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Long poem by Joe Flach | Details |

Straight to Hell - A Short Story

I was a seventeen year old senior in a coed, catholic high school.  Our gym classes however were still all boys and all girls.  My senior year we had gym every other day and music every other day in the same time slot.  The music classes, therefore, were also all boys or all girls.

She was a twenty-eight year old nun in her first teaching assignment.  She was in way over her head.  She was about five-foot-four and weighed practically nothing.  The nuns in our school no longer wore habits and I remember thinking it was a good thing because she would probably fly away like Sally Fields.  If you don’t know what I mean by that then you are too young to be reading my story.

The music class was a mad house.  She could not control a room of twenty some boys bound and determined to make her life hell.  I mean, music class?  Really?

We never did the homework assigned; never answered her questions seriously; never believed her threats at discipline; wouldn’t accept the demerits she tried to hand out; and basically goofed off for the hour that was supposed to be dedicated to learning about music.

For some reason, she seemed too proud or too green or too determined to go to the principal or another teacher for help; and, sensing that, we knew we could get away with our childish behavior and so we did.

One day, a handful of us “got in trouble” and she said she wanted to talk to us after class.  I was the only one that actually stayed.  She tried to lecture me on my bad behavior but I guess my smirk was evidence it was not sinking in.  Then, she started to cry, and for the first time I saw her as a person.

“What am I doing,” she cried.  "I can’t do this.  I am trying; I am really trying, but I am not cut out for this.  Why are you boys so mean and hateful?”

I stood up in front of her not knowing what to do or what to say.  I felt like a real jerk.  I was a real jerk.

Tears poured down her face, which I finally recognized as being a pretty face.  She bowed her head and just sobbed.  In my awkward seventeen year old manner, I slowly opened my arms and allowed her to lean into me.  And I hugged her while she wept.
   
At seventeen, I was no ladies’ man, and this crying nun was the first woman I had ever held so close to me.  I could feel her breasts pressed against me; the heat emitting from her body; and, the delicate nature of her womanly form in my arms.  I knew then that I was destined to go straight to hell for the thoughts that were going through my head and the feelings I felt between my legs.

She pulled away and whispered, “I am so sorry, I should not have done that.  You may go.”

I simply said, “You know, you are doing fine, you just have a class of a bunch of butt holes”, and walked out of the room.  It was that night that she started coming to see me in my dreams.  To hell I go, for sure.

I wish I could tell you I had the moxie and the influence to whip that class into shape, but I did not.  The mad house continued with one less student joining in the fun.  I tried my best to behave, answer her questions, pay attention and feign interest in the topic of the day – but I was just one in a sea of monsters.  I stayed after class and after school a few times to talk with her, ask her how she was doing, and see if I could help in any way.  She was actually starting to get the hang of things and was able to focus on the few classes that were willing to learn.

At the end of the school year, I was one of the few students who had not enrolled in a college for the coming year.  Because I was one of the better students, it caused a little bit of a fuss and a number of teachers talked to me about the huge mistake I was making taking some time off before going to college.  It seems they were all convinced that if I did not start into college in the fall, I was doomed to never go to college.  I challenged them by saying what they were really worried about was their statistics of percentage of students who went on to further their education.

During the last day of classes, the music teacher asked me to stay after class.  It appears, it was her turn to try to talk some sense into me.

“So, I hear you are not going to college,” she said.

“No, I’m going to college … some day, just not this fall.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“I don’t know yet.  Take some time off.  Work.  Nothing.  I don’t know.  Why is it so important to everyone?  When the time is right, I’ll go to college.”

“They just care about you.”

“Bull loney,” I said, only it was another word.

She smiled at me.  I had been dreaming about her now for six months.  I changed the topic.

“Have you ever kissed a boy?”

She laughed, “You know, I grew up the same as every girl in this high school.  I did have boyfriends.”

“Yeah, but have you ever kissed a boy,” I challenged.

“No.  Not the way you mean.”

“Do you ever wonder what it would be like?”

“No.  Never,” she lied.

“If I told you I will register for college if you kiss me, will you?”

“No.  I believe you when you say you just need some time off.  I think that is a good idea.”

Then she walked up close to me and stopped a heartbeat away.  Suddenly, she reached down between my legs, grabbed the crouch of my pants and said, “Just don’t let this thing get you in trouble.”

She abruptly turned and walked out of the classroom while I tried to catch my breath.

During the graduation ceremony I saw her sitting with the other teachers and shared a private smile with her while walking back to my seat after being handed my diploma.  I would never see her again … outside of my dreams.

I often think about my high school music teacher and my ticket straight to hell.  Unfortunately, I never heeded her advice.  That body part of mine she grabbed ahold of for a fleeting second those many years ago, has gotten me in trouble time and time again.


Long poem by Goutam Hazra | Details |

Scent of Paddy Flower

Scent Of Paddy Flower

                                   By Goutam Hazra

           1
Reminiscence

My father told me 
first time 
I was just a boy then,
“Follow the scent of paddy flower
move with the wind it carries,
surely you will go to heaven.”

