Long poem by
dennis jones | Details |
...and then just as suddenly, constellations appeared in a daytime sky, framed by white pines crawling with multicolored caterpillars. So from this day forward, they would search the sky for more star pictures. They then would draw pictures of what they saw with a mixture of ash and spit on their fingers on pink leaves that fell to the ground. They would all participate in the gathering of pink leaves, which they stitched together forming blankets to cover their humble homes, and their village had a pink glow. Their homes were as nests, or more similar to large hammocks, consisting of branches and bark lashed together with vines suspended from the heavy limbs of the tree canopy. Their homes swayed in a light breeze, creaking as they moved, and were festooned with blue, red, yellow and purple feather plumes, floral chains, sea shells and gemstones; along with the pink leaf blankets they resembled some extraordinary species of giant hanging flora, which attracted a variety of butterflies, and many small rodent-like creatures ran about. There was much activity in the trees above as they would hop from limb to limb, and home to home, visiting with neighbors and conversing through animated head, facial, hand and body gestures, with much whooping, or whistling sounds, their whole person seemed engaged in conversation. It was a wonderful and amazing sight to behold, I found the scene so engrossing that I immediately wanted to leave all that I've known behind and immerse myself in their uniquely intimate culture. I felt as though I'd discovered a new home.
Throughout my journeys I had completed several small drawings and paintings of the various sites that I'd seen, and reasoned that this might be a fine way to communicate and introduce myself, as I was sure they would recognize what I had put down on paper. I set down my pack and retrieved my paper and pencils from within. I settled against a tree and began to sketch the scene before me. Soon the noise and activity from the trees above grew quiet, and as I looked up the entire village had come out to the tree limbs and watched in silence as I worked on the drawing. Then, as if on command, they all descended from the trees and surrounded me in an instant. The speed at which they moved in unison startled me, but I soon discovered there was no threat.
As they huddled around me, softly whistling to each other, they held open one hand to reveal a wriggling brightly hued caterpillar. Then they each blew a light breath over the creatures, and it melted into a moving, shifting pool of color in the palm of their hands. They each dragged a finger through the color, and raising their arms, with a colored finger extended; they held it to the sky. In the next moment they each bent over me, and wiped the color on the drawing that I had begun. To my astonishment the color moved across the page completely on its own. New worlds opened up, revealed to me, as their spectral markings merged together into watery pools, then formed drips, streams, rivers with rapids, waterfalls, and gorges emptying into estuaries, seeking their own path of least resistance as gravity pulled this way and that, and then churning, and bubbling up in clumps, oozing off the surface in a tremendous mountain slide. I saw the opened shape of a mouth, or a great hole in the earth, which I looked deep into and could feel and see myself looking back, then puckered, shut tight, blending and separating like ever changing oil on water, flares would rise up from below and burn for a time until they subsided; then cracked into an infinite array of minuscule fissures becoming a frozen ocean, solid and immoveable in a kind of death. As I watched, it seemed as though hours had drifted by, which I soon realized were mere seconds.
Copyright © dennis jones | Year Posted 2015
Long poem by
Gerald Dillenbeck | Details |
Everything that is created
disguises a hidden purpose....
A calligrapher writes out his lines
not just for the exquisiteness of the script
but to also convey a meaning.
Rumi (M. Mafi, trans.)
What is the purpose of poetry,
and therefore of the poet?
Beautifully flowing style and structure?
or truth of content?
Is poetic purpose the meaning of its language
or the art of linguistic choices?
Of course it must be both,
symbiotically fertilizing and farming each incubating embryo,
functioning and forming creative language,
an expression of intuited deduction,
refinement toward exegetically known and felt soul-truth
through eisegetical analogy
economy of linguistic order,
principles of languaged left-brained human nature
dancing prancing functional flow and forms
through right-brained regeneratively intuited
proportional and aesthetic octave polycultured memory,
What evolves and seeds
plants and pulls
harvests and winnows language,
understanding and learning,
comprehension and mentoring orthopraxis,
ecotherapy and healing
rationality and polypathic sanity?
This optimally sustaining
revolutionary bipolar meaning
for graceful living
and healing poetry,
enculturates as metaphysically expressed
through universal laws of language
and cooperative economics,
trans-actively mutual mentoring love,
as words teach us what we think
and thoughts inspire our Way (Tao)
toward optimally inclusive expression.
