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Long Childhood Poems | Long Childhood Poetry

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

See also: Famous Long Poems

Long Poems
Long poem by Sarah Bryant | Details |

Childhood dreams part 1

When I was a child
Everything was magical
Full of mystery and the unknown
I read hundreds of books
The library my haven
My home
Hours upon hours
Night and day
I read and got lost in text
They supplied me with adventures
Secret journeys
Fun and fairy tales
I absorbed the words like a sponge
The books were my food
I devoured chapters of verse
Engrossed in paper previously trees
Entered my own little world

In my childhood dreams
Fairies were my friends
We played hop scotch on stumps of old trees
Jumped gaily across ponds
Using lily pads as our stepping stones
We stopped to talk to frogs and toads 
Who sung in chorus
As we made our way along 
We threw leaves in the air with glee
I danced in the rain
With pixies and elves
Gnomes and leprechauns gently teased
No hate or malice is allowed here
Just happiness and lots of cheer

Together we played hide and seek
The invisible creatures cheated of course!
“That’s not fair!” we all cry
“It’s only a game!” They reply
We forgive them 
It’s all part of their charm
We chased each other through dense woodlands and trees
The bright round moon giving us some light
It was dark and spooky
But exciting at the same time
We were happy 
Having fun
I wanted to dream day and night

The pixies were a bit naughty
Used to hide the keys to doors
But we were all magical in my dreams
We walked straight through them
Keys were just objects
We became like shadows we 
Shimmering through walls
Like ghosts 
And ghouls
The pixies played tricks on us
They lay in wait behind trees
Jumping out on springy green legs
They frighten us with a start
The fairies reprimand them
But pixies do not care
The tiny creatures laugh their pointed shoes off
And they run along
To another dark place
To startle us once again

The gnomes are round bodied and happy
All dressed the same
In floppy hats and wide belts
Stand in your garden perfectly still
They guard it from all things bad with pride
But they hide a secret as well
They run around your garden
Moving objects from their place
They play leapfrog on toadstools
Knock on your door and run away
You will never hear them
Or see them indeed
They are invisible to most at play

The gnomes chase the bees away
They want the honey for themselves
To eat on toast 
Or give Winnie the Pooh
They guard the flowers
Like neighbourhood watch
Miniature security guards
Less than a foot tall
They stop deathly still
Looking like statues 
As soon as they know you are there

The garden is a haven
For birds and animals alike
And the tiny magical creatures
Keep everything so bright
The fairies give it colour
The pixies provide aroma
Witches make the potions
To fertilise the earth
The sun shines down to bless it
Making it all look nice
Everyone helps in their own little way
And at night it comes alive

Fairies would take me to their home
Deep within dense bushes they live
At the bottom of an old tree
A tiny door is hidden in the stump
I shrink so I will fit in the door
Oh my days it’s so pretty inside
A never ending cave full of twinkling lights
Jewels gleam and shine within the walls
The floor is glittering with grains of gold
The sky is the ceiling
Bright shining stars challenge the blackness of the night
The paths are lined with flowers
The colours of the rainbow in full bloom
The fairies and I skip along
Arm in arm
To a kingdom far beyond
We slide up rainbows here
To get from place to place 
And back down the other side
A rollercoaster of dreams you could say
The little leprechauns help us 
They are our guide

In my childhood dreams fairy tales came true
I met Cinderella at the ball
Looking beautiful in her gown
A pale shade of baby blue
It sparkled as she danced 
Trailing behind her along the ground
Swirling as her Prince Charming swung her around
In tune to the music
Sung by her friends who had helped her in the past
When her life was hard
She scrubbed floors till she was sore
While her sisters laughed on full of scorn

I met her fairy godmother too
Floating in on a cloud to attend
A lace dress of pure white
With diamonds that glistened 
It sparkled like a million lights
She was elegant
Spoke softly and slowly
She was calming and had grace
Her hair was as white as snow
Her eyes as blue as ice
Her magic wand twinkled as she cast her spells of love 
Conjuring all things nice

Snow White was there
With seven dwarves of course
Grumpy attended
He didn’t look happy
To go I suspect he was forced
Bashful met a beautiful girl
He was too shy to ask her out
He had met Cinderella before
He loved her but from afar
But he was happy she was happy
With her new groom the prince
They looked beautiful together
And shined like stars

Aladdin wasn’t invited
Because of the forty thieves
The tortoise got there early
Just plodded along with no rush
The hare raced past him but wore himself out
Plenty of time he could afford
He had a quick sleep
The tortoise strolled past
And arrived at the castle before
The hare was late
Had a very red face
Always in a hurry
He never ever learns
And always underestimates

Jack climbed up his beanstalk instead of the stairs
Because the castle was so tall
At the top of the beanstalk were where giants lived
The biggest ones of all
He arrived with a present
More beans wrapped in gold
They looked like sweets
With wrappers shiny and bright
Cinderella was impressed and she smiled
She asked Jack if she could use his beanstalk
He said “Of course be my guest!”
She walked over to her ugly sisters
Told them stories of great riches and the rest
Of jewels and princes too
Of kingdoms they could own
Their greed will be the end of them
Their fate they could not know
We all laughed silently
As the ugly sisters climbed the dense
Their screams heard by kingdoms beyond
As Cinderella took her revenge
Using the Woodmans axe as her aid
She chopped the beanstalk down by half
Her sisters fell
The giants landing on top of them
Squashing them
Her revenge made

Goldilocks was there
With the three bears
Daddy, mummy and baby too
They didn’t like the party food
And there was no porridge in any bowl
Baby bear started crying
Until the fairy godmother came along
She waved her twinkly magic wand again
Three bowls of porridge appear in an instant
The bears tucked in happily
But Goldilocks had to decline
She told me she’s sick of porridge
I told her I feel the same way inclined
We all danced the night away happily
Took turns to fly with Peter Pan
It was way too late for the kids to be up
But Wendy sneaked out anyway
She flew there with Peter in the dark
Her hair was messed up
The wind blew it wild
But she was happy to be there
Cinderella was her friend
She wouldn’t have missed it for the world

Copyright © Sarah Bryant

Long poem by Sarah Bryant | Details |

Childhood dreams part 2

The three little pigs came to the ball
Tried to blow the castle down
It didn’t work
It was made of solid gold
So they gave up and sat at their trough 
Ate noisily 
And snorted quite a lot

They started poor Sneezy off
His allergies he couldn’t control
Living up to his name
He sneezed and sneezed
His nose was dripping like a tap
And was feeling rather wet and cold
He wipes it on his long red sleeve
Snow White told him off
“Use a hanky!” She exclaims raising her arms with a sigh
He marches across the crowded room
He cannot see what’s in front of him
Arms folded and only a foot high
A pixie lays a banana skin down
And he slips up and falls 
I giggle and laugh
As he chases her round the hall all night

I watched in amazement
As my fairy tales came to life
They were all my friends
I had so many
The witches were my favourites
Their cackle made me laugh
With their pointed black hats
And black silky cats 
They cast spells all the time
The cauldron held potions
The ingredients a mystery
A secret kept by the coven
I am sure they would have told me what was in it if I’d asked

The smell of potions cooking
Started Sneezy off once more
I handed him a hanky
He smiled
He went home early
Walked a long way back
Whistling all the while
He lived far far away 
But as soon as Sneezy fell asleep
His snoring could be heard for miles

My childhood dreams were full of excitement 
Adventure and fun all the way
My toys came to life
My dolls could walk and talk on their own
We talked for hours about school and our friends
We chanted nursery rhymes
Bringing them to life too
Although some of them are scary
I don’t like spiders
I’m glad Miss Muffet left hers at home

Humpty Dumpty fell off the wall
I lost count of how many times
The King’s horses and his men 
Put him together again and again
But he was round like an egg
He couldn’t balance on his tiny legs
He fell off the wall for the last time
The King’s horses and men gave up
Poor old Humpty sat crumpled on the hill
Until Jack and Jill came up
They used sellotape and glue 
Plasters and bandages
And fixed him up like new

In my childhood dreams I could speak any tongue
To reptiles and animals too
Insects and fish
I would talk to for ages
I was like Dr Doolittle
They talked to me too
Dogs told me stories
Of chewing up toys
And such things like slippers from your feet
Even naughtier they tell of eating the Sunday chicken
Before the family sat down to eat

Cats told me funny tales
Of tripping owners down the stairs
Of meowing loudly to get let out
Bringing in mice
Rats and birds too
Making their owners scream out loud
Because cats are like that
They don’t need people
They have nine lives  
Are independent and survivors 
But I know they love their snuggles 
Despite them being so proud

In my childhood dreams
The stars were family now passed
Watching down over me with the angels as I sleep
They talk to me like normal
Like they’re still here with us
Not lost
They take me to their new home
Heaven in the clouds above
Angels play golden harps
Raining glitter of silver sparkles everywhere
So beautiful and at peace
The pain no longer on their face
I guess my mum was right
They are in a better place

My childhood dreams were of faraway places
Beaches in the sun
Making sandcastles 
Playing in the warm sea
And of pirate adventures
Oo Arh Captain!
Having fun all day long
I dreamt of rainbows I could climb
To find my pot of gold
I dreamt of finding my own Prince Charming
Of having children of my own

My childhood dreams were full of wonderment
Christmas a magical time
I would watch the elves
Hard at work
Both night and day
Getting presents made
Wrapped and ready
To load up Rudolph’s sleigh 
Through the skies we rode
Over chimneys and skyscrapers
Seas and oceans 
Through warm days and cold nights
Different time zones
Clocks go backwards here
To give us more time
Everyone helps at Christmas 
It’s a holy time

My childhood dreams were enchanted
Full of magic and adventures
My friends were not human
They had magical powers
We travelled throughout time and space
Together we ruled the world
I danced with fairies
Played with gnomes
Attended glamorous balls
I had a life of mystery and bliss
There the impossible was possible

I had a fairy godmother
Who would grant me wishes
Not just three
If I wished for something 
It would appear
Anything I need
If I felt sad my toys would cheer me up
The clowns would do tricks
My Barbie dolls presented fashion parades
My teddies would dance in front of me

My childhood dreams were dreams that came to life
To accompany me on my way
From being a child to an adult now
I remember my friends from those days
Sometimes I wonder if they were real
I look in my garden at the gnomes
I swear I see them moving
Out the corner of my eye
I see my daughter watching
Only one year old but she laughs
I swear she sees what I saw
And I feel a tiny bit jealous