I remember
he would catch 
fistful of wind
bring near to my face
and wonder,
“Isn’t it godly!”

Magically, opened his hand
but I never felt
what scent he meant.
            
             2
Days of kind rain

“Son, see the misty wind
rushing all over the paddy field
comes every year
to drink the scent of paddy flower.”

Mere as a boy
I could see only
tides of a green plane
touching my little finger
and racing far… too far.
I would ask  
“Where have they gone?”
Smiled my father 
and said
“Did not you listen,
they are going to heaven,
call the goddess then,
‘come goddess dear’
we all are ready with paddy flower.”




Curious was my face,
“Papa, then?”

“Goddess will arrive smiling
her feet will be here
there
everywhere.
Seeing a pot in her hand
all those paddy flowers
delighted, will open their mouth more wider
and life will be poured…”

“Where these flowers come from?”

Remained my father smiling
speaking all his mind
looking high at sky
asked me to see there
spoke he again.

“Rain, rain, kind monsoon rain
on the first day of its shower
kind rain would ask me to come here
with bagful of paddy seeds,
‘let seeds be spread all over,
let its eternal relation with soil
be the fertilizer’
when all said is done
waiting rain 
starts showering its kind
make visible hiding life in the abyss of seed.
Happy wind changes color
being green all around
waits for the day
when the wind would smell the scent of paddy flower.”

Days passed by,
kind rain was still in waiting
sometimes hidden beyond horizon
or simply making sun blind with its smoky face
and whenever wind said,
‘Dry I’m now’
quenched the thirst.

Someday wind played naughty with sun
asked kind rain to make it misty
and with brushes of sun rays 
painted a rainbow on the face of east sky.


Wait was over
green field blossomed with flowers
and wind said,
“Fill in my heart
with scent of flower
I shall bring life…”

Happy was my father’s voice
“Rain, rain, kind monsoon rain
said so
green wind brining life 
did so
scent of paddy flower
is made so.
Bare footed be here
print your soul
in the dust of this soil
kind rain will come
green wind being there
life will be yours 
beautiful
simple
with the scent of paddy flower.”
           
             3
Cruel entropy

How old was I then
nine or ten
my father looked up
up to the sky
again and again
for a month long
only to see 
change of sky’s color
from the color of a summer day to a long humid night.
Dry wind cried at last
over my father’s sweating body
“Rain, rain O kind rain, where have you gone.”

One day sudden
kind rain came again.
Cried to my father
“Why no green wind came this year
from ocean 
to bring me here.
Desert wind why
dry my breath
seeds you have sown
how could I then
enliven with my rain.”

Question 
many question
my father had asked the rain.

Short-lived, hurried rain could spell its last breath,
“I am not that rain 
as was your friend,
I am the curse of dying forest
I am the ghost of all pollution
I am born out of acid weather…”

Who knew, it left for where?

My father cried 
As kind rain left him alone
hiding in a dry wind’s bone.

My father was still
going every morning
asking the soil
in vain
if soil could alone
make the paddy flowers to be born.

Year passed by,
came back the time, 
for green wind to bring kind rain.

Rain came one day.

But why
as a cloudburst
treacherous
roaring always
pouring unwanted
like an unkind monster
flooded misery
in the life of a simple farmer?
           
            4
Relinquishment

Dumb remained my father
for days together
sad was his voice at last,
“Run away, son, run away from here,
sky rain wind
river village land;
thread of this garland
who cuts it
go, stop now there hand.”

Draught and flood,
uncertainty of life 
changed my mind 
as of a farmer’s son.
Books, studies and education
reasons, truth and compassion
might have had fulfilled my father’s mission.

But… 
Does not this civilization
converts us 
as the products to do more production.
Run, run and run 
run ahead of time
let be it, at the cost of inhaling killer tension,
stress taking  over your life.
Insomnia, cholesterol or cynicism
is our success’s companion? 
‘A’ is shaped as ‘B’
and ‘B’ is sold as ‘C’.
Modification
innovation
sophistication
but I found the basic
what it remain
as life’s supreme conviction 
‘simply a fist full of paddy
and its grain’.

             5
Scent of life

So here, I am again
standing in front of this green plane
searching for the shadow of my father.
Green wind surrounds my existence
I can see the dance of those bunches.
My mind whispers to my ear
echoes those words of my father, 
“Bare footed be here
print your soul
in the dust of this soil
rain will come
green wind being there
life will be yours 
beautiful
simple
with the scent of paddy flower.”

I never felt so,
what I smell now 
is the scent of paddy flower.




















Long poem by Princess Poetry | Details |

Tell Them

Tell Them

To all who have never known, it's time that you've been told. 


Tell the population to change its ways before these lost lives and souls are all in vain. 

Tell the girls to think long and hard before they let a man twice their age break their heart. Tell 

them to think about who they are and what they want to be before they choose to conceive. 

