexy Style in California 
Let’s swing about and stand tall when we encounter dangah!
Fight with all of your might and be proud that we fought the good fight! Now, 
everything’s black and white and everything’s alright!
You’re *my drug of delight!x3* I promise my love towards you wo’t bite – if it 
does, it means I want you and your surreal light as soon as possible, even if it 
means going through a perilous plight! 

*Bridge #2*
Rihanna/Beyonce (duet): You’re my beloved disease…
You put my heart and mind at ease…
Please…please don’t reject me again
Where have yah been? I see your eyes – chaos and guilt brewin’
Eminem/Rihanna: Sing to me your lullaby with sexy style and a brilliant beat
I’ll dance naughtily – you make me feel neat and my feet are tappin’ and tappin’…I 
can’t stop my feet! 
I don’t care about California’s heat! 
I’m dreamin’ about California and its cheerful, sun-drenched summertime
My time spent with you ain’t a waste of time! You and I’s love is extremely 
sublime! 

Sing to me your lullaby with Sexy Style in California 
Dance with me and go with the flow with em all!

Beyonce: Come here…fly to me…don’t be blue
Rihanna: If you only knew…that I loved you
Lady Gaga: But, I guess I was that bizarre girl that came out of the blue…just b/c 
I’m eccentric, doesn’t mean I ain’t wild and epic…
Lady Gaga/Eminem/me: Come along with me…we’ll be on our own
Speechless, but having the time of my life
Making a cherry-top decision – it’s my mission to call you up on my telephone…
*ring ring ring*
There it rings again…you left me breathless – don’t provoke me to anger and 
befriend strife
Everyone:For, it cuts me like a sharp, jagged knife…
Rihanna: You won’t see me cry… all my life…

~!@#$%^&*()_+=-0987654321`~

Beyonce: *no more singing* That’s a good ending, girl. Good job. *pat pat*
Me: what’s up with that cool ending, RihRih! That was tight! 
Rihanna: Thanks a bill *giggles* I took that from my song “Cry”…I won’t deny it…
Lady Gaga: You’re crazy good, but I like crazy good people like you
Adele: Nevermind I’ll find someone like yoooooou! –
Rihanna: I’m sorry to come across as rude, but who invited Adele?
*everyone points at me and everyone laughs*
Beyonce: Oh my word…I shouldah known..it was silly Davey Wavey!
Me and Rihanna: Uhuh…mhmmm…*we crack up with laughter and can’t keep a 
straight face*

~!@#$%^&*()_+~!@#$%^&*()_+=09##@^%%$^543@11~


Long poem by Brian Johnston | Details |

So Many Questions

(A both serious and fanciful encounter with God)          

1. There are so many questions that I have for God, 
Oh my love, don't you feel the same way? 
While it's true that we may just have met in this poem
You must know that I care what you say.
Like who made the Creator and then who made Him? 
To infinity this clearly goes.
But a 'whole universe' that 'exists on its own? '
It's orgasmic! And that curls my toes.

It seems possible God could create this strange thing
Which some atheists call 'the big bang, '
Which puts God the creator at source once again
'Self-creation' becomes boomerang.
In the end science usually makes simple right
And in this case that doesn't seem odd
For it's clear that although God explains 'the big bang, '
'The big bang' just can't explain God. 


2. Now some people think that for the Church to survive
That the Bible must 'un-airant' be
Though that leaves many liberals gasping for air
And I certainly mean to include me.
Didn't Christ turn established Church square on its head
And accuse experts of speaking trash
Their self-aggrandizements the flailings of the dead, 
Their pronouncements the value of ash? 

So where in the Bible does it claim to be true
That each man's take on it is Gospel? 
The foolishness of this thought clearly would make the
Deity of mere men possible.	
And Christ spoke in parables, while I am on it, 
While they may contain truth, are they true? 
Shifting sand's the ground literalists stand on, 
I don't want God's Church built there, do you? 
 

3. I suspect overall that our God is too small
Modeled after folks tied down with chain, 
A God that's too small is really no God at all
And our saying we know Him just vain. 
Today's Kingdom of Grace has become one of fear
As we try to trap God with His Word, 
Surely our doing battle with Father or Son	
Trying to save ourselves is absurd.

So what does it mean to believe in Christ Jesus? 
And how can I be cleansed in Christ's flame
I think it is clear you should be different from Satan
And he certainly knows Jesus' name.
In fact one could divine Satan knows Christ is real
A fact Satan will take to his grave.
But Satan's not willing to walk in Christ's footsteps
And that's whom God chooses to save.
 

4. Surely there's nothing wrong with our questioning God
For God commands us, 'Forbid them not, '	
'Suffer the little children to come unto me	.'
Does that sound like God's wrath is our lot? 
It is true of course, we know that God gets angry
But His essence still always is Grace.
It is not who you are, it is just what you do
That can make Him get into your face.

With Karen Armstrong now alive on the scene
It is clear that God's heart is still showing
When she says 'Doubt is not the opposite of faith...
Certainty is! ' A huge debt to God I am owing.
For certainty is certainly not my standard
And sometimes that does give me pause.
But the Grace that I feel in God's presence
Is what brings me to peace with His laws.


5. So now that we've managed to clear up some big stuff
Let's tackle some things that are fuzzy
Like Jesus would frequently call God his 'father'
But God could not have a thing, does He? 
I'm sure that some ladies will not be too happy
To hear that God's not one of their clan
Remember the Bible says God's church is His bride, 
Not much room there for doubt He's a man.

Women
'But if that's really true He's not me, more like you, 
No way could that ever be called fair.
Thanks a lot! Doesn't seem much like heaven to me
Woman still dragged around by their hair.	'
Men
'Hold on now, wait a bit: Please! let's not have a fit
Seems like men have a right to feel blue! 
Even though we are all getting married to God
Recall men are to be His bride too! ' 


6. If science and traditional faith disagree
Then it's clear that there is something wrong
One could ignore it but both come from God
So take care if the science is strong.	
Intelligent scholars of Biblical truth say 
Creation is six thousand years past
But science proves this wrong over 4 billion years
In one universally huge blast.

The Bible was written two thousand years ago
For folks who knew little of science.
When you speak to a child, you know he's not adult, 
And you use what we call common sense, 
Not hard to accept that the Bible is dated, 
Don't stew over it for heaven's sake.
This isn't a sign that our God would mislead us, 
He who died for you is not a fake.


7. And now for an odd bit, just where does Science fit
With God's gift of Grace for the many? 
'Seek, you shall find, knock and it be opened to you: '
As good a definition as any.
'Every good and perfect gift comes from the father.'
I am grateful to God for His Word.
And you devil's children who call God's gift evil, 
For repentance I offer a bird.

Our God's revelation to man is ongoing, 
With faithfulness through all the ages
The only requirement of mankind it would seem
Is willingness to turn the pages.
Not just pages of Bible but pages of stars
Which are surely God's heart written large.
Let us follow Him to where new worlds conquer fear 
And our service to LOVE so discharge.


