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Long poem by Dorian Petersen Potter | Details |

The Boys Get In Trouble Again- Part 1

~The Boys Get In Trouble Again~Part 1- 
(A Narrative poem) 

Beth! Beth! Almanzo called out aloud for Laura upon entering their home., very late that afternoon, after so many long hours of work, since very early morning that day. 
I'm right here, in the kitchen, Manly.' 'I'm telling you Beth, I don't know what to do with those boys anymore.' they're driving me again crazy. 
I should had been more firm with them from day one and then maybe we wouldn't be having this situation now.Everytime we let them come to spend some time with us. 
It's like they keep on doing the same darn thing, that they did last time and that they have promised not to repeat. 

 Just look at this mess they did this time, Beth. Almanzo said to Laura,thrusting her way something on the floorboards, what it looked like ugly pieces of old rags,all wrapped up around a burnt piece of blackened stick. 
Laura jumped back so quickly and startled by it that she nearly lost her balance, in her failed intent of regaining her composure again. 
But just as soon she regained her balance and leaned forward very close to inspect and collect what Almanzo had brought in for her to see. 
Oh no! Manly, don't tell me this is what I think it is, she told Manly, all the while nodding her head in disbelief. 

Yes, it is Beth, and please this time you have to agree with me that they have to be punished. 
Oh Manly! I can't believe what they've done this time. This is really just to much. 
One thing is to get the scarecrow down and play with it a little bit for a while. 
But another one is to use it as a pinata and then burned it just like a piece of coal. 
They just can't continue doing things like this Beth,to us or anyone, Almanzo said to Laura. 
We have to stop them now, or next time they will hurt themselves very bad or next time they'll burn the stable or the whole house down. 
We have to talk to them right now and make them see how bad they've behaved and that they can't continue getting away with murder. 

Almanzo reached out for Laura who was very upset too by now,just thinking that the boys could have gotten really hurt this time, doing what they've done. 
I am so sorry Manly, I know how much you were hopping that the boys could have behaved this time around. 
Yes, I know Beth, I feel like a total fool for believing in them like I did for the last 2 days. 
Another thing Beth, remind me later of replacing that  scarecrow for another. 
We just can't afford having none in its intead out there in the fields, to protect our crop of corn. 
By the way I assume you know where the boys are right now, don't you Beth? 

I don't know for sure, Manly, but I just spotted them outside like an hour ago.They were laughing and playing hide and seek nearby the creek and told them to be careful. 
I'll just go outside and bring them in,and they have to answer for what they've done this time,it's getting kind of dark by now anyway. 
They should have been in by now, as they know we always expect them to do,when they're staying with us. 
Almanzo let go of Laura and gave her a light kiss on the cheek.Well, I better go now and find those naughty boys and bring them home. 
Don't worry Beth.I know what you must be thinking inside that little head of yours.You're thinking I am going to be very hard on those two, isn't it? 

Well, can you blame it, if I was at least for once this time? what they've done it's very bad, serious and very dangerous too. 
You see that,by now, don't you, Beth? Almanzo asked Laura.I know this time you have to agree with me about the boys.I hope you help me find the right punishment for both of them. 
I see you in a little while, Beth.'Oh Manly, just promised me that you won't scare the boys, or be too hard on them when you first see them. 
Can you at least promise me that now, so I can have a sigh of relief.Almanzo just smiled her back and said to Laura, ' I can't promise you that right now, Beth. 

I am sorry.The only thing i can promise you,is that I will try very hard and that you'll see them both again around supper time.Okay. Almanzo just gave her one of his smiles. 
Saying that he just turned away from her, and stepped out through the kitchen door, without looking back.Laura just stared back at Manly, rubbing her hands back and forth. 
She was so worried about Manly and the boys.Manly had been working so hard of late and was having some problems at the mill. Since Pa had left with her Ma. 
They had left both together for a little deserved vacation to California.A place they've visited it only for a second time since Albert had moved away. 