Tell the boys who think they're men to think and think again when fatherhood is calling their name and 

they're hanging their heads in debt and shame. 
 
Tell them what it's really like to go to school, then work three jobs or more to pay child support, then 

beg a stranger for a ten dollar gas tip to fill up their tank just get home at night and make the trip. 

Tell them that their parents were right when they go to sleep, crying themselves to sleep at night. 

Tell them their friends are traitors in disguise, watching and waiting for opportunities to tell them lies 

and sabotage their lives.  

Tell the preteen girls in every walk of education and life to take control of their lives and souls. Tell 

them it's okay to tell the teenage boys that no means no. 

Tell them that being different is something to be proud of. Tell them that being different will save them 

for their true love. Becoming a Mother at thirty is a whole world better than being one at sixteen. 

Remind them of the wishes they made when they were little girls when they still dwelt in their hopes 

and dreams.  

Tell them to value who they are and listen to their hearts. Their unspoken, sweetest dreams are what

and who they're meant to be. 


Tell the young men and women who don't know what to do that with their lives not to rush into being 

husbands and wives. Tell them to become who they were born to be. Tell them not to lose their passion 

five or six days a week because they were given innate goals, hopes and dreams to fulfill their 

destinies.


Tell the girls who just discovered they're going to be a mother that they will make it one way or 

another. 

Tell them that when the guy they thought loved them was only telling them a lie, that he's not what's 

important anymore. Their little girl or their little boy is going to be their pride and joy. 

One day, they'll have a reason to forget the hopelessness and sorrow they once met. 

Tell the men who came home from war to find an empty house and home that there is so much more. 

Tell them they are our honored heroes. That is something that goes far deeper than anyone truly knows.

Tell the children who were moved from countless foster homes that they are not alone. Tell them there 

is someone who cares. Tell them that there is an end to their nightmares.

Tell the parents who lived their lives through their children that they can no longer run and hide. 

They have seen, heard and ignored when their children have begged and cried. Tell them it is their loss 

for living with their regrets and the lost expectations they never met.

Tell the criminals that live inside a demented state of mind that hell is reserved for the lessons they re-

fused to learn. Tell them insanity is never an excuse for abuse. 

Tell every man who ever hurt a woman and forced her child to watch has their time ticking away on the 

clock. Tell them they can't use violence to get what they want anymore. Karma is kicking down every 

window and every door. 

Tell the women who chose their boyfriends and their drugs over their babies that an apology will never 

be enough. Tell them that nothing is ever worth the price they'll have to pay for who they hurt. 

Tell the orphans that Heaven remembers them and hears their prayers. Tell them that Someone 

truly cares. Tell them that there will be someone to tuck them in at night and greet them each

morning when they wake up to the sunlight. 

Tell the women in abusive relationships that it won't get better. It will only get worse. Tell them to get 

out

now before they're not the only one who gets hurt. Tell them to get out before he steals more than their 

keys and their purse. 

Tell the countless girls who struggle with their weight to go beyond the hate. Tell them they are 

beautiful and perfect in every way and it doesn't matter what anyone else has to say. 

Tell the widows who feel the most alone that the Universe empathizes and it knows. Tell them they are

loved and they are on their way Home. 

Tell those who have lost it all, but still stand for what they believe in, that they are the reason we still 

have a chance to win. Tell them their bravery is what we stand for. Their courage is our open door.


Tell them. Tell them all we are here with open arms and loving hearts. Tell them this is the perfect place 

 to start. Tell them they can be all they are. Tell them that. Tell them then. Tell them now. Tell 

them time and time again. Tell them loud and clear. Tell them right here. Tell them. Oh yes, please tell 

them.


Long poem by Brian Johnston | Details |

Digital Creationism

Digital Creationism
(Man 0, God 1)         

Part 1: Binary God
For men it seems God is a binary function
And like ones and zeros 'HE IS ON or 'he's off.'
Is it luck that He is a guest at your table? 
'His existence is truly a bad joke, ' you scoff! 

A God that's real, beyond control yes, but not prayer, 
And if He does exist, my friend, all bets are in.
When God backs up YOUR thoughts, well all's peachy dandy.
But to NOT know His law never excuses your sin! 

The Bible's God created all in just one week, 
But who are we really to say we KNOW His ways, 
Why bind Him to the parables He told a child -
We are older now and weaned off Mom's milk (for days?)  

But these days are not years and man still lacks wisdom
Though primal earth's been here for four billion years
Man's acquaintance with earth is really quite recent -
Seems Goliath and dinosaurs were never peers.

The crux of the matter is clear, for all to see…
Science is part of God's plan, it's not up for vote.
Though as men stuck in pride, we see through glass darkly -
Creationist know-alls simply missed Noah's boat.


Part 2: Binary Faith
Our faith just has two states and there's no in-between.
I find I can lose mine in my struggle with rhyme.
Yes, its binary nature quite easy to see.
And my dark plunge to zero can turn on a dime.

My faith's weight it seems is much smaller than mustard, 
For no mountain have I ever moved in my life, 
Through two marriages tried so hard to stay the course, 
My faith never was able to secure my wife.

I am not always sure of the state that I'm in, 
Sometimes faith's drum rattles soft, a cat's silky purr
Sometimes crescendoing sound, like rain on a roof
Is so forceful that its beat is lost in a blur.

If faith is the sound, then is silence its absence? 
Is upbeat or downbeat most likely to serve us? 
Arrogance linked to noise, but service to silence, 
In faith there's no calling to ever be nervous.

Whatever the rhythm of faith - God can hear it, 
No concern if arrhythmic or slow on attack
Whether staccato, or with beat syncopated, 
Christ's death on the cross smooths over all that we lack.


Part 3: Binary Love
Now what about Love, can Love really be turned on? 
Well one thing I'm sure of, I have seen it turned off.
‘Love' juiced on fashion and lust - sparks out the wazoo, 
But can quickly be shed like a cloak you just doff.

And can one be one if one should love another? 
Does loving another mean that ‘oneness' is lost? 
Is this more than zero (the math escalating!)          -
But returning to zero sure seems quite a cost.

Could our problem be solved, with some new dimensions, 
By Base 3, Base 4, …, or Hexadecimal math? 
In today's zealot's world does real Love have a chance? 
Science also a victim of Tea Party's wrath? 

The Supreme Court spoke and defined ‘porno' for us, 
Their infamous, ‘We know it when we see it' rule, 
Proved to the whole world our highest court is a joke, 
Helped ‘idiocy' define Conservative cool.

With the rest of mankind, ‘Supremes' stupid and blind, 
Provincial logic self-justification, 
Like lemmings that rush toward one more deadly cliff edge, 
They importune us with perverse education.

 
Part 4: Binary You
Aware of YOUR off switch? Some might say sleep, some death, 
And some thinking of dreams might even doubt it exists.
Will robots ever dream, men better than they are? 
A robot does turn off, but with power persists.

Are they better than we are? Can ‘Matter' beat ‘Mind? '
If we side with mankind, is it true we are fair? 
With spare parts, revisions, robots have no problem, 
While dreams of obsolescence, cause us to despair.

In my California (and in other states too!)         
There are posh seminars that claim YOU'RE robotic.
And charge lots of money to convince you it's fact.
(The seminar's price does help one feel less psychotic.)         

There are many who fault those of narrow purpose.
Maybe dreams are a problem? How can dreams be real? 
But surely it's better in fact to stay grounded, 
If you live in your dreams, can you trust what you feel? 

Binary you, probably is too simplistic, 
Still I'm guessing that some of it explains our art, 
That it's my art too nails the need for this poem, 
Because in this world's evil we all play a part.

 
Part 5: Epilogue
I say let's give up dreams of binary safety, 
Let's admit life's complex and somehow carry on.
Perhaps trusting God that there is a hereafter, 
And embrace tears and joy, day and night, mind and brawn.

Brian Johnston
July 14,2014


Long poem by Prince Rage | Details |

Oppressor and the oppressed

Oppressor and the oppressed.

Who is the oppressed and who is the oppressor?
Who has the right to beat a random person on the street?
Who has the right when to pronounce a person guilty or to see that they is the victim?
Who has the jurisdiction to carry a gun and to unload on a random person because of the way they is playing life's game?

There is a president but he has a nation that needs to be run, there is a mayor but he or she needs to govern protection and education for every man,woman, and child. There is those who vote and those who do not, there is those who KILL for a FEE and those who KILL to protect those who threaten and attempt to poison their feed. 

In the Crayola box there is over 8 colors and how many of them do you see fighting to maintain a piece of land that doesn't even have their name? These colors have managed to get along but why has us as artist slander there good name? 

You may agree we should be free, others may agree to lock them away, the third party may vote that we should have a Hunger Game and declare a winner from each district and let them be reminded by name and plaque.

Will it not be funnier if things went back to being the same before the post-Europeans, before the ice age, before slavery, before time itself? Before evolution, before the industrial revolution, do you believe it will solve the conflict of today? Do you believe it will create a new name of a newer society that is under a different system?

The enforcers enforce a punishment that themselves would not want to see happen to people of there kind, the victim sometimes is the guilted, the drugs may make a person a bit deranged or even appearance may look strange. But deep within their brain hides another person who has experienced a pain that became so unbearable so they hid behind a false name. Drinking, smoking, feeling of looking at trees in 3-D is all the same when you are being called a different name, but let it not change you into something that you did not dream of to be. 

Look at me, I am me, you may see prince, others may see another black person, another person may ask me name and they may read my palms and tell me that I carry. Both a Spanish and African name that I was originally given to from birth. But hey life is a curse. You can argue with what happened in the past but will that change the date of today's oncoming past!

