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Long Dog Poems | Long Dog Poetry

Long Dog Poems. These are the most popular long Dog by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Dog poems by poem length and keyword.

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Long Poems
Long poem by Ian Howard | Details |

Phobia's

     Phobias
	A Bluto is not that Disney dog
	It was when a mewling 
	that I would scream 
	Should they wet my body
	And then apply cream
	
	Ablutophobia – fear of bathing, washing, or cleaning
	
	Achluo the demon that lurks
	In darkened corners
	The long toothed life suckers realm
	I am scared as the sun dims
	It seems to bare my soul
	
	Achluophobia – fear of darkness
	Acro what did they do 
	They called me acrobat 
	This will not do
	I get giddy standing on a matchbox
	Please get a net to see me through
	Acrophobia – fear of heights

	
	Agora just shut that door 
	I am staying here forever more
	Bring me food put it on the floor
	The letter box is just for you
	Don’t, Don’t,  try to get through
	
	Agoraphobia,  Fear of open spaces or of being in public places. Fear of leaving a                    safe place
	Agrap stole my feelings 
	He caught me unaware
	I am now afraid of sex 
	don’t ask me anymore
	It frightens me that’s for sure
	
	Agraphobia – fear of sexual abuse

	Agrizoo an angry gorilla I knew
	Wild as hell was kept in a cell
	As all his kind, even a timid Hind
	They scare the crap out of me
	Please let them run free

	Agrizoophobia – fear of wild animals

	A gyro is just what I need
	I will fit it to my trusty stead
	He will fly straight across that band
	A tarmac nasty throughout the land
	I cannot face the walk you see
	Agyrophobia –fear of crossing the road

	Aichmohe got in a hell of a fight
	They killed him with a pointed knife
	It will come for me just you see
	I cannot even mend his cloth
	Won’t  touch a needle at any cost
	
	Aichmophobia – fear of sharp or pointed objects (such as a needle or knife)
	

	Ailuro he lived next door 
	The bastard sits on the fence
	To me he snarls not a purr
	A Persian he is supposed to be
	Frightens the *****out of me
	
	Ailurophobia – fear of cats
	
	Algo, Away, I am pain free
	This morphine is the best
	First day of pain free rest
	Been told that it will return
	Got some gas, peace I yearn
	
	
	Algophobia - fear of pain

	Andro I’d rather be               (android)
	I am metal and plastic you see
	Electric person not man or woman
	That would be so sad
	If just a man I would go mad

	Androphobia – fear of men

	Antho the pologist got the plan
	He put concrete throughout the land.
	Not one shrub or flower seen
	Not one blade of grass green
	A flower would make me scream

	Anthophobia – fear of flowers


	Anthropo was a lonely man
	Wouldn’t mix with others so
	He lived in a cave, well just a hole
	You would see his eyes peeping out
	A shaking frame if people were about
	
	Anthropophobia – fear of people or the company of people, a form of social phobia.

	Aqua marine or even the wet stuff
	Is enough to drive me mad
	I stay in when there is rain
	Just wait for the sun to shine again
	A damp tissue that’s quite enough

	Aquaphobia – fear of water. Distinct from Hydrophobia, a scientific property that makes chemicals averse to interaction with water, as well as an archaic name for rabies

	Arach no, and know the score
	Those creepy creatures on the wall
	Send shivers up and down my spine
	Six legs and venom to drive you mad
	I am running already it is sad.

	Arachnophobia – fear of spiders


	Astra my name you would think of the stars
	My gaze goes up but not that far
	To the first cloud there in the sky
	If it’s the shape of an anvil I will fly 
	Fear grips me and I don’t know why
	
	Astraphobia – fear of thunder and lightning
	Atychi that was about the size of me
	The others would just make fun
	I was no good to anyone
	A failure of the first degree
	Nothing my goal, was all I could see
	
	Atychiphobia – fear of failure

	Auto matic I will seek people out
	To touch to play as long as they are near
	Don’t leave me in this place alone 
        A singularity is my biggest fear
	I will hold anyone you see I care

	Autophobia – fear of being alone or isolated
	
	Automat o no it’s not true how could you
	An advert that’s telling just lies
	Don’t all the others realize
	What you say is not true, put it right 
	It will drive me crazy I’ll keep out of sight
	
	Automatonophobia – fear of anything that falsely represents a sentient being

	Aviat o if you think I am going in that
	No I am not a scared ***** cat
	If we were meant to go fly
	Wings we would have from him on high
	Fold your machine and put it just so.
	
	Aviophobia, Aviatophobia – fear of flying
	
	
	
	
	Chaeto he was a Greek of old
	Bald as a badger so the story is told
	But why you say is there no cure 
	For him to grow some lovely hair
	For him it would give such a scare

	Chaetophobia – fear of hair

	Chemo therapy keep away from me
	Chemicals scare me I know they are free
	But to have them coursing through my veins
	No matter how good they are, and that jar
	The fear of everything for what they are 

	Chemophobia – fear of chemicals

	Chirop to or not too so I am told
	They stick in your hair best to be bald
	Now I find that my nails are made of hair
	Chirop is what I fear not chiropodist is that clear!!
	Just shave my head and cut my nails dear

	
	Chiroptophobia – fear of bats

	Chromo shines bright in my eyes
	The fear of all colours  I realise
	Now I am safe from a troubled day
	Into my dark room, I have found my way
	Knock when that sun has met its demise

	Chromophobia - fear of bright colors


Long poem by Mario DE PAZ | Details |

Dante's divine comedy translation HELL CANTO VI

Continues the translation of the great Dante's poem written 700 years ago,
 probably the most important poetry ever written in the human story

When my mind returned back, after the stop
Due to pity for two brothers in law,
Which caused in sad confusion me to drop,

New torments and new too tormented flaw
I see around, as I move wherever
And as I look back, and with eyes I draw.