Long poem by Ravindra K Kapoor | Details |

The Mulberry Tree And Its Birds Part Two

A GIFT FOR EVERYONE ESPECIALLY FOR CHILDREN The Mulberry Tree & its Birds One day When Bulbul* was warbling On its branches A strange big bird with round beak Came over there To eat Mulberry’s sweet fruits The bird was expert In changing its colors Like the colorful sky But like some arrogant child She could not make anyone It’s friend on the Mulberry tree. By the time Anyone could have spotted its beauty It suddenly changed its colors And became invisible, Before others While hiding behind the leafs And the branches of the Mulberry Alone the bird came over there And alone she flew away Without any friend For some other tree. 10 Suddenly, The sparrows began to chirp Watching a Koyal* sitting Somewhere very close to them On a nearby branch of a tree. But, strangely, for all of them A Neelkanth* also Came over there And opened before them Its beautiful blue color wings. From where the Neelkanth came And for what destination, It would leave no one knows. Before the eyes Could have feasted fully All that, beauties of the Birds And the beauty, All around, the Mulberry tree A Yellow Green bird Came to drink, Water filled in a Pot Which was lying on my terrace, Not very far off From the Mulberry tree. 11 In those moments It seemed to me, As if, someone has opened A treasure Of precious, colorful birds For the tree. 12 The Shahtoot*, Used to play often The Music Of flapping sound, Of its leafs Whenever, the wind blows With, its strengths, While, touching the leafs And shaking its branches While saying slowly In the ears of the Mulberry “Dear Shahtoot – Create Music in the air” So that, we may dance together On the tunes of the wind. 13 And then the Mulberry Began to show Its beautiful dance On the tunes Of the fast blowing winds And watching that dancing beauty Of the Mulberry tree And the beauty Of its dancing leafs, The birds Often used to get filled With an unknown Happiness and joy But, sometimes The dance of the Mulberry tree Causes fear in birds And then they began to make Loud noises like crying To show their fear and anger. 14 But, when they were happy The birds began, to chirp loudly As if, They were greeting, the Mulberry For such a wonderful dance and music. 15 I used to get astonished and lost To see, Such an excellent beauty And grandeur of Nature Which, always reminds me My relations with you, O’ Shahtoot, which is as old, As are the days, of my childhood When we used to play Kilkil Kaantaa* On the lower branches, of your tree And my childhood friends Used to come like birds Searching the chalk lines Made by me, on your branches And cutting them To tell that they have found The treasure, hidden by me. 16 But, I always feel sad O’ my dear friend, Shahtoot That I could not save you From those onslaughts Due to which You just vanished, Suddenly one day For ever and forever. 17 Now, that place Where, the Mulberry used to smile Every Morning and every day Hardly get any birds To listen to, the melodies of Koyal* And the chirping sound And music of Bulbul* and of the sparrows. Even our, kids and children Of today Hardly get, any opportunity To see now colorful birds Flying and sitting On a branch of tree. They almost never see The Neelkanth* flying in the air While showing, it’s gorgeous Beautiful blue wings To tell the story of its birth O’ my dear friend Shahtoot*. 18 But, perhaps This Poem on you, O’ my friend ‘Shahtoot’ Would make you immortal For ever Because, now you would live In the hearts of everyone And you would bloom On the mind and hearts Of little kids and children Who would plant more and more Mulberry trees So that colorful birds may Keep coming on their trees And they may enjoy The beauty of Nature which lies In Plants, Trees, Birds And Animals. Such efforts of the Of kids and children Would make you immortal For ever and forever When they would listen to This story of yours And of the singing birds Which always come On your trees In the season of Mulberry. 19 Ravindra Kanpur India 10th November 2013 NOTE: Protected under the copyright provisions of Poetry Soup and US copyrights. *Bulbul=A sweet singing Bird of India *Koyal= A melody Bird of India Shahtoot= The Hindi name of Mulberry tree and its fruits *Kilkil Kaantaa= Kilkil Kaantaa* A child game of India in which,one player makes some lines by chalk on any such object which can be searched by the other player to cut these lines and win. Note: In this Poem I have not placed only a small part of this unique story which would be the real attractions of my Video based on this unique story.Hope you would like that full wonderful story of my Video as and when it would be placed on my You Tube Channel. Love and best wishes..Ravindra K Kapoor


Long poem by Terry O'Leary | Details |

The Stone

The Tale below was carved one night,
Upon the Stone, by candlelight
...most won’t believe, but some just might
.........most won’t believe, but some just might



.                         Preface

Well James made Beth his lovely bride
(And angels smiled, though teary eyed)
...their bodies bound, their spirits tied
.........their bodies bound, their spirits tied

Upon her hand, a shimmer shone,
As bright as blood, a ruby Stone 
...and brighter still, as love had grown
.........and brighter still, as love had grown

Soon James was sent to man a sail
So Beth removed her wedding veil
...her eyes were bright, her face was pale
.........her eyes were bright, her face was pale

“Well, I’ll be here when you return”
Said Beth to James, who kissed in turn
...a kiss that made her body burn
.........a kiss that made her body burn



.                         BETH’S TALE

1.              The Dream
One night, within a dream deformed,
The cawing of a Crow informed
“...a Ship was stripped where winter stormed
.........a Ship was stripped where winter stormed

Midst winds and waves the thunder boomed
The Ship of Death was surely doomed
...the sea engulfed, the sea entombed
.........the sea engulfed, the sea entombed

Your James... denied by Davy Jones!
His spirit gone, his flesh and bones
...are resting now amongst the Stones
.........are resting now amongst the Stones”



2.               The Quest

Awoken by the ebon Wight
And beckoned by the baneful bight
...I left before the morning light
.........I left before the morning light

Throughout the realm I rode a roan
Until, in time, I reached the Stone
...where shades and dreams in darkness groan 
.........where shades and dreams in darkness groan 

While skipping up and down the sky
A missing moonbeam mocked my eye
...enough to make a Swallow cry
.........enough to make a Swallow cry

For someone stole a star or two
And something else that fate withdrew –
...my jewel of joy, my James Bijou   
.........my jewel of joy, my James Bijou

The shadows of the evening swelled
Where demons of the dusk had dwelled
...and in the far, a vesper knelled
.........and in the far, a vesper knelled

The Stone, beneath the sky, stood cold –
Between the runes, a vapour strolled
...a cloak of fleecy fog consoled
.........a cloak of fleecy fog consoled

A Raven on a branch, enthroned,
Her wings waved once, a wail intoned
...beyond the bay, a banshee moaned
.........beyond the bay, a banshee moaned

