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Long Chocolate Poems | Long Chocolate Poetry

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Long Poems
Long poem by J. W. M. Earnings | Details |

My Beloved Disease - Satisfying Cure

*Chorus*

 That’s my satisfying decision…you’re an addiction
I gottah keep pace to run this race the right way…
Alright, you’re making my day
Satisfaction is ours, baby…
Can you see it like fireworks in the sky?
Did you ever wish to be free
Like those mockingbirds and jays in the aqua-blue sky? 
You and I will receive the ability to fly
The ability to show off our inner glow…yah know…soooo…
And we’ll be putting up a show…yah know…yah know…let the wicked wind blow…
oooh ahhahah ohhh…
Take away my flaws…
And give me a big applause
Let go of all worries
Gather around me, my stinging, beautiful bees…
I get pleasure off of your applauses…giving me satisfaction…I feel like I’m top dog 
right now!

Verse 5:
Beyonce: Mmmhmmm ohh yeahh…show me how to feel this satisfaction…
You know what I’m talking about…
Ooooooh yeahhhh…awww ooh… you know how to push my buttons, don’t yah? I 
need at least a fraction
I need a fraction of your satisfaction without a dirty, little doubt
Pinch me please…this must be a beautiful nightmare…
Pinch me please…I must be dreaming this reverie…does it ring a bell?
Pinch me please…this must be all a dream after all – I look at myself in the mirror
Pinch me please…I must be caught under your wicked spell
Rihanna: You took me out of the lion’s den ooh
I’m feeling incredible…so irreplaceable…as irresistible as chocolate cake…as fantastic 
and magical like a fable – you ain’t no fake or you don’t hide the truth under the 
table or sweet it under the carpet…you’re not instable like a broken, tattered table
Oh baby, baby – we met in a perfect place
This feelin’s so indescribable…so irreplaceable…so irresistible…as fantastic and 
majestic as a peace-abiding angel
It was a weird moment…when I saw your sundrenched face
(Beyonce: a surreal moment when I looked at your face no doubt about that) 
Pinch me please…this must be a beautiful nightmare…
Pinch me please…I must be dreaming this reverie…does it ring a bell?
Pinch me please…this must be all a dream after all – I look at myself in the mirror
Pinch me please…I must be caught under your wicked spell


*Chorus* 

That’s my satisfying decision…you’re an addiction
I gottah keep pace to run this race the right way…
Alright, you’re making my day
Satisfaction is ours, baby…
Can you see it like fireworks in the sky?
Did you ever wish to be free
Like those mockingbirds and jays in the aqua-blue sky? 
You and I will receive the ability to fly
The ability to show off our inner glow…yah know…soooo…
And we’ll be putting up a show…yah know…yah know…let the wicked wind blow…
oooh ahhahah ohhh…
Take away my flaws…
And give me a big applause
Let go of all worries
Gather around me, my stinging, beautiful bees…
I get pleasure off of your applauses…giving me satisfaction…I feel like I’m top dog 
right now!

*Verse 6*
Lady Gaga and I: You gave me vast grace…and now, I can run this race…if I keep 
pace…when you gaze into my eyes, I’m in a different maze…you’re not a waste of 
my time…you were my sublime, drug of delight..and yah made me take divine flight 
like a kid’s toy kite…you make everything seem alright…
Me: You are the illuminated night in my mind’s eye
Beyonce: I yearn for yah vast grace…vast grace…super fast grace…super de-duper 
grace…everything you do, you never left me without a trace – embrace the light, 
everybody! You make me shed happy tears – I don’t know why…but I’m so 
happy…
Me: oooh yeah – I wanna see your face…x2 Sparkling like the blue-green sea – 
your sunrays beam…and we’re singing with  sundrenched harmony… 
Adele: You’re not a disgrace x2
Baby, I love you to the core
Oh baby, how can I love you more?
Me: I loved you with a deep, deep passion
You gave me…yah gave me
Yah gave meee….beyond satisfaction…you serve as the best distraction, wo-man! 
You gave me pure…
Both: Satisfaction…and you’re my drug of delight…you’re my beloved disease and 
my beautiful nightmare all in one…you’re not a curse – you’re a gift and a cure 
(Lady Gaga: to my heart ache…for sure…you’re my ultimate, miracle-healing cure)
Me and Beyonce: I'm a believer...
And you're my dream weaver
You're my dream catcher
I can't believe what I'm seeing...
Rihanna included: Your spirit shining bright and beaming
Me: You make me (feel like a grand king) x2 ooh oh oh! wow...oooh wahahahah 
Beyonce: Pinch me if I'm dreaming...
Rih and me: Can you hear my screaming...?
Me: At least we’re healing and recovering from the love flu – let’s shout for joy and 
let’s shout with thanksgiving!
At least we are alive and well – no longer feeling depressed, anxious, rejected and 
insecure
I ain’t bleeding out no more – let’s express our gratefulness to have such a 
satisfying cure 
OOooh ehhh…eeeee…


Long poem by wala na | Details |

Am I Turning into a Lizard Serial Killer

Hmmm, where do I start? With deep sighs, I am sighing right now.
I just finished burying 2 lizards, and my heart is heavy...

Let me back up a bit...bear with me if I might turn out to be confusing here,
but I just need to write this, release something, in some way
Although I must admit, this is not exactly what I had in mind to write for this day,
hopefully I can write something more decent later...

I have been wanting to write something for my brother since yesterday,
since February 26 is his 10th year death anniversary.
The words remained stuck in my heart, 'til I fell asleep.

Visited him again today, heard mass for him, 
ate a Chinese dinner with my parents and sister, went home.

I now needed dessert. Got a piece of Ferrero Rocher, but just one wouldn't do.
So I got a piece of Almond Roca this time and ate it while walking.

All this time, I have managed to keep my tears away
but maybe somehow, someway, if tears want to fall, they will find a way?

I walk to that area again as I ate that piece of chocolate-
when what do you know, what do you know??

Oh sighs.

I stepped on a lizard.  Again 

Yes. Almost exactly the Same area, tail falls off, and the lizard skitters away.

But. I did not slip this time. But, yes, I still screamed, scaring everybody again.

I. Could. Not. Simply. Believe. IT.

One month and 25 days after, I step on a lizard. Again.

Today, of all days. As if I needed more reason to be sadder.

This time around, I had the sense to try to find that lizard. 
I had to know if it lived, if it was okay.
I pushed away the nearby cabinet.
And there it was.
Rather, and there they were.

The lizard that I stepped on now
and the petrified remains of the lizard that I stepped on on new year's day...
the other one didn't live after all :(

I know it was that lizard, same area, no tail, who else could it be?
Survival mechanism, no match for my killer foot.

By this time, I am crying, sobbing. 
Seriously, the tears just start falling, and my heart so heavy.
And I know it's from the combination of so many things.
The day itself, what I had just done, just things running through me.

What broke my heart, was to see that lizard. 
I was wearing rubber shoes this time, last time I was wearing slippers.
And its guts had spilled from its sides. 
I couldn't help but keep on saying, "Oh, oh, oh lizard, I am so sorry"

I touched it feebly, and it was literally gaping its mouth.
I don't think I can ever forget that?
Such a small creature, gasping, with its insides out, 
its skin on its legs and body scraped.
In pain.
Dying.

And it was all my fault.

My sister was there with me, trying to help in her own way.

But yes, there's nothing you can really do...I didn't want to stress it even more,
and let death finish what I did. 


There's so much I can glean from this, and I want to ramble on, so badly
but I will try to stop myself from rambling too much.

I put the two lizards, along with a note, the dates when I stepped on them 
(ok, killed them), and placed them carefully in a chocolate truffle box.

I buried them and still feel so sorry.

In some ways, this is can be so funny, and just  freaky & crazy (what's new, this is me?)
What were the odds??? Same place, same thing happening.
And I can't help but roll my eyes at myself as well, just finding it so hard to fathom
how I stepped on not just one but Two lizards in just two months.

I bet that the lizards are all afraid of me now, 
saying how I am a lizard killer. A serial lizard killer.
MO: stepping on them while screaming, maybe my screams also killed them off?

I actually took photos of both lizards, I am not sure why though.
Oh dear God, help me, I am acting like one, even documenting them.

I tell you, as I watched that lizard die, I couldn't help but just also
think of St. Jude (for the impossible) and St. Francis of Assisi (for animals).

I know he was dying, but somehow, yes, prayers still comfort me.

I just feel so guilty, with this happening. 

I still can't help but cry for those lizards, death by me, for no reason at all,
no purpose served.

Animals, people....death.

I know it's all a part of life... 
but it still doesn't change the fact how death can change us
and of how I am responsible for two lizard deaths.
I know they were just small animals, but Still. They were living creatures.

Death can change us in small ways, some in big ways, negatively or positively.

It all boils down to death transforming us one way or another...

I won't expound on it anymore, this is too long,
but one of the ways I can think of comparing it to, is that of a chemical change,
maybe of the spirit, the soul? Not merely a physical change.


And we can never be the same. 






022720141207123552


Long poem by Valentine Mbagu | Details |

Nigerian Independence Celebration

As October 1 approaches, HAPPY INDEPENDENCE DAY……………………
I have enormous tracts of land and vast volumes of water, but cannot feed myself.
So I spend $1 billion to import rice and another $2 billion on milk.
I produce rice, but don’t eat it. I have millions of cows but no milk.
I am 53, please celebrate me.
I drive the best cars in the world but have no roads,
so I crush my best brains in the caverns,
craters and crevasses they crash into daily.
I am in unending mourning, please celebrate me.
My school has no teacher and my classroom has no roof.
I take lectures through windows and live with 15 others in one room.
All my professors have gone abroad, and the rest are awaiting visas.
I am a university graduate, but I am illiterate. I want a future, please celebrate me.
Preventable diseases send me to hospitals without doctors, medicines or power.
All the nurses have gone abroad and the rest are waiting to go also.
I have the highest maternal and infant mortality rates in the world;
and future generations are dying before me. I am hopeless, hapless and helpless,
please celebrate me.
For democracy’s sake I stood all day on Election Day.
But before I could ink my thumb, results had been broadcast.
When I dared to speak out, silence was enthroned by bullets.
My leaders are my oppressors, and my policemen are my terrors.
I am ruled by men in mufti, but I am not a democracy.
I have no verve, no vote, no voice, please celebrate me.
My youth have no past, present nor future.
So my sons in the North have become street urchins;
and his brothers in the South have become kidnappers.
My nephews die of thirst in the Sahara and his cousins drown in the Mediterranean.
My daughters walk the streets of Lagos , Abuja and Port Harcourt;
while her sisters parade the streets of Rome and Amsterdam .
I am grief-stricken, please celebrate me.
Pen-wielding bandits have raided everything in my vaults.
They walk the land with haughty strides and fly the skies with private planes
They have looted the future of generations unborn;
and have money they cannot spend in several lifetimes,
but their brothers die of starvation. I want a kit of kindness, please celebrate me.
I can produce anything, but import everything.
So my toothpick is made in China; my toothpaste is made in South Africa;
my salt is made in Ghana; my butter is made in Ireland;
my milk is made in Holland; my shoe is made in Italy;
my vegetable oil is made in Malaysia*** my biscuit is made in Indonesia;
my chocolate is made in Turkey and my table water made in France.
My taste is far-flung and foreign, please celebrate me.
My land is dead because all the trees have been cut down;
flooding kills thousands yearly because the drainages are clogged;
my fishes are dead because the oil companies dump waste in my rivers;
my communities are vanishing into the huge yawns of gully erosion, and nothing is being done.
My very existence is uncertain and I am in the deepest depths of despondence, please celebrate me.
I have genuine leather but choose to eat it.
So I spend billions of dollars to import fake leather.
I have four refineries, but prefer to import fuel,
so I waste more billions to import petrol. I have no security in my country,
but send troops to keep peace in another man’s land.
I have hundreds of dams, but no water.
So I drink ‘pure’ water that roils my innards.
I need a vision, please celebrate me.
I have a million candidates craving to enter universities,
but my dungeons can only accommodate a tenth.
I have no power, but choose to flare gas,
so my people have learnt to see in the dark and stare at the glare of Unclad flares.
I am shrouded by darkness, please celebrate me.
For my golden jubilee,
I shall spend 16 billion naira to bash around the bonfires of the banal.
So what if the majority gaze at my possessed, frenzied dance;
drenched in silent tears, as probity is enslaved in democracy’s empty cellars?
I am profligacy personified, please celebrate me.
Why can I not simply reflect and ponder?
Does my complexion cloud the colour of my character?
Does my location limit the lengths my liberty?
Does the spirit of my conviction shackle my soul
Does my mien maim the mine of my mind?
And is failure worth celebrating?
I AM NIGERIAN, PLEASE CELEBRATE ME.


Long poem by Chris D. Aechtner | Details |

Frankenstorm 2012: A Haunting of Shelleys

A Cardinal darts past, and I cannot quite discern if it chirps out of nervousness
towards the impending storm.
If so, the twittering of cell phones sound far more nerve-wracking -- 
portable typewriters encased in the soul-less facade of laissez faire; 
of keeping track, of minding the flocks. 

Yes, everyone is a poet these days, tapping away on miniature, plastic typewriters,
typing away the next narrative filled with prose pretending to be free verse.

Whether the majority is truly poetic or not, Frankenstorm surely is poetic;
named after Mary Shelley's, Frankenstein. 
The poetic justice of it all amongst a tragedy of broken necks and drownings, 
for the Shelleys were the epitome of Romanticism -- 
not of ritualistic bouquets bought from the florist who sells porn on the sly, 
or of waxy chocolate made by children in clandestine factories built from the bricks 
of Mao's dreams of anthills and selling short the power stemming from another poet 
turned arms dealer.

No, the romance for life itself; to become poetry as poetry turns into us. 
To find mystery in everyday moments; to distil this mystery, offer it to the reader, 
so that the reader becomes drunken, swooning in a stupor towards worlds 
that are 1,000,000 light years away.

Frankenstorm, the Haunting of Shelleys, lashes out at the dead poetry of today; 
at the empty, listlessly inane, lazy poetry of today. 
The brightest stars are falling into a void, turning away from the very essence 
they so wish to express....only because they want to be unique, to be original, 
to carve their own niche into the Jack O' Lanterns of a Hallowe'en quickly turning into cheap, dollar store decorations. 
They still have hope. They still have hope, even if many further detach themselves 
from their emotions with another dose of prescription pills meant to pacify; 
meant to reign in the emotional beasts of imagination, until only zombies preserved in formaldehyde, remain.

I can literally feel the Haunting of Shelleys ask wot has become of us.
It used to be about work ethic and soul - one had to kick, tear, bite, simply to publish 
a pamphlet that might be read by 10 people. 
Nowadays, everyone is a supposed poet. A few clicks, 'submit', and people from all 
over the world can read cotton-candy couplets, or a free verse rendition of another grocery list.
But we must embolster this with: 
"They are only beginning; they need to express themselves; 
they just don't care."

I don't want to be told about the pain, the tragedy, the beauty, the love. 
I want to be shown.
I want to feel it.
I want to feel it squeeze my gray matter into a bitter-sweet drink; 
I want to feel it go down.
I want to feel it warm up my heart, grip my stomach until the bottom falls out 
and I am left careening down a shaft in an elevator with a broken pulley and rusted-through brakes, and just when I think the end has come, the elevator bursts through 
a bottom which is actually the ceiling of a world now turned upside-down -- 
and by the time I right myself, have read the last line, there is still a remaining mysterious periphery of the cats that reside in the corner of my eyes; 
purring, waiting until I come back to re-read that particular poem, 
for it is so tantalizing, I want to come back to it over and over again 
for the remainder of my years.

Storms will always come and go, 
but I sensed the metaphorical message of the Frankenstorm very strongly. 
Yet this doesn't mean that I will turn the message into fruition. 
But I will certainly attempt to do so.
Within my delirium, I will continue to try distilling the intangible 
into a drunken tangibility; even for the sake of simply trying.

And as I ponder, as I witness the present decay of humanity, 
witness the state of today's poetry, I can only wonder how many more 
Hauntings of Shelleys are possibly already brewing.


                                                                                        October 31st, 2012
___________________________________________________________________




My thoughts go out to those caught in the path of Frankenstorm 2012.
Such events move me very deeply.

*I have already posted this prose in a blog, because at the time,
the character-count exceeded the limit of poem posts.











.


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 Anne Lise Andresen | Details |

A Most Irish Fairy Tale - Merry Christmas to All


It is not just Santa Claus who we meet in cold December— 
There is “Carolina,” and she’s the beauty of a winter picture perfect 
With luscious long coal black curly hair far down on her back 
As a true fairy princess, Carolina is quite beautiful with beaming

Blue eyes and that certain incandescent glow for all to see and 
Dressed in a sparkling white robe made of polar bear skins 
With a glossy coat sprinkled with pearls and diamonds . . . .

Out of the woods she comes so quiet in the night’s fresh snow 
With a glimpse of two deer and a fox on hunt walking carefully 
Carolina hopes the deer will walk around with angelic guard 
The secret is that beautiful Carolina talks the animals’ languages 
The birds they play in all its splendor fine without sorrows 
They fly while Carolina keeps watch carefully on the horizon 

Falling snow now dazzling Christmas in a ball circle most brilliant 
While there is a frozen frosted sprinkling silver in the mist shining sun
Oh so!! Wonderful to behold as the Spirit of Christmas comes alive . . . .

The Reindeer come alive and begin dancing joyfully together and 
Create such a melodic sound almost like bells ringing aloud
And the all the Reindeer are here in their resplendent glory:
Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen, Comet, Cupid, Donner, Blitzen,
And Rudolph, with his red nose so beautiful and oh so bright—
And the sounds the Reindeer make stay in the minds of the little
Children just like sweetly wishing little voices wonderful in dreams
With those singing, tunes a dancing light appears so wondrous 
While planes from all over the world begin landing with cargo
And one each day with loads of letters from good little children

And Santa Claus begins calling the elfin troops into action while
The Leprechauns do all the heavy work as they are much tougher
But the old fighting Irish in them showing their softer side all the 
While with a drop of the old fiery dew to keep them warm smiling 
Like the very wee little Devil in them - mischievous and all . . . . 

They do all the heavy work for the elves as they have more of a spring
In their step while almost bouncing on the tip of the their toes like 
Little jumping springs so full of boundless wonder and energy and  
Then day after day the letters keep arriving and landing at the North Pole 
And they begin working like mad and very busily in the North Pole factory

While Santa checks the letters of all boys and girls through a secret window 
And when he shakes it he sees through the mist in a glass bubble of the
Christmas treats while hurriedly calling together all of his Reindeer . . . .
The sound of hooves on the snow saddles up the sleigh he is very slim 
To start off while all his helpers are loading up and he flicks the reins 

And the bells start ringing and - in a flash of magic dust in spirit sings of 
The ground waving he bade Mrs. Claus a very fond and loving farewell
And off he goes in a flash of light Ho! Ho! Ho! Ho! echoing in the distance 

Each chimney sliding down he eats the food throwing some to the Reindeer 
Treats left after the night's over he feels so fat eating so much he heads back 
Home to the North Pole while smiling so content at the children’s happiness 
And ringing in his ears filled with golden smiles and wishing everyone a very 
Merry Christmas he falls asleep after Mrs. Claus makes him a hot chocolate
Really tired but easing his weary bones year after year he loves his job very
Much so and all of the sheer delight that his efforts and those of Mrs. Clau
And his elfin helpers and the joy and fun of the Reindeer bring to all children
On this Earth!! 
                     Merry Christmas to All!!



Anne-Lise Andresen, Liam McDaid and Gary Bateman – A Collaborated Poem, 

Copyright © All Rights Reserved (December 9, 2014) (Free Verse)


Long poem by liam mcdaid | Details |

A Most Irish Fairy Tale - Merry Christmas to All

It is not just Santa Claus who we meet in cold December— 
There is “Carolina,” and she’s the beauty of a winter picture perfect 
With luscious long coal black curly hair far down on her back 
As a true fairy princess, Carolina is quite beautiful with beaming

Blue eyes and that certain incandescent glow for all to see and 
Dressed in a sparkling white robe made of polar bear skins 
With a glossy coat sprinkled with pearls and diamonds . . . .

Out of the woods she comes so quiet in the night’s fresh snow 
With a glimpse of two deer and a fox on hunt walking carefully 
Carolina hopes the deer will walk around with angelic guard 
The secret is that beautiful Carolina talks the animals’ languages 
The birds they play in all its splendor fine without sorrows 
They fly while Carolina keeps watch carefully on the horizon 

Falling snow now dazzling Christmas in a ball circle most brilliant 
While there is a frozen frosted sprinkling silver in the mist shining sun
Oh so!! Wonderful to behold as the Spirit of Christmas comes alive . . . .

The Reindeer come alive and begin dancing joyfully together and 
Create such a melodic sound almost like bells ringing aloud
And the all the Reindeer are here in their resplendent glory:
Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen, Comet, Cupid, Donner, Blitzen,
And Rudolph, with his red nose so beautiful and oh so bright—
And the sounds the Reindeer make stay in the minds of the little
Children just like sweetly wishing little voices wonderful in dreams
With those singing, tunes a dancing light appears so wondrous 
While planes from all over the world begin landing with cargo
And one each day with loads of letters from good little children

And Santa Claus begins calling the elfin troops into action while
The Leprechauns do all the heavy work as they are much tougher
But the old fighting Irish in them showing their softer side all the 
While with a drop of the old fiery dew to keep them warm smiling 
Like the very wee little Devil in them - mischievous and all . . . . 

They do all the heavy work for the elves as they have more of a spring
In their step while almost bouncing on the tip of the their toes like 
Little jumping springs so full of boundless wonder and energy and  
Then day after day the letters keep arriving and landing at the North Pole 
And they begin working like mad and very busily in the North Pole factory

While Santa checks the letters of all boys and girls through a secret window 
And when he shakes it he sees through the mist in a glass bubble of the
Christmas treats while hurriedly calling together all of his Reindeer . . . .
The sound of hooves on the snow saddles up the sleigh he is very slim 
To start off while all his helpers are loading up and he flicks the reins 

And the bells start ringing and - in a flash of magic dust in spirit sings of 
The ground waving he bade Mrs. Claus a very fond and loving farewell
And off he goes in a flash of light Ho! Ho! Ho! Ho! echoing in the distance 

Each chimney sliding down he eats the food throwing some to the Reindeer 
Treats left after the night's over he feels so fat eating so much he heads back 
Home to the North Pole while smiling so content at the children’s happiness 
And ringing in his ears filled with golden smiles and wishing everyone a very 
Merry Christmas he falls asleep after Mrs. Claus makes him a hot chocolate
Really tired but easing his weary bones year after year he loves his job very
Much so and all of the sheer delight that his efforts and those of Mrs. Clau
And his elfin helpers and the joy and fun of the Reindeer bring to all children
On this Earth!! 
                     Merry Christmas to All!!



Anne-Lise Andresen, Liam McDaid and Gary Bateman – A Collaborated Poem, 

Copyright © All Rights Reserved (December 9, 2014) (Free Verse)


