Submit Your Poems
Get Your Premium Membership


Long Funeral Poems | Long Funeral Poetry

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

See also: Famous Long Poems

Long Poems
Long poem by Peter Duggan | Details |

In memory of Bob

In memory of Bob
A true story.

It was in spring of two thousand when I first saw Bob. I’d just started working at Perth Dental hospital, and in fact it was my first day there. I walked up to the front door of this building, but it wasn’t yet opened. So I turned around and went to sit in the bus shelter which was just outside the building. As I went to sit down I noted a dark skinned gentleman sitting there with a happy, benign look on his face. He was about five feet eight give or take a little, and he was rather a thickset man who looked like he’d done his fair share of hard work in his sixty years or more.

     There was something about this Gentleman that I could not quite put my finger on. He had a certain charisma about him; not the phony kind of charisma that one seen in the car salesman or the philanderer who messes with women’s heads, no, Bob had a kind of friendly smile for everyone that he met, and he seemed to draw people into him with his love, and gigantic heart. I knew as soon as I met him that Bob was most definitely for me.

      As Bob looked at me and smiled, the whole world seemed to open up. He said “Ow ya  going mate” in a loud ebullient manner, then we started to chat. Bob was like myself, a thinker, and straight away we started philosophizing about this, that, and the other, and it was like we had known each other forever. Then all of a sudden I found Bob talking about death, and the difference in the way the Maori people faced death, compared to the rather the silly way us white folk look at the subject with great fear in our hearts. Now this had always interested me, and  somehow it just seemed natural to talk to this Maori gentlemen on this subject, and we spoke about it till the doors opened and it was time to work.

      I don’t think anything happens just by chance, and I definitely have this feeling that Bob and I were meant to meet, and I really think this was a major destiny thing. I have found during the course of my life,  that as I am aging, I can feel something pushing me into a certain direction, and I always felt that Bob was part of all this; and I had much to learn from him. Although I have never believed in organized religion, and never followed one I have always felt deeply spiritual, and I have met many people who I learned from, and Bob was most definitely one of them with all his great wisdom and patience. As I came to know Bob, we had many dialogues together, on many subjects. Bob used to love music and could always have time to plonk away on his guitar. He used to come round to my place and we would play songs together, though both he and I were no Eric Clapton’s, I would bang around on my guitar and play the harp, while we would both take out turns at singing. We’d have a smoke or a beer or two, and we’d play songs all day long,  ahhh, I remember those days well, the memories are so strong.

     Bob was one hell of a man, I could tell that he had been a wild one in his youth,
But when I knew him in his sixties he was an icon of wisdom and virtue; he had a kind word for everyone, and gave all his time to anybody who needed him, always.
He used to hear me waffling on like an idiot, trying to make him like me [as I always did] but never once did he tell me how foolish I was, he would just smile knowingly at me. He used to stand there at the window for hours, just drinking in the trees, or the clouds in the sky, and yet he was so aware, I used to try to sneak up on him; it couldn’t be done. His awareness was incredible.

     Then one day Bob fell ill with terminal cancer, and he knew that he had very little time left on this Earth. He lay there sick for days in intolerable pain,  but you never heard one complaint from him, even when he only had days to live, he was still worrying about the welfare of others. When the day finally come for Bob to leave his shell; he was lying there in deep sleep, when all of a sudden he woke up, with a smile on his face. His children asked him ‘Dad, do you want some pain killers” Bob laughed, compassion written all over his face, and he said to them ‘Not one of you has a clue, have you’ and he died with a big smile on his face.

   His daughter got in touch with me, and told me about his death, and also told me that his last wish was to have me watch his soul leave his body. I felt very honored about this and went and sat with his body [as Maoris do]. I got the most peaceful feeling come to me [which I presume was his spirit leaving his body] as I watched his silent body, a Mari war stick and a beautiful rose lay across his chest. I still see it, and I feel blessed by it. He was my Maori warrior, and I adored the man.
 


Long poem by Vicki Acquah | Details |

SCOFFING LOVE

`````````````````````````````````````````````````````March 27, 2013
Vicki Acquah




WHICH WITTY POEM
 DID YOU INSPIRE IN ME,
WHAT SINCERE PRAISE
 DID YOU GIVE MY WORDS
WHEN I THOUGHT 
ENOUGH OF YOU
SEND A POEM YOUR WAY.
WHICH LINE DID YOU WRITE WITH
MY SPIRIT SURROUNDING YOU
.
WHAT SONG DID YOU SING WHEN
YOU THOUGHT OF MY NAME
WHY DID YOU SAY YOU LOVