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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.

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Long poem by Darryl Ashton | Details |

THE RETURN OF PETER PAN 2014

THE RETURN OF PETER PAN…2014  

And Introducing 
The arch enemy:
((Political Correctness and Health and Safety))

Ladies and Gentlemen: boys and girls. Peter Pan is set to strike again.

 
A sequel to J.M. Barrie’s classic tale will be published in the very near future, in which Tinkerbell will be replaced by a male fairy named Firefly, the Darling little children are all grown up, Neverland is blighted by pollution and Nana the dog, is sadly dead. 

Darryl Ashton has obtained this exclusive interview with Peter Pan to find out what went wrong. Peter says: “What has the world come to when someone like me is no longer allowed in children’s bedrooms? OK, so at first inspection things don’t sound too great.
I am someone who climbs secretly through children’s  bedroom windows. I have a friend called Tinkerbell who is, yes, a ‘Fairy’. The two of us tell the little Darlings’ to forget about their parents and come away with us on a big adventure to Neverland. But relax, will you! 
Looking’ back I guess my problems really began when I started planning this return trip to Britain after some 100 years. Do you know how hard it is for a guy like me to get the paper work together? By the time Childcare Agencies, Social Services and The Criminal Records Bureau had vetted me, the magic was wearing pretty thin, I can tell you.

Was I self – employed? Or were Tinkerbell and I in a VAT – registered partnership? Did I have a pilot’s licence, which met all compliance standards? Did I have the relevant Visa for tourists from Non – EU countries? Questions, questions! Don’t all these regulations get you down? Anyway, as Tinks and I soon came to discover, Britain has changed beyond all recognition in the years we have been away.
Our first discovery, much to our horror, was Wendy, and her brothers John and Michael, were some time ago taken into foster care. We learnt that their parents, who were in the habit of leaving them in the care of Nana the dog, had been stripped of access to the children.

TV crews chased Mr and Mrs Darling down the street and a police guard had to be placed outside their door to prevent vigilante gangs from attacking them. Well, that was all too much for Nana the dog who was carted off to an RSPCA hospital, where she was soon being seen by a strange Australian man with a beard and a didgeridoo, who said he could make her a star, on, Animal Hospital.  

Nana said she’d rather be put down, so after a quick call to an assisted suicide group called Dognitas, the old dear’s now pushing up the daises next to Shep in Blue Peter’s garden. Such a waste, she’d been trained by Norland, you know. 
But I don’t suppose that means much these days.

Unsurprisingly, the Darling children went rapidly down hill from there. Shunted from one foster home to another, they fell in with the wrong crowd. Before long, Michael was wearing a hoodie and worse, hanging out with Prince Harry’s lot. As for little John, without any proper father figure to look after him, he found solace in a new faith, changed his name to Sinbad, and was last heard of heading for the Afghan hills for a spiritual vacation. Which is why Wendy got back in touch with yours truly.

So with no one else left to help her, Wendy closed her eyes tight and sent a wish to her old mate Peter Pan. I must confess, when her message first popped up on my Blackberry, I winced. Is there nowhere the office can’t reach me these days? Even Neverland? So I made a few calls, and whaddya know? Hookie agreed to help me out. Yes, I know he’s a rogue and bounder who has polluted the whole of Neverland, after swapping the Jolly Roger for a fleet of turbo charged jet skis. 

Big mistake. We’d scarcely set foot in London before the anti – terrorism squad and Hookie was carted off to Belmarsh. You should have heard him shouting when they took him away! “I am Hook, one time bosom to Blackbeard. The only man to send a shiver up the wooden stump of, Long John Silver. The only consolation for the poor Captain was that the crocodile never made it through the security checks at Neverland Airport”. The other passengers heard that clock ticking in its belly and said they would not travel unless the croc was chucked off the flight.

As for Tinkerbell, no sooner had she returned to her old haunts than a gay rights group called Stonewall said it was totally unacceptable for her old name to be retained. When asked for an explanation, they just threw their eyebrows to the ceiling, sucked in their lips like lemon quarters and gasped: Firely was so much more ‘now’. They even wanted Tinks to change her gender, but we’re still negotiating on that. The Elf’s trade union is pretty sticky on that sort of alteration.