They have some good friends in San Francisco and they got an early invitation to go and stay with them for a while, at least a couple of weeks. 
Who knows they might change their mind and stay for a little longer than that, perhaps the whole month. 
She hoped they would, even when she missed them so much already. they have been gone only 3 days, but it seemed to her, like they have been gone for a whole year already. 
They both needed some time together to enjoy and have some fun, far away from home, and Walnut Grove, a place that held for them so many good and bad memories at the same time. 

They've done all their life all the best they could.Now it was the time for them to benefit of some of what they both have worked so hard. 
Pa have asked Manly to look after the Mill for him, while he was away,and Manly of course could never say no to her Pa. 
At least most of the time he couldn't or just he didn't want to, and at the thought of that she couldn't help but smile too. 

Dorian Petersen Potter 
aka ladydp2000 


Author Note: Just a Narrative poem or short story tha I've written inspired by some of the beloved characters of Little House In The Prarie series and books.~ 

This story continues  in 'The Boys Get In Trouble Again' part 2 ' 

Copyright © Dorian Petersen Potter | Year Posted 2015

Long poem by Robert Candler | Details |

The Sooner Recruit

Fifty years, boy and man, I’ve been a Sooners fan;
And watched thousands of recruits try to make my Sooners Team.
Often, I’ve enviously wondered what it must be like
To be a touted Sooners recruit, living out his dream.

He’d had a great career through high school;
Made good grades, was a football star, played baseball too.
Coach said college recruiters were watching closely;
So, he tried his very best to make his dream come true.

You see, he’d played on the L’il Sooners as a kid;
Started getting serious about the game when he was only eight
Played with older, bigger boys and practiced hard;
Always told his friends, “To be a Sooner, ya gotta play great”.

Oh yes, his parents raised a football player;
And, even more important, a Sooners fan;
But he wanted more, to be a Sooner,
To feel the glory raining down from the stands. 

Now, the Sooners’ Head Coach is in his living room.
“Son, you’ve got talent.  We think you fit our scheme.
We’re offering you a scholarship, an opportunity
To be an important member of our great Sooners Team”.

His mother smiles her biggest smile.
His father nods proudly and pats him on the knee.
“Lord knows, son, it’s a dream come true.
Go be the very best Sooner you can be”.

He walks into the locker room,
Not quite sure what to expect;
But sure that to play for the Sooners
He will first have to earn respect.

He looks each man straight in the eye - 
Other recruits, trainers, assistants, and every coach.
“Be proud, but respectful”, his mother had said;
Your character, more than your performance, must be above reproach”.

His handshake is firm and he smiles.
“Only one chance for a first impression”, his father had said;
"Always put yourself in positive light, on and off the field.
That’s what it will take to play for the mighty Big Red”.

He meets so many other recruits, each one a high school star.
He’s played against a few and knows they share his dream.
And, to a man, each knows before any chance for Glory,
He first must prove worthy to play for this Sooners Team.

He knows a few will fail to meet the coaches’ expectations.
For some, the scout team will be their fate.
Many will suit up, but rarely play.
Only the very best will ever dare to be great.

Coach says, “If every man learns and executes when called on,
Then this team, we Sooners, will win a lot of games;
But, win or lose, if you play hard and give your very best,
You’ll never have to hang your heads in shame”.

“But gentlemen, with or without you, this team will win.
Every season, the Sooners strive to win it All.
So, listen, work hard, and prepare yourselves.  Each game is war...
And you must be ready when Victory calls”.

Through grueling practices, he finds himself.
As he walks to class, his closest friends are aches and pains;
But, just the other day, Coach helped him up, smiled, and patted his helmet.
“You’re doin’ fine, son.  Keep pushin’.  Remember, no pain, no gain”.

He sees his name on the "open scrimmage" roster for the very first time.
It’s a moment he’ll never forget, another milestone in his dream.
He calls his Mom and Dad, knowing they’ll tell his family and his friends.
He hopes they’ll actually see him play, proof he’s made the Team.