Long poem by Maurice Yvonne | Details |

A Piece Of The Pie

This was only our second date... A Black Tie Affair... ...Set against an incredible view, vineyards, waterfalls, a plentitude of flower beds, all just outside a charming postcard Town. This indeed was a serious event, anyone  who was anyone... and my date...were here. A live Jazz Band filled the air with a symphony of soothing sounds we all took our seats as  The Annual Fine Pie Tasting Festival began. My first nibble was an Orange  Blossom Grand Marnier Silk Pie. I cleansed my palate with a sixty seven French Beaujolais   took my tiny fork and partook of a slice of heaven. The pie had a fine bouquet with a peach raspberry scent. It was a nice blend, moist, with a fragrant overtone of fermented grapes... my date, well, my date just porked down her first slice... ...in one swallow. Her comment? ..."Yeah, yummy" and added "can I have some more wine, and fill the glass up this time, Mr. Stingy" Ah the wonderful charm of youth (...luckily no one heard her.) Now came the second offering a Vienna Chocolate Lace Kaluha Pie. My date grabbed three slices complaining about the size. Charming! (...Thank God no one saw. I enjoy my ranking in this exclusive social group) If she asks for more wine I'm going to hand her the bottle  tell her to swig that. The next offering is a Dulche De Leche Italian Rum Pie I dread the thought she might try to wring a slice in order to squeeze out the Rum. All is well, she has wolfed down her serving before the thought occurs to her. Imagine my surprise? I order a third bottle of wine. There is not a drop left in our second bottle, not a drop. Can you wring a glass bottle?  I doubt I have had a full ounce of wine yet. At eleven hundred dollars a bottle I start to question my taste... .....................................in.... .......women. My stunning date excuses herself. With all that wine I am surprised she has waited this long. She is wearing a gorgeous gown... "you can put lipstick on a pig..." "shit! did I just say that out loud" The  night continued... pie after pie more and more wine. The pie slices are small the bill will be HUGE! ...but ah the pies... Sweet Lime Tequila Mouse Pie Vanilla Bourbon Brazilian Pecan Pie Irish Cream Island Coconut Mouse Pie Lady Godiva Truffle Raspberry Liqueur Pie to name a few. Pie tasting? A refined activity  of the gourmet connoisseur. My disaster of a date has returned, (God she's beautiful!) "So Scrooge" she says "are you ready to leave" I am so embarrassed she is crass and rude in front of all these distinguished people. "Come on, I'm bored with this crowd of stiffs. Let's blow this Popsicle Stand," she says " They all have pickles up their asses" Well I never. ( Popsicle Stand? Just how young is she?) She continues "Honey, it is time to go back to your place for the best piece of pie you have ever had." At this point my twenty five year old goddess is more beautiful than any woman any marvel I have ever viewed... her words immaculate... ....You don't have to hit me over the head with a hammer.  ...Personally I was fed up of  all these stiffs with pickles up their ass. I think I gave some sort of dignitary the finger on the way out... ...I was excited. I have never driven so fast in my life. Finally I was going to get my piece of the pie.
16~10~2014 Sponsor: Sheri Fresonke Harper Contest Name: Plentitude of Pies


Long poem by Ida Miller | Details |

The Enchanted Forest

The enchanted forest- what a sight! 
With glorious rays of the dim sun,
 Shining through the peaks of the wise old trees.
With massive faces carved in the rough bark, close to the shiny multicolored leaves.

Whisking violet dust from the ground,
A light breeze rippled through my chocolate brown hair,
I closed my eyes and opened my hands,
Then, fluttered them open again, to see what was there.


In my palms there was an attractive small faery,
Her silvery wings so delicate, it would shatter in one simple fold.
Her ivory, pointed chin and rosy cheeks,
  Wisps of glistening hair as pure looking as gold.



She made a sound; a kind of titter,
That made all the bluebirds and robins fly away.
It pierced the sky, and revealed a strange critter,
No, it was a tiny dwarf!

Now, this dwarf was stubborn,
As most dwarves may be; 
But this one had a touch of kindness,
And began to lead me.

Now, throughout all the excitement,
I forgot I was lost,
So I started to shed tears.

Now, that didn’t help, so the faery began to scold,
So then I did what I was told. 

I said farewell to the glittery faery,
But she was already gone- such a hurry!
The dwarf grumbled, so then I followed along,
Only to find myself at a riverside bank,
That stretched out about… a mile long!

The water looked like crystal, 
With the frolicking colors swishing around.
Cool water rushing onto my fingers (I couldn’t resist!),
And then I felt it. I looked up- to see the most majestic swan.

With feathers so pearly-white,
And a strangely curved beak, bright Tangerine.
It also had a golden chain… suffocating it.
Oh, what a scene!

I quickly untied the crude golden knot,
I think it took ten minutes, who would know?
But, alas, I untied it; let it slice through the waves,
And then the swan nodded below.