I whisper into my baby girls’ ear
Say hello to them for me
To the pixies and the fairies
The witches and gnomes
To the fairy tales and nursery rhymes
And the things I will never tell
The secrets that were given me
By my magical friends way back then
Will stay with me always
I feel safe in the knowledge
They will accompany you on your way
Even now when I look in the skies above
I say a prayer to the stars
The lost people I still love no longer visit me
But I know that they are still there

My childhood dreams were amazing
I know my daughters will be too
I read to her the stories I heard
The ones that inspired me
Gave me my imagination and growth
I know she’s only one year old
And she doesn’t understand
But very soon she will
Be dreaming in wonderland
Dancing with fairies soon
My friends will be her friends
I know they will look after her
Take her to the magical places
I remember and hold in my heart 
And give her the most amazing gift
Childhood dreams

Copyright © Sarah Bryant

Long poem by cassie hellberg | Details |

over and over agin

sometimes i talk to myself, 
my mind is racing,
i dont know what to do...
so hard to explain.
depression isn't a stage
or a faze some kids go through
it shatters you...
i saw it all. 
she cried silent in her bed,
blood stains covered her favorite jeans,
her every shirt,
long sleeve ofcourse...
she suffered through it all with few people to call friend
and more to call enemy
even more to say where quite dissappointed....
her first name in school,
not started by a bully
or a mean rival,
but by her sister, 
and it echoed through her soul,
repeating in her mind... over and over again,
like the ripples of still water
when a pebble is dropped
flash frozen in time
over and over again...
It was the first name they gave her,
millions where created over the years,
some unique
some repeating again, just as the first had..
gothic they called her,
emo, fat, ugly....worse things.
but in her mind, things where worse.
everything was repeating,
over and over again,
finally she believed it. 
she asked for help, from everyone
tried to explain to parents she wasnt well,
got called a psycho for asking to see a theripist,
not from a teacher,
not from a class mate,
but from her own father, who wouldn't, couldn't,
believe there could possibly be a thing wrong....
finally, crying, she confessed her bloody secret to a teacher.
rather then giving her time,
she is sent back to class crying her eyes out, as if she wherent going through enough...
she is sent to the principals office a few minutes later, after breaking down in class...
the princlipal says she needs help,
sends her and her dad for a risk evaluation,
her dads crying as she shows him her cuts...
they walk into a hospital room, 
it smells of chemicals and hand sanitizer,
the lady at the desk gives her a smile.
then she goes into a room with a lady,
her cheeks are sunken in and shes wearing way too much makeup,
the girl is gaging on her perfume,
and she looks really intimidating....
her dark brown hair looks dead and flat
even though its a bit wavy, 
and she wears somewhat of a mocking frown.
asks her all these questions,
is mommy beating her?
is daddy raping her?
is she doing drugs?
not alot
is anyone beating her?
did anyone molest her? 
oxcarbezapine, trazadone, citalipran, clinazapam, colonipan,
valium, lithium, more.......
and thats what they gave her,
some numbed the pain
some brought it out
tearing through her organs,
she became an addict by the time she was fourteen....
over dose after over dose
some for pleasure
some for pain,
gashes on her legs getting deeper,
this time she didnt tell a soul,
not even those she had come to call friends....
wakeup she screamed in her head over and over again
as she dropped weight like it was nothing....
you cant controll it she argued as things became worse. 
at age fourteen she attempted suicide,
she didnt quite succeed.
the medication took away her aappitite....
she liked it
she hated her body
hated herself
felt out of controll
found a new way to cope
as she shoved tooth brush after toothbrush down her throat
to keep her body from nuitrients...
as she whent weeks and weeks spitting food into napkins and making excuses 
I ate at my friends house....
spoken as a whisper
heard like a sentance
echoing in her mind over and over again,
along with that word, all the words,
ugy, anoying, stupid, fake, worthless, nothing...
one bite she would say
rocking back and forth
craving nothing but food
her body racked with hunger pain
one bite and there she was again
over and over and over again
back to a toothbrush
this time she sees blood
she saw her ribs
she saw her bones,
it wasnt good enough,
she almost died, again....
choking on this deep dissappointment in herself,
gaging on everything they where pushing down her throat, 
their words, and their insults, their criticism.... their drugs
all shoved down her throat like candy
and just as she was was trained to do she swallowed despite the bad taste
or the hurt
or the fact that at the rate she was going she would be dead soon...
and you know why? 
because daddy yelled 
and couldnt accept what was happening
not because he wanted to hurt her
but because it hurt him,
and she let him believe,
because she could take the hurt if it meant he didnt have too.
because mommy didnt want to sit in her room all day
smoking weed
doing nothing,
practically having us raise ourselves,
she didnt mean to take anger, or frustration or hurt out on her daughter
she suffered everyday in her solitary confinement,
and from a young age she accepted her bedroom was the cage
 her mother had created for herself.
because sister didnt want to effect her the way she did
she was just frustrated
fed up with the way things where
scared, she needed someone to take her cruelty
and to help heal her pain...
because people in school
who where so cruel
had to have learned from somewhere
and she wasnt going to play into their games,
and they knew she was an easy target
because she would never attack someone so weak
and she accepted her suffering was a sacrafice
to help all these people....
to help her dad,
her mom,
her sister,
every person who was beaten abused or hurt
 and felt so weak at home they wanted to feel strong in the one safe place they had.
because depite the fact she had died inside,
and almost passed away on the out,
it was a saccrafice she was willing to make
so that no one else would have to feel that kind of pain,
and they all inflicted it and broke her down'untill there was nothing left but a shell
of somthing that could have been
and never had the chance
and why? 
because she would take it and wouldnt strike back,
because sometimes "just taking it"
isnt so much about the weakness not to do anything
but about the strangth not to hurt others the way they hurt you...

Copyright © cassie hellberg

Long poem by Carl Halling | Details |

Snapshots from a Child's West London

I remember my cherished Wolf Cub pack, 
How I loved those Wednesday evenings, 
The games, the pomp and seriousness of the camps, 
The different coloured scarves, sweaters and hair 
During the mass meetings, 
The solemnity of my enrolment, 
Being helped up a tree by an older boy, 
Baloo, or Kim, or someone, 
To win my Athletics badge, 
Winning my first star, my two year badge, 
And my swimming badge 
With its frog symbol, the kindness of the older boys.
I remember a child's West London.
One Saturday afternoon, after a football match
During which I dirtied my boots 
By standing around as a sub in the mud, 
And my elbow by tripping over a loose shoelace, 
An older boy offered to take me home. 
We walked along streets, 
Through subways crammed with rowdies, 
White or West Indian, in black gym shoes. 
"Shuddup!" my friend would cheerfully yell, 
And they did.
"We go' a ge' yer 'oame, ain' we mite, ay?"
"Yes. Where exactly are you taking me?" I asked.
"The bus stop at Chiswick 'Oigh Stree' 
Is the best plice, oi reck'n."
"Yes, but not on Chiswick High Street,"
I said, starting to sniff.
"You be oroight theah, me lil' mite."
I was not convinced. 
The uncertainty of my ever getting home 
Caused me to start to bawl,
And I was still hollering 
As we mounted the bus. 
I remember the sudden turning of heads. 
It must have been quite astonishing 
For a peaceful busload of passengers 
To have their everyday lives 
Suddenly intruded upon 
By a group of distressed looking Wolf Cubs, 
One of whom, the smallest,
Was howling red-faced with anguish 
For some undetermined reason. 
After some moments, my friend, 
His brow furrowed with regret, 
As if he had done me some wrong, said:
"I'm gonna drop you off 
Where your dad put you on."
Within seconds, the clouds dispersed, 
And my damp cheeks beamed. 
Then, I spied a street I recognised
From the bus window, and got up, 
Grinning with all my might:
"This'll do," I said. 
"Wai', Carl," cried my friend, 
Are you shoa vis is 'oroigh'?"
"Yup!" I said. I was still grinning
As I spied my friend's anxious face 
In the glinting window of the bus 
As it moved down the street.
I remember a child's West London.
One Wednesday evening, 
When the Pops was being broadcast 
Instead of on Thursday, 
I was rather reluctant to go to Cubs, 
And was more than usually uncooperative 
With my father as he tried 
To help me find my cap, 
Which had disappeared.
Frustrated, he put on his coat 
And quietly opened the door. 
I stepped outside into the icy atmosphere 
Wearing only a pair of underpants,
And to my horror, he got into his black Citroen 
And drove off. I darted down Esmond Road,  
Crying and shouting. 
My tearful howling was heard by Margaret, 
19 year old daughter of Mrs Helena Jacobs, 
Whom my mother used to help 
With the care and entertainment 
Of Thalidomide children. 
Helena Jacobs expended so much energy 
On feeling for others,  
That when my mother tried to get in touch 
In the mid '70s, she seemed exhausted, 
And quite understandably, 
For Mrs O'Keefe, her cleaning lady 
And friend for the main part 
Of her married life
Had recently been killed in a road accident. 
I remember that kind 
And beautiful Irish lady, 
Her charm, happiness and sweetness, 
She was the salt of the earth. 
She threatened to ca-rrown me
When I went away to school...
If I wrote her not.
Margaret picked me up
And carried me back to my house. 
I put on my uniform 
As soon as she had gone home, 
Left a note for my Pa, 
And went myself to Cubs. 
When Pa arrived to pick me up, 
The whole ridiculous story 
Was told to Akela, 
Baloo and Kim, 
Much, much, much to my shame.
I remember a child's West London.
The year was 1963, the year of the Beatles, 
Of singing yeah, yeah, yeah in the car, 
Of twisting in the playground, 
Of "I'm a Beatlemaniac, are you?"
That year, I was very prejudiced 
Against an American boy, Raymond, 
Who later became my friend. 
I used to attack him for no reason, 
Like a dog, just to assert my superiority. 
One day, he gave me a rabbit punch in the stomach 
And I made such a fuss that my little girlfriend, Nina,
Wanted to escort me to the safety of our teacher, 
Hugging me, and kissing me intermittently 
On my forehead, eyes, nose, cheeks. 
She forced me to see her:
"Carl didn't do a thing," said Nina, 
"And Raymond came up and gave him 
Four rabbit punches in the stomach."
Raymond was not penalized, 
For Mademoiselle knew 
What a little demon I was, 
No matter how hurt 
And innocent I looked, 
Tearful, with my tail between my legs.
I remember a child's West London.