As he suits up for the last pre-season open scrimmage,
He wonders if the coaches would really let a freshman play at all;
But Coach puts him in for eight plays against the first team;
He makes two great open-field tackles and intercepts the ball.

He barely hears the roar of the crowd, as the whole defense “gives him five”.
He’s so excited, he forgets to ask if he can keep that ball.
Fans are buzzing, “Did you see that hit”!?  “Who is that kid”!?
“Will he red shirt or will Coach let him play this fall”? 

He sees his name in the Sunday paper, hears it on local sports.
He’s happy, but he doesn’t let it go to his head.
He keeps his focus and uses it as motivation.
After all, he wants to start one day for the mighty Big Red.

Yes, we’ll hear more of this young recruit.
Perhaps, one day he’ll be the hero of the game.
A seasoned veteran, maybe All Conference or even All American,
Who’s tasted Victory many times and helped glorify the Sooners’ name.

Oh yes, there have been so many who’ve aspired;
But many fewer who’ve actually made our Sooners Team.
They are our heroes, each and every one;
For it’s through their accomplishments, we fans can live the dream.

Billy Vessels, Steve Owens, Billy Sims, and Jason White,
The Selmons, Little Joe, the Boz, Josh Heupel, and “Q”
They, and so many others, were once touted Sooners recruits;
Who set a higher mark and built the Tradition that is OU.

So, c’mon! c’mon! all you great young football players!
Dedicate your talents to OU’s Team and OU’s Fans.
Make Oklahoma’s Owen Field your Field of Dreams,
And feel the Glory raining down from the stands. 

Copyright © Robert Candler | Year Posted 2014

Long poem by T Wignesan | Details |

Stop writing Literature, You garrulous Indian

 for Eric Mottram (1924 - 1995)*

 a life of toil for the man in the centre
 a hub in the peripheral tireless wheel
   where he go then where he go this working man
   he go on waking people   working at waking man
no words cling now no words meant in blame
the tongue  he lash the words  they now tame
no shock of blast open laughter rock the hall
everyman there say    there sure were a man
a man  no fear cowed    in communion to other
made for no gods   made for no demons either
all men he know best when he see just once
no second thought resurrect the man if bad
so go tell the magi   no trek in sight in sky
here a man be born  here he so sure die
other no like see one so bright stand up high
other no like feel like sky fall low into ocean
what make ‘m i say with feeling so just
is sure he different  he force hisself work
work work work   work an’ again work
he work nite an’ nite so 50-hour in day
   where he go then where he go this working man
   he go on waking people   working at waking man
where you go from word born here now
turn and twist   all whoring the alphabet
‘don’t write anything you can get published’
so publish only what you can’t call your own
writing like reading’s a public coital act
so showing your work is exhibitionism
‘why don’t you send your stuff around
keeping it to yourself’s sheer masturbation’
reading-watching-listening’s just voyeurism
so sending wares around is prostitutionism
    where he go then where he go this working man
    he go on waking people  working at waking man
he it was in minesweeper capture aurora borealis
message from extrasensory enter into he word
in Bengal waters alone he hear No-man cry
only in deepdown psyche water drip drip dry
then on land he no see reason to the fight
so he let he wrists spill he guts to the fill
then he take the world on all by he torn self
he spare no skin in dug-Malayan-jungle-out
what he do  what he think he do   he no tell
everybody meet man an’ no see albatross hang
he no tell story like ol’ mariner in dream
he go wake people from dumb dead trance
many many people high up no like this act
some call him stuckup other just ‘im damn
is all he do then     what kind of working this
is big work man ‘cause most body dead sleep
    where he go then where he go this working man
    he go on waking people  working at waking man