I am at the third circle, where forever
It rains, bloody, cold and heavy indeed
Bound and mood of it are changing never.

Large hailstone, dirty water and snow bead
In the gloomy air in great amount pours;
Smells bad the earth which then receives this feed.

Cerberus, cruel monster and grim corps,
With three throats he barks of a dog in guise 
Above the guys which here submerged stores.

Greasy and grim his beard, red ruby eyes, 
And belly large has, and harshly hooked hands;
Scratches the souls, flays and slashes those guys.

Makes them to scream as dogs the rain which lands;
One flank to other they in turn make screen;
Often the wretched trundle with no plans.

When Cerberus saw us, the worm obscene,
His mouths he opened fangs willing to show  
No part of his body he had to lean.  

And my guide rapid stretched then his hands low,
Picked up some soil, and with his fists full filled
It in eager throats he was prompt to throw.

Like a dog which barking covets the willed,
And becomes quiet after eating bite,
Since to devour it is focused and thrilled,

So made those dirty faces apt to fight
Of demon Cerberus, who growls with roars
To souls , who deafness would prefer to fright.

We walked on the spirits beaten corps
By heavy rain, and we were putting feet
On their pride which any person restores.

They all lying on ground in their defeat
Except one who to sit up, rapid rose
When he saw us while passing him to meet.

“Oh you that come within this hell so close”,
He told me, “Recognize me, if you know;
You were born, before my death you arose”.

And I to him: “the anguish you now show
Maybe is taking you out of my mind
So that it goes as I never you saw.

But tell me who you are in such unkind
Place you are held and suffer such a pain,
That, if any greater, no worse can find”

And he to me: “Your city, a full drain
Of envy that already slops the bag,
Held me during my peaceful life and plane.

You fellows named me Ciacco as a tag
For the gluttony indeed damned my sin,
As you can see, in this rain I drag.

And I sad soul am not alone here in,
Because all  these in such a pain are held
For the same sin”. And then hushed with a grin.

I answered : “Ciacco, to see you felled
Weighs on me so much that it makes me cry;
But tell me, if you know, where are impelled

The people of  city used to defy;
If anybody fair is there; and tell 
Of such a great discord the reason why”.

And he to me: “After long fight and yell
Blood shall then flow, and after the wild side
Will expel others with offense as well.

After that correctly this will down slide
Within three suns,  overcoming other
With the strength of guy who is now beside.

High will hold foreheads for long time rather,
Keeping the other under heavy weight
So that it will cry and strongly bother.

Two fair there are, and have no hearing mate;
Arrogance envy and avarice are
The three sparks which the hearts enkindled sate”.

Here put an end to crying words so far.
And I to him: “I want you teach me still
And that of your speaking give me a jar. 

Farinata and Tegghiaio, who honor fill,
Jacopo Rusticucci, Arrigo, Mosca too
And the others who for good used their skill,

Tell me where are and how can see them through
Because a great desire I have to know
If own sweet heavens or hell gives them ado” 

And he: “are within the most black souls low;
Many different faults brings them to deep:
You will see them down there if you far go.

But when to the sweet world again you keep,
I pray you that my mind have to recall:
I don’t speak more, no word from me can reap”.

The straight eyes to grim he twisted to stall;
Looked at me a bit and his head then bent:
Fell down with it as the others blind all. 

And guide told me: “He will not have ascent
Until angelic trumpet shall bring sound,
When of the hostile power occur descent:

Each one shall then see his grave in the ground,
Shall keep his body then and shape again,
Shall hear the eternal roar to rebound”.

So we trespassed over that dirty drain
Made of shadows and of rain, with slow pace,
Touching a bit of future life the lane; 

So I told: “Master, these torments we face
After the final verdict shall more grow,
Or will be less, or equal will retrace?

And he: “Back to your science have to go,
Which implies, as much as it is perfect,
That you feel the good, as well as the woe.

Although this people damn and also wrecked
A truly perfect status cannot get,
In other place not this is to expect”.

We walked that circle  road for a bit,
Much more speaking than I can now recall;
We reached the point which to down grade admit:

Here we found Pluto, the enemy tall.


Long poem by Bob Quigley | Details |

Walter

He stood and aimlessly watched the parade of patrons and volunteers that wandered daily past his kennel.  All so familiar, so ordinary.  Just like every other day he mused.  Nothing new.  Nothing special.

Moving to the small crumpled blanket near the back of his cage, he turned several times and finally curled up, head on his paws, positioned so that he could watch the activity around him.  But in reality, he was bored.  It had been a long time since he had met each morning with anticipation.  Too many days.   Too much disappointment.  He would leave all that barking and racing to the front of  their cage to the younger pups who hadn’t figured out yet that the cute ones went first.  It didn’t really make any difference what you did to attract attention if you weren’t young or cute, or both.

Too much time had gone by to participate in the charade.  In reality, Walter had seen a lot of people that he would rather not spend a lot of time with.  You know the type.  Kind of hyper, bouncing from stray to stray, looking for a perfect dog.  Kids poking their fingers  through the kennel screen or banging on it.  Some even making barking sounds.  He didn’t need any of that and was glad when they were gone.