Copyright © Carl Halling

Long poem by Christine Ueri | Details |

Workshop Poem: Learning Curves

an apparition in our grade one classroom door 
obscured save for the halo around your head 
. . . must've been the sunlight

playing with the curves of your curls
you said I wrote sentences
that would've made your grade threes weep . . . 
and I was someone I didn't know existed before

someone who could write more than curved lines and straight lines
someone who played with words at break
while the other children ate protein-packed sandwiches

between chalkboard dust-clouds and sweeping up pencil shavings 
I stayed in for athletics, looked through the classroom window,
searched the oak tree outside for a vision of the painted elf
I un-tacked from a perpetual race on the circular classroom weather board

see, I couldn't run with only one healthy kidney 
when I just came out of hospital
where doctors cleaned their instruments in kidney-shaped dishes
my friend, June, still slept in the next hospital bed --
I hoped she wouldn't die the way Maria did --
while I read Jack and the Beanstalk

Mrs Louw asked how I had learnt to read English 
I couldn't tell her -- it was something that just happened
the same way I discovered I despised steak and kidney pies
because I couldn't eat my own sickness


REVISED (Punctuation)

An apparition in our grade one classroom door, 
obscured save for the halo around your head.
Must've been the sunlight.

Playing with the curves of your curls,
you said I wrote sentences--
that would've made your grade threes weep--
and I was someone I didn't know existed before:

someone who could write more than curved lines and straight lines;
someone who played with words at break,
while the other children ate protein-packed sandwiches.

Between chalkboard dust-clouds and sweeping up pencil shavings, 
I stayed in for athletics, looked through the classroom window,
searched the oak tree outside for a vision of the painted elf
I un-tacked from a perpetual race on the circular classroom weather board.

See, I couldn't run with only one healthy kidney 
when I just came out of hospital
where doctors cleaned their instruments in kidney-shaped dishes,
my friend June still slept in the next hospital bed--
I hoped she wouldn't die the way Maria did--
while I read Jack and the Beanstalk.

Mrs Louw asked how I had learnt to read English. 
I couldn't tell her. It was something that just happened
the same way I discovered I despised steak and kidney pies
because I couldn't eat my own sickness.


an apparition in our grade one classroom door 


	save for the halo 

	must've been the sunlight

	playing with the curves of your curls

you said I wrote sentences
that would've made your grade threes weep 
and I was someone 
I didn't know existed before


who could write more than curved lines 
and straight lines


who played with words at break
while other children ate 

protein-packed sandwiches

between chalkboard dust-clouds 	
and sweeping up pencil shavings 
I stayed in for athletics		
		looked through the classroom window
searched the oak tree outside
		for a vision of the painted elf

			I un-tacked 

		from a perpetual race on the circular classroom weather board

	I couldn't run with only one healthy kidney 
	when I just came out of hospital
	where doctors cleaned their instruments 
	in kidney-shaped dishes
	my friend


	still slept in the next hospital bed 

	I hoped she wouldn't die the way Maria did

	while I read Jack and the Beanstalk

Mrs Louw asked 
how I had learnt to read English 
				I couldn't tell her 
				it was something that just happened

					the same way I discovered I despised 
							steak and kidney pies


REVISED (for viewing on mobile devices)

an apparition 
in our grade one classroom door 

                 save for the halo 
                must've been the sunlight

playing with the curves of your curls 
you said I wrote sentences 
that would've made your grade threes weep 
and I was someone 
I didn't know existed before


who could write  
more than curved lines and straight lines


      who played with words at break
      while other children ate 

              protein-packed sandwiches

      between chalkboard dust-clouds 
      and sweeping up pencil shavings 
      I stayed in for athletics
      looked through the classroom window
          searched the oak tree outside
         for a vision of the painted elf

                       I un-tacked 

from a perpetual race 
on the circular classroom weather board

                    I couldn't run 
                    with only one healthy kidney 
                    when I just came
        out of hospital

                    where doctors 
                    cleaned their instruments 
                    in kidney-shaped dishes

                    my friend


       still slept in the next hospital bed 
       I hoped she wouldn't die
      the way Maria did

      while I read Jack and the Beanstalk

Mrs Louw asked 
how I had learnt to read English
                 I couldn't tell her
    it was something that just happened

    the same way I discovered I despised 

                steak and kidney pies

Copyright © Christine Ueri

Long poem by RUSS duPont | Details |

WINTER, 1948

WINTER, 1948 [40 Saxton Street]

for W.W

The winter nights that pass now
are so unlike the winter nights
that passed before, that I often
struggle back in those suspended moments
when sleep grapples for a hold,
to once again hear the voices of those nights
and smell the smells that lingered
in those well-worn days,
and see my grandmother
standing over her coal stove
where I huddled on frost-filled nights
watching my mother and father,
aunts and uncles play penny poker
while I broke pieces off an old straw broom,
poked them through the grating
and watched them explode into a kaleidoscope
of orange and blue and then die out,
twisting and snaking, all black and stunted.
When the top of the stove got finger-searing hot,
I'd lean over and let spit drop from my lips,
watch it bubble, scamper and dance across
the hellish top until it disappeared in a hiss, a wisp.