* The late Eric N. W. Mottram, made Chair Professor of English and American Literature at King's College, University of London, in 1983, was appointed Lecturer
in American Literature - the first such appointment - in the University of London. By then he had already taught English literature in Zurich, Singapore, and Groningen. He obtained a Double First in English Tripos at Cambridge University after serving out the Second World War (in the North Sea and the Bay of Bengal) on a mine-sweeper. He edited 22 issues of the Poetry Review in the seventies, the organ of the Poetry Society in England. He published some 35 books of poems and some fifteen books of criticism and was the recepient of the American Learned Society's Award for 1965. He also taught at Northwestern University and in New York University at Buffalo. In 1994-1995, he was recommended for the Nobel Prize in Literature, but he passed away on January 16, 1995 while a E-meritus Professor at London University. 

 © T. Wignesan 13-15 October 1995. Pub. in "Radical Poetics (Inventory of Possibilities)", London, 1997.

Copyright © T Wignesan | Year Posted 2012

Long poem by T Wignesan | Details |



                     in words 
             coloured structures   
  tones                                   movements
       all the multifarious ways of being savvy      earnest
                                                       of show-looking  in earnest
                                                              of believing in earnestness
                         of wanting to be thought of in earnest
            by being read thumbed 
     scrutinised       listened to in silence
                    who shores up whose image

« when the feeling comes, I feel the need to go » … 
                                                                            Sekoto said
      looking into the guest with devouring Picasso eyes
   and yet his image bothered him
              his need to be felt useful        needed  
                                                      to be thought of as in the know
        no background to lay the usual foundation
    Ecole des Beaux Arts  
		Atelier in the Rue des Augustins
            no one to lean on to
     only the self-peddled jazz piano   a lolling pittance
        and the loud lingering death at the Maison des Artistes
     canvasses    stached away at some brocanteur’s junkyard

it matters to leave behind a corpus
     a bibliography firsthand original    right from the tréfonds
         long before  death 
   the diurnal deaths   
                      felled by dizzy spells
 some ex-librarian’s list of secondary source pieces
                         articles talks opening-day speeches conferences radio-interviews
                             tv declarations chapters-in-books edited revised --editions reviews biblios
             tertiary lists of critiques 
       unsigned TLS reviews        communications 
                what the editor said in memoirs of his peers

      not to have said enough is not enough

there will be those who will attribute what others have said to us

we have made provision for that
       we told so and so what the others have taken from us
                                             with a word carefully placed in the leeward of the ear
              while sitting in the din of the rear seat    words garbled gobbled by the exhaust beat

to have left behind a load 
    heavy with prizes pounds royalties titles
                                                    by the dozens  even scores
  definitive recapitulative editions in velours 
       computerised translations         transvesti(t)es 
        through years of solitude sans sexe sans joie sans care may the publisher be
      forever loading to jettison 
the heavier the corpus the longer/longslower 
                                                                           the worm rot in the      
            mud   catacombs of staring accusing 

From the privately-pub. coll. (rev. 2016) : longhand notes (a binding of poems), Paris : 1999, 115p.