I lay beside the Stone, his bride
I lay beside the Stone and cried
...but were it I, instead, that died
.........but were it I, instead, that died

The rainbow of the moon fell dim
A midnight Swan soon ceased to swim
...as if to hide all hint of him
.........as if to hide all hint of him

Between the willows in the swale
There sang a Bird, a Nightingale
...which left me faint and feeling frail
.........which left me faint and feeling frail



3.              Contact

I felt him breathe within a breeze
Responding to my anguished pleas
...and leaves blew by abandoned trees
.........and leaves blew by abandoned trees

“I miss you too, my darling Beth”
Re-echoed from the Ship of Death
...the future buried in a breath
.........the future buried in a breath
	
The Stone lit up a ruby sheen
And clouds were kindled crystalline
...with consequences, unforeseen
.........with consequences, unforeseen

Above, the wretched Raven soared
To where the Ship of Death lay moored
...beneath, the icy ocean roared
.........beneath, the icy ocean roared



4.               Release

I’m joined with James beneath the Stone,
Though to the Ship my spirit’s flown,
...for nevermore to be alone
.........for nevermore to be alone



.                         Epilogue

That night the wayward winds were weird 
The Ship of Death had disappeared
...coyotes called and mortals feared
.........coyotes called and mortals feared

At dusk, the craven shadows crawled
At dawn, the winds of mourning called
...upon the Stone two names were scrawled
.........upon the Stone two names were scrawled

The Raven sits, with wings outspread,
Atop the Stone which shades the dead
...it sometimes shimmers ruby red
.........it sometimes shimmers ruby red



.                         Epitaph

Between the sounds, where silence seeps,
Their love lives on and never sleeps
...and yet, the weeping willow weeps
.........and yet, the weeping willow weeps



inspired by ~fc~

DEFINITIONS
Wight (obsolete): a supernatural being, creature
Bight: a bay or gulf
Swale: a moist depression in a tract of land


Long poem by Elaine George | Details |

Tea and Poetry in the Ides of March - PART THREE

Again the alarm is set.

Strawberries, date squares…Yum, Yum.   

The alarm rings again. The tea party is over.

 She returns to her perch where her wings are immediately clipped by the Bald Eagle who informs her that a bird doesn’t chirp when her poem is being critiqued, that a bird just listens. 

“I didn’t know this was a critiquing session,” she chirps.
I thought it was an afternoon of poetry reading. 

“Bring two poems”, is all that the Raven requested.
 
God! What does she know about critiquing? Everything she knows about poetry, she has learned from a website. She still hasn’t really grasped the meaning of Iambic Tetrameter. 

The scar beneath her ring, feels as if it might explode as what remains of her Revlon mask begins to melt under the heat of her humiliation.

God! Please don’t let them see I am a fraud, she prays, as she desperately tries in vain to regain their acceptance, as if there was any in the first place; her being such a sparrow.

The Bald Eagle twitters a poem about her battle with cancer, which brings her to tears. Again, she dares to dream she can be one of this flock as she too is a cancer survivor. It is decided the Bald Eagle’s poem needs punctuation.

Again, still daring to dream of acceptance, she chirps that most of her poetry is also written with very little or no punctuation.

“Well,” the Raven caws, “your poem in comparison is child’s play,” and with those words, breaks the strings of her ‘Violin’. 

***

As the afternoon wears on, the Crow caws for her to be quiet as she can’t hear. Visions of Vultures begin to fly in her head.

Later the old Crow caws that the bird she is addressing as a Blue Bird is not a Bluebird and that the only Bluebird is the Raven’s wife and that the bird she is addressing is a Turkey.

Even, while responding to something the Turkey has chirped to her, the Turkey gobbles for her to be quiet because the Crow is cawing.  

The scar beneath her ring now feels like it is splitting apart. Again, all she can see is red. The Vultures are circling now.
 
Her second poem, ’The Rise and fall of An Empire, is received with little pecking, other than ‘Well it’s poetic.’ 

The Raven caws, “If he were to be cruel, he would say it contains a cliché,” (a cardinal sin in poetry) as he caws an excerpt from her poem (as the sea grasses sing).  
 
The Turkey, demurely and with a gobble of sarcasm, inquires if everything she writes is in rhyme, as she casts a disdainful glance at her book of poetry.

At 4 p.m., when the final alarm has gone off, the Turkey announces that the next meeting will be at her Nest. 

 The Raven caws, “The sparrow doesn’t know where you live.”

 The Turkey then asks her for her email address, but doesn’t write it down and gobbles she will email her, her address before the next meeting. 

“Don’t hold your breath,” cackles the Sparrow’s little voice inside.