I glanced down, saw nothing.
Then the dwarf gruffly said, “Take a feather!”
I looked at the swan, uncertain.
But it just nodded, not caring whether.

So I pricked one out, cautiously,
And then the swan dipped its long neck in goodbye.
I questioned the dwarf, what to do
And so he reluctantly replied:

“You make a wish, of course.” He scoffed.
And then I looked at him, disbelievingly.
Then I remembered all the magical things that happened, 
And so I started to think, 
What it should be.

What if… I could fly?
Of course! That’s it. 
So I took the feather and closed my eyes.

Then I felt inflation,
A warm, tingling sensation.
That traveled from my head to the tips of my toes.
Then I started to rise, and I felt like I was blooming, like a new rose.

I rose and I rose,
Until the forest and the surroundings around it looked like a map.
I saw two figures, standing side by side,
And so I peered in closer, to see who it was, between the gap.

It was mother! And father.
I leaned in so they could hear my voice.
Then they saw me, 
And began to rejoice!

I will never forget the adventures in this mysterious forest,
All the wonders it provided so I could experience and see.
It will always be remembered, in the house I live in, at least,
For I saw a portrait of a faery wink at me!


Long poem by Charlotte Puddifoot | Details |

The Hunger Game

Ana's taught me to count
not in numbers but calories
with a yolk-yellow calorie handbook.
The calories pulse with a heartbeat.
They are not dead and number-flat;
they whisper and breathe, real and alive.
A pebble-heavy potato = 105.

She's grey-gaunt, spinning herself thin,
this mirror woman staring back at me,
anaemic-pale and flower-frail.
But fat silently seeps, oozes greasily
beneath jutting hipbones, contaminating,
expanding like some monstrous child.

Consumed by the rituals of chew-and-spit -
food without guilt and regret, no threat,
no unctuous slippage of calories down the throat.
But hunger escapes from the body's bone-cage;
my tongue tingles for texture and taste,
craves chocolate's dark velvet melt.
"Eat," my body pleads.
"Resist." Ana stabs my ear with a knife twist.
Eat. Resist. Eat. Resist. Eat. Resist.

The fading scar on my left wrist
where I tried to cut out calories
is the silvering slash of a grin.
And Ana's still smirking, skewing reality,
sneering "You'll never cut yourself free from me."

3 a.m., bloating in the bathroom's mirror-bright gaze,
one pound gained; the scale's needle
jabs hard into catastrophe's red haze.
Ana's on her knees beside the toilet, guilt-goading me,
forcing unforgiving fingers down my throat.

Cardiac arrhythmia.
My heart flutters like a flickering bulb,
stutters like my tongue
searching for words to voice a lie.
Ana tightens the puppet strings,
pulls my marionette mouth
into shapes that say: "I'm not hungry."
"I've already eaten today."
Her voice is snake-hissy
slithering into my ear:
"How many calories? How many calories?"
Insistent, scratching my bone china mind,
screeching like nails down a windowpane.

Drifting dizzily through pangs and pains,
giddy with the headiness starvation brings,
air-light and feather-floaty.
My thoughts could take off like birds.

Always cold.
The Arctic gusts in
and I'm blown to bone.
My arms are winter branch brittle;
wrists could snap with one tap.
I wobble on frangible twigs
that barely pass for legs.

Ketosis: a sour-apple smell
clinging acidic on breath and skin.
Hair strands are falling: spiderweb threads,
wisps and glints of coppery red;
autumn filaments floating off into empty space...

Drip. Drip.
I'm tubed and taped -
the needling invasion like soul rape.
A fattening elixir
of nutrients and glucose is cannula-fed
into my winter-blue veins.

Ana's jabbering on the end of the bed,
swinging matchstick legs,
her bone-brittle voice word-jabbing me:
disgusting, pathetic, obese.
They've stuffed me with prozac,
fed me diazepam,
in a desperate bid to turn her volume down.

Gauzy morning, a hollow dawning:
I must play the hunger game,
consume just enough to gain.
Discharged, I'll count my days
not in numbers but calories,
guilt-grubby and grubbing
for the killing crumbs,
spinning myself thinner
till Ana frees or kills me.


Long Poems