But the most funniest thing about our past is how much we cherish it and pray for its ways to be continued on today. But look around you what do you see... I won't say any name for my name is not even copyrighted, BUT EVERYBODY WANTS TO START A RIOT! I look at the people around me and I think how can you say that we need to bring change when your thinking and doing the same as the person who once stabbed you in the back?

I'm not saying don't hate the Man, I'm not saying say **** THE POLICE, I'm not saying that the president is part of some dummy corporation, I'm not saying that their isn't a war that has begun, but if you choose to believe what you hear than you will get what you perceive to be your reality!

I'm not saying don't go to school, I'm not saying don't drink, smoke weed, or snort yayo, I'm not saying that you have to rob and be branded a theft, I'm not saying that you shouldn't give love a chance, but everything is up to thee on how thou wants to perceive the world.

I'm not saying that if you close your eyes you will dream, I'm not saying that if you smoke crack you will become a fiend, I'm not saying that THERE IS NO DEMONS ONLY REASONS, I'm not saying that if youse look into the mirror you will see another person in your eyes, I'm not saying that the soul lies behind the eyes. But if you believe the lies you will think that when the truth is told you will think that, that is the lie.

There is a oppressor and there is there oppressed. There is the depressed and there is the depression that we all feel. There is two eyes but they act as one. Nobody asked to be POOR, nobody asked to have WEALTH,nobody asked to have POOR HEALTH, nobody asked to be born with ways that needs to confine to limited space.
But hey the more you believe the lies. The more that you have to believe you will be confined Into thinking that this life is a lie. 

There will be battles, but instead of battling and slandering. Why don't we make our voices be heard like that over a beat slapped with claps and a set of drums. Kicking the  inside of ears.

Let us prevent the internal bleeding of our heart that is beating (BREATHING)!

Fin! 


Long poem by Louis Borgo | Details |

Why Question No Question Question Is Now

I was born on death of arrival on birth.7:01 Am,  one of the coldest days  to record,
I battle for my life for every beat to every breath I was born premature.

Being born premature I was born with learning and mental illness and despite 
Of the disadvantage I broke barriers of stereotypies and prejudices that would follow.

Why Question that it is a recession does it mean mental illness rise? 
No Question the research from
ashbournenewstelegraph co ukHomeRecession worst, blog.atoshealthcaretagof
recession on mental health, thefiscaltimes, RecessionsSilent Mental Health... would include That facts does not lie, 
Question is now who is listening. (those R website just without dot coms) 

Why Question in the headline it’s the mental ill that’s making headlines
 No Question they all ask for help put the system ignored or failure report those demeanor read between the lines…
 Question is now could that have been your family or friends so why make fun of the mental ill to feel inferior? 

Why Question they say that people with too much education is at a higher risk of become mental ill? 
No Question they say that mental ill can’t have weapons if so then why is it 1.5 million roughly in the military that has sometime mental ill with weapons? 
 Question is now that Bill Clinton stated on Cnn that gun laws will never go away because (forgive me if I miss quoted)  the voters don't hold the people they voted in office to there word to do so.

Why Question that a person got to do a violent act before you determine that there mental ill and if that is so why do we have prisoner that could be mental ill
 or, is it one in same being and state from a television host “to do violence you must be some type of mental ill” it would be simply, if he ask the first question I stated then fumble with his words No question my doctor said if you are depression more then three day then in there book a person is mental ill 
Question is now why have smoking been written in constitution or some states and you know what type of smoking I’m talking about so who is to blame.

Why Question that the medicine they give us that can make you aggressive, more violent and sometime even suicidal but when go to sue them it was not enough evidence to prove but ten years later you can’t sue because the statue of limitation but time has ran out
No Question a comedian made a joke about the same thing was it a joke or was it a movement you tell me much luv to him! 
Question is now is if a person life is more valuable  then a buck if not why is  manufaction  a G over one prescription not knowing all side effects.

Why Question what is the debt ceiling as well as the glass ceiling seems to be something to keep minority from stepping in the next class because it all revolved around money and who is usually get short stick? (the poor) 
 No Question food stamps being cut, health care require and we have been in a war or wars since I been born I guess my generation was a victim of society the Lost Generation indeed,
no wonder inmates believe government own them. Now question does this facts lie? act lies if so why is history books rewritten in college every semester? Question it now

Why Question in the bible it speaks to the effects things will never be heard or seen would happen
(1 st Corinthians 2: 9)  I paraphrase that….. No question Jeremiah 8-9 once again paraphrasing  the people that became of power and knowledge used it in the wrong way and god later destroy the city
 Now question god spoke lyrically and God creation us in his own imagine and I have research that a person can come out of depression naturally but does the doctor tell you that? 

Once again it is a small percent of mental ill that does violence and most time they are the victims. I have giving my life to science I have giving my blood for 10 years and im only 25 years old my doctor told me by year 2020 it should be cure for my disease being born which such a disability may you know I gave my life to science so child like me will never know of harass words to endure.....