The Turkey then drops a book on the coffee table. 

Still foolishly seeking acceptance, the Sparrow chirps, “Is that your book of poetry?” 

 “No, it is ‘Descant’, and I have a poem published in this edition,” she gobbles.

“Yes!” the Crane pipes up. “It’s the only book that REALLY matters, the BOOK that all birds want to be published in,” ruffling her feathers with her innuendo. What? The pitiful Sparrow doesn’t even know what Descant is, she with her self-published book of poetry.

 Then the flock gathers together, chirping amongst themselves, and begin to fly away without a single chirp to her, like “Nice to have met you.” “Hope you will come to our next meeting.”

No!  They simply leave her there with her wings clipped and her veil removed, having been incinerated by their hot air. 

They leave her there with her Revlon mask melting like candle wax, sliding down her face, all their black barbs having finally penetrated her thin skin, exposing her for who she really is.

Not an intellect, not a fraud, just a Sparrow, now in the autumn of her life; a Sparrow who at the age of 16 dared to dream beautiful dreams while living in a nightmare. 

A Sparrow, who had many years ago seen an old broken violin in a junk shop and was so moved by its haunting beauty she was inspired to write a poem.

A Sparrow, who as a chick, with her brother, on a summer day, built an Empire made of sand, in a land where sea grasses sang—A Sparrow who knew why violins and willows weep.

A Sparrow who knew she would never be one of them. 

Yet she was grateful!