© T.Wignesan - Paris
Fresnes, November 6, 1994 

Copyright © T Wignesan | Year Posted 2016

Long poem by cherl dunn | Details |


Lightly the rain falls upon the lamp lit streets, the shabbily dressed figure
Walks with an air of uncertainty down the cobbled stone streets, leaning,
On his rickety cane, the elderly gentleman huddles beneath his umbrella Of refuge.
Shadows of the tenement brownstones line the edge of this rough necked
Part of town, here is the sheltering halls of the forgotten do dwell, the poorer
Venue that slum lords build their fortune’s foundation’s upon.
The gentlemen approaches his own dwellings dormancy with hesitations
Beating heart throbbing within his small fragile bent frame, for he knows
Tonight shall be his last night on this ethereal plane of existence.
For one last moments belief reflection he remains completely still, just to
To feel the autumn breeze against his bare flesh, to hear the rain drops hitting
Against the window panes, and to bid his final farewell to humanity.
Taking out his keys with his wrinkled twisted hands, he unlocks the doors
To his apartment, turning around to look outwards the gentlemen sighs, it has
Been a hard life, but I’m resolved to meet the next adventure, then he shuts
And locks the tenement’s door.
Weary from his days traveling the elderly gentlemen, climbs his steps upwards,
Towards his little room in the back area of his apartments, then he sits at his office
Desk for the last and final time, now to complete my journeys final entry, he thought
To himself this writer of the super natural’s acclaim.
Dipping his quilted golden pen into his ink well, the master writes one last line,
The end, or is this just the beginning?
Clumping over, clasping upon his desk the elder gentlemen’s heart lies stilled
As if at perfection’s final rest, his golden pen now runs crimson, bleeding downwards
Across the aged parchment paper, dripping onto the old wooden floor boards below.
The office door blows open a tall figure thus so enters, dressed in a raggedy robe of black,
Thread borne and full of tares and wholes, the creature approaches the dead gentleman,
As if in a screeching howl, the Grim Reapers touches him, ripping his spectral spirit
Free from the fleshes boney shell.
I’ve come for you old man, resist me not for your sins are heavy, and I’ve no time for
The ranting or ravening’s last pleas for salvations from one such as yourself, I have no
Last wishes qualms my friend, take me at your leisure, for I’ve grown weary of this life,
And it’s lonely emptiness.
Then the room grows cold, the ethereal disturbance ends as quickly as it had begun,
Leaving only the shell sitting at the old wooden desk, what happens when the writers
Golden pen runs crimson, bleeding downwards across the aged parchment paper,
Dripping onto the old wooden floor boards below?
The world of humanity thus so weeps for him, for he is the grand master of darkness’s
Written word, the skilled craftsman’s whom reveals what lies beyond the darker realms
Ebony gates, by his darker words of wonderment.
Farewell Mr. Edgar Allen Poe, we shall miss you always, you whom welcomed death
So easily, but the world of men is left empty without thee, as thy golden pen thus so
Now runs crimson and lies stilled forever.


Copyright © cherl dunn | Year Posted 2014

Long poem by Robert Candler | Details |

Two's Magic Nose

Such a nose had Ol’ Blue.
Best in south Missouri... everybody knew.
Could smell a pheasant across the plain.
Could point a covey in a hurricane.
That’s the way the legend goes.
Ol’ Blue had a “magic nose.”
As Blue got older, his master’s mind would drift away
To a place where he and young Blue used to play. 
In the mornings, sitting over his coffee cup
He found it sad there were no pups.
He thought it would be such a shame
If the only memory was Ol’ Blue’s name.
So, Jim was compelled and full of pride;
He made a search, far and wide,
To find Ol’ Blue a suitable mate.
No doubt, his offspring would be great.
It seemed likely, he supposed,
At least one pup would have his “magic nose.”
She was a Champion Miss from New Orleans,
A beautiful “red” named Cajun Queen.
But Blue suddenly passed away, before the pups were born.
Jim was broken hearted.  He and “Queenie” mourned.
Then came the litter, but there was only one.
Jim struggled for hope; after all, he was Ol’ Blue’s son.
Dappled and lanky, a handsome little cuss,
He looked just like Blue.  Jim made such a fuss.
Naming this pup would require no ado.
It was obvious.  Officially, he would be “Blue Two.”
Oh yes, these were mighty large tracks to fill.
“Can he?”, folks asked.  Jim would say, “Heck yes he will!”

So his nickname became “Two” and he seemed to be smart.
Soon it was time for his training to start.
The basics went well, but Jim’s outlook grew very dim
When, instead of pointing, Two would wag and jump and bark at him.
Oh, Two seemed to be trying; but try as he might,
He just could not seem to ever get it right.

