Long poem by
Chris D. Aechtner | Details |
1) Since you have such a crazy drive to post every thought which goes through your mind, you consider posting your grocery lists.
2) You come up with another lame senryu just to post something new(and create a cheap entry for yet another contest).
3) Even though you post everything which comes to mind, post 3+ poems per day, every day, you believe all of your posts to be exemplary pieces.
4) (in relation to #3) You believe all of the "This is a masterpiece!" comments left on your poems, to be completely sincere.
5) You have the tendency to ignore that you are nearing 60 years of age. You put up avatars of yourself, circa 1971, and flirt with nearly every Souper below the supposed age of 30.
6) Instead of having a romantic evening with your significant other, you end up surfing the Soup blogs and drooling over member avatars.
7) After being single for 15 years, a completely compatible person asks you on a date. You decline the offer, end up surfing the Soup blogs and drooling over member avatars.
8) The admin makes an announcement concerning site maintenance, how the site might be down for 24 hrs -- upon reading the announcement, your stomach drops-out, you are filled with a phantasmagoric sense of doom which escalates into a bout of nihilism so strong, you consider methadone treatment to prepare yourself for the upcoming site-shutdown.
9) You begin methadone treatment in preparation for the two hours you will be away from the Soup(and awake)attending your best friend's funeral.
10) Your sleep-time has drastically altered to less than 4 hours of sleep per night. This is for various reasons, one of these being that every week you feel the need to leave a minimum of 1000 comments on poems, so whenever you post something new, the 'return' comments on said post, help push it up the 'Top 100 Recent Poems' list. You consider this to be an accomplishment akin to winning the Nobel Prize in Literature. You are awesome.
11) Instead of watching your favourite soap opera on the booby, you follow the soaps happening between Soupers in the blogs.
12) Every time you get a splinter, you have a strong urge to put up a blog about it to gain support and sympathy during your ordeal.
13) You put up blogs telling members that you are going to be 'gone' for 2 days, and apologize for not "being there for everyone" while away from the site.
14) After not seeing daylight for months on end, you put up a blog about seeing the most amazing thing .... you finally went outside and saw this blazing orb in the .... in the .... in the whatchamacallit, sky?
15) You forget to say "Merry Christmas!" to your family at home, but 'say' it in the Christmas blog that you put up on the Soup.
16) You forget your significant other's Birthday, but remember the Birthday of your favourite 'platonic' Souper.
17) Whenever you see or hear the word "Soup", your palms become itchy and you can barely contain yourself from using a computer/phone to login to poetrysoup.com.
18) You believe that if a poem rhymes, it is automatically a decently written poem.
19) In desperation, your family members and friends create accounts on the Soup, believing this to be the only way left to interact with you. In return, you have your account deleted and open a new one under an assumed pen-name.
20) You make the rounds each new day leaving "Good Morning!" comments on your friend's poems.
21) You go on vacation to an exotic beach location. The weather is gorgeous. The water is wonderfully warm. The sand is splendid. You don't swim in the wonderfully warm water. You don't take in the sights of the beach. You barely even notice the beach. Instead, you log onto the Soup via your laptop/phone.
22) Your children are hungry. You barely even know who your children are anymore. You don't care. *click* *clickety-click*
23) Your significant other finally offers to "do THAT thing"(yes, THAT one!)you've always fantasized him/her doing with you, but until now, he/she has always refused to fulfill for you. Now .... you don't care. *click* *clickety-click*
Long poem by
Shadow Hamilton | Details |
It is Monday, today is pay the bills and light shop.
All this after we have been for the morning run.
The dogs are always keen, they trot beside me
as at ten miles an hour we cover the ground
Always pleased to see their friends we stop and chat.
A full mile we go in a circuit of my village.
Then home for their breakfast while I make lunch.
In the car we stop at the village post office and shop.
Do the essentials like feeding metres and buying cigs.
On into town we hit the supermarket for some staples.
Now the dogs favourite time when we go to our trading estate
which is being knocked down for housing and mainly now vacant.
Here they stretch their legs and chase each other, rabbits beware!
Tired they pile back into the car and doze on the way home.
Chat to a few passer's by as I lock up the gates, then
time to make supper and feed us all, water the garden too many tubs.
Now I settle down its poetry time read a few write if I can.
Total self indulgence as I disappear into the words I read
An hour or so of telly or maybe a computer game its ten pm
dogs go to bed just me and my three cats we watch Tommy Walsh.
A last check on the beloved soup sure to be a good new poem
waiting there, surfeit and happy I again indulge in written words.
Decide if I am staying downstairs on the day bed or going upstairs.
Read some pages of a good novel usually a crime book then to sleep.
Tuesday up bright and early its main shopping day
Trudge around the various stores, head home to unload
In the afternoon we go out maybe up on the hills
or on to Exmoor maybe one of the two reservoirs.
Here I stroll, while they play looking around noting the changes
that have occurred since last I was here, watching the buzzards
swoop and play and if lucky a hawk or two to enjoy.
Often a glimpse of a red deer or some boxing hares.
Home to the nightly routine with a slight difference
tonight, its off to local obedience training as a
well taught dog is pleasant to be around and its fun for us all.
Chit chat with the other handlers praising if they did well.
Wednesday usual routine then out in the garden to weed and tidy.
Net the leaves from the ponds while watching the fish and newts.
Gather what apples are ripe and give everything a good water.
Early lunch and off to Wales for some ring craft training.
Thursday its the first in the month tonight is poetry group.
First its see to the dogs a walk down the fields by the river.
Sort out which poems I will read tonight at the open mike.
Listen to what the other poets read and to our guest poetry speaker.
Have fun discussing the various new poems and just catching up
Drive home and often inspired, sit down and write a new poem or two.
Feeling well satisfied with my week so far I turn to other poets work
and slip off into the beauty and images they inspire. What a treat!
Friday butchers day to pick up meat and bones for the dogs
They know its in the car their noses twitching in anticipation.
Supermarket yet again running low on fresh staples time to stock up.
Afternoon its usually down to the beach where the dogs chase the waves.
Weekend some grooming prettying up the dogs we are off to a show.
Hanging around waiting for our classes to start then its time we are on.
Proudly they strut their stuff showing off to the judge, will we get placed?
We beat them all at the last show. Yes, yes Minstral has another 1st.
Bundell managed a 3rd he still needs time to mature next year he will do well.
Sunday dawns a day that weekly changes sometimes a BBQ or a family meal.
Another we will be off to Wales for more training or a show perhaps, or
A day to relax and visit friends and catch up with their news.
No matter what the day there's always plenty to do, did I mention housework?
Nah, that's far too mundane its always there hovering, waiting in the wings.
Some days have not enough hours, time relentless ticking on. So much to do.
Yet it is seldom boring living in this madhouse of mine. Bless all animals.
Long poem by
Louis Borgo | Details |
To know your history is to know your literature a lesson to learn, which will
Stand the test of time and what one founds of their in heritage no matter how enduring and grim it may seem it something you should embrace-
I came from a small city with big roots and routinely I was ask “where are you from”, especially from girls, if it wasn’t that it he thinks he cutie? And I’m asking why I would say something like that. Or He thinks him smart, God!!! I’m just answer the teacher question? But when I got older, older woman told me they probably think that ascent was sexy and I’m thinking where in high school what do they know about sexy? Man is her computer seat warm? America woman I just don’t understand them? I wonder what they do if they heard me speak a few difference language at same time? Thank god I’m quite because it not like they can read my mind. But it got me thinking from and questioning
What I found was the name Borgo had many difference Ethnicity & meaning with it as well as nationalities and that Borgo is Small Island between France and Italy. And if history may not mention it was a Borgia who captured Napoleon? How do I know where did it take place?
No wonder I like Caribbean woman and it is this one that get my heart beat beating up to 400 beats per seconds if that is possible I can’t say it is a forbidden love but what I will say is breaking the ice and melt when think out loud? And yes she knows my name but why ask not why but why are some lyrics so deep my dear? Remember some old friends asking don’t you make beats? As I have some bread and tea.
And that Bourbon is a drink, a Pecan Pie and a Street I’m thinking man if I have girlfriend
What date it would be-
Then I dig deeper and found the prime sources that seem to let to these events the Borgia or borja married into royalty which happen to be Louisa Borgia who married Philp De Bourbon or Philip V of Spain. He was rejected as King Louis legitimate son because born out of wedlock but later accepted but Philp never forgave and where he could have been both king of France and Spain he was just the king of Spain. Question I ask do any one know today the real reason why France has no nationality? Hurtfully to write or hear but i heritage mean full name as should other take to one, I have heard rumors that true bloodlines of nations of Kings that don’t rightfully take the throne it is a reason for that but not my place to say the way history is written is just to say to remember men wrote history but literature holds another tell? Who can tell the differences, but one question for god I always ask
Why so much war my lord, I truly feel like a man without a country and
Just walking away-
I myself never came from money I start literally from nothing but as I got older I was given legitimate connection legitimate ideas and principals and the understanding of wealth but so trying of spending night and days with no day off of a seven day week wonder if I can make those principals work for me as sick as I am there are reason undefined why I do this things and money is not the endorsement my life is more complication then eye may receive to capture but if you listen you learn more than just hand written if you get the drift-
I was never told of my in heritage put as one will it something like a scare or tattoo I had to found to adjust to my nick name is “Jason” but my full name is Louis Antonio Borgo III as I’m about to fall to sleep and lost all aim of conscience I see a email with my full name spell out in Ancestry.com question how did they know I was search for them and if I ever be accepted from this other half as I am a man literally without a country and in love with French woman more than American the phone rings and a woman from Canada called speaking French I drop the phone and finally I fall to sleep and As I sleep dreaming could anyone imagine wanting to go home but where? Remembering the ringing noise of girls ask
” where are you from”...
Long poem by
Cyndi MacMillan | Details |
CEO of the Schizophrenia Society of Canada:
If you ever got out of the Selkirk Mental Health Centre,
what would you do?
Li: I hope to leave one day, but I have to make sure it wouldn’t
happen again. That there would be no voices.
I would change my name to be anonymous
There is a darkness that we can not see for it lies behind the eyes,
as stark as bone under a harvest moon, masquerading an appetite.
We sit side by side with darkness, oblivious to its plans, its hunger,
and on a July night in o eight, a monster took a long bus ride
across the Trans-Canada Highway. It walked up a tight aisle, then
it sat beside Tim McLean, a young man on his way home, a carnie
with many friends. His mother was waiting for him, eager to see
his eyes, that bright smile. Vince Weiguang Li had bought a ticket
for Thunder Bay. He was once a computer software engineer in
Beijing, well rewarded, but immigration punished. As an Edmonton
resident the educated man delivered newspapers, served french-fries.
There is an article in the paper he delivered, a story about the legend
of the Wendigo ... and I wonder if the journalist is haunted, I wonder
if that writer wakes at night in terror, thinking of Li turning pages,
reading of evil, its want of flesh, the taste of blood. Li sat beside Tim,
not one word was spoken, the witnesses reported. Li is big, strong, and
young Tim was listening to his ipod, texting that he’d soon be home.
He did not see the butcher knife that Vince concealed. The rampage
was unexpected. Li stabbed the youth over and over; the Greyhound bus
stopped, people ran for the door as arterial spray splattered the old vinyl.
Li came undone and beheaded his victim; the legend was reborn for
he consumed Tim’s eyes, swallowed the good soul he saw there, and then
he opened that bloody chest, gnawed a heart full of exuberance. He hacked
off a nose and fingers, placed them into bags to savor later, he became the
Wendigo ,no, no, he’ll forevermore be Nian. Eventually, the police tazered
him. Not Criminally responsible, was the final verdict, due to mental illness,
hospitalization, not prison, and a mother’s tears savage an unjust stillness.
Li was granted supervised day passes and walks the streets of Selkirk.
Four years, only four years, for devouring a life without provocation,
and a family struggles to pass Tim’s Law in a system that has gone mad...
There is a darkness that we can not see for it lies behind the eyes,
as stark as bone under a harvest moon, masquerading an appetite.
*Wendigo is an aboriginal evil spirit that is said to possess humans and turn them into cannibals... there have been communities in northern Alberta which have reported that people believed they were "turning wendigo."
* The Nian is a Chinese mythological demon that hunts people and a part of the Chinese New Year tradition.
*Tim's Law would ensure that people with mental illness who kill are kept institutionalized for life, without exception.
**The quote on top was taken from an interview with Li this year.
This is a true story. The Greyhound murder/cannabilism took place in July 2008.
May 2012 he was granted daypasses. The clock is ticking... it is only a matter of time before he is fully released... unless Tim's Law is passed.
May reason prevail.