Walter was very picky.  Set in his ways after so many years.  He had had it good for  a long time.  An only dog in a household of two people that let him be himself.  No tricks. No stunts.  Just long naps and daily walks.  A yard to himself to reflect on what was for dinner.  He had been fond of his doggy bed in their bedroom.  Each night he would help his owner walk through the house turning off the lights and checking the doors before they climbed the stairs together.  And there was always one last good night pat before settling down.

But those days were gone now.  First one had become ill and went to the hospital and never came back.  The other one changed overnight, spending long days, sitting mostly.  The walks became less frequent.  Walter did what he could.   He could see it in their eyes that they were hurting from their loss. He would make a point of laying his head in their lap, trying to let them know that he missed them too.  At times like this, he instinctively knew that although it remained unsaid, they only had each other.

He remembers well the day that his owner snapped a leash on him and said, “well Walter, I’m afraid we have to say goodbye.  I have to go to a place where they won’t let me keep you, so I am going to have to let you go.”  Walter could see the tears in his eyes.  He knew it would do him no good to whine or resist.  It was obvious there were no alternatives.  And besides, it would just make it harder on his owner.  But he was going to miss him.  It was not going to be easy to adjust.

But adjust he did.   He had been here a long time now and had seen countless pups and dogs  trot past his cage with light hearts and  new owners, heading off with new found hopes and expectations.  But it soon became obvious that there weren’t a lot of people that wanted an old yellow hound.  Everyone wanted the young ones.  So here he lay, dozing a bit, but still keeping an eye on those walking by, many giving him but a glance before moving on.

He heard them before the saw them.  ”Honey” the voice said.  ”That looks like Walter, old Mr. Whitney’s dog.”  Walters ears perked up a little.  ”Do I know them” he thought.  ”They seem to know me”.  I’d better go take a closer look” and with that, he stood and slowly ambled toward his kennel gate, giving a cautious wag of his tail.

“It is him” the man said.  ”Walter, how you doing boy?  Do you remember me?”

And upon closer inspection, Walter did remember him.  He used to live right across the street.  He would see him in his yard and if Walter were to ramble over, he usually had a dog treat in his pocket.  With the recognition, Walter gave a little stronger wag and moved toward the fingers extended through the fencing.  It was good to see an old friend.

“What do you say hon” the man said.  ”How would you feel about bringing Walter home with us?”

Walter looked at the woman and saw her nod in agreement.  ”You wait here and I’ll go find a volunteer.”

The man bent down and said “What do you think Walter?  Would you like to go home with us?”

Actually, Walter decided, he could think of nothing he would like more.  A chance to go back to the old neighborhood with people he already knew.  What was there not to like.

Soon the woman returned and the gate opened.  A leash was snapped on Walter and together they proceeded past the rows of dogs and puppies, all vying for their attention.  Walter couldn't help but stand a little straighter, stepping a little more lightly, showing off.  ”This is what going home looks like guys.” he thought.  ”Good luck and goodbye”.

As they neared the car the man said “I can’t believe we found you Walter.  There is someone I am going to take you to see.  I can’t wait to see the expression on his face when you walk in his room>”

Walter, of course, knew exactly who he was talking about.  And he couldn't wait to see the expression on his face either.


Long poem by frank halliwell | Details |

Blossom

                                      Blossom
                                                                              Frank Halliwell

Just grab a seat on that stump lad, and I'll take centre stage,
With a yarn about a small brown donk, and a lad about your age.
And thanks much for the offer, but I'll give the beer a miss,
I've got half a cup of coffee here, and I'll be drinking this.

One afternoon, just as the sun was starting to go down,
Dad chased him on an errand, to the little shop in town.
Now this young fella blazed along, the old ute fairly flew,
About as close to the speed o' light as the four wheel drive would do.

And as he roared up a small hill, just standing past the top,
Was a jenny donk with a half grown foal, and the young lad couldn't stop.
The jenny was the closest and she took the deadly blow,
But her body saved her little one, although she'd never know.

The young lad checked the jenny out, but she'd begun the flow,
To that great green meadow in the sky, where all the donkeys go.
The foal was badly bashed up, with her hide all torn and slashed,
But her eyes were bright and she might be right...stitched up where she was gashed.

So he huffed and puffed and heaved and swore, and he got her in the back,
And he set out for the vet that lived a bit further down the track.
And the vet, he laboured mightily to save that battered foal,
And by dawn's first light after that long night, he finally reached his goal.

So young lad took the small donk home, and in the course of time,
They left the territory, for Queensland's sunny clime.
He finished up in barracks, for the company took him in,
And gave him work, down in the mine, scratchin' round for tin.

He'd seen the poincianas bloom, their crimson flowers aflame,
And so he called her 'Blossom', and that became her name.
Now the Isa's not the most thrilling place there is along the track,
So he taught young Blossom a trick or two, to help take up the slack.

To stand with forelegs on his shoulders, (gawd, that lad was game!)
And to stretch out on an empty bunk, a trick that brought her fame.
For the common ass is pretty smart, her funny looks aside,
And she soon preferred the soft-sprung bed to the cold hard dirt outside.

And though the blokes would chase her out when time had come for rest.
She'd soon sneak back through the open door to the bed she liked the best
And most of the guys didn't really mind, and felt a little quiet pride,
In this funny donk who made them laugh, but left her souvenirs outside.