I will probably die before 30 or 40 because of malpractice and my disease Why question, No Question, Question is Now what is the definition of crazy and that of mental ill? 
My last statement is, I am the not only person that speak out for mental illness October is mental ill awareness would you like to say you spoke for reason? better yet chance.... 
(a poet and still running)


Long poem by oluwatomiwo Akinyemi | Details |

3

Waiting waitng...... 
For the all-mighty godot 
godot godot.....I ask myself 
Where are you? 

I have searched the 
tempestuous seas 
I have toiled the arid desert 
All to no avail 
I have defiled timidity into the 
treshold of darkness 
Searching searching..... 
Without the sight of you... 

The angst I am feeling knows 
no bound 
Who will restore this toothless 
lion 
To its old state 
Who will shatter the plagues of 
poverty,corruption,unemploym
ent and these eels 
That denies us peace 

The young is no more getting 
younger 
The old is no more getting 
older 
Our end-less wait is drawing 
us closer 
To the long hand of the great 
striker 
Who converts at the sniff of a 
loop-hole 

Waiting...... 
Is a bane to my soul 
Who will deliver this fatherland 
From baby-land 
The oppressors without 
Have handed us over to the 
oppressors within 
Who have become our 
suppressors 
Who have turned out to be 
more brutal-ic in nature 

godot.. godot.... 
Where are you? 
Sometimes I doubt your 
existence 
But you are the chosen one 
sent to douse our exist-tense 
The blind leadeth those who 
have eyes 
Making those with sight 
question-in the validity of their 
optics 

Several pretend godots have 
come 
Promising the promises of the 
promise 
Of leading us to the promised 
land 
They conceal their aim 
Illusioning and indoctrinating 
our minds 
Into believing they have our 
interests at heart 
Our trust is stolen 
Just like the devil 
their main aim is brought to 
light 
We are all enslaved in the 
boss-om of corrupt-nation 

godot........ 
Where are you? 
Restore the pride and dignity 
of the blackest continent in the 
world 

They despised the colour of 
my skin 
Like the "esu-laa-lu" himself 
Who comes for nothing else 
But to kill,steal and annihilate 
us 
My broth-hel has enslaved me 
*Inn* a more calamitous way 
My anger is burn-ing up 
My body has turned into a 
worth-less one 

Because I have no educate-
nation 
They feel I do not deserve the 
freed-sodom 
And enjoyment of life 

Godot........ 
Where are you? 
If you exist show yourself 
Deliver us from these 
supplanters 
Who know nothing about 
father-hood 
These idiotic baboons and 
destructively greedy agents 
have been leading us 

To think mug-gabe fought for 
zimba--bwes independence 
And still holding on to power is 
so disheartening 
He ought to be thinking of his 
last days 
Not oppress you till I die 
Its hightime we continued 
chasing this gad-dafis,mob-
baraks,abi-idin sed ali out of 
power 

If it will take hero-ism 
Heroes we will be 

I thought I found the godot in 
my nation finally 
But you bring bad-luck than 
jonah 
You are so dumb like dumb 
asses behave like dummies 
You are weaker than the 
weakest weakling that was 
ever weak 
My brothers are being bombed 
by the bomber-men who are 
my supposed brothers 
They are so psycho-pathic in 
nature and character 
Fighting a stupid ideology.... 
They say "western education is 
a sin" 
Yet they are so dumb 
to know there weapon of 
destruction is westernized 
Bad-luck jonah you are no 
different 
From this haram-bees who are 
hell-bent 
On self-destruct-nation 
*A nothing* means of suicidal 
act 
Badluck jonah....awake from 
your sleep 
And go to your nineveh 
*Asuun* strike has been 
keeping stu-dent at home for 
months 
Like a death sentence 
Dent-in and becoming dent-tri-
mental to lifes 
The criminals you have on the 
street 
Are they not enough? 
Quit savage-ing the future of 
this young guns 

Godot....... 
Come forth if you are alive 
Like lazarus 
And deliver us from this sick-
ly* bond-age of *opp-rest-
less-nation* 

Godot.......am still keeping 
faith in you 
Don't let me die before your 
arrival 
Come and breathe life into our 
exist-tense
And destroy these forces of 
destruct-nation 
That is *threaten-in* this 
exist-tense of mine 
Gogot godot godot....... 
Come forth and rescue my 
nation 
If your existence is not an 
illusion.


Long poem by Loch David Crane | Details |

The Mojo Trick

The Mojo Trick
Loch David Crane
June 1979

Sweat-sticky and hot! The P. I. is not
	a comfortable place to be;
but sit here and perspire (as though by the fire)
	and I'll tell a tale to thee.

I was coming alive in a Philippine dive
	after Mojo and San Miguels;
 the raging fire in my stomach went higher
	but my sea legs rode out the swells.

I began with a pitcher of Mojo that hit
	a spot in my appetite;
and glass after glass I drank till the last
	and soon was feeling just right.	

Then a hostess sat down in a low-cut gown
	and asked "I sit with you tonight?"
And I nodded OK in a nonchalant way
	so she seated herself on my right.