FOR ARTICLES ABOUT THIS STORY
Long poem by
Lea Hela | Details |
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Long poem by
Andrea Dietrich | Details |
Narrator: I take you now inside the mind of a ten year old miniature Eskimo dog who
lives happily inside a Rambler house with a fenced back yard that serves as his special
area to periodically run freely when his “favorite person”(Love) puts him out, always
shouting “go pee!” to him. Strangely, Ollyver does not really seem to understand that
command. Perhaps to him it means “go play” since often he is later caught inside the
house in compromising positions, causing his owner to rush him again to the door to
the back yard!
Furthermore, new computer technology has enabled Ollyver’s owner (his “Love”)
to come up with a crude translation for Ollyver’s stream of thoughts. She knows his behavior the best, but still she must guess at a few things inside his brain due to his limited range of vocabulary and his typical doggy unconcern with that ! So now she has just let Ollyver out the back porch to go pee. . .
Ollyver: I go out! I go out! Run run run . . . Run here. . . Run there. . . Strange man
by fence. . . I can’t get to strange man. What you doing by my yard? Leave here leave here leave here. . . yip yip yip yip yip yip yip. . . . .
Owner’s voice from the porch: Go pee, Ollyver!!!
Ollyver: always “go pee” she say. . . Look look at me. . . I go pee . . . run here . . .
run there. . . (Ollyver continues running back and forth yelping at the stranger who
has since gotten past the fence as he walks along the canal road) I go pee I go pee. . .
Narrator: Ollyver runs back to the house, never having actually gone pee. He runs to
sit by his owner, whom he perceives as his favorite human. She is eating a bowl of ice
cream on the bed.
Ollyver: I go in. . . see yum-yum milk. . . I want I want I want
Narrator: Ollyver goes toward the bowl and gets pushed away, so he stares with big
anxious eyes going back and forth to Love and the bowl of yum-yum.
Ollyver: I want I want I want. . . Give me give me give me. . . Ohhhhh. . . Yum-yum
getting smaller and smaller. . . Ohhhhhhhhh
Narrator: Ollyver’s Love pats his head and lets him lick what remains at the bottom of the bowl. After he finishes, he snuggles by Love and beings to lick her hand and arm.
Ollyver: kiss kiss kiss kiss. . . Love Love Love
Narrator: Suddenly the door bell rings, and he dashes off the bed to the front door
with his Love following behind him, yelling: “No Ollyver!” He peers through the window and sees a stranger.
Ollyver: yip yip yip yip yip yip yip yip yip go away strange lady go away strange lady
go away strange lady yip yip yip yip yip yip yip. . ..
Narrator: The door bell rings again and Ollyver runs to his favorite corner of the family
room, where he begins to do the very thing his owner had wanted him to do previously
when she let him out into the back yard. Her voice yells shrilly “No, Ollyver” and she
shoves him to the back door saying: “OUT here, Ollyver. Go pee out HERE.” Ollyver
then runs across the yard going back and forth, back and forth.
Ollyver: see see see, Love. . . I go pee I go pee
**For the contest of Just That Archaic Poet:This is my personification of Ollyver, the pet that gave me the greatest unconditional love of any pet I ever owned. Because we could never train him (I even hired a trainer to help us) and because of other complications, I had to give him up when he was around ten years old. I missed him so much. and even my cat, Razzmatazz cannot replace him for pure affection. I gave him to a place that promised a no-kill policy and to this day, I am hoping he had a great life until the end!