Meanwhile poetry evolves physically incarnating
through global dancing and singing
in full octave ringing circles
of energy and organic-spiral dynamic mass,
Poets conduct dancing lyrics of life through death,
Poets prehend self-governance structures
in ways of light more enlightened
than competing partisan pedantry;
which may not be saying much for poets.
Transliterating Laotse on "Rulers":
Of the best public administrators
The people only have faith,
prehend, that they exist,
or did way back in the day;
The next best they love and praise:
the comprehensively wise polypaths
with CQI regenerative well-being outcomes.
The abusive and tyrannical next they fear;
And the neglectful next they revile and ridicule;
weak and humorless fools.
When poets do not command the people's faith,
Some will lose faith in them,
And then they resort to oaths!
But, of the best,
those wisely compassionate cooperative poetic-rulers,
when their outcomes are optimally accomplished,
their full-octaved permacultural design word work done,
The folks all remark,
"We have written and told and danced,
lived and breathed,
colored and cultured it ourselves."
It is no more or less feasible
to have a mutually subsidiary
and cooperative design and development
than it is to find a wise and holy
competitive hoarder of wealth and power.
Everything that is created
disguises a hidden purpose.
teleology as ecologic.
Copyright © Gerald Dillenbeck | Year Posted 2015
Long poem by
Frederic Parker | Details |
The black moving night,a covering shawl
Circles the world before the golden dawn
While we underneath are always in awe,
of the changes in light we look upon
Beautiful colors appear from this change
And enter the eye of the artist's mind
As pages are filled, decriptions exchange
Poets write colored pictures to remind
The reds and blues depict from flowing quills
Give color to words across the pages
And though artist words will never fulfill
The colorful skies seen through the ages
Bow to the artist who paints the red sky
And for the poet's words , used to reply
Copyright © Frederic Parker | Year Posted 2014
Long poem by
anne p. murray | Details |
Your image appears through a purple-hued haze of silence…
weaving its whispered dreamy spell, while you re-connect the strings of my sleeping heart
You go about undressing my soul as I watch your image drift in my celibate reality
I hear the melody play it lonely tune ~ but, it is absent of the warmth of touch
For its only your image I see, my heart's held hostage by the cry of the songbird
My unknown lover, kidnapped by the makers of dreams and fantasies
experiencing the uncertainty of the child that lies sleeping deep within
Alone, with the clever artists of dreams and visions encountering the forever of my loneliness
brushing off the blurred images with softly painted hues of repeated memories
designed by the masters of dreams and schemes, sleeping to be hugged ~ dreaming to be loved
Oh yes... I've dealt with kings, queens and dragonflies
in the dancing reverie of the fragments of my reality,
gliding in and out of the dust of Heaven's stars
sprinkling me with their sweet purple dreams gliding over shimmering evening skies
In lavender scented breezes, I make my way through the night's crimson threshold
in starlit dreams that melt across ancient seasons
shimmering purple shades of shadows painted in serene, pastoral Botticelli scenes
I sleep in soft billowy clouds, spreading my wings in God's peaceful heavens
my journey - painted in purple pastel colors of love...
peering through misty clouds and diamond stars by His Divine presence from up above
They make their nightly visits into my fantasies, my thoughts
painted by the makers and weavers of dreams, coming out of their secret, hidden places...
they silently reveal their amethyst, painted masterpieces
lightly kissed in dewy, lavender scented bliss
My Botticelli dreams...softly swaddled in dream woven swathes of purple calico...
The sweetness of long remembered thoughts tickles my memories in delicate ambrosial perfume...
redolent of lilac scented blossoms- each flower's fragrant sphere, lingering sweetly in the air
Ancestral shades drift in and out of what was... what might still be
singing their lavender effulgent melodies in lovely violet shades
through soft, flowing wisps of dreams, lingering in meadows of glowing moonlight...
Your sweet scent, so succulent in lilac memories urging your return
they delicately float across my dreaming heart waiting so patiently for your sweet scented whispers
to wrap seductive chiffon fingers around my sleeping soul on Morpheus' silky crimson screens
across the evening's deep indigo blue horizon
Between the cracks of earth and sky I succumb with on soaring wings toward your biding arms
catching falling stars in the mist of twilight whispers, where scarlet lilacs are sprinkled...
dreaming together of the end of our days
until your sweet love finds me neath’ the evening's indigo, starry art
painted in Botticelli dreams of purple calico...the delicate lavender wings of dragonflies ...
Copyright © anne p. murray | Year Posted 2013
Long poem by
Muzahidul Reza | Details |
Direct clay was turned into required elements
parts, sections, groups, classes in proportion
to set in every function in as pottery style,
osteoblasts turned into bones to form the cage,
limes were to join each point of the body
veins surrounded in and out of 206 bones
hard, soft, wide, length, fat, thin
setting by inner limbs, thick flesh and skin
strong, elastic for the whole earthly life spent.
Souls were entered then through a breath
by the Creator to activate
the first human of three fourth water and rest the earth,
to run the heart with nerves and veins all,
blood plasma with blood cells through arteries
hollow, narrow, keen, strong, weak, soft all
from joint to joint, point to point, around and in of all units of all limbs
the parts of brain, liver, lung, kidney, from all the cells of all limbs
up to the centre of genes bearing elements directly.
Thus first human was made,
then from a bone of him his mate came
for biological demands, growing humans they were sent to earth
from heaven which is anti-defecating, reproducing, regenerating spot.
Then on from a drop of semen full of sperm
combining with ovum develops a limb in female’s womb that grows
within a short long process of 10 months
with the same limbs all humans come.
In each species a pair came first in times and terms
then the system reproduction comes,
a sparrow need not turn into fish or a fish into monkey
at different stages the figures of the beings changed
they need not transform from one to other
beings’ history says that from first to us.
Earth supplies with things they need
eating, using, wearing, housing and more,
mothers eat food, drink water babies suck mothers’ essence of food,
the ancients wore barks, leaves, ate flesh
from the same nature we wear cloths, eat meat.
Thing lasts as soon as its limes join the points
beings are mortal
several years they live then die
souls leave the bodies from where they came namely heaven,
bodies mix with earth again,
in the transitory world the symptoms refer
bodies are made of earth,
souls are unseen like air and ever immortal
work like everlasting seeds again and again circle, hence
they should less care of mortal bodies more of immortal souls.
Human beings are not the free agents like other animals
in the earth they are at the 3rd step of their journeys
from heaven to womb to earth then to hereafter,
but most of them are oblivious of the conditions.
The earth is the centre on basis of works which ascertains the next position
good for good and bad for bad,
but for some unnecessary thinking they are devoid of necessary things
and have been men of earth in color and art
that is obviously leading them to their self tragedies.
Copyright © Muzahidul Reza | Year Posted 2016
Long poem by
Ruben A. Hernandez Diaz | Details |
Roses in the garden,
Roses in the world,
But now roses curled...
Peach roses show modesty,
Peach roses show gratitude,
However, they are often insincere...
Yellow roses seem to care,
Yellow roses show friendship,
However, they are often joyless and jealous...
Pink roses communicate sweetness,
Pink roses radiate elegance,
However, they are often unthankful...
Orange roses have desire,
Orange roses show their pride,
However, they are often impassive...
Purple roses are majestic,
Purple roses express love at first sight,
However, they are often repulsed and unenchanted...
Green roses are harmonious,
Green roses carry hope,
However, they are often unpeaceful...
Blue roses like dreaming,
Blue roses are imaginative,
Blue roses desire to know the unknown,
Blue roses are mysterious,
However, they are often elusive and unattainable...
Red roses are emotional,
Red roses are devotional,
Red roses are respectful,
However, they are often remorseful, sorrowful and mistaken...
Gold roses are occassional,
Gold roses like memories,
Gold roses are preserved,
However, they are often misinterpreted and confused...
White roses are pure,
White roses have innocence,
White roses are spiritual,
White roses carry secrecy,
However, they are often arrogant...
Silver roses are rare,
Silver roses like to grow,
Silver roses convert fantasy into reality,
However, they are often lost and uneasy,
But they seem unpredictable and mystical...
Black roses are mysterious,
Black roses are rebirth,
However, they often remain elusive,
They often symbolize death and loss,
But they are unpredictable and silent,
Though, they are often harmed...