There were laughs and shouts
whenever someone won a hand
and raked the pot across the porcelain table-top,
occasionally dropping a precious penny or two
for me to reclaim from the darkness underneath.
While they played, I sometimes crawled
through my grandmother's bedroom,
past the creaking and groaning bed
where, on another night, they hefted
my grandfather to his feet, to the ambulance
that wailed him off to die;
past the rounded, heavy-handled bureau
where she kept the clutters;
the wrinkled and tattered paper bags
of string and stubs of tooth-marked pencils
wadded, worthless bills of the Confederacy,
stamped with the faces of bearded men in stiff collars --
	"Naming your children after Confederate
	 Generals makes for slow, steady drinkers,"
	 Atticus said.
and now I think of the uncle named for Lee
and the nights I hoisted him
out of Eddie Connor's Tavern.
There were half pieces of Juicy Fruit gum
in gold cameo boxes stuffed with coins
			and uniform buttons.
There were photos, frayed, crumpled-edge,
pale with time, of old women in print dresses
				and always, aprons.

Into the parlor as softly as the old black cat
she kept to find some uncle dozing on the couch.
With a screech wild enough for any Indian,
I was on him, arms flailing, legs around his middle
as we rolled to the carpet and fought great battles
over the room and under the teeter-tottering library table.
Once we tipped over the statue of a headless angel
poised on the prow of a half-sunken ship
and a spider plant, its long thin arms
gangling clusters of finger leaves,
and the laughing stopped.
A shout and a scrape of chairs from the kitchen,
and we scrambled to the hall, to the uncle's room
where we crouched in a lightless corner
until there was only the sound of our breathing
and the hot, sweaty, rug-burned sensation
			of battle on our faces.
When the laughter began again
and our breathing quieted,
we climbed onto the bed,
slipped out the smooth, metal-cold
Daisy Air Rifle from its nest
between bed and wall,
gently and quietly lifted the complaining window
and rested the oil-rubbed barrel
on the sill, while our hearts
pounded loud enough
for everyone in the kitchen to hear.

But they didn't.

I cocked the rifle
and aimed it across the street
at old lady Cinderella's shade-drawn window,
sucked in the cold night air
and gently, nervously, hesitantly
squeezed the trigger --
"squeeze it, don't jerk it,"
the uncle beside me whispered.
With a click and a whoosh
the barrel jumped ever-s0-slightly
off the sill, and somewhere in the blackness
a ping resonated in the night.
"Nice shot," the uncle breathed,
and a warmth spread over my face.
"My turn," the voice whispered.

After the card game
there'd be cocoa,
dark, creamy coffee and amber tea
in chipped white mugs, occasionally with 
					broken handles.
Everyone talked, stirred, tousled our hair
and slipped warm coins
into our damp, ready hands.

Heaps of doughnuts, bloody with jelly
pyramided on movie theatre plates
next to wedges of cervelat, sausage
and thick slices of cheese.

Full mouths chortled and garbled about the game
and Uncle Frank, he of the great beak nose
and occasional long, discolored teeth
let out throaty chuckles,
boasting of brilliant bluffs.
We knew that someday we would sit
at that table, snap and slide
the cards across the smooth surface.
Like Uncle Nick, we'd chew a big cigar,
blow rolling clouds of smoke to the ceiling
and watch them drift back around us
like a pale blue scarf.

The night ended all too quickly
when my father stretched and yawned
and unfolded himself from his chair.

I hated to swap the warmth and the light
for the long walk down streets
glazed with frost and people
walking head down and, it seemed, lonely.

We stood in the crisp night air,
stars flaring like kitchen matches,
until the bus ambled up, wheezing and coughing 
                                         like an unsteady drunk.

With a hissing of doors
and a jounce that sent us stumbling
first backward, then forward,
the bus plodded on into the night.

I sat on my father's lap,
braced against the brittle cold
		of his leather jacket
as the bus gently rocked and swayed
its way up Dorchester Avenue.

I lay my head against his shoulder
and all eerie lights
passed in front of my eyes,
slowly blurring, blending
and fading into darkness.

Copyright © RUSS duPont

Long poem by Edwin Hofert | Details |

Understanding Suicide Understanding Me

Understanding Suicide Understanding Me

Awhile back I had a dear friend contact me to ask if I heard about the young mans suicide at a nearby towns school. I had not. After asking one time on face book if any one of my friends had heard of any such event. My wall began to fill up with details about his life and his personality. His struggles and even previous attempts to end or erase his existence.

He was described as having dreamy eyes by female classmates when he was younger. He was described as the most polite and well mannered but troubled child one person said they had ever met.
Memories of my own changing years flooded my soul as I thought about it all. I did a school report in what they called then Junior High. And my chosen topic was suicide. I've often asked myself why I chose that topic. Today will be one of the very few times I admit it was on my mind a lot during that period of my life. It wasn't because my home life was unbearable. It wasn't because I had no friends or because my young heart had been broken.

In fact I'm only just now realizing it had almost nothing at all to do with my surroundings. It was something within me. Fear certainly had a part to play. Fear of tomorrow. Fear of never really feeling like I fit in. Even though by all outward appearances I was adjusting as well as the majority of people my age.

There was then and sometimes even now this voice. This relentless cruel and demeaning voice always there to remind me. I'll never be good enough. I will always only get what I deserve and that's why I'll never have anything that lasts. Anything that is true. And truly mine.

I was only given a passing grade for my report on suicide because it was obvious the amount of time and effort I put into it. I was told the topic I chose was wrong for a jr high school project. I had failed again. All of that after listening with blood pumping that we could choose our own topic. Somehow my choice wasn't good enough.