Ah yes, and she had one more quirk, that I'll add to this log,
On a hot day, she'd walk up to you, and lick you, like a dog.
I guess it was a need for salt, that's found in many forms
To fill her need she found a source on miners sweaty arms.

Now the office took a new man on, and assigned him to his shift,
To start on monday morning, at the number seven lift.
And this was friday, fairly late, so with the weekend free,
He took his wad and went to town, to celebrate, you see.

So several hours later, and much the worse for wear.
This fella staggered back again, without a single care.
He managed to remove his clothes, with a lot of crashing sound,
Then held on tight with knuckles white, as the room went round and round

Eventually he fell asleep as the booze turned out his light,
And Blossom, at the same time, gave up grazing for the night.
She came on tiptoe down the room, as only donkeys can.
And gazed in silent disbelief at this new, intruding man.

Who'd taken without sanction, her comfy little bed.
And left our donk with no good place to rest her weary head.
She put her head down close to his and snuffled in his ear
Well then, perhaps a slurp or two, might bring him past the beer.

At last in desperation, she put her lips up to his ear
And loosed a mighty donkey's bray, that those in town could hear,
And followed with a lot of slurps to help her win the toss,
And ensure that he would stay alert 'till she got her point across.

Yes lad, I woke in terror, and much dismay at those
Two big brown eyes like dinner plates, and enormous roman nose.
And ears like radar dishes and a voice like a cannon's roar.
So I up, and out, and down the road, and I run for a mile or more.

So that was when I took the pledge and swore right off the grog.
And vowed that I'd spend no more nights in alcoholic fog.
And when I feel that stirring urge, I'll go out and get some grub,
And never, never, ever, chat up sheilas in a pub.

I've spent lots of nights, out on the grog, when we had got our pay,
And woke beside some dreadful dogs, come the cold gray light of day.
But let me tell you matey, no one's ever seen a sight,
Like her that woke me with a kiss, that awful friday night.
                                                ***


Long poem by Elton Camp | Details |

A Whistling Girl and a Crowing Hen

A Whistling Girl and a Crowing Hen
 
By Elton Camp
 
 
	“We keep thet big flock o’ chickens fer eggs and meat,” Milas explained to his niece Elvira visiting from the city.  “We git tired of so much pork an’ we don’t have t’ feed them much.  They partly make their own livin’ from eatin’ bugs an’ whut they kin scratch out o’ th’ ground.”  
 
	“Kin I feed th’ chick’ns now, Paw?” Albert asked.  
 
	The mildly retarded teenager rushed to the corncrib and collected several cobs with dried grains attached. He liked the feel and smell of the corn as he rubbed it from the cob with the palm of his hand. Soon, he had a fistful of the seeds. They felt hard and clean.  
 
	“Here, chicky, chicky,” he coaxed. Albert used a pitch higher than his normal voice.
 
	The chickens crowded in front of him in anticipation of a nutritious meal. “Watch whut happens when I throw th’ corn on th’ ground,” he told his younger brother who stood beside him.  “I like t’ throw hit all amongst ’em ’n’ watch ’em fight over hit.  They’s greedy thangs ’n’ can’t seem t’ git enough.”  
 
	“Them two ez fightin,’” remarked Albert’s little brother.  
 
	“Naw, they jest both wanted th’ same grain.  Thet big ole hen ez th’ boss over th’ pullet.  She pecks hit away ever time.  Hear com’s th’ rooster.  What whut happens when he shows up. There ain’t never but one rooster cause they’d fight ’til one wuz dead.  Besides, Paw won’t allow but one since he don’t lay no eggs.”    
 
	Shaking his large, red comb, and sporting sharp spurs on his legs, the rooster strutted around in the yard, scratched and pecked at the ground as did the hens, but accomplished the task with great dignity, as if he merely condescended to eat.  At his approach, the hens moved aside so he could claim his rightful share of the corn, but they continued to peck hungrily at what they could reach until it was gone.  
 
	Elvira walked over as the feeding was almost completed.  To Albert’s intense discomfort, the rooster suddenly raced toward a white hen.  She squawked and ran away, but he easily overtook her, jumped on her back, seized her smaller comb, lowered his body onto hers, and shook for a few seconds as he fulfilled his conjugal duty.  
 
	“Albert, what in the world are they doing?” Elvira innocently asked.  “I never saw chickens do that before.”
 
	Her cousin vaguely knew it was something like the bull mounting the cow, but didn’t want to explain that to his cousin or any girl for that matter.  Such delicate matters were never discussed.  
 
	“I don’t know.  Maybe he jest wanted a ride,” he replied as his face turned crimson and he walked quickly away.  
 
The now-fertilized hen indignantly shook her ruffled feathers into place, flapped her wings a couple of times and returned to feeding.  The rooster crowed loudly in seeming celebration of his conquest.  
 
	Rarely, a hen would attempt to crow. As Dr. Samuel Johnson remarked about a dog walking on its hind legs and a woman preaching, “It was not done well, but one was surprised to see it done at all.”  
 
	“Y’u shore shouldn’t have did thet,” remonstrated Milas’ wife as she threw a rock at the offender.  “There’ll be no mor’ aigs from y’u.”
 
	A crowing hen alarmed country people as few things could.  It seemed contrary to the natural scheme of things and couldn’t be tolerated.  
 
	When he learned about the crowing hen, Milas frowned, shook his head, and vowed, “I ain’t puttin’ up wif’ nothin’ like thet ’round heer.”
 