Long poem by
jalani jenkins | Details |
Here comes the hurricane
The storm is worst then a earthquake
Ima gas planet like Jupiter & saturn
Sufficication no life just toxic gas
Blow u to pieces
It's so interesting
Reachin for me is like reachin the stars in the solor system
U'll never get to me son
Think twice before u wanna try me
The size of Tyson
Gorilla in the mountin
I dominate this with out fear
I'm better then most u hear
Hate the truth
I don't give a ****
I'm not the type to smile about *****
I'm smart I osverb the poetry,biology,philosophy,history & literature
I mind **** so many people
It's like a video game I'm playing with my brain
I go off like I'm on speed
I'm so crazy in the brain
I can't stay normal
I puff good green
To keep my head good
Most of ya wack
Ya fake take the make up off
I'll spray u with the hose proudly
Ima problem child
No one can touch me
U couldn't be me if u took Notes & did research
Ya talk too much like ya was the broadcasters on the news
I'm far from the sun
But I have a heated temper
The flame I leave on the mic it can't be out out
Call the fire department
It ain't gonna do any good
The savage poet on the loose
Taking mc's out
Eating em out like oral sex
As long it don't stink ima eat u out the frame
Ya like on the breakfast menu
Put u in the cementary
U forgot I'm the grave digger
I dig graves for fun
Most of ya dig ya own graves
Talking about money cars & hoes
Its having a Knat in ya ear while u sleep
Ya niggas stupid most of ya belong in special ed
The graves I dug
I show no remorse
I'll continue I'm iller then a bad cold
Cough it up u like swallowed hair
Inhale the good *****
Never the doo doo type
U style is lame u sad go to the circus
Marry the beard lady
U envy me like the rest
I can scoop a lesbian turn that ***** inside out
Niggas hate on me I know they don't like me
Ya niggas are ugly it's like u got scraped with a fork
Watch the king at his best
I can take many sittin on the throne that's how ill I am
Take em out no competition
Booyaka it's gettin real
It's scary the nightmare on elm street
Coming for u in ur dreams
**** Freddy Krueger
I'm the true grim reaper when it come to takin souls
Take u out Ur misery
U a kid in a growns mans world
Ur breath smells like ass & fish
Take the mic from ya ur skills is dry
Buy a toothbrush mouthwash and a pack of gum
I'll put u in the graveyard
Dig ur grave
Dress u up with ur hands crossed with ur eyes open
Ain't it terrifying
Sign my name on ur casket
Put u in the dirt put u 6ft under
Ur gone ur forgotten
Goodnight sleep in piss *****
Wack niggas wanna be down with the j
But my circle is small
Sometimes I don't roll with em
Ya Niggas closet fags
Stay on my dick keeping my name in ya mouth why
What ya in love
**** off i ain't into that
Going off like I was in Vietnam fighting Vietcong
Beating my chest like King Kong before he fought the t-Rex
I'll kill ya lawyers
U soft u wouldn't hurt a fly
U talk a good game
U a motor mouth
****ing with me
Ima cobra ima spit venom right at u
Watch u shake screamin louder then a chick
Goons always got em on dial
Latin kings don't get it ****ed up
I'm nasty as a mold growing in a corner in a bathroom(eww)
Worse then a bushy pussy with a fowl smell(gasp)
What's gets worst then that
I can think of many
My mind is like a computer
The power is on
I'm full of energy
I said enough I feel I'm done
Adios I'm ghost I killed it enough
Long poem by
Leann OReilly | Details |
Don’t know when it started….freshman year?
I look in the mirror
UGLY UGLY UGLY UGLY UGLY UGLY UGLY
Remembering the food….calories….sugar….fat
Passing my lips….
Leading down my throat
Into my stomach….onto my hips….my face…my stomach…my arms…my legs
Next day, no food….hardly any water….
Stomach is growling….I don’t care.
Killing myself….I don’t care. All I want is to be…
Two weeks later….friends are suspicious. I had a big lunch/breakfast/dinner. I’m not hungry.
My stomach protests…I don’t care.
I’m caught…I give up. I’m weak.
Food passes my lips…
Leading down my throat
Into my stomach…I protest. Too weak to care. I eat.
Sophmore year. I look in the mirror.
An extra set of boobs on my sides
Bulging under my clothes….tags getting larger along with my waistline.
I am fat. I am ugly. Like twins they go together…fat and ugly. Ugly and fat.
I refuse to eat…I pretend I am full. Move food around, no one will notice?
Stomach growls but I fight back…killing my body but I don’t care…I want to be skinny.
I want to be pretty.
If I am skinny, I am pretty. Like twins they go together…pretty and skinny, skinny and pretty.
I am neither. I am not pretty. I am not skinny.
I am FAT. I am UGLY.
I step on the scale. I have lost five pounds. Success.
I reward myself by not eating for another week. Three pounds are back…I hate myself.
I look in the mirror. I am still fat. I am still ugly.
My friends see the dark circles. They know I’m not eating. Some say something…I ignore them.
I’m scared. I’m lost…but I don’t care. I am still UGLY. Fat and UGLY.
I’m running…trying to lose weight faster…I want to be skinny.
Dark edges around my eyes. I don’t care.
Head is spinning. I don’t care.
Breathing is labored. I don’t care.
I WANT TO BE SKINNY.
My friend finally confronts me. If I don’t stop…she will tell someone. I care. I do.
Food passes my lips. I hate myself.
Weight is still dropping…I find myself eating again.
Yet…always lingers. I look in the mirror…I see…
Junior year. Eating again. Sometimes skipping meals...trying not to go back.
Constantly an option in my ear when I step on the scale…
Look in the mirror….
And don’t like what I see.
I fight it. I want to be strong.
I force myself to eat…it comes back.
I begin to skip meals…watch the scale drop.
Along with my self esteem….again….
Friends are fighting with me, I miss them…I am constantly on the verge of tears…
The only thing I can control anymore is the food…I can stop it from passing my lips.
I may not be sleeping but at least I’m not gaining weight.
I look in the mirror. I want to see me. Instead all I see is what I need to lose…what I’ve always seen.
What she used to say to me….
A few more pounds…maybe then I won’t be…fat.
I open my mouth…it all pours out. I open my computer…the words arrange themselves.
Tears at the truth. I am sick….but I am not
I am not
I refuse to hate myself. I refuse to hurt myself.
I WANT TO BE PRETTY.
But that is not the way to be.
No more. No more pain…no more starving. I will be strong. I am not weak.
I look in the mirror. I stare past my reflection and I fight the demons…
I am not fat. I am not ugly.
I will change. For my friends who love me.
For my family.
Long poem by
Odin Roark | Details |
by Odin Roark
(Via Refrigerator Magnets)
Should have told you
the last piece
you never eat
Can you forgive me?
I toasted it
like you used to do
like you used to make
I can’t be back for a while
Nobody Told Me
They say ‘cause I’m alive and healthy
I’m supposed to grieve in stages
A bit presumptuous, eh?
Just how is this insight acquired?
If they’d outlined the steps
Both of my bereaved deployments
Might not have ripped heart and spirit
Into so many scattered pieces
I could have asked friends
Weep with me?
I wouldn’t have excluded them
These many months of loneliness
Maybe I wouldn’t have accepted
This fragile courage
To double check my mags
Make sure the chamber’s loaded
Step cautiously and nudge the child’s severed arm
Closer to her body
Wipe my eyes clear
Take another step forward
Can’t help wandering
When and how was I supposed to get it
This euphoria of numbness some call it
This make-as-you-go survival kit
Nobody told me
(Via restrictive mail prohibiting my saying where)
Reality in search of…
Computer smart cars
Crippled minds and limbs
From where they came
Where they shall go
Caring in their way
Address the circles
Like gentle creatures awaiting validation
Veterans attentively turn ears
Some square shoulders
Others straighten legs
A few retain stoic resolve
While the heartiest
Blink their acknowledgment
Some with the left eye
Others with the right
Whichever has survived
Neither here in group
Nor there with the blasts
Merely as existence in limbo
‘Cause there’s still a mission to complete
Comes the answer
To retain life in that arm you still have
To keep atrophy away from the spinal chord smashed
But not severed by shrapnel
There is help
There are choices
There is life of another kind
Needing to be shared
To prepare those of the next war
In the circle
will learn to adjust
Some with eyes of glass
Skulls of titanium
Feet of shapely plastic
All with hearts still beating
Destined to become…
Jaded TV spectators
Will tweet our friends
Cell-photo our spouses
Even unconsciously text ourselves
Ya gotta tune this in
Like a circle of timid buds
Having weathered tempests unimagined
Await blossoms that may never come
Awakening each dawn
A little at a time
Nurturing desired full bloom
Knowing very well
Storms so often happen
Are part of it all
Even as their numbers remain scarred
They continue unblemished
A different reality
(Via special air flight)
A Zip Bag Memorial
What were once men and women
now but ragged and putrid bundles
Without thinking they were idealists
shrouded not with angel’s wings
but swathed in black
a savage mantle of flies
carrying off sacred parcels
immortality in ruin
Quick for God’s sake
Zip the ****ing bag
I’m on my way
They’re bringing me home
Long poem by
Vicki Acquah | Details |
ALIVE (HOW DO I KNOW)
I KNEW I WAS ALIVE
NOT FROM THE PAIN
OF GIVING BIRTH
NOT FROM THE EXCRUTIATING
RE-OCCURRING TOOTH ACHE
SOMETIMES ITS THINGS LIKE thiis-
THAT MAKES YOU CALL ON DEATH
I KNEW I WAS ALIVE -
THO I DID NOT FEEL ALIVE-
I felt no pulse
LIKE WHEN I
NOR the day SHE STABBED
AND KILLED MY BROTHER-
NOT WHEN THEY SENTENCED MY
BLACK MALE CHILD
FOR TRYING TO BE A HERO.-
I KNEW I WAS ALIVE
LITTLE insignificant THINGS-
LITTLE THINGS -THAT OPENED MY EYES
ROBOTICAL MOVES - A GLIMPSE OF
THE MUNDANE these things
MADE ME AWARE-OF
WHERE THE ILLUSIONS END
and REAL LIFE BEGINS
MORE TIMES THAN NOT
the heavy loads are
TOO PAINFUL TO DIGEST-
SO I focus
ON THE INSINIFICANT
LIKE WHEN THE MAN PUSHED
HIS GLASSES UPON HIS NOSE.
but NOT WHEN THE WEATHER
WAS BELOW ZERO- and cold
I KNEW ONE DAY THE
TRAGEDIES WOULD CEASE
AND THAT FEELING OF
LIVING WOULD INCREASE
THAT ONE DAY IN SPITE OF
ALL THESE PITFALLS
AND STUMBLING BLOCKS
I FINALLY REALIZE
THAT I am ALIVE
WHEN I SAW A MAN PUSH
HIS GLASSES upon his nose.
I knew I was alive WHEN
I SAW THE WOMAN EATING
ONE DAY LIFE FLASHED
A WARNING BUTTON
ALERTING ME THAT
THIS LIFE IS REAL
yet THERE WERE NO RULES ATTACHED
LIFE IS COMPLICATED WITHOUT RULES
AND even WITH RULES
LIFE IS STILL AN unfair GAME
A complicated GAME OF CHANCE.
I MADE TWO BABIES
LAUGHED AS MUCH AS I COULD
WITHOUT APPEARING INSANE
SAT THROUGH A FEW MOVIES
READ ONLY WHAT AND WHEN
I WANTED- ONLY
WHEN I WANTED.
I WAS BUSY WRITING
A BUNCH OF POEMS
I WANTED TO DANCE EVERY DAY
THE ONLY SACRIFICE I MADE
WAS SOMETIMES I WOULDN'T LET MYSELF
I WANTED TO LEAVE RIGHT
AFTER THE DANCING STOPPED
STILL KNEW I WAS A
LIVING BEING WHEN
I SAW HOW I STAYED ON
THE MINDS OF THE BABIES..
BABIES NEVER FORGET ME.
THE CHILD RAN TOWARD ME .
HE HAD ON TRAINING PANTS
HE COULD NOT HAVE
BEEN ANY MORE THAN
THREE -OR A BIT MORE -
NO MORE THAN FOUR.
HE RAN TO ME AS
I HAD BEEN GONE FOR SO LONG
BUT HE WAS GLEEFULLY GREETING
ME - HOW COULD HE REMEMBER ME.?
HE WAS ONLY ONE YEAR OLD
WHEN I LEFT TOWN.
THE OTHER KID CAME OVER TO HELP ME
BUT HE CHARGED ME 2.00$
I SAID" I THOUGHT YOU WERE
HELPING ME FROM YOUR HEART"
"I AM". :..He said
"BUT I STILL NEED 2.00$" -
THAT WAS REAL.
THE ONLY THING ACTING UP ON MY
COMPUTER IS THE SOFTWARE
THAT KEEPS MY PUTER-
FROM ACTING UP.
I KNEW WHEN I SAW HIm
the man - PUSHING HIS GLASSES
UP ON HIS NOSE. It was then
that I knew I WAS STILL ALIVE ..
THIS MUST BE MY TEST.
A CHILD ASK FOR 2 DOLLARS
TO HELP ME FROM HIS HEART-
MY MAINTENANCE SOFTWARE
OPENS TO ERROR MESSAGES-
MAN PUSHES GLASSES UP
ON HIS NOSE-INCIDENTALLY-
It was At these crucial points
I now know -my LIFE
IS NOT AN ILLUSION-
BUT THAT IS HOW -
THAT is how -
I KNOW I AM ALIVE -
HOW BOUT YOU ?