“Blue’s son or not, he’s got to go!”
Jim found Two a “pet home” far away, in Tupelo.
On his way back, he stopped in Texarkana.
Been too long a time since he’d seen his sister Hannah.
Six days and six pounds later, he was back on his way.
Work at the farm was callin’ and he’d be drivin’ all day.
He thought about Ol’ Blue and wondered if and when
He’d ever have a birddog as good as Blue again.
Oh, he knew another “magic nose” was just a far off dream;
After all, it wasn’t something any man could scheme.
A “magic nose” was a gift from God, only given to a few;
And he was proud and very lucky just to have known Ol’ Blue.
As he turned into his drive, he broke into a smile.
“Why… I can’t believe it!  It…It must be 300 miles!”
Two was on the porch, thin and dirty; but he struck a handsome pose.
Jim ran and hugged Two hard.  “How’d you get back?  Lord only knows!”
Suddenly Jim realized; and struck with awe, he slowly rose.
A tear trickled to his smile.  “Why Two… you have a “magic nose!”
Two and Jim are best of friends, together everywhere.
From milkin’ cows to bedtime, Two is always there.
Jim doesn’t hunt much anymore, now Two’s a rescue dog.
Just last month, he saved a little girl lost in Cooley’s Bog.
Jim struts and tells proud, heroic stories;
While Two wags and jumps and barks, and shares his glory.
Jim boasts, “Like father, like son!”, then speaks fondly of Blue;
But all know the largest tracks to fill are those of Two.
His deeds are known far and wide,
And fill Jim’s heart with love and pride.
For with every rescue, the legend grows;
About a dog named Two, and his “magic nose.”

Copyright © Robert Candler | Year Posted 2014

Long poem by Suki Spangles | Details |

Politician Chops A Tomato In His Kitchen, Another Politician Sips Tea In His Second Kitchen

Politician chops a tomato
in his kitchen
Now he's chopping a lettuce
in his kitchen
He's saying things at the same time
in his kitchen

He's endowed with multi-skilled sets
Yes he must live in the real world I've guessed
He can chop a tomato
And then a lettuce
And talk at the same time
I've never chopped a lettuce in my life
in my kitchen
I have chopped a tomato though
But it wasn't in my kitchen
It was in someone else's
It was a pretty weird situation
That pretty weird kitchen situation is for another poem
And probably one you won't want to read
if  I'm being honest
So I won't be honest..honest.

Well that tells us all we need to know
I'm convinced
I always wondered whether he could chop a tomato
in his kitchen
It's not easy at the best of times
You know that
I know that
Let's not pretend
And he did it all in front of the cameras
in his kitchen
Chopping a lettuce truly earns my respect
And should earn yours too
A man who can chop a lettuce and talk about not wanting to be prime minister for a third term
When he's still in his first
To think that far ahead
in his kitchen
While chopping a tomato
and then a lettuce
in his kitchen
Talking at the same time
in his kitchen
About not wanting to be prime minister for a third term
When he's still serving his first
That truly earns my respect
Like watching a marine punch a gazelle..

And regardless of whoever's kitchen I happen to be in
Were I to be in your kitchen for example
I would feel that same swell of admiration
And I promise I would never chop a tomato
in your kitchen
And definitely not a lettuce
Just in case you're wondering
I don't eat lettuce
And even if I did
I would never chop it in your kitchen
Even if I were to be in a really bad mood..

And here's another politician
This one is in his second kitchen
Conversing with his wife while drinking tea
in his second kitchen
I know that could never be me
I don't have a first wife and I don't have a second kitchen
(and I don't really sip tea for I'm an uncouth gulper
probably my Indian upbringing)
Thus I could never be a democratic socialist leader
Although I'd like to be
Who could believe in me
When I don't have a second kitchen to sip tea in
with a wife which I don't have
Listening attentively to my democratic socialist thoughts
While sipping tea which I wouldn't sip anyway
Being more of an uncouth gulper probably because of my Indian upbringing
in my second kitchen
which I also don't have..