	“Git th’ axe ’n’ go out thar an’ kill thet brown an’ white hen,” he instructed one of his sons.  
 
	“Y’u might as well hesh thet squawking,” the teenager said to the hen as she struggled to escape his grasp.  Yore gonna make some mighty fine chicken ’n’ dumplings.”  
 
	Scientists later discovered that a hen has a bit of rudimentary testis. Under certain conditions the tissue begins to grow. The resulting hormone outflow begins to persuade her that “she” is a “he.”  In those days nobody would’ve cared, even if such an explanation had existed. They knew just what to do if a hen dared crow.  
 
	“Ah whistlin’ girl ’n’ ah crowin’ hen always com’ t’ some bad end,” repeated anyone who thought of the well-known rhyme when either occasion arose. It was literally true in the case of the hen. The girl, with nothing to fear, grinned in disbelief at the old country saying, but usually stopped whistling just the same.  It was better to be “safe than sorry.”
 
	Uneducated and superstitious people had little tolerance for anything that failed to meet their expectations, particularly as to appropriate gender behavior.  That included even a hapless hen with an identify crisis.  Some things change very little.  


Long poem by frank halliwell | Details |

Blossom

Blossom

Just grab a seat on that stump lad, and I'll take centre stage, 
With a yarn about a small brown donk, and a lad about your age.
And thanks much for the offer, but I'll give the beer a miss, 
I've got half a cup of coffee here, and I'll be drinking this.

One afternoon, just as the sun was starting to go down, 
Dad chased him on an errand, to the little shop in town.
Now this young fella blazed along, the old ute fairly flew, 
About as close to the speed o' light as the four wheel drive would do.

And as he roared up a small hill, just standing past the top, 
Was a jenny donk with a half grown foal, and the young lad couldn't stop.
The jenny was the closest and she took the deadly blow, 
But her body saved her little one, although she'd never know.

The young lad checked the jenny out, but she'd begun the flow, 
To that great green meadow in the sky, where all the donkeys go.
The foal was badly bashed up, with her hide all torn and slashed, 
But her eyes were bright and she might be right...stitched up where she was gashed.

So he huffed and puffed and heaved and swore, and he got her in the back, 
And he set out for the vet that lived a bit further down the track.
And the vet, he laboured mightily to save that battered foal, 
And by dawn's first light after that long night, he finally reached his goal.

So young lad took the small donk home, and in the course of time, 
They left the territory, for Queensland's sunny clime.
He finished up in barracks, for the company took him in, 
And gave him work, down in the mine, scratchin' round for tin.

He'd seen the poincianas bloom, their crimson flowers aflame, 
And so he called her 'Blossom', and that became her name.
Now the Isa's not the most thrilling place there is along the track, 
So he taught young Blossom a trick or two, to help take up the slack.

To stand with forelegs on his shoulders, (gawd, that lad was game!) 
And to stretch out on an empty bunk, a trick that brought her fame.
For the common ass is pretty smart, her funny looks aside, 
And she soon preferred the soft-sprung bed to the cold hard dirt outside.

And though the blokes would chase her out when time had come for rest.
She'd soon sneak back through the open door to the bed she liked the best
And most of the guys didn't really mind, and felt a little quiet pride, 
In this funny donk who made them laugh, but left her souvenirs outside.

Ah yes, and she had one more quirk, that I'll add to this log, 
On a hot day, she'd walk up to you, and lick you, like a dog.
I guess it was a need for salt, that's found in many forms
To fill her need she found a source on miners sweaty arms.

Now the office took a new man on, and assigned him to his shift, 
To start on monday morning, at the number seven lift.
And this was friday, fairly late, so with the weekend free, 
He took his wad and went to town, to celebrate, you see.

So several hours later, and much the worse for wear.
This fella staggered back again, without a single care.
He managed to remove his clothes, with a lot of crashing sound, 
Then held on tight with knuckles white, as the room went round and round

Eventually he fell asleep as the booze turned out his light, 
And Blossom, at the same time, gave up grazing for the night.
She came on tiptoe down the room, as only donkeys can.
And gazed in silent disbelief at this new, intruding man.

Who'd taken without sanction, her comfy little bed.
And left our donk with no good place to rest her weary head.
She put her head down close to his and snuffled in his ear
Well then, perhaps a slurp or two, might bring him past the beer.

At last in desperation, she put her lips up to his ear
And loosed a mighty donkey's bray, that those in town could hear, 
And followed with a lot of slurps to help her win the toss, 
And ensure that he would stay alert 'till she got her point across.

Yes lad, I woke in terror, and much dismay at those
Two big brown eyes like dinner plates, and enormous roman nose.
And ears like radar dishes and a voice like a cannon's roar.
So I up, and out, and down the road, and I run for a mile or more.

So that was when I took the pledge and swore right off the grog.
And vowed that I'd spend no more nights in alcoholic fog.
And when I feel that stirring urge, I'll go out and get some grub, 
And never, never, ever, chat up sheilas in a pub.