Grateful she had survived the Ides of March, and on this day was left wondering how something so ugly could have grown from something as beautiful as poetry. 
~~~


Long poem by William J. Jr. Atfield | Details |

Summer Memories Summer Realities Thoughts about Part 1

Summer Memories
Summer Realities

This, the first day of summer, two thousand and two, finds me,
slipping back into what once was my desire, my need, my reality.
This step back into, and into times passed, has allowed me to touch,
to feel, to re-experience – for a moment, to a degree – my all time,
favorite sport – sunbathing. A sport I once played in all my glory
– my birthday suit – with such joy and total freedom,
beneath blue skies, high above the mighty meandering Grand
or alongside it’s river banks, silent winds, a breeze, rustling the leaves
of many shading trees, of many a cornstalk, a million blades of grass
beneath the heavens, beneath my feet, beneath my naked body,
golden brown laying in the noiseless sound of Mother Nature,
all Her, creatures, large and small, invisible, one and all,
except to the mind’s eye and ear, as the pleasures of hypnotizing music,
the sweet taste of mother grass, the glowing nectar of sparkling grape
that could take one on a journey, away from or into, dependent upon
the destination, the ticket you purchased would carry you.
For me, the journeys were upon the black leather of my red motor cycle,
upon the black leather of my black Bird of Thunder, her wings spread,
her top down, that great, platinum, glowing orb, hanging on high,
above this little  planet, wearing it’s great, bright blue shroud,
opened to expose the light shining down upon her nakedness,
showering down upon me, in mine, on our journeys through time,
through space, with his – Heloise’s – healing rays as I drive, as I ride
over, upon those black ribbons that wrap themselves around
Mother Earth and the back roads of southern Ontario, in the
Counties of Brant, of Wentworth, of Norfolk and others as well.
This is a sport I played – as I laid – from north to south,
from coast to coast, even, out into the ocean deep,
– on an island of coarse – on mountain tops, on sand dunes.
This sport I played, on the shores of all five Great Lakes,
on the beaches of Florida, of Mexico, of California,
of British Columbia, the last place, the last time I sported
my birthday suit in public before hanging it up
behind closed doors for more years than I care to remember.

Today, along with a few more that followed, during two weeks,
I took the opportunity, – covered of coarse, in my red and black loin cloth -
to lie beneath that burning orb in the deep blue sky and tried to recapture
the essence of those feelings, those desires of long ago and far away
- of what was and I still would like to be -, that will always remain
a part of my psyche, even though all the changes – no more noiseless sounds,
for they have been drowned out, polluted by screaming tires as they tear up
those black ribbons of death, as those combustion engines ( the driving force )
cry out in pain from friction as they pass by my horizontal frame looking for,
but hearing not, all that once was hearable, all that was beautiful in nature’s noise
–  that have left me longing for that time, left me as empty as a dried up lake.
A lone bird cry’s out it’s muffled song, a note or two where once was a chorus,
a full-fledged opera now reduced to a mumbling, meaningless sound,
a sound drowned out by the sounds of  traffic, traffic from our attempt
to escape our closed in, modern life style of constant motion.

Those sweet smells, clean and clear are lost by the cremation of decaying,
remains of once living organisms that inhabited this planet.
They are now – in death – permeating, with pollutants, the nostrils, the lungs,
the air Mother Earth and all upon her back, inhale.

The peace, once known, - in rivers flow, upon its banks, in Mother Natures flow,
on my motor cycle, in my black Bird – for this old man has almost evaporated.
The grass, the wine, the music, the camaraderie, the clean air, those silent sounds
have almost become extinct, fading into memories hoard, to be stored, forever more.
All that seems to be left - from the origins of these thoughts – is that silver orb,
still radiating down upon, but with more intensity and less glory and peace.
Only the music carries on as before, seems to remains the same,
at least to these ears, this heart, the old soul of this lone traveller.
Maybe the music has change ?, maybe for the better ?, maybe not ?
Could it be just perception ?, or has all lost its glory ?, its fire ?,
its passion ?, its glow ?, all I thought I did know in an earlier age.
Is it all in the mind of this old man ?, who still remembers that age,
the music, music still providing a refuge, companionship
and comfort during the hours, in the passing of time .


Long poem by Carrie Richards | Details |

MOCKINGBIRD - crown of sonnets

#1 "It is a sin to kill a Mockingbird. When playing games with rocks or guns, defray, them, please, ...shoot old tin cans!" "Whispered words of Mockingbirds, only heal wounds of the day" Virtues are cultivated, children are weeds, exploring a small southern town. Seeds, so rare, spread moral ivy, filling knotholes, threading trees, lining streets, during mad-dog summers. Scout, one sprout with solid roots, sifts wrong from right in spite of bull-headed pride. Stirring up dust, where resistance incites, although, brother, Jem, gently, grows more reserved. Scout, Jem, ...best bud, "Dill", are bronzed by summer's sky Moral's compass guides them home, as night returns #2 Moral's compass guides them home, as night returns yet challenged, the precocious child making assumptions. Folks would confound her! Some people were an oddity and quite beguiling Summer would sigh with ceiling fans, softly purring, people napping, long afternoons. Wilted yawns of a lethargic town, might seem undisturbed, with complacency, behind pruned shrubs, tall grass, mowed. Yet stilted air, would suffocate, with racial slurs and secret hate. Some hid by day, and spending their nights in masquerade, while crosses burned. We'd see a face, pretentious smile, falsely blend