I realize now that my very choice for a topic should have sent off bells and whistles throughout the school that one of their own was thinking thoughts of suicide. But they missed it. They didn't see me at all.

Today I don't know why I chose that topic. But I know that one result of it was the saving of my own life. The understanding I gained by being able to see inside the mind that is tormented by unanswerable questions all starting or ending with why? And the realization that to the troubled mind the ultimate answer to fix the most un fixable things.
Is to end it.

This is the point when discussing suicide where fools love to chime in un researched and selfish insensitive remarks revealing their opinions and the fact that they are a fool. 
 A wise man knows only what he knows.
And he does not pretend to have already been where he never hopes to go.

People often consider suicide to be a selfish act. Sometimes referring to it as a cowards way out.

I hate that. And I hate anything that tries to simplify something as complex as a human mind that has reached it's breaking point.

The fact is that to the person in the midst of that struggle. It is the most unselfish and heroic thing that they think they could do.

My point is, that it was my understanding of suicide. It's effects and it's consequences that kept me from crossing that line.

After all the details of this young life surfaced and several hours later my dear friend and I talked again. And without saying it I know she was asking about this path I'm on with my poetry. The tributes to loved ones that have died. The heartache and the heartbreak that I see every day sometimes all day long.

And she asked me. Does all the sadness ever get to you? I responded Absolutely.
There are times I struggle beneath its weight. Sometimes I fall. But somehow I manage to get up again and I keep writing and sometimes when I'm lucky I see someones reaction to a poem where all of a sudden they get it. A life changing revelation takes place in that moment in time. And for a minute. 
I win.

I know the reason I'm alive is to help other people live.

And to find the fullness in their life that I may or may not ever find for myself. It's no longer about me. Because you see somewhere back there that part of me that wanted so badly just to die.

I let it die. And I moved on but not me as I was. A different me. Weaker in some ways and stronger in others. Less proud but more to be proud of. More easily overwhelmed but less breakable.

And so when you see me on the mountaintop and I'm strutting around acting like I belong there. Please. Just let me have that one moment. Because tomorrow I'll be back with the mountain on top of me. Trying to find another way to save someone from going where I have been and hoping to enrich other peoples lives even if it means I know I'm simply going to be passed up along the way.

My reward is you rising above my highest point. My fee for my services? That you never forget how valuable you are. And that you keep pushing forward and never give up.

If you forget me tomorrow. That's ok. But don't forget the things I said.  And don't forget to help someone else along the way.


God Bless

Heart Whisperer Ed Hofert @ facebook

Edwin C Hofert

Copyright © Edwin Hofert

Long poem by Goutam Hazra | Details |

Scent of Paddy Flower

Scent Of Paddy Flower

                                   By Goutam Hazra


My father told me 
first time 
I was just a boy then,
“Follow the scent of paddy flower
move with the wind it carries,
surely you will go to heaven.”

I remember
he would catch 
fistful of wind
bring near to my face
and wonder,
“Isn’t it godly!”

Magically, opened his hand
but I never felt
what scent he meant.
Days of kind rain

“Son, see the misty wind
rushing all over the paddy field
comes every year
to drink the scent of paddy flower.”

Mere as a boy
I could see only
tides of a green plane
touching my little finger
and racing far… too far.
I would ask  
“Where have they gone?”
Smiled my father 
and said
“Did not you listen,
they are going to heaven,
call the goddess then,
‘come goddess dear’
we all are ready with paddy flower.”

Curious was my face,
“Papa, then?”

“Goddess will arrive smiling
her feet will be here
Seeing a pot in her hand
all those paddy flowers
delighted, will open their mouth more wider
and life will be poured…”

“Where these flowers come from?”

Remained my father smiling
speaking all his mind
looking high at sky
asked me to see there
spoke he again.

“Rain, rain, kind monsoon rain
on the first day of its shower
kind rain would ask me to come here
with bagful of paddy seeds,
‘let seeds be spread all over,
let its eternal relation with soil
be the fertilizer’
when all said is done
waiting rain 
starts showering its kind
make visible hiding life in the abyss of seed.
Happy wind changes color
being green all around
waits for the day
when the wind would smell the scent of paddy flower.”

Days passed by,
kind rain was still in waiting
sometimes hidden beyond horizon
or simply making sun blind with its smoky face
and whenever wind said,
‘Dry I’m now’
quenched the thirst.

Someday wind played naughty with sun
asked kind rain to make it misty
and with brushes of sun rays 
painted a rainbow on the face of east sky.

Wait was over
green field blossomed with flowers
and wind said,
“Fill in my heart
with scent of flower
I shall bring life…”

Happy was my father’s voice
“Rain, rain, kind monsoon rain
said so
green wind brining life 
did so
scent of paddy flower
is made so.
Bare footed be here
print your soul
in the dust of this soil
kind rain will come
green wind being there
life will be yours 
with the scent of paddy flower.”
Cruel entropy

How old was I then
nine or ten
my father looked up
up to the sky
again and again
for a month long
only to see 
change of sky’s color
from the color of a summer day to a long humid night.
Dry wind cried at last
over my father’s sweating body
“Rain, rain O kind rain, where have you gone.”

One day sudden
kind rain came again.
Cried to my father
“Why no green wind came this year
from ocean 
to bring me here.
Desert wind why
dry my breath
seeds you have sown
how could I then
enliven with my rain.”

many question
my father had asked the rain.