I've spent lots of nights, out on the grog, when we had got our pay, 
And woke beside some dreadful dogs, come the cold gray light of day.
But let me tell you matey, no one's ever seen a sight, 
Like her that woke me with a kiss, that awful friday night. 
Frank Halliwell
Submitted: Sunday, September 28, 2008


Long poem by Keith Bickerstaffe | Details |

Obsession


...inspired by 'Portrait Of A Lady' by T.S. Eliot


On winter days the view outside is nebulous at best,
within, the furniture is as it always was, and I am waiting,
waiting for a glimpse of you to silence my equivocating.
Somber is my attitude, the light is dim, curtains at rest,
as dust mites dance, the clock ticks unobtrusively,
marking time, the chamber maids make ready for my guest,
and dust the tables, clean the silver, place the flowers perfectly.
You return from 'La Boheme,' affected by the tragedy, 
emboldened by Puccini's art, transfiguring his sadness
to an everlasting theme of hope eternal, with no misery.
A small group of confederates who seize the meaning clearly,
examine his conceptions with a true and honest face,
only those who can conceptualize his grace.
And we are bereft of conversation.
The curtain falls between our faces,
we are left with little else to say.
Gone are common talk, and airs and graces,
walls have grown, and bars along the way.
Your friends have grown in stature, tried and true,
reflecting what you feel within your soul,
and you must follow them and share their view,
as long as it will bring you to your goal.
Friendship is a bond that can't be broken,
even though you dally with your heart,
you cannot spring the lock, that sacred token,
that keeps your deepest feelings true to art.
Your friends are pure disciples of your creed,
they will legitimize your need
to pave your way to conquer and succeed.

Within the mellow of the violins,
the sweetness of the celli and the horns,
I hear a tattoo beating all alone,
the tympani begin to pound 
a loud crescendo of their own.
I listen, there is something out of tone.
With cigarettes and sherry, unconcerned,
we wander through the garden unaware, 
take in the sights and pass without a care,
as if our similarities don't matter,
we give ourselves to nonsense, idle chatter.

Roses now are brightly blooming,
to your friends now you are calling.
I know not of what you speak,
I cannot fathom your delight.
You say: 'Try to understand my mission,
learn to trust in things unseen,
I must find what nature seeks
and fathom its eternal meaning.
Youth will never gather roses,
never see beyond the garden.'
I will stay for now, trapped in the cold.

Though I'll remember nature's wonders,
sunsets and the breath of spring,
feel the wind blow through my hair
and know the thrill of sunrise cresting.

We see the universe as dancing,
two such different creatures trancing,
we two will never understand
the private notions of the other,
even if we take each other's hand.

Coming close to your destruction
you will see the other side,
who says who has satisfied
requirements for a better life?
Friendship, if we could but find it,
yields the seeds of greater profit,
greater than the seeds of strife.

I now remain just as I ever was.

I shall take my morning walk,
communing with the birds and talking
to myself while reading Kafka,
glancing at the latest headlines.
Dear Stravinsky's 'Rite' is slighted,
(he'll return when ears are righted.)
When I smell a rose I'm prompted 
to recall a certain lady, gifted with
a new perception, I must sadly 
take exception, for the moment anyway.

The chill of morning, people yawning,
I am tired, the blush of dawning has me
feeling ill at ease, my spirit sags,
I barely reach the second floor.
'When will you return? Is Paris so much more
than you have here?' is my unanswered question.
I drag my heels to breakfast, 
listless as a lazy dog, and nibble toast,
my countenance as pallid as a ghost.

A letter would be welcomed. 
I shall miss you; there, I've said it. 
I am your friend, are you not mine? 
Tenuous and strained, two casual 
acquaintances who share so little time,
we brush elbows, like strangers passing
on a platform, sharing sidelong glances,
afraid to say hello. I watch you as you go.

Others swore we would be close,
peas in a pod, familiar.
Instead there is no warmth, not yet.
Were you to try we might combine
and nibble toast together, and take
a walk, your hand in mine, and
stammer conversation 'til we knew
there was no reason e'er to rue.
I shall sit with pleasant thoughts of you.

Desperate, I ponder on your death,
scant breath expended twixt the two of us,
and loneliness an ache too harsh to mention,
pen in hand and no one to subscribe.
I'll scarce recall the softness of your skin,
or search your heart to find what lies within.
Should I be bold, or take a gentler path?
encourage you... would I incur your wrath?
If you were to die I'd never know your truth,
and I should lose the vigour of my youth.


Long poem by Timothy Hicks | Details |

Different Dream

After a hard day at work I come home
Hear my boy rapping the words to his headphones
Every bleep comes another bleep
As he keeps dancing to the beat
Come upstairs and barge through the door
Say to him, "Boy whatcha listenin' to that for?"
As I rip it out of his ears
Turn around and look in the mirror
Get ya head outta the gutter son
You talk to ya mother with that tongue?
Ought'a lean you down and wash your mouth soap
Teach you a lesson and just barely make you choke

Dad, you don't understand
This is me, this is who I am!

Boy, you freeze it right there
Just so I know we're good and square
I'm your father, sit down when I say so
This is home, this is where the green grass grows
Can't be the one to follow you where you go
Can't take you as is and just tie a little bow
Around it and be happy
You ain't what I expected you'd be
After all this hard work to bring home the bacon
Just to come home to see the fuss you making!?

Imma be big and travel the world,
Be famous and get hooked with any girl
I'm tired of this rice 'n' beans, I wanna taste some of that green!