Integrity, at bitter cost, split wide the seams in 1930. Civil rights were just a dream #3 In 1930, civil rights were just a dream, and motherless children were coming of age. Bare feet were swift. Bandaged knees and hands unclean, would slam old screen doors, to seek lemonade. A ghost, they feared, in the raw sided house, watched close. A tree in his yard, hid treasures he stashed. The three Musketeers, upon discovering, shout! Armed by bravado, they are ready to dash. Putting yourself into another man's shoes, is a lesson, soon learned by Scout and Jem. They've faced their fear, and will make a friend. "Boo", the 'phantom', a new best friend left trinkets and gems. Kindness learned, role model intact, was Atticus Finch. A measure of integrity, inch by inch. #4 A measure of integrity, inch by inch, advocate for those who won't stand a chance. Folks down on their luck, where dollars won't stretch in a depression full blown. Money is scant. Fighting for the underdog, who have no paycheck. What's right is right. What's wrong, is wrong. Someone must stand at the end of the day, where flies fill a courtroom and tempers grow stronger. Regardless of skin, be it black, be it white Unfit, by standards of talcum shaved chins, if injustice is war, he'll give his lot. The falsely accused, he'll defend, to the end Those who wallow in mud, eventually sling lies when honor goes to hell, and folks sit idle #5 When honor goes to hell, and folks sit idle, false accusations can simmer, slowly inciting bigoted people, into mobs, spewing cries of hate. Screaming "rape" into the night. Ignorance and prejudice, are all of one stuff with corn-likker sauce and gravy mentality, amphibian worms, as if from a trough, gorging on mania. They covet brutality. Led by Bob Ewell, with arrogance oozing. Clan- fed, tantrums squirming out of control. Small minded men, choosing squalor, alluding the truth. Some would sell their mother's soul. They have lied on the stand, where justice treaded thin. Where white man's word, over a black, always wins. #6 Where a white man's word, over black, always wins, was a rule of the thumb, during those years... The innocent man, Tom, shackled, condemned, taken away and waits to die, and endure With Indian summer, waxing and waning, Atticus chooses the simplest words. His children need, wisdom, and calm understanding, in trying to explain, that most men are good. He tells them, gently, how someone so crude, even Bob Ewell, no matter how evil perhaps in his life, was misunderstood. The hellish of summers begins to unravel. But another ill wind, would brew up a storm, to bring more than a flurry, into their home. #7 To bring more than a flurry into their home, burnt embers of color, drift down, red and yellow. Carved pumpkins, and a grieving autumn, looms in the night. Roaches encroach, deep in the shadows As Scout rushes homeward, behind her on the trail, a whiskey-breath nightmare, with evil intentions Then, someone appears! Halts this devil,...,Ewell is not immortal! .....as we come to conclusion. A guardian presence, waiting to rally has kept a vigil, guarding children who run, swiftly through thickets. Lonely Boo Radley, appeared like an angel, a bird seeking the sun So pure of heart, and a thing so rare It is a sin to kill a mockingbird
2/17/14


Long poem by Mario DE PAZ | Details |

Dante's Hell, fourth canto translation first part,

Fourth canto (first part)

The deep slumber was broken in my head
By a strong thunder, so that I woke up
As person forced to arouse from bed;

My rested eye I moved around then deep,
Erect uprisen, and also stared straight
In order of the place a knowledge to buildup.

It’s true that I was just in the side trait
Of the deep valley in the sore abyss
Where infinite troubles one has to wait.

Obscure and foggy was certainly this
So much that, having my face deeply stuck,
Anything there my sight was bound to miss. 

“Now into the world blind straight down we chuck”,
Started to tell the poet completely pale.
“I will be first, and you second to duck”.

And I, seeing his hue and its entail,
Told him: ”How can I come if you just fear
Being the one who supports when I quail?”.

And he to me: “Of people the distress
Lying down here, imprints then on my face
The same compassion you feel due to stress.

Now go, since we have a long way to trace”.
So he moved and so pushed me to step in
The first circle which starts the chasm to lace.

Here, to extent of what you could listen,
Never was heard so much crying which ails
And made the eternal air quake and spin;

This happened without any  torment bales,
Which had the crowds, many and large indeed,
Of infants, of women and of males.

The good master to me: “Do not you need
To know which souls are these that you see?
You must be aware, before you proceed,

They did not sin; if have worth as a fee
Is in vain, baptism they did not receive,
Which is the door to faith that you agree;

And if they lived before the Christ achieve,
They did not properly adored to God:
And to these I myself pertain and cleave.

Due to this lack, and not for being sod,
We are lost, and offended in a way
That to a life with no hope we must nod”.

Great grief then kept me when I heard his say,
Because people of value very high
Who I met in limbo compelled to stay.

“Tell me, my master, you that underlie”,
I started willing briefly to be sure
On that faith with no error to rely:

“Nobody came out of here, being pure
Or with intercession, blessed became?
And he understanding my say obscure,

Answered: “Short after in this state I came,
When I saw arriving a man with sway,
Crowned with signs of victory and great fame.

The soul of the first father took away,
His son Abel and Noah could bring,
And Mose’s loyal who gave the laws array;

Abraham’s patriarch and David’s king, 
Israel with his father and his breed
And with Rachel, which took under his wing,

Many others, to be blessed agreed.
And I want to let you know that, before,
No human soul’s salvation had succeed”.

While he was speaking we were walking more ,
But the wilderness we were going through,
The wilderness, I mean, of souls hard core.

Not very long the way we had to do
Before night, when I saw a fire bright