The fairy costumes had to go too, something to do with stereotyping. But when I showed Tinks her new thong, her little pilot light went out altogether, and I’m afraid no amount of Polish plumbers can get it started again. So now I’m stranded and alone, with only my shadow for company. Even Wendy has cut off contact after getting a six – figure deal to appear on a Celebrity show---get me out of here! All of this I can tell you, is incredibly upsetting.

What has happened to Britain these days? I know Neverlands not perfect, but it’s a place where time stands still – and innocence is preserved and I like it that way. Today’s inspectors and officials all say that they’re only interested in protecting children. But by imagining the worst of people they are only wrecking the very innocence they presume to defend.

As I was telling the tooth fairy the other day: “You know Gums, sometimes I wonder if childhood itself is vanishing”. And do you know what she said in reply: “Sorry Pete, I’ve gone private. If you want a consultation, you’ll have to pay up front”.
How about ‘Pay – as – you – go? Sorry Pete, it’ll Neverland!


BY
DARRYL ASHTON                                                      

                                        


Long poem by Glenn Johnson | Details |

MY JOURNEY TO YOU

Little eyes search a new world . . .
  The gaze and suckle for food, body and soul.
     A tiny heart tuned to the glow and tone of love.
         Compelled to bond . . . drawn to the love gaze
             Mother . . . Father
                 Chosen in soul’s life quest
                     Spiritually . . . what was known
                         now obscured by soul’s desire to be flesh.

How was I conceived?
   An act of love, desire, need, lust, passion?
      Unconscious of my own conception
   The invisible participant
Life’s mysterious ménage a trios.

In the beginning was the word
  Your sounds in my mind and mouth.
                  Coo and babble.
The ancient celestial winds swirled in my lungs.
The divine conductor orchestrated the mystical moment: 
                    ma ma. . . .  da da 
                  Did you truly hear me?

My hands on a chair . . .  the letting go . . . timid steps into the great void  
  wobbling legs, diaper descending, butt naked, I toddled 
                                    pudgy arms reached to you.
                                           Were you there?

Being born oblivious provides no insulation
  when delivered into the acetylene torch
     crossed and frayed wires of bitter parents.
Explosions of rage . . . too sudden for small and toddling legs to escape.
    Tender senses scorched. 
                         Heart seared. 
                      Terrified.
Mind’s burrows dug deep beneath the conflagration
                   Huddle and tremble 
        Await signs of fire storms extinguish.

Calm?  
   A fearful crawl to the surface
      Barely exposed
          Eyes cautious 
     Deciphering the face of mother then father:
        Ashen 
             Exhausted
      Eyes, searing embers.
 They trudge through rubble 
                           cinders
                 charred corpses of words
                   shouted . . . threatened 
                hearts guarded, armored.

Words the mistaken enemy 
    Instigators of continued marital strife
       Silence a simmering refuge
          Frost bitten eyes of evasion
       Shielded, scorched hearts
    Tolerated phantoms they
An endless cold war in a place called home.

                       . . . Love . . .
            A mere obligation to a vow?

                       . . . Love . . .
A mere arrangement of consonants and vowels?

A child’s confusion:  
        Mother . . . Father 
  Did I lose the magic to enthrall?
        Did I fail you?
What did I do to lose your love?

Still the yearn for the joy that welcomed my birth.
   I was your precious one 
      Your bright eyes
          My joy of your joy
             My delight of your delight.

Vague memories of enfolded fondness
                tender embrace 
                serene snuggle 
               oneness of a we.
               
Time and again . . . the fearful crawl to the surface
  Decipher the face of mother then father
    Vacant gazes to anywhere but each other
      Mutual strangers carving a frozen asylum
   Indifference their drug for festering wounds.
             You . . . phantom to phantom 
                  become my phantoms.
            Your vacant stare my vacant stare.

The need and want of love:  
                  How can I rekindle your love?
                A desperate search for fuel.
I gather kindling in all that I do: school, sports, honors
       The ritual marches to deliver pleading offerings.
                      A love shrouded in absence
               I look down at my accomplishments:
           Mere twigs and sticks, decayed dead wood
                     food of ungrateful insects
                              Arms weaken 
                    Burden and tears fall to earth 
                  Healing is a foreign and alien place
               The decision final 
            Never again return.