Stop it child, you making a scene, a mockery of ya ma and me
Do yourself a favor and dream a different dream

 The strings are for those with charm
And fame are for those holding cards
Your inner core will just burst at the seams
They say play it safe
And dream a different dream
Billionaires are cowards in disguise
Their careers built upon money and lies
Your inner core will just burst at the seams
They say play it safe
And dream a different dream

I remember when you was little
Your mind was like some twisted riddle
Rapping the lyrics
To your idols, Snoop Dog and Jay-Z
Acting like you knew what they meant
But boy, you could barely read
Spittin' rhymes don't put a roof over ya head
Or clean the dirty sheets in your bed
All those fancy clothes don't give ya fame
just brings your family to shame
Look at you playing life like it's a game
Joining all those gangs just to bleed
Gettin' high and smokin' weed

Dad, it ain't like that
I'm not some filthy rat
Planting my seed wherever
Imma stay true forever
Build myself upon lyrical tether
Striving to be as authentic as leather
Come on dad, can't we get it together?

Your grandpa was born and raised in the meadows
No Internet, no microwave, just planting corn rows
But right now the grass is as green as it's gonna get
And if you ain't got that through ya head yet
As your pops I'm really quite upset

 Take these words right from my mouth
And give 'em wings to fly south
Or I will run from this house like the ratatouille mouse
Tired of this cheese I want something more
The birds and the bees aren't what I'm looking for
I don't wanna die like everybody else
Just put in a hole and call it a grave
I don't wanna die with nothing to my name
If I'm not looking up I'm going south
You can scream and cuss at me with ya sailor's mouth
I'm still leaving and I'm taking the dangerous route

The strings are for those with charm
And fame are for those holding cards
Your inner core will just burst at the seams
They say play it safe
And dream a different dream
Billionaires are cowards in disguise
Their careers built upon money and lies
Your inner core will just burst at the seams
They say play it safe
And dream a different dream

Here I am, standing in this trailer
In your eyes I'm a failure
For wanting to travel the world like a sailor
From Beverly Hills to New York City
At this point I don't even care if you're with me
I may have augmented my hopes a bit too high
But I was tired of looking through telescopes, that habit can die
But dad look at me now
No longer in a small town
Can't be modest I have to boast
I'm traveling the world from coast to coast
In everybody's head is my riffs
And I wish you were here to see this
Swallow your pride long enough to shed a tear
Remember what you used to say, "Turn around, look in the mirror"...?
I wasn't no golden child and you weren't the perfect dad
But come on now, that's a thing of the past
You can ditch your bacon, eggs and Jimmy Dean
Live in luxury in your fields of green
Come on dad, won't you dream this different dream
with me?



NOTE: Words in italics are from the son's perspective, words in normal font are from the father's perspective, and words in bold is the chorus line.

I'm not sure where the idea came from. I was on a camping trip, heading back home, and all the sudden this whole elaborate story came to me and I started writing it all down on a notepad (back then I didn't have my Kindle Fire).


Long poem by ephraim crud | Details |

a conflict of words

i miss the affect and effect
my father's experiences
of mindless mass destruction
and madness
that had me pinned to every word
as moonlight on each
shone down on their dugout

'johnny, got a light'

dad lit his zippo

turned

and eric was gone

he didn't hear a thing
no bullet whirr
not even the 'tink' of his helmet

and i think how good it is
to smell life
to sniff an ambush of the heart
under heavy fire as he
forced to headlong a ditch
landed tete-a-tete
on the bloated green remains
of the enemy
and promptly puked over its putrid face
and shat himself
terrified
he'd not hear the next 'tink'

six hour he laid there
six ****ing hours
****less

and i '****' and carp
as my oh-so convenient
worldwide walkie-talkie bill
dollops the coconut footwipe
and curse the dog crapped patio

can you imagine

i can feel the ****

the blink last glance in the mirror

reflecting how lucky i am
to breathe this chink of words
for your pleasure
tear or revulsion
your notions of a small constellation

and how good it is to eye
those chinks in the dark
that effeminate uncle john
may have faced
but for happenstance

his brother donald being short-fused
had stuck his cornea with scissors
which saw him stage
his most memorable performance
tending the testosterone of gold braid
for the duration
down the salt-watered south

others committed harakiri
for such failing the flag
for humility's sake

or the drip drip drip 
of a tortuous rising sun

or the footrot thunder of a flemish field
or sodden wood where
on a sudden an adolescent fritz
no more summers than fifteen
crossed hairs in his eye

and dad sighted
his mutter at home
worried for the safe return of her joy
and her heart broken
by the black edged letter
as he triggered his brain
to a million specks of red

and wept uncontrollably
for an age
the futility and long awaited remembrance
of all those poor bastards whose heroics
led them insane
and blindfolded by their own waste

but it's dog eat dog

someone has to helm the hounds
be the master of bloodshed
suicide dead or alive
when demons rise

and i think of the insomnia
souls nightmared by hazard
horror lost hope
and the monsters that hatched
and slithered rope tricks
to mangoes pineapples
and hog plums

yet how good
to bite the sinful fruit
to feel the thunder of a storm

the cosiness of chintzy-chintzy
chinwags and muffled naughtiness
secreted beneath blankets
underground
amid the cramped inconveniences
of smells and belly rumbles

and the weather speaks gales
blowing from the north

as on the day he reached
a small homestead
somewhere in belgium
a one room
one door where a woman hung
from a knife through the throat
her mammaries and genitalia
ripped from her red
and her daughter
of a few million breaths
swung in the chilled air
from a meathook in a beam
while a sepia'd loved one
stood by and smiled

and i think of the propaganda
the espionage and intrigue
the red herrings meticulously cast
for the irony of a pretend war
enduring the stark misery