Which dark hemisphere was able to hue. 

We were still far more than a little bite 
But not much so I could partly discern
The honorable people lying in that site.

“You that raise science and art with concern,
Who are these having honor just so great
That a different mode deserve in turn?”

And he to me: “The honored fame and trait
Which sounds up there where really you live 
Mercy in heavens grows who pass them straight”.

Meanwhile a voice I heard to me arrive:
“Do honor to the poet which is at top;
His soul comes back, next had to derive”.

When that voice was calm and allayed to stop,
I saw four big shades toward us to come:
They did not show delight or of mood drop.

The good master then started telling some:
“Look well at the one holding that big sword,
Who is by of three as a king become:

That is Homer who all other poets scored;
Horace the satirist is the other;
Ovid the third, Lucan last of the board.

Since all of them now welcomes me further
According to the voice before I heard,
They honor me, and then are good farther.

So I saw the well worthy school conferred 
Of that lord in the most distinguished song
Which over others flies as eagle bird.

After they friendly reasoned enough long,
They turned their heads to me sending a nod,
And then my master smiled for that along;

And they gave me honor even more broad,
Since they made me member of their array,
So I was sixth in all that wisdom laud.

So then we moved toward the light our way,
Speaking of things at best silent to keep,
Like it was speaking where I had to stay.

(continued next, not enough space)


Long poem by Terry O'Leary | Details |

At Heaven's Gate - Parts 1 and 2

PART 1:          THE MEETING

Alone one night neath lantern light, I trudged a weary mile.
Forlorn, I went with shoulders bent (the storms around me howled)
until I met a Silhouette behind a sultry smile – 
She gazed with eyes that mesmerize (Her body caped and cowled)
and stayed my way with question fey... ‘Why don’t you while awhile?’

The churchyard groaned, an organ moaned, the bells of midnight chimed
as wanton winds awoke and dinned, and mistrals multiplied.
A prostitute – not shrill but mute, with gestures pantomimed –
snuck by in haste, with tracks untraced, beneath the evening tide.
The Persian moon, like arced harpoon, arose and slowly climbed.

The Silhouette (a pale brunette) arched eyebrows meant to please,
and down the lanes, twixt windowpanes, the shadows danced and sighed.
A meadowlark within the dark, somewhere beyond the breeze,
embellished Her with wisps of myrrh while deigning to confide
to nightingales the whispered tales of human vanities.

She doffed her cloak before She spoke with tunes of sorrow sung
(like mandolins, as night begins, when mourning day’s demise)
and spun Her tale of grim travail and tears She'd shed when young.
As jagged volts of thunderbolts lit up the dismal skies,
the creeping fog concealed a bog in coils of curling tongues.

Through summer vales and winter gales Her secret thoughts were voiced.
Midst storms so cruel (neath lightning’s jewel that glistered on the ridge)
She reminisced, She touched... we kissed... Her lips were wet and moist.
A lighthouse dimmed, while moonbeams skimmed across a distant bridge
to avenues where residues of shallow shades rejoiced.


PART 2:          HER TRAGIC TALE

“Midst sweet perfume of youthful bloom, the lonely spirit braves
and often cries and sometimes dies in quest of her amour.”

While starry-eyed, a ship I spied, a’ sail upon the waves –
The galleon docked, the seagulls flocked, the Captain swept ashore
where, debonair with gypsy flair, he led his salty knaves.

While passing by, he caught my eye – I tried to hide a blush,
for ambiance of innocence leaves fire’s ice congealed.
His gaze (defined by eyes that shined) beheld my cheek a’ flush.
I bowed my head while caution fled, I felt my fate was sealed
– a bird in spring with fledgling wing – he’d snared a  falling thrush.

He said ‘Hello’ – I answered ‘No’ and yet before he’d gone
said I, ‘I’ll wait at Heaven’s Gate not far beyond the Pale’.
At dusk he came neath moon aflame, and left before the dawn
just humming tunes along the dunes that lined the sandy trail
beside a pond where morning yawned, where swam an ebon swan.

We met again, and once again, and once again, again
entangled in a love called sin, in whirls of make-believe.
While in my arms, with voice that charms, said he ‘I must explain –
the tide awaits at morning’s gates and I must take my leave’.
Then tempests formed and vapors swarmed in ardor’s hurricane.

‘Forsake your home and we may roam’ he smiled as if to tease
and still naive, said I ‘I’ll leave, in silver buckled shoes’.
He took the helm in search of realms, before the morning breeze –
with tearful eyes, I bade goodbyes with fare-thee-well adieus 
and sailed above a wave of love across the seven seas.

We swept one morn around Cape Horn and sped for Gold Coast Bay.
With naught to reck, I strolled on deck, a baby at my breast,
while zephyrs blew and seagulls flew above the ocean’s spray.
Our ship soon moored, we went ashore and off to Fortune’s Quest –
with gold doubloons which shone like moons, he gambled through the day.

Two deuces wild... he thinly smiled... another card was drawn –
he called and raised with eyes half glazed, was dealt a dismal three.
With betting tight throughout the night, the final ace was gone
and so he lost... at what a cost... alas the prize was me –
with empty bag and pauper’s swag, he left me doomed at dawn.

A buccaneer with ring in ear sneered ‘now, my dear, you’re mine’.
He held my wrists to thwart my fists and then... my honor stained.
In midnight’s swash, the sky awash with tiny tears of brine,
I broke his clutch with nothing much of me that still remained:
a residue when he was through, left clinging to a vine.

In morning dew, the good folks knew, and spurned me in my plight.
The preacher man pronounced a ban and wouldn’t condescend,
ignored my pleas on bended knees and prayers by candlelight.
While cast aside, my baby died... my world was at an end.
Until this day, I’ve made my way beneath the shades of night.

Continued in Part 3


Long Poems