To be that man who can sip tea so nonchalantly
Not even in his first kitchen
But in his second kitchen
The one that he's not used to sipping tea in
That's beyond the call of duty
So beyond you
And me
So who really lives in the real world
Well I think that's plain to see


Copyright © Suki Spangles | Year Posted 2015

Long poem by Alex Duffy | Details |

i hate celebrities

I’ve had it up to here
Feeling mad sat in this chair
As I turn on the flipping news
I hate hearing 
About what Will’s doing and what Kate’s wearing
I wouldn’t care if Will was dressed in a chicken suit
While Kate is on the floor licking puke
Wearing fake earrings
Down the market picking fruit
From a stall owned by Del-Boy and Rodney
With their child dressed as Mr Blobby
They aren’t more important than anybody else
Please stop acting like they’re godly
I’d rather use pliers to take out my wisdom tooth
Be stuck on the tallest building to get a different view
Than be forced to listen to A Cheryl Cole song
Wait hold up am I kidding you?
Or am I lashing out because I didn’t get ab date with her like I was wishing to?
Where do we go from here?
To sell records Nicki Minaj has to show her rear
Why am I supposed to care?
I just heard her new song and arghhh I think it broke my ears
You can’t rap or sing Nicki so give up please
Breaking news, Justin Bieber just sneezed
And people are going insane like he’s on his death bed
Quick go and pray, get meds
But don’t pray for that innocent teen who was left dead
I don’t care about what Rihanna’s doing
Don’t care whether she ate, Pizza, Fish, mince or ham
But thanks to twitter and Instagram
We can know all of her movements
With what I’m saying you probably think I drink too much
But I’m 100% sober
Put Kim Kardashian in the tumble dryer to shrink her butt
Let’s see if anyone still knows her
Take a joke people don’t get hurt fast
I’m just trying to get Kim to flirt back
While you’re all obsessed with her ass
I’m thinking she has a new man every 6 months how can anyone be her last?
I’m sick and tired of seeing the word “hater”
But please tell me who’s this “celebrity” in the paper?
X Factor today, Big brother next year
Some say Kim Kardashian has the best rear
When I saw her tape
I thought I know who to call if I ever want a night of boring and poor sex
Ok you made a sex tape have you done anymore yet?
Oh wait I apologise I see you also pose naked
I’ll be more surprised when you wear clothes and show faces
You have little girls idolising you why be so tasteless?
A lot haven’t got careers so they I’m a celeb it
Wait who are you? You’re no A-List
I guess they must have been desperate
I couldn’t name a single person from the only way is Essex
Nothing special you’re so basic
Some people fancy Katie Price and I don’t get it
All she does is show fakeness
It’d be like dating a plastic table
You are so far below greatness
You’ll never reach it you’ll never be able
Get a bit of money and when it runs out
You’ll get your boobs and bum out
Say 2 I like it when he does this and that when he’s in bed with me”
This is just part of the reason why I hate celebrities 

Copyright © Alex Duffy | Year Posted 2014

Long poem by Timothy Hicks | Details |

At the Oval Office Taking a Drumpf

When electing a president, please keep in mind,
opinions can change in the blink of an eye
(just ask the man with the yellow hair dye)

What policies are on the plate?
(fork on the left, spoon on the right ... it's all cutlery, in any case)
What decision should we make?
(and how do I make my opponent look bad ...
I hear he's got a sketchy history,
his place of birth a mystery,
never hurts to stretch the truth just a tad)

... and debates these days, are really second rate,
(someone always forgets to bring in the parents as referee)
You have to understand, with this here Money Man,
things aren't always what they seem:
(the guy might very well pull off the monocle,
but the hair really ain't soft serve, but genuine follicles.)

And diverting back to matters more serious
(I have a feeling with the bracketed jokes
I made you quite delirious)
But there are real issues at hand
(feel free to grab the tissues)

Should we kill babies      Or not kill babies
Should we let 'em all in like the Universal Utopia
we know we are,
or erect a wall, like the Taj Mahal, similar in size and shape
of Donald's ego.