but lies can be a bonus
in extreme circumstances
to assuage the inevitable hurricane
of atrocities
infidelities
in the apple of its eye
and how good it is
to feel the skin and wetness
of love
of gooseflesh giggling

to laugh a moment's relief
as father's platoon
in a lull from fear and sunshine
as they smoked and dusted their boots
through the ardenne forest
five abreast
hundreds of them 
when a whistle shellshocked the blood
pumping from the neck of
'jockey whips'
a glaswegian from peckham
who loved his potatoes greasy
and collapsed
after several headless footfalls

they never found his looks

and dad hungered how good
another chance of roast pork
and a handshake would be

and i think of the logistics
that beggars belief
and how much better equipped
to manage death than life
we are
with all the fields that have harvested
bones of memories
blood rusted metal
medals hung from heroes
and arseholes alike

and i think of the what ifs

had little maria schicklgruber
drowned in a viennese lake

had hitler a bullet with his name
in world war one

the lives that would have had
their due iceblink of this gift
this diamond moment
to experience sunups
moonlight serenades
of love as i've been blessed
because an austrian megalomaniac 
choreographed my parents footsteps 
to me
affecting and effecting your life
with my words


Long poem by Terry O'Leary | Details |

Another Cruel Link in their Chain

         Another Cruel Link in their Chain 

	1.   Beginnings 

Her babe was her joy, such a beautiful boy ,
	and he suckled her breast till the end...
The Massa sought cash, bestowed mammy a lash,
	sold her babe to a gentrified friend
It flits like a flash, a lithe leathery lash,
	yet another cruel link in their chain

With mammy not there, Sammy dared not to dare
	but to bide near the edge of the night
But nevertheless one must always outguess
	or absorb burning stings of the bite
It flits like a flash, a lithe leathery lash,
	yet another cruel link in their chain

Though learning the rules in the shadows of fools
	as he grew to a leery lean lad
He often defied but he never once cried
	although whipped at the post whene’er bad
It flits like a flash,  a lithe leathery lash,
	yet another cruel link in their chain


	2.   Youth

The cotton gin broke and nobody spoke,
	so the Massa said “BENNY’S TO BLAME”
But Sammy said ‘No...  Massa, jus caint be so,
	no ’tain’t Benny, ’tain’t Benny’s sore name’
It flits like a flash, a lithe leathery lash,
	yet another cruel link in their chain

“LOOK, SEE IN HIS EYES HOW THAT  N*G***  BOY LIES” –
	- replied Sam ‘no I’s tellin da truth’
But daring to speak earned him scars for his cheek
	and so blemished the bloom of his youth
It flits like a flash, a lithe leathery lash,
	yet another cruel link in their chain

“THE COTTON GIN’S BROKE, AND THAT JUST AIN’T NO JOKE”
	and he called upon Benny to pay
“WELL, BEN’LL NOW SWIM FROM THE END OF A LIMB”
	just as Sam feared the Massa would say
It flits like a flash, a lithe leathery lash,
	yet another cruel link in their chain

Dark faces soon blanched; Benny bended a branch
	near the base of a broken oak tree 
His body hung bare as it swung in the air
	and the buzzards and crows shrieked with glee
It flits like a flash, a lithe leathery lash,
	yet another cruel link in their chain


	3.   Flight

Sam’s feet were unclad, as befitting a lad
	as alone as a stone in his path
So oft on the run neath the sly sliding sun
	being followed and feeling god’s wrath
It flits like a flash, a lithe leathery lash,
	yet another cruel link in their chain

Surrounded and caught brought his efforts to naught,
	child in chains at the end of his trek
Winds wept as he went, with his spirit unbent,
	a cold collar of steel ’round his neck
It flits like a flash, a lithe leathery lash,
	yet another cruel link in their chain


	4.   Life

Sam grew to a man, branded ‘boy’ by the klan,
	as they spat on the trail that he tread
If he raises his gaze or he wanders or strays
	the pack promise to sever his head
It flits like a flash, a lithe leathery lash,
	yet another cruel link in their chain

Once Sam found a wife who they ripped from his life,
	yes along with the babe at her breast
(Was it simply their greed or by heaven decreed? ...)
	well, with hindsight you might guess the rest
It flits like a flash, a lithe leathery lash,
	yet another cruel link in their chain



	5.   Endings

From phantoms of fright neath the frail foggy night
	Sammy soared as he fled to escape
He no longer crawled (heeding freedom that called)
	through the darkness, a black hole agape
It flits like a flash, a lithe leathery lash,
	yet another cruel link in their chain

Unleashed! Frenzied dogs hounding Sam through the bogs,
	(baying beasts neath the bloody red moon)
White fangs intermeshed as they mangled his flesh,
	freedom flayed through the pale afternoon
It flits like a flash, a lithe leathery lash,
	yet another cruel link in their chain

Sam’s body was torn leaving little to mourn
	but there’s really no need to despair
And there’s no need to cry for his spirit can’t die,
	being borne by bound men everywhere
It flits like a flash, a lithe leathery lash,
	yet another cruel link in their chain




EPITAPH SAM Revolted and clashed ’gainst the cruel leather lash and broke free from the choke of the chain
EPILOGUE Those parts of the past that we gaze at aghast reveal harrowing questions quite plain - Why people so free, just like you, just like me, were so happy inflicting such pain? Why we bask in the throes of humanity’s woes while we wait while the tyrannies reign? And I’m wondering too (’cause I don’t have a clue) ... might we each be a link in their chain?


Long Poems