Now the hostesses here are all drink San Miguel beer
	And the same is served all around;
but it don't show much class to charge five times' a 	glass
when serving's the same size per round.
So you pay a dear price to drink beer over ice
	which is how it is served in P.I.;
if you buy a girl beer when she says "I work here,"
	then she knows you're a Big Spender guy.

So I looked at this girl and my mind began to whirl
	and the Mojo played a trick.
Her face was so funny – a nose like a bunny –
	I wouldn't let her flick my Bic!

I won’t call her ugly, but with that funny mug she'd
	make customers run and hide;
you could send that girl in to a crowded room; then
	watch as horrified man stepped outside.

So as I drank my beer with a grin ear  to ear
	I said "My name is Billy, I think."
She was hardly demure; she said "My name is La Tour.
	I love you no lie.  Buy me drink."

Well I should have said "no," and let the chick go
	but I wasn't alone in the place;
and the thought of all night with this dog was a fright
	though her body was nice – but that face!

I thought "just one more brew,” cause I'd only had two,
	and I said that I'd buy her a drink.
Then she gave me a grin with her toothless brown chin
	and my self image started to sink.

But because I was shy (I'm just that sort of guy)
	I just couldn't tell her to leave;
so I stared at the band and I drummed with my hand
	and I brushed off the lint from my sleeve.

Well the music was fine; but the bar girl's next line
	was to say "Are you married, young man?"
And I saw my way out and lied with a pout –
	told her I had a wife in Japan.

So she finished her beer, and was soon gone from here,
and I ordered two beers to celebrate;
I was lucky, I thought, not to get caught
	between her and a magistrate.

For the Philippine girls wear long dresses and curls
	and use perfume and makeup for baits;
for to marry a guy, seaman or G.I.,
	means a free trip back to the States.

Then a man from the crew asked me "What's wrong with 	you?
	Why did you let that girl go?"
And I told him her face was scare spots off an ace
	but he looked back at me and said "No."

I called for "beer 12" and started to delve
	into my pocket for money;
my friend said "I'll buy," and his cash didn't lie,
	and "Mind if I sit with your honey?"
I said "you can do just what you want to do,"
	and I said that I couldn’t look at her;	
but he thought she was cute, had a nice bod to boot,
	so I nodded to go ahead after.

But beer thirteen made my vision grow keen,
	and I saw what a prize I had missed;
"I have drunk too much brew!   She was beautiful, too."
	as I saw him voluptuously kissed.

I thought "How could this be? She said she loved me! "
	My hand shook; my ice cubes went clink.
I heard her say to him "My name is Tuptim.
	I love you no lie.  By me drink."

So I smiled. I was glad; I was no longer mad
	'cause the Mojo had clouded my eyes;
I realized then she was after my friend, 
	and I hoped he was quick with his lies.

So it's "sailor beware!" In Olongopo there;
	where the girls fish for guys in the bars;
and though I often roam, I always come home,
	– single! Thanking my lucky stars.

– By the Phantom of the O2 level

(O1 and O2 are Officer’s and Civilians’ quarters on the USS Kitty Hawk; I taught English aboard several ships at sea, in the Program Afloat for College Education.)


Long poem by Therese Bacha | Details |

Deep Dark Poem

     ~Deep Dark Poem~

Tonight I want to go deeper in my soul
I want to be born again tonight I want
to go back in my mothers womb and feel
my happiness of my first cry yet feel her 
real pain while she was delivering me
I want to feel both all her pain and the 
little of happiness I had since I was born.
I want to feel each breath I breathed since 
that first night I want to see my fathers
eyes if he had a tear of happiness while 
holding me for the first time .
                 
I want to walk talk laugh cry climb defeat 
succeed breath suffocate scream eat drink 
revive my senses I want to hold her breast 
and be a baby again I don't want to grow 
Old yet I want to remain a new born in her 
arms to feel safe I want to hold my fathers 
glasses and see the color of his eyes will I 
have them will I have his nose will I have 
my mothers softness will I cry for help will 
I see and hear and listen and run and walk 
and hold her hand to feel safe I am lost 
tonight I need her grip.
                     
I need my brother who carried me where is 
he today why did he leave me so early and 
die so young I want to eat with them I want 
to share with them in what state of mind 
I am in tonight I want to go home tonight 
to my mother and fathers home I want to
see their light at their home as I am living
through my darkest hours tonight.
But I cannot as all what I want 
I cannot have.

I want their faithful love I want to sleep 
on their bed and feel the warmth of their 
love in our home where I was born and 
after years I was torn away from them 
to live in another mans home. 
                   
They forgot to tell me how much they 
have suffered when I left their home and 
went away they forgot to tell me so many 
things that iI am experiencing them now
today yesterday and tomorrow my life 
passed away so quickly busy bringing up 
my kids busy giving them an education 
busy cooking for them busy working to 
provide for them everything busy washing 
busy crying busy going out busy busy where 
are they now where was I when my father 
left to climb up his ladder where was I 
when my mothers turn arrived to climb up her
ladder and stay next to him they went up to 
meet their son who left them years ago he 
was only 29 years old they had to live suffering 
suffering missing missing him their first born 
for years and years.
                     