Roses in the garden,
Roses in the world,
But now roses swirled and twirled...
Although, now peach roses are lying,
Yellow roses turning jealous and browned,
Pink roses being unsweet and unthankful,
Orange roses being impulsive and compulsive,
Purple roses being repulsed and revulsed,
Green roses losing hope and harmony,
Blue roses being undiscovered and lost,
Red roses being regretful and voided,
Gold roses bewildered and confused,
White roses losing purity and innocence,
Silver roses turning black and unused,
And black roses silenced and unborn...
All there is to see are roses vanishing,
All there is to feel are roses withering,
In a bed of bleeding roses...
Copyright © Ruben A. Hernandez Diaz | Year Posted 2013
Long poem by
R'shea Woods | Details |
Did you Know???
All I wanted to do was love, Care, and cater to you.
Color didn’t matter, you could a been Red, Green, or Blue.
It was your smile, your touch, the way you carried yourself that just gave me butterflies..
Like a warm breezy day after the rain, and all the clouds flouted away.
All the plans we’ve made to spend our life’s together, it was like a dream come true, I finally found love, which made my heart feel brand new….
Nothing could change that,” No matter how high or low”, I was set out to make this love work…
5’5 light brown engaged to this fine Hispanic
Oh the looks we get whenever we went out as if I wasn’t from this planted.
Speaking only one Language I was so confused I didn’t then and I still don’t get what color had to do with how I felt about you.
Now that I’m up sitting in this cold room tears fall from my face I guess I should have let it out before, but why didn’t you ever stand up for me?
Your mother was cold and so bold, when she looked me in my eyes and said, I don’t like you because your black, you’ll never be good enough with this look of relief on her face.
I went for a walk I can’t stunt and I cried until those tears turned into anger, because how could you love me? How could this love last when you couldn’t even protect me from her daily put downs and harsh words.
I started to feel the light in me go out it was like she was trying to stab at my heart, but ended up damaging out my soul,…
My Family tried to warn me, yes this is true…
But I couldn’t I didn’t want to give up loving you, maybe it was my pride or maybe I figured over time it’ll change, but its going on three years and lover your family still looks at me the same, with shame.
If looks could kill smh I swear I know I wouldn’t be here all because I followed my heart and I never cared if you was red, Green, or Blue.. it was the love I have so strongly for you that I put up with so much bull.
I don’t wonna let go, but something has to change nine months from now I’m supposed to be sharing your last name. Two lives together forever babe, I wonna share my world with you without your family looking down on me, because of my race, its so much more to me then what’s skin deep..
I was always told not to judge a book by its cover come here babe take a set sit back in relax your feet cause itll take a lot more to get raid of me, so why not unwind and turn to the first page you never know what you read about me might just make you want to change your ways, I never cared what color a person was personality is everything…
Copyright © R'shea Woods | Year Posted 2016
Long poem by
STANLEY Harris | Details |
>Back to God. as time passed, His rock still did grow.
But God was still not satisfied, you know.
So he gave His pet rock an atmosphere.
So could produce rain, His plants to feed.
As no food, they did need.
With water and heat from the Sun, you know.
By themselves, those plants could then grow.
Now God had to do nothing.
As Earth was now a self catering, rockey thing.
Was still a nice rock, as man was not yet, anything.
Back to God, He was still alone.
So made some live creatures here to roam.
Now His rock looked alive.
Animals. He put on the grass.
Fish in the sea, birds in the air.
There were creatures everywhere.
But of man. There was no sign anywhere.
Back to God, it was one fine day.
His fingers moulded a man of clay.
Only made a mould of him.
Then, He did a silly thing.
New life. He breathed into his clay man.
Called him Adam he did do.
Now, man was on his rock, it's true.
Back to God. He thought a while.
As Adam seemed alone and not to smile.
God watched his animals as they did roam.
Occasionally setting up their home.
Then God smiled as young creatures filled those homes.
He then put Adam into a deep sleep.
When Adam woke, he felt quite weak.
But Eve appeared and cared for him.
Then she led Adam into sin.
Was on a day. God was away.
When He returned Adam hid.
He did I say. Although I was not there that day.
Back to God, He was slightly angry, you see.
Held an enquiry, serpent was found guilty.
Lost his legs that day you see.
That's why all his family.