Short-lived, hurried rain could spell its last breath,
“I am not that rain 
as was your friend,
I am the curse of dying forest
I am the ghost of all pollution
I am born out of acid weather…”

Who knew, it left for where?

My father cried 
As kind rain left him alone
hiding in a dry wind’s bone.

My father was still
going every morning
asking the soil
in vain
if soil could alone
make the paddy flowers to be born.

Year passed by,
came back the time, 
for green wind to bring kind rain.

Rain came one day.

But why
as a cloudburst
roaring always
pouring unwanted
like an unkind monster
flooded misery
in the life of a simple farmer?

Dumb remained my father
for days together
sad was his voice at last,
“Run away, son, run away from here,
sky rain wind
river village land;
thread of this garland
who cuts it
go, stop now there hand.”

Draught and flood,
uncertainty of life 
changed my mind 
as of a farmer’s son.
Books, studies and education
reasons, truth and compassion
might have had fulfilled my father’s mission.

Does not this civilization
converts us 
as the products to do more production.
Run, run and run 
run ahead of time
let be it, at the cost of inhaling killer tension,
stress taking  over your life.
Insomnia, cholesterol or cynicism
is our success’s companion? 
‘A’ is shaped as ‘B’
and ‘B’ is sold as ‘C’.
but I found the basic
what it remain
as life’s supreme conviction 
‘simply a fist full of paddy
and its grain’.

Scent of life

So here, I am again
standing in front of this green plane
searching for the shadow of my father.
Green wind surrounds my existence
I can see the dance of those bunches.
My mind whispers to my ear
echoes those words of my father, 
“Bare footed be here
print your soul
in the dust of this soil
rain will come
green wind being there
life will be yours 
with the scent of paddy flower.”

I never felt so,
what I smell now 
is the scent of paddy flower.

Copyright © Goutam Hazra

Long poem by Poetryof Providence | Details |


You spoke of Love in the kingdom to come
Where the works of hatred would be undone
you bid your disciples to follow whats true
to demonstrate its power in the actions they do
But I have seen injustice
      In the congregations of God
they have castigated children
with verbal tirades           they did flog

committed vicious slander
and the innocent             threw away
refused to hear their lack of justice
and those who tell the truth                they slay

But these actions are not hidden
from our King                 God has given throne
those of us who’ve seen it
our thoughts to him          have shown

His retribution will not linger
with his army he arrives
expose he will oppressors
those who                       cover deceit with lies
They profess to be disciples
of the Christ and Father Jah
but the errors                   of injustice
have trespassed the Love that’s law

Into the sanctuary
          I have sent this word
that like prayers of incense 
their cries and tears           be heard

At the house of God there’s punishment
until true mercy            we can learn
willing to          investigate the truth
and its advocates not spurn

You have practiced Law and Judgment
the child of God             you did not see
you interpreted the scriptures
and pronounced his children          unworthy

I have trouble understanding
those who lift             your eulogy
so easily destroy their kin
blame not themselves              as ungodly

Its always someone                 else’s fault
not the things you did or say
you couldn’t possibly            be the reason
that from the “truth” they walked away

When you stand before the throne of God
will they judge                  your actions clean
all the thoughts that you committed
will prove you kind                  or mean

I can only say to you 
I saw your                 justice taken away
my own afflictions and slander
paralyzed my voice             that day

Even now to late in time
their judgments I do fear
they’ve spent their time             convincing me
my perception is not             clear

But I have spent my time
considering             the instructions in your word
their placement in        my heart and mind
and my pen has proved I’ve heard

to those youths       I’m still connected
you’ve remained in mind and heart
I’ve considered what you experienced
and I know                it’s origins start

Not all of us              who worship truth
will condemn your walk away
those who expose their heartlessness
before the throne will pay

I only hope you              remember
those of us    who cherished you
If I could manipulate nature
none these things               would you go through

I want you to remember
that’s whats broken         and with flaw
have difficulty executing
the perfection of cosmic law

I hope to see you           in the future
when you’ve considered my             digress
what you’ve experienced in life
is very difficult               to digest

The things that connect us
are more            than human skin
together we are the children
of the parents               who gave us sin

This is my apology
for you         whom I could not defend
I was suffering my own afflictions
which prevented           my love to mend

I have failed far to many
and on others can           lay no blame
unlike the power that controls the cosmos
my limitations physics             name

My complaints here             I have spoken
but the threads of them            are true
they are laid before the throne of justice
and our God and Christ            will see them through

Choose to invest in excellence 
but these are traits          that you must learn
to humans they come            not natural
your inclinations             they will confirm

From your introduction             I have loved you
and to my thoughts have given voice
but your own road                    you must travel
and free will               is yours of choice

Only one thing          can fill whats hollow
a majestic gift       from Christ and God
that we “learn” to love each other
correct the inherited things          and flawed

Self justification (self rightousness) is a peculiar
trait among mankind ….and is significantly
emboldened when applying law and tradition
and distinctly visible among those who “practice”
religion , instead of “following the truth” like a
detective …….outside appearances can be so
deceiving, whats hidden and out of visions
range the guilty are not just catholic and protestant
those who abuse the truth have always sat
right among Gods own chosen people ….

Luke 17:1-4

COPYRIGHT © 2011 C. Michael Miller
via Duboff Law Group LLC

Copyright © Poetryof Providence

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

Long Poems