Long poem by
cassie hellberg | Details |
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 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?
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
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
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,
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
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...
Long poem by
Carl Halling | Details | . You can read it on PoetrySoup.com' st_url='http://www.poetrysoup.com/poem/snapshots_from_a_childs_west_london_651174' st_title='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.
Long poem by
Goutam Hazra | Details |
Scent Of Paddy Flower
By Goutam Hazra
My father told me
I was just a boy then,
“Follow the scent of paddy flower
move with the wind it carries,
surely you will go to heaven.”
he would catch
fistful of wind
bring near to my face
“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
“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,
“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
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
green wind brining life
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.”
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
to bring me here.
Desert wind why
dry my breath
seeds you have sown
how could I then
enliven with my rain.”
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
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.
as a cloudburst
like an unkind monster
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
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.
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 ….
COPYRIGHT © 2011 C. Michael Miller
via Duboff Law Group LLC
Long poem by
Robert Candler | Details |
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
Emile Pinet | Details | . You can read it on PoetrySoup.com' st_url='http://www.poetrysoup.com/poem/a_little_boys_hope_part_one_661356' st_title='A little boy's hope Part One'>
A castle surveys the morning sky before the gauntlet of daylight falls,
standing guard should a dragon fly by this wooden fortress with rough-hewn walls.
Windows direct the first beams of light to a small boy with an impish grin,
and awaking from the spell of night the master of this realm stirs within.
A rickety outhouse guards its flanks, while a rusty smoke stack crowns its peak,
and strange symbols scratched upon its planks welcome the innocent and the weak.
Its cardboard liner protects and warms, keeping out the ghosts that feed on fear,
built of logs it can resist most storms or the odd monster that may appear.
Every weathered board and worn-out knot lets his imagination run wild,
telling a story of battles fought, as magic entertains this young child.
In this shack of mostly logs and tar his family finds it hard to cope,
and before a knight’s dreams drift too far, poverty steals a little boy’s hope.
As time slipped away my body grew, entering my adolescent years,
fairies I once knew no longer flew, driven off when my smiles turned to tears.
The world went to war, and Pa left too when his draft papers arrived one day,
that left Ma and I with lots to do, so the elves and dragons stayed away.
With Ma I plowed all our lands that spring, and come fall we brought the harvest in,
yet Ma never complained of a thing, to her eyes laziness was a sin.
We worked hard just to maintain our farm, but Ma made sure we ate every night,
then we would pray Pa was safe from harm, so he could come home after the fight.
One day out of the blue Pa came back, and Ma was so happy that she cried,
the war's won, democracy’s on track and I’m thankful that Pa never died.
Late that night I heard Ma laugh out loud, something that was good to hear again,
lately she's been acting kinda cowed, overburdened by worry and pain.
Times were never better than those years, the future was all peaches and cream,
Pa worked hard and enjoy a few beers while I would go fishing in the stream.
My woodland friends came out of hiding and would come visit my dreams at night,
where as a knight I would go riding, hunting dragons until dawn’s first light.
Ma and Pa were happier those days, always keen to have a little fun,
Pa taught me all of his hunting ways, and Ma bought me my very own gun.
For a few years the farming was good, Pa even put some money aside,
then the rains didn't come as they should and everything just shriveled and died.
The great depression starts to arrive and Pa's savings sure disappear quick,
people are struggling just to survive and we pray to God no one gets sick.
A monster took shape in clouds of dust and all of the livestock choked and died,
everything was coated in a crust of grit that the wind had blown and dried.
Darkness descended like a shroud of black, blocking out light for days at a time,
and Pa's tolerance began to crack as anxieties started to climb.
Pa could no longer pay any bills, there was just no money to be found,
how do you fight a monster that kills, by choking you with your own damn ground?
Panes of dirty glass reveal the hurt when futures are tied to land and soil
and Pa stands with a hand full of dirt, reflecting on years of pain and toil.
A rusty sun bronzes our straw thatch, a sign that long ago meant good luck,
and a small candle awaits a match, to defend against the dark when struck.
Ma slips me a smile while tending Pa, no guessing where her loyalties lie,
yet when crops fail hunger starts to gnaw, everything we plant is doomed to die.
Looking up to a burnt almond sky, Ma searches for clouds other than dust,
for our neighbors have all said goodbye, homesteads left to decay and rust.