Father of my 2 boys thee only ecstasy 
I had during that marriage nothing was 
real except my kids nothing existed except 
them nothing meant anything in my world 
except them nothing ever passed before 
them they are my light when i am blind 
they are my laughter in my inside they 
are with me with every breath I breath 
we are inseparable even when they are 
far I see them when its dark I see them 
when I am deaf I hear them through my 
strength I survive to keep them alive. 
I walk alone yet their shadow never 
leaves my sight they call my name from 
far I call them back I write to reach out 
for them to read through my lines how 
much I need to be cared for even one day 
maybe half a day maybe a few hours even 
one second is more then enough to pump 
my heart to go on.
                  
So sorry my fellow poets tonight when 
you read through my lines you will forgive 
me as I am sentimentally in pain affectionately 
in pain tonight my pen was agonizing missing 
my children missing to see them how do I survive 
daily without them I don't know I know I have 
been doing that for the past 35 years seeing 
them on and off due to the war in our country
& unexplainable circumstances. 
Tonight forgive me. I have no more tears.
                                                                                   
                                                                                            Therese Bacha
  Deep Dark Poem for contest of PD  (Win.No 4 )                            22/2/2013


Long poem by Brian Johnston | Details |

Whistling In The Dark

(A Rave By A Poet)      

Remember when you were a child? 
Adults seemed then to be in control, 
Almost like Gods, with special powers
That almost always knew
When you'd been up to mischief.
‘Playing with matches again Brian? '
What a childish view of things! Right? 
And my punishment, how perfect that was! 
‘After you've finished lighting two boxes
Of wooden matches, one at a time, 
You can go to bed, without your supper! '
Probably the best punishment I ever got.
I really couldn't believe my luck
But I was more careful after that! 

Of course mom's punishment didn't stop me.
Do you remember match guns, 
Made from 2 wooden clothespins? 
Oh, my God, what fun those were! 
A little carving with a kitchen knife
Reversing the spring on the outside, 
And some electrical tape was all it took.
Really made me appreciate man's genius! 
Hiding behind parked cars (a block from home)        
And shooting flaming missiles in the dark
At unsuspecting passing cars
And then running like Hell
On a preplanned escape route
When the innocent victim screeched to a stop
Jumped out of his car to yell at long gone villains.
Honestly, the 4th of July couldn't beat this! 

Carrying out the garbage every night
Now that was a chore made in Hell, 
Though better than the night pots
Our forebears had to deal with.
Wow, thank God for outhouses
But especially modern sewage systems! 
At my house the trek to the garbage can
Was a long hike, especially for a kid.
We burned trash in those days, 
There was no garbage pick up, 
And the can was hidden in an alley way, 
You had to go through a gate to get to it.
A big elm tree (that I loved in the daylight)        
Blocked even starlight and made the yard dark.
I always was scared so I'd whistle to and back
Praying that if a monster got me Mom would know, 
My whistle wouldn't stop without reason, 
That there was a chance at least of rescue, 
I think I was too scared though to test it out, 
I needed to believe that Mom would hear.

How insensitive the child is to adult problems.
But really how's a child to know
The tyranny of feeding a family, 
Of trying to secure an unknown future, 
Without a crystal ball, only prayer really! 
(Though with luck, maybe some common sense.)        
Parents, really are children grown large, 
Carrying their demons in a sack on their backs, 
Taking them out on occasion to play with, 
Hoping against hope that that's all there is, 
That some special Hell doesn't await them! 
Meteor showers that exterminate all life, 
Dust bowls, global warming, ice ages, 
A new Yellowstone blast that buries our cropland, 
A Canary Island tsunami that wipes out the East Coast
(A 2,000 foot wall of water now 50 years overdue) , 
Magnetic storms that destroy all electronic progress
That we've made in just the last fifty years? 
The universe may seem big
But there's really no place to hide.

The public school system, what a joke! 
More like twelve years of day care.
A football coach teaching physics, 
Latin the only language choice? 
(Sure opened up the world for me!)        
The most important job of our lives
Getting married? Sex? Raising a family? 
Well our parents were screwed too, 
‘Pass it on, no pass backs, joke's on you kid! '
You want to fix the problems of the world? 
Make politicians work for no salary or benefits
Let them shower us with their love of country, 
Eat cafeteria food every day (no wine) , 
Random armed guards monitor their calls.
Let's make teaching the highest paid profession
With teacher's tenure voted on each year
(Each kid two votes, parents one vote for both parents, 
Put power where it belongs baby.)        
Well this may not in fact be a poem, 
But it has sure been cathartic.
Hope my venting at least struck some chords
And was not a complete waste of your time.
May God save us every one!

Brian Johnston
April 18,2014


Long Poems