And who even really cares anyhow?
(Drumpf surely doesn't)
anytime there's an opening to run his mouth
he'll surely grab hold
with desperado tenfold.
No matter how crass      No matter how upsetting
(just as long as it spikes his polls)

... and it's working like a charm
despite his used car salesman personality.
The Red, White and Blue,
could be heading for a fatality.

But with the critics I firmly disagree.
He's not a clown (certainly no buffoon),
just a genius with egg on his face ...
whatever it takes to beat the race.

Who else would have been intelligent enough
to look where no one else dared too venture;
beneath the ugly underbelly of society,
he found a way to profit from our distateful nature.

We don't run towards the light,
no      not even the darkness.
We run towards whatever's creating noise
(forget manners      forget poise)

Let the man's appendages be,
It was YOUR sausage links that pressed
"I vote Yes" ... hip hip democracy.

He taught me a truth (though it's no secret)
That a message wrapped in etiquette,
no matter the value
will always shatter
when in the presence of a Trumpeter
blasting away inches from your ear.

So plug them drums,
and come my friends,

Don't soak it all up
like a sanitary napkin.
Let the squeaky wheel
continue to squeal:
the screaming child
can just wait awhile.
Though they like to make you feel weak,
but a queen you can surely be, my cunning little pawn.
In the truest Drumpfism I can muster,
my advice to you America?

Don't be a tampon.

Written March 13th, 2016
For the Political Ordeal Contest Hosted by CT

Copyright © Timothy Hicks | Year Posted 2016

Long poem by Shaila Touchton | Details |

True Beauty In Gods Eyes

True Beauty in women comes from her Pure Heart, Pure thoughts, unselfishness, blameless behavior, genuine love, gentleness and compassion for others.
True Beauty in women is not found in beauty parlors, cosmetics, clothing stores or shopping malls.
True Beauty in women is found by her virtues not from external appearances
True Beauty in women is found in simple, modest, shamefaced, chaste, meek and quiet spiritness.
True Beauty in a Woman is found when she delights in God day and night
True Beauty in a women is constantly doing good for her God, her husband, her children, her family, her church, needy, Charity and others
True Beauty in women is when truth, honesty and innocence reflects across her face
True Beauty in women is the one who does not walks in the counsel of the ungodly, nor stands in the way of sinners, nor sits in the seat of the scornful.
True Beauty in women is not dressing to please people but seeking to please God.
True Beauty in a Woman is reflected in her soul not in the latest fashions
True Beautiful women does not dress in the 'attire of an harlot” in Proverbs 7: 10
True beauty is not revealing too much of herself in public 
True beauty is not stirring up the wrong kind of feelings from others
True Beauty is not attracting the wrong kind of attention from others
True Beauty is not dressing like man, smoking like a man, fighting like a man
True Beauty is not world’s view of Beauty based almost entirely on external appearance
True Beauty is not coloring or dying hair or having expensive haircuts
True Beauty is not in competition, modeling or in cat walks
True Beauty in women is a role model in her children's life by training, disciplining and nurturing her children' according to Gods word
True Beauty is fearing God, devoting herself to her husband and family
True Beauty is clothed with humility, pure, righteous and holy
True Beauty is in the women who has Special bonding between her children and family
True Beauty is in shaping up her children’s attitudes, actions, behavior and teaching the commandments and the laws of the God.
True Beauty in women is refusing to keep One Foot in God's Word, and One Foot in the World.
True Beauty in women is not in the fitness centre or gym or in spa’s.
True Beauty in women is seeking God's Kingdom First, Not Worldly Wealth and Possessions
True Beautiful women are the women who continually strive and work hard to build up and strengthen her family and marriage.
True Beautiful women are a constant encouragement and support for her husband, her children and others.
True beauty exists in virtuous woman who is far above rubies and pearls in price.

Copyright © Shaila Touchton | Year Posted 2016

Long Poems