A youth’s anguish: 
    I hate you for bringing me into your hell.
        I know my place . . . 
            Mind’s burrows dug deep beneath the carnage.
                Isolation . . . the numbness of drugs oblivion.
                     
                            Miracle of Miracles

                 Transformation . . . Before my eyes!
             Girls all about me . . . beauty. 
       A bolt of lightning, a direct hit, burrow piercing radiance.

Wild scramble to the surface.
                    Drawn to the love gaze 
                          a boy . . . a girl 
         chosen in soul’s life quest to love, be loved.

                                   You . . . I
                      Our limbs and hearts entwined  
                           Ethereal blazing stars               
                           Creator’s gift in deed.                  
                                                 
                          Born of wounded hearts
                         Witnesses to love's rebirth 
                                 A solemn vow
                 Spoken man-child to woman-child
                           In all our imperfection
                     In times of anger, hurt and fear
                 . . . No matter how difficult the task . . . 
              . . . No matter how great the challenges . . .
                         . . . together we will stand . . .
                                  . . . arm in arm . . .
                           . . . embrace to embrace . . 
                                . . . heart to heart . . .
                                  . . . soul to soul . . .
                    . . . Learn what we were never taught . . .
            . . . Give each other the words and touches that heal . . .
             . . . Our togetherness a true labor and gift of love . . .





Long poem by Goutam Hazra | Details |

Scent of Paddy Flower

Scent Of Paddy Flower

                                   By Goutam Hazra

           1
Reminiscence

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.
            
             2
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
there
everywhere.
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 
beautiful
simple
with the scent of paddy flower.”
           
             3
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.”

Question 
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
treacherous
roaring always
pouring unwanted
like an unkind monster
flooded misery
in the life of a simple farmer?
           
            4
Relinquishment

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.

But… 
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’.
Modification
innovation
sophistication
but I found the basic
what it remain
as life’s supreme conviction 
‘simply a fist full of paddy
and its grain’.

             5
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 
beautiful
simple
with the scent of paddy flower.”

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




















Long poem by Dorine R Spruill | Details |

Mommy Why

 Molested the first fifteen years of my life. My mother remained silent the whole time. As the molesting continued all those years. Forced to live a pretend life all my childhood. Beaten and punished every other day. For no reason other than being a child. After all this I figured I was a unwanted child. My mother couldn't love me abusing me. She brought me fancy expensive clothes every year. To cover up all her verbal, mental, and physical abuse. She tried to hide me from people, family and friends. So that they wouldn't see the embarrassing scars and bruises. Sometimes so bad I couldn't even go to school the next day. Or I would get into fights or act rude to get a suspension notice. That would have allowed my body to heal. One time I even tried to get ex-spelled. However, it didn't work. I only came home to more beatings. Her boyfriend watched and help hold me down on the floor as she would beat, and beat, and beat. Maybe this gave him a idea that it was ok to abuse me. Being that my mother was already doing it. Yeah! From the outside looking in my childhood was perfect. Every child wanted my seat. Name-brand clothes, shoes, computers, and almost every toy in the Jc Penny catalog. From the inside looking out I was screaming to get out. Scared, alone, abused, and still a child. So there was nothing I could do. I had no brothers or sisters at the time. All my family wouldn't believe me.No! Not him they would say, and did say at age fifteen I started getting older, and more developed. I had to put a stop to this. So after talking to some school friends. I decided to talk to my mother about what was going on.  So later on that night I called my mother in to talk to her. I had told her what had been going on. while she was a work, and out late shopping. She in return asked me  to draw a picture of his *****. As if she didn't believe me on the spot. What! I thought to myself. How could she ask me a thing like that? After one hour she finally called the police. I was brung in also for video questioning. I told them what had been going on  in the house while my mother was away. The police in return asked me "what took so long for me to tell" I replied" I was scared, alone, and threatened. I had no one in the house to protect me. From my mothers abusive ways. I thought people would tease me." The next question was to my mother.  The police asked "How could you live in the same house, and not know that your child was being raped?" My mother sat quietly and had no answer. So she got charged with neglect. My mother's boyfriend got charged with child molestation, and a few other things. I can't remember them all. After all that I was still scared, but finally free. Free to be a kid again.
    Awh, hell the relationship between my mother and I went down the drain. After trial  she hated me even more. Every day she was threatening to kick me out of the house. I was only sixteen so she couldn't just kick me out. Yet! She even got so angry at times. She went as far as not letting me communicate with my newborn brother.  She even told people to keep him away from me. That hurt me so bad everyday. I prayed to God everyday to soften my mother's heart, but it never happened. When I turned eighteen she finally kicked me out the house for real. With no place to go, no money , and no food to eat.  I ended up living with family and friends until she let me back in. I don't know why, but I thought things had changed. About a week after moving she called the police and told them that I was prostituting. Which was a lie. Thank God I didn't spend time in jail. Due to her lies and deceit. I never thought I would have to leave my own mother alone. However, after that incident that was my final decision. Sporadically I call her to hear her voice, and check on my brother. Unfortunately she never answers the phone. Her guilt for abusing me won't let her answer the phone.
    I moved to Albany, NY for a fresh start. A new beginning! There I met  more friends, moved into a brand new apartment, and fell in love. I wasn't expecting to fall in love, but I did. With a adorable, hot, and sexy Italian guy. For the first time my life was great, and I was happy. I even tried some plus size modeling, nursing, and I started self-publishing my writings. I was accomplishing things that my mother never encouraged me to do.
 After about four years I started feeling homesick . So I came back to Virginia. Wow! What destruction was happening. My whole  family fell apart. Nothing or nobody were the same. They all became police property. That was a sign to continue to stay away from them. Continue my happy life. Continue self-publishing my stories. Praying to God everyday. that I remain successful. This is a true story. Unfortunately it happened to me. From a mother who brung me in this world. Only to use and abuse me my whole entire childhood. Then pretend that nothings even going on.


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 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. 


Long poem by Broken Wings | Details |

La Collection

~^~ Dawn Walking in the dawn, in the forest loud with sound; Hear the birds sing in the trees! Listen to the wind, see the stream flowing free; Touch a leaf so green, dew wet! Do you hear it now, the sound of nature, the song; A song so sweet, magical Choka x3 Written April 23, 2009 ~~ Leaves Colourful leaves in piles, luminous colours for miles and miles. Burgundy, orange hovering, the trees slowly relinquishing, surrendering. A cool breeze makes them dance, some quiet and calm, some leap and prance. The Autumn sky so changing, clouds moving, billowing, shifting, expanding. And in one blustering wind, piles empty where once colourful leaves had been. Sun touches the leaves of a tree, Like a stained glass window scene, to see. Rhyme Written October 15, 2008 ~~ gliding deep clear sparkling snow diamond like snowflakes falling horse swiftly gliding Haiku Written October 28, 2008 ~~ my little garden plant unfurl your leaf send your root deep deep deep tis spring tis spring now Haiku Written April 23, 2009 ~~ Cluttered Dresser Ornate mirror Butterfly hair clip Deep purple antique necklace Doll, of my childhood Pearls, old and yellowed with time Pink glass vase with wilted roses Family pictures Mom's favourite earrings Hairbrush Scented candle, burning List Written November 5, 2008 ~~ On Bent Knees Prayer books waiting at the door, polished pews and stone cold floors. Specks of dust glitter in the light, half forgotten dreams still burn bright. Stained glass windows cast a glow, on bent knees this day my prayers flow. Couplet Written February 2, 2009 ~~ The Book Exploring the city on a rainy afternoon, I happened upon, Ye Olde Book Store; Opening the door, chimes sang out, The store dusty, small and amazing. To the ceiling books and rows of books, The shop keeper, an elderly man, nods; I walk quietly, I feel that I am in church, Alone, I am in this place of books. So many to touch, but one beckons me, Taking it in my hands, I brush off the dust; Opening the book, it seems to me so interesting, I purchase it of course for a small price. Finding a café close by, I settle in to read, The words on the cover seem to be engraved; A collection of poetry by the great poets of all time, Page after page, tattered, yellowed with age. Verse Written April 23, 2009 ~~ The Wind Standing on a sea cliff with salt on my lips, Holding out my hands to the heavens above; Moving past me, a roaring wind, blows my raven hair, Breathing in the sweetness, it whispers my name, Tangled with the crashing waves, the birds soaring, the clouds rolling. Verse Written March 13, 2009 ~~ O, The Glistening Tears You come in the light of day, Through the ornate cemetery gates you come; Down the lonely long road, Past the headstones, row on row on row. O, the glistening tears. With a broken weeping heat, You come, for us your family buried here; What a cruel destiny and cruel fate, Such love that even death cannot destroy. O, the glistening tears. And when the seasons change, And fall winds blow over us resting here; And when winter frost is in the air, And we lay beneath the pure white snow, O, the glistening tears. And when spring comes and flowers grow, You come in the light of day, you come, you come; For us your family buried here, Souls connected by bonds that even death cannot end. Verse Written February 8, 2009 ~~ The Memory Of You Mom, today I saw a girl with her Mom They were so happy laughing and talking Together, mother and daughter, friends I wondered if the girl realized My heart was filled with envy and pain I have so many things to tell you Happy things, sad things, just things Things only a mother would understand Tears came to my eyes as I watched God must have needed a special angel To separate the puzzle that was you and me The pieces that fit so well together Mom, our love is an endless river It will go on and on and on and never end God took you from me, it was your destiny I know nothing could keep you here Our parting words, I love you so much Your answer and I love you my daughter God took you in the dawn but he left me a gift A precious gift, the memory of you Verse Written February 8, 2009 ~^~


Long poem by Anthony Slausen | Details |

Rouging of the Lamb

        Sweet Mother of pearl
struck a ruby eyed reef 
then quickly sank into the deep,
just shy of the cay of life. 
Don't remember much about her,
those that did have long since blown away,
daddy  never had much to say... about the sinking.
Ancient pictures tempered fawn curiosities..
whispered to me that she had sunset red hair
a mother of pearl smile..
diamond chips set deep in lonely eyes...that's about it
    
 Soon after the sediment of death settled,
         "wrecking ball mom"
swung into the salty blue mix... 
Daddy must have been moon rock lonely
because he only waifed the soft, silky pretty
not the pyrite hearted 
soul licked
by cold, cold fires....
     A much to young, to cuddle a half orphan, kind of bride.
In public her voice cooed ,
"I'll buoy your little sinking heart,
with a million butterfly kisses
chocolate chip all your wishes"...
but in private
she plotted, with steely strap, to carve a granite man 
from a wandering lamb,
who never really needed carving 
only a little gentle kneading
on the potters wheel of life and love.
     I spent a healthy wedge of childhood 
treading a rolling ocean of dorsal fin coldness:
cutting a backyard full of weeds 
with a pair of rusty hand shears,
rescuing favorite toys from the garbage can
staring into plates of things I didn't like to eat.
like asparagus my least favorite "anti-treat".
Everyone would drift into the living room
to frolic away the evening
but I was chained to her electric chair... 
gazing into a saucer filled with green devil spears..
At times I sat so long the food would harden 
into the face of  mother of  pearl, 
her sweetness trapped between rows of bitter things.. 
a gone forever kind of look in our mutual deadened eye.
    Most of the time wrecking ball mom won the food battles. 
Rarely did the boy under the sink come out on top.
One night I'm sparring with the devil spears... again,
deciding on a whim, to slide them under the table, 
into the willing jaws of my beagle friend.
Chalk one up for the half orphan...right?....Not so fast.
The next day I shuffle home from school...
wrecking ball mom is frothing in the doorway,
wants to show me something..
She quickly leads me under the kitchen table
and to my ,deep green, horror..
there lay a small forest of day old asparagus..
Seems this is the one thing my best friend didn't care for.
This is when I was first introduced to 
wrecking ball's wicked handiwork,
that would often rouge the face and back, 
but cunning enough not to crease or crack the lamb.
wham...wham... 
I saw "hitting stars" for the first time,
wham.... wham.. 
I swear a cluster of explosions went off inside my head..
Carving a man out of a paper lamb 
was a long and painful sort of task.
In a way I felt lucky because, for a moment, 
I thought she was going to rub my nose into the regurgitation, 
Just like the time she rubbed the nose of my best friend for pissing up her new bride carpet.
By the way, daddy (the swing shifter) was oblivious to these rougings ...
its ok daddy your fully forgiven for wearing that rose colored hard hat,
we all must wear it at some point in time-to deflect the offal of life.
       Anyhow, that was many years ago...
doesn't really matter anymore,
I've outlived a few best friends.
the wrecking ball's backhanding and black belting days are over. 
She's silver headed and soft as a plate of over cooked veggies...
Every time I visit, I fantasize about rouging her...
wham- wham
until she sees that same pack of hitting stars...
wham- wham until she cracks...
You know, carve an old step bride 
into an under the sink child.
rub that nose in yesterday's piss in honor of my best dead friend.
Unveil those wrinkled whips disguised as mommy hands,
for the whole rosy eyed world to finally see.
but that fantasy will forever go unfulfilled...god willing..
So instead I offer her an atlantic ocean-cold hug instead.
just like any good, semi-forgiving step man would do.
        
Now, I'm heart deep 
in the meloncholy mist of fatherhood..
To this day, I won't touch asparagus
and 
never never 
rouge the lamb- 





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

The unborn dreams of a fertilization 1942A long journey A long lived nightmare Part 1

The unborn dreams of a fertilization  – 1942
A long journey  – A long lived  nightmare

The journey begins without knowledge, just passion.
Life emerges, fights against the prodding at childhood.
The nightmare begins with a stabbing at their creation,
by father, by mothers encouragement, to remove any traces
of their knowledge less innocence, their youthful passion.
Weapons of choice, – to destroy – ( depending ) a blue pill,
a steal coat hanger searching out the embryo that lays
in the semi darkness of its haunted , molested cave,
where its subconscious essence, its protective shell
has been tainted by experiencing constant intrusions
from an unwanted, swollen cylinder, of flesh and blood.
This life, red flowing through blue tubed has to negotiate
this tunnel of darkness, shades of black, clouds that shroud,
in hopes of sliding through this miracle mile, on its way
to feel, to see, to touch, to know the light of day
after a long, nine month troubled stay
in this place of unwanted, unwelcomed occupancy - GO AWAY.

A child’s nightmare, becomes the unwanted dreams of the man.
And now that a new kind of light surrounds this old soul,
the child begins to know another kind of nightmare – Fate.
As the child’s mind walks among the haunted trees,
– through the ghostly forests of life’s experiences -
nightmares, dreams, thoughts, questions abound.

Fate ?, Karma ?, life seems to, always be on the edge
as a fall, from seven feet -at two years of age – into the light,
straight down, head first, striking my head on the cement floor.

Fate ?, Karma ?, life seems to, always be on the edge
as my Grandfather, finds me drowning at the bottom of our well,
at two years of age, he pulls the baby from where he fell.

Fate ?, Karma ?, life seems to, always be on the edge
as my Grandmother, blood poison did know,
observed a red line from my belly down to my big toe.

Fate ?, Karma ?, life seems to, always be on the edge,
once again, this life saved so that it could grow
even as allergy to penicillin could not kill, and so,

Fate ?, Karma ?, life seems to, always be on the edge
as death was averted, once again, by hospital staff and doctor,
the journey goes on, the Grim Reaper cannot, yet, close the door.

Fate ?, Karma ?, life seems to, always be on the edge,
at fourteen, brother uncle, “ boy you are hot ” he said
as we lay side by side, under his fifty five Ford, head to head.

Fate ?, Karma ?, life seems to, always be on the edge
as he tells me to take my temperature – 106 – you are dead ?,
why are you still hear, with us instead.

Fate ?, Karma ?, life seems to, always be on the edge
as I – in my nineteenth year – roll over, twice, my fifty three
Mercury two door hard top that we left up against a tree.

Fate ?, Karma ?, life seems to, always be on the edge
as seven boys unhurt and me going out the door,
my feet on the door, pushes me back in as it rolls once more.

Fate ?, Karma ?, life seems to, always be on the edge
and who knows ?, which side one will end up on
as we all survived, unscathed, my Poor Mercury, gone !

Fate ?, Karma ?, life seems to, always be on the edge
and it is nineteen sixty nine, twenty seven light years
have slipped by in the blink of an eye, filled with tears.

Fate ?, Karma ?, life seems to, always be on the edge
and wonder ?, what coloured the this life’s forces,
what is behind the curtains ?, that direct my courses.

Fate ?, Karma ?, life seems to, always be on the edge
as a diesel engine comes out of the wilderness,
striking, destroying in early morning’s darkness.

Fate ?, Karma ?, life seems to, always be on the edge
as my sixty seven Mercury Comet convertible was killed,
leaving me to live on and my life, with adventures, to be filled

Fate ?, Karma ?, life seems to, always be on the edge
as the 3rd month, the 13th day, of 1973 did show.
For the powers that be, Fate ?, Karma ?, did not let me go.

Fate ?, Karma ?, life seems to, always be on the edge
as the fetus, the baby, the young man, now thirty one
finds that his journey upon this plane is not yet done.


Long poem by randall graves | Details |

Memory Lane

Moments to Reflect
Memory lane
Our memories are a part of us that helps us to grow. Reminiscing about the past keeps thoughts alive so that they will last. Memories are a record of all the things that we have experienced. We hold on to those that are dear and keep them without any fears. The good ones bring us joy while the bad ones bring many tears.
Yesterday has gone; our childhood to the now, we try our best to keep our wondrous memoires that are so profound around. So that when times are bad and when thing seems rough, they put a smile on face and keep us tough.
We dream of past glories of wars that we have fought and it does not matter if we won or lost or what was the cost. It helps us to cope with the problems that we have to face each day and give us hope. Memories they help to get us out of our self contained, egoistical ways of thinking; oh how finite our minds. Keeping the past alive and in our the way, falsifying the truth without any doubts so that you can find an out, from the tribulation that this day may bring; is not dealing with the now what our lives all about?
Yesterday; this was how it was, yesterday; if I only did this or that, yesterday; now that was a good day; but what about today and problem it brings dealing with good and the bad the past is the past it just do not last. It not about what it was that you were facing, it about you using the experiences of what you have already done without any fears so that you do not find a foot in your derriere. 
Our memories are a part of us that helps us to grow. Reminiscing about the past keeps thoughts alive so that they will last. Memories are a record of all the things that we have experienced. Some are hard to forget and some are hard to let go. They are hidden in the deepest, darkest closets in our mind. We try so hard to get around those that hurt that we chose not face them for the pain is sometime to great, we just have not got what it takes. We try to forget but no matter what they will always be a part of us. We try to fool ourselves into believing that they are not. We pretend that they have no meaning, but in reality they help to define you; like it or not. Embrace them we must or else they become nightmare, monster and creating pain and mistrust. Our memories are a part of us that helps us to grow. Reminiscing about the past keeps thoughts alive so that they will last.
Memories are a record of all the things that we have experienced. There is a problem that some do have about their experiences of the past. Shaded truths that brings lies into the future about the past, alternate reality, thinking you are what you aren’t. In our arrogance we think that we are hold six aces and will have the chance for that last dance. The lie that you tell yourself will tie you into knots and cause to have to take that bitter pill (facing the truth) so that you can get back to being real. 
Memories are a record of all the things that we have experienced. Good or bad they thoughts from your past, private archive within your mind, that will always be with you they do not define who you are if you do not let them play with your mind. 
Now here a memory for you to keep for all time so do not waste your time wondering what if, because of this memory was a precious gift. He came from Heaven to this earth and paid a price to give us new birth. Now if you keep this memory close to your heart you will find new life, have faith is all it takes.
From the cross to the earth, from the earth to the sky he did rise. Salvation and a peace of mind you will find. The light of truth and never a dark day will lead the way. He the truth and the light for He is the way, that’s what the Gospel said. Jesus is the only way remember the price that He paid. This faith, this memory just might save you on judgment day, faith in Him is the only way.
“In memory of father and the Son a debt that was not owed He paid. So that we could find our way back home, a memory worth keeping alive. He was wounded for our transgression, crushed for our iniquities: by His wounds we are healed”
Isaiah 53


Long Poems