Throughout the earth do crawl about.
On the stomachs and don't shout.
See rots already started to spread.
As man was about. Oh! I've already said.
Back to God, He did not forget His play rock.
He most certainly did not. As often He did come back.
But as man spread and messed Earth up.
God decided no more rocks would He dress up.
Just leave them coloured, no life at all.
He had made one mistake. No would do more.
Not like man who bred like mad.
Fell out with and killed what he had.
Ate all the produce God did sow.
Man had to sow more to make it grow.
Man bred more, and needed more.
So cultivated more land and more.
Destroyed what God had planted there.
Hunted and captured wildlife, it's true.
Man turned on man, so death was about.
On that rock God played with no doubt.
As man was now really about.
And that is all I'll get on here alas there is still much more. And when I'm feeling well and fit, I'll write it out so you can read it. (The mad author) <
Copyright © STANLEY Harris | Year Posted 2016
Long poem by
Walter T. Ashe | Details |
"The Art Of The Divine"
On the wings of butterflies,
God placed the most beautiful
The intricate patterns
are so uniquely different.
It is a testament to
"The Art Of The Divine!"
Take a look at Nature's flowers.
With the colors for them
that HE chose,
it's no wonder that the beauty
of one so stood out,
it's the avatar of Poetess
Toucans, macaws, parakeets
these are some truly colorful birds!
The whiteness of doves
and even jet black crows
can put an artist at a loss for words!
Mesmerized by watching tropical fish?
"Now where did HE get those colorful hues?"
They're the example
of the dazzle in the ocean,
with bright magentas, sun yellows
and cobalt blues!
Turning to glimpses of the animal world,
with striped zebras, spotted leopards
and panda bears,
shows HIS eye for colors
knows no bounds whatsoever,
all of life shows HIS artistic flair!
The ultimate of HIS
creative colorful works
is timed and knows exactly
when to show!
It is testament to
"The Art Of The Divine",
after a rain storm
HE paints us a rainbow!
Copyright © Walter T. Ashe | Year Posted 2016
Long poem by
Chris Boskovski | Details |
Though the midnight summer rains
as we sit together under the geraniums,
hanging low and at full bloom,
we hold hands and talk of old times;
times that were kind to us and our youth.
As summer storms light up the night skies
We kiss the storm away, as it rolls through the grey skies
and the lighting cracks the clouds in half,
riping a hole in the universe, as we kiss the night away.
We sit throughtout nightlong summer dreams
and talk, and we hear the storms roll into the golden hills
of summer meadows filled with roses and a field full of daisies.
Love rests in time to see us grow old together,
and love strengthens its walls and pulls us closer together.
We shall go now, as day turns to night,
into our chamber of love and sleep the night away, together.
Hold us close to each other, as I rest my head on you sweet bossom,
and you nurture me to life of talks of love and beauty.
Nature whispers and sings us songs,
as we kiss and go for walks through the countryside
looking at the golden hills soaked in the rolling storms
that summer offers every year, upon a silver platter.
Sooth me, my love as I tell you of the sorrow I have witnessed.
Embrace me with your curiousity and tell me of the beauty in
the secrets of life and its hidden messangers
that hold secret letters from Devils that send temptations
to destroy something that we share, that is so beautiful and true.
Tell me that life will be okay, and my love is still true and with you.
Tell me my sweet and beautiful love, tell me if everything will be alright.
Love has seen us come and go, through the narrowed and sprinkled streets,
as we move through life fused at hands and eyes blind, not noticing the possiblities of death at any moment stalking us with knives jabbing at our backsides.
We are blind, for we see each other and only each other.
As we live life eyes a blazed looking at the sun, we do not notice the obvious between us.
Caring from me, at my time of need I never noticed the betrayal of our love.
My heart sees, but I deny the obvious and see what I hear.
As I see the knife drive deep in my heart,
you with a suitcase in hand,
I stand on my front steps and I watch the summer storms
come back over the golden hills to say, "hello"
Love is the same everytime, like a summer storm;
beautiful to watch, but when it leaves, it is depressing to say, "goodbye"
Now I sit, as the geraniums dry up and die
and the wrinkles at my eyes make me blind,
I see love walk past my house and mock me with lone kisses.
Copyright © Chris Boskovski | Year Posted 2013