I can see pain bleeding from Pa’s tears, as his wet cheeks mock his false conceit,
abandoning a dream lost to fears, his pride erodes, accepting defeat.
I woke to a roar shaking the room, filling our cabin with prickly dust,
and ran outside in the dark and gloom, where a bruised sky looked ready to bust.
Ma was frantic making sure we're safe, as a black blizzard obscured her sight,
and the fine particles made us chafe, but other than that we were all right.
The drought had electrified the air, attracting dust that the winds lift high,
and we knew we had to flee from there, at the very least we had to try.
Pa whispers we must move from this scene, far from this dust bowl of empty dreams,
California calls in shades of green, with lush pastures and clear mountain streams.
We pack all we can in Pa’s old car, leaving most of what we have behind,
and pray California isn’t far, for it’s like the blind leading the blind.
(863 of 2508 words) Written by Emile April 10th. , 2015 for the contest “Knight Writer's Club Grand Opening.”
Long poem by
Emile Pinet | Details | . You can read it on PoetrySoup.com' st_url='http://www.poetrysoup.com/poem/a_little_boys_hope_part_2_of_3_661357' st_title='A Little Boy's Hope Part 2 of 3'>
Scared and confused I question our fate, as dark cuts day into strips of fear,
and leaving me in a zombie state hope vanishes, replaced by a tear.
Ramshackle looks drains ego of pride, a warrior lives in a naive youth,
frightened inside unable to hide, he’s armed with lies defending the truth.
The best of friends ingested by night, traveling along a lonely road,
draped in dust the sun hides its light, ground away even my dreams erode.
A child of poverty learns to steal, settling fights with a knife or a gun,
yet his Ma prays before every meal, thanking God for the gift of her son.
And Pa still clutches the book of God, proclaiming that Jesus will save him,
for faith roots in the poorest of sod, nourished by light no matter how dim.
Where’s it written that a man can’t cry a single tear of love, hate or rage,
must he be destined to live and die, never once having stepped off his stage?
Dust isolates my reality into pocketed pits of deep despair
and periods of brutality, imposed by a God that doesn't care.
A waning moon dims its meager light, as darkness extends its gritty hand
and the dust rescinds nocturnal sight, while an ebony fog shrouds the land.
We are soon in sync with nature's way, traveling in silence as we go,
upon gravel roads or sun baked clay we ride all night without friend or foe.
We reach the hottest desert on earth, so Pa tops up all the water cans,
and then Ma understanding their worth, also fills all her pots and pans.
Stretched before us lies nothing but sand, a crucible of heat and bleached bones,
for it's the most God forsaken land, quiet accept for my mournful moans.
Death Valley sucks water from the air leaving everything brittle and dry,
and to get across didn't seem fair, for it's hell, not a word of a lie.
A shimmering haze distorts the sky as drops of sweat escape every pore,
and as temperatures go soaring high, I'm hotter than ever before.
Unrelenting heat follows the sun across miles of dry cacti strewn sand,
yet ahead the mountains have begun and we're almost at our promised land.
Driving up to giants that scratch the sky we were apprehensive of the snow
and Ma feared she was going to cry, yet summoned up the courage to go.
The first sweet smell of evergreen trees sweeps down shadowy slopes black as coal,
and every gentle pine scented breeze helps to rejuvenate my sad soul.
The cool air feels fresh and crystal clear, surely paradise could not compete,
for the clouds are so amazing here high in this Rocky Mountain retreat.
The peaks glisten like a billion gems set in an endless blanket of white
and Ma starts to let down her dress hems, as her hat shades her eyes from the light.
Occasional drifts of blowing snow block the road and we have to dig through,
making our progress go very slow, but there is nothing else we can do.
The narrow steep roads hug the rock-cliff and we are afraid that we will fall,
for at times fingers feel frozen stiff and we can barely bend them at all.
The grandeur of the scenes before us repeatedly takes our breath away,
and Ma's the first one to make a fuss when Pa says we got no time for play.
The sun sank quickly with silent speed, draining off what little heat we had,
yet we're of hardy pioneer breed, so our plight doesn’t seem all that bad.
Blinded by darkness Pa parks at night and I turn to look back where we'd been,
and by the stars and the moon’s dim light, confront a world that I've never seen.
Subjected to hurt that never stops, Pa’s sad spirit dreams of wings to fly,
for disappointment flows like teardrops, whenever he sees Ma start to cry.
Ma is worried but wears a brave smile tending to all her family's needs,
and she starts counting off every mile, following Pa wherever he leads.
On our way down the last mountain pass California comes into view,
we see rippling oceans of green grass, and it seems all we’ve been told is true.
Ma picks a spot to pull over, insisting on having a picnic lunch,
Pa pulls up to a field of clover and seems the happiest of the bunch.
Our dreams are all about to come true, opportunity awaits us here,
but first we have to plan what to do, we can’t let ourselves give in to fear.
Pa quickly found a good paying job with a small house for us to live in,
and Ma got to cleaning, she’s no slob and our new lives can finally begin.
I am now becoming a man and often thoughts of love fill my heart,
I want to find a job if I can, for that's the first thing I'll need to start.
Long poem by
Emile Pinet | Details | . You can read it on PoetrySoup.com' st_url='http://www.poetrysoup.com/poem/a_little_boys_hope_part_3_of_3_661359' st_title='A Little Boy's Hope Part 3 of 3'>
Spring brings a bad case of spring fever, I'm itching to strike out on my own,
and I thought I'd try trapping beaver, but that will mean I'll be all alone.
Pa thought of a vineyard to make wine, and he and I started planting grapes,
tying them to trestles in long lines with lanyards Ma fashioned from old drapes.
The sun greets every grape with a kiss, awakening the juices within,
and thriving in warm weather like this, our future winery can begin.
Pessimists leave the art of dreaming to optimists with a half full cup,
just seeing one of Ma's smiles beaming never fails to lift my spirits up.
I breathe the freshness of morning mist and feel the rich soil between my toes,
this is a place where dragons exist and fairies help you fight off your foes.
Listen to the wind rustling the leaves, as golden sunbeams flicker and spark,
like muffled laughter riding each breeze, piercing the canopy’s shades of dark.
Magic and reality mingle, as understanding comes of age,
and I do not want to stay single, like a lone parakeet in a cage.
Hope has me chasing dream after dream, yet happiness keeps slipping away,
and at times I feel the need to scream, for things never seem to go my way.
Dodging danger where trouble hides, I’ve learned to beware of games
and survived the emotional tides in a sea of strangers with no names.
I can imagine how love must feel for it is a feeling that I know
and the ache within my heart is real, only in sleep does the pain let go.
Lost in a crowd I'm always alone, feeling that I will never belong,
for my tears can't dissolve hearts of stone, and everything I do turns out wrong.
Today as I walked though my fields I spied a young girl gently crying,
yet she instinctively raises shields, and starts accusing me of spying.
My eyes are blinded by her beauty, for next to her the sunrise seems blasé,
and I feel that it is my duty to offer to chase her blues away.
Cast within the shadow of her light it is hard to watch an angel cry,
yet how can I just ignore her plight, when for her I would willingly die?
She's silhouetted against the moon and her presence makes it hard to cope,
for I feel like I’m about to swoon, as I haunt the far fringes of hope.
My heart sinks for she is feeling bad and the mere thought gives me the chills,
and I cringe inside because she's sad, drowning within every tear she spills.
Between sobs she says her name is Grace, her boyfriend has abandoned her here,
wiping the tears from her angelic face I tell her my Ma and Pa live near.
When I say they will be glad to help, she agrees to come back home with me,
and I’m so happy I give a yelp and almost walk straight into a tree.
Pa found her work at the winery and she rented a room in our home,
She was accustom to finery, but now looked more like a garden gnome.
Today I asked her to be my wife and I am thrilled that she said yes,
I'll love her for the rest of my life, she looks so nice in her wedding dress.
I bought us a small house near a brook surrounded by a grove of orange trees,
and she took on a pioneer look, often scrubbing the floors on her knees.
Now we both want a baby so bad that we are making love all the time,
disappointment makes her feel so sad, I can feel the anxiety climb.
Today she surprised me with good news and near drowned me in hugs and kisses,
and I gladly say bye to the blues, dreaming of my beautiful misses.
We stay up talking most of the night and she is so happy that she beams,
I must insist we turn off the light and with a kiss send her to her dreams.
On May first she gives birth to a boy and together we both start to cry,
our lives are soon overfilled with joy, and our spirits soar and start to fly.
We name him Jonathan after Pa, and soon he is taking his first step,
of course he is spoiled to death by Ma, and he's quite the rascal full of pep.
He wields a shield he made from a board, sharing my dread of dragons it seems,
and so now the dragons fear his sword, for he is the shining knight of dreams.
And aware of this knight’s resistance, demons cut their shenanigans short,
and Goblins try to keep their distance, for fairies have vowed to guard this fort.
Long poem by
Anthony Slausen | Details |
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
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.
I saw "hitting stars" for the first time,
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...
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
rouge the lamb-
Long poem by
Ray Dillard | Details |
When We Were Young
He left for work each morning,
Wearing steel-toed boots and a tin hat.
He took long strides that were three times
The length of mine.
In one hand he carried a lunch pail and a thermos.
The other hand was empty,
Like his wallet.
He returned each day with the smell of oil
Embedded in his clothes.
Down the grease and gravel road
We watched him as he strode.
We ran to meet him with the football in our arms.
“Won’t you kick it for us Daddy?”
“Would you kick it for us,,,please?”
He’d take the ball and punt it in a long, high spiral.
By the time we could go get it,
He disappeared to take his shower.
In the house, Mama was cooking.
Daddy liked to eat at five.
A roustabout worked hard
And he had quite an appetite.
Once, we took turns wearing
His greasy boots and bright tin hat.
Mama took our picture.
It pleased him to think that
Someday we’d fill those monster boots.
For now, we looked like clowns.
We all laughed.
On Sunday we’d go to church
Where Dad taught teens the golden rule.
He tried to be an example
They could follow.
He didn’t claim to be the perfect Christian.
He was however,
The model we all followed.
On Sunday afternoon, dad went to the package store
To buy a cold six-pack.
When he came back we’d meet
Him at the door with hope
The sack held something more.
If we were lucky, and he had the money,
The sack might hide a Sunday Treat.
Each night after we’d all been fed
And showered, we watched TV.
Sometimes we’d run hot water for Dad
To soak his feet.
We scratched his back and massaged his head
with Baker’s Best.
Then, off to bed.
Nighty Night Mama!
Nighty Night, Daddy!
Sometimes a hug, sometimes a shout
We went to our room and
Turned the lights out,
Pretending we were ready to sleep.
We played roller derby and hid under the covers
Hoping the big, bad wolf
Would never find us!
We told stories and laughed and giggled.
Then one would poot and
We were all in trouble.
Daddy would say, “I’m bringing the belt!”
Then he’d give it a jiggle.
He kept it close to the bed
In case it was needed.
When morning came, we hurried to dress.
Mama was in the kitchen.
Scrambled eggs and sausage waited.
Bacon, when we were lucky.
Toast and milk were staples.
Sometimes we ate wheat puffs,
Malt-o-Meal or rice.
We walked to catch the school bus
No matter what the weather.
Sun, rain, sleet or snow
Out the door to the bus we’d go.
No! It wasn’t uphill both directions!
It wasn’t always fun,
But, I did live to write about it!
We wore wet clothes until they dried
And still made A’s on every assignment.
We walked on ice and sleet so slick
The cattle slipped and fell.
Then we’d laugh and fall.
Somehow we survived.
We lived through it all.
On Friday night’s we’d sing,
“Our boys will shine tonight,
Our boys will shine.”
We could see the football lights from the house
And couldn’t wait for the game.
The Warriors didn’t always win,
But, we never missed a game.
“When the sun comes up,
‘Til the moon goes down.”
“Our boys will shine.”
Saturday was wash day.
We loaded up the car and went to the laundry.
Sometimes we went to Grandma Bessie’s to wash.
One load at a time, it took all day.
We had to be quiet so we didn’t wake Uncle James.
Once, Ralph rolled my hand in the ringer!
That woke James up!
I remember Mama…
Always washing dishes,
Always cleaning the laundry,
Always helping with homework,
Always counseling, and
She taught us how to work
When she bought a sack of nails
And showed us how to drive them straight.
She made us pull the bent nails
And straighten them
So we didn’t waste a one.
We drove the sack that day
And had a lot of fun.
Mama taught us discipline
As well as dedication
She expected nothing in return.
Was our love, when we were young.
Now years have past
And Dad is gone,
He leaves five men to carry on:
“Stand tall, stride long and
Dance to no one else’s song.”
Mom, the Matriarch left alone,
Rules a vacant, empty home.
She waits to teach one final lesson
And all the while remembers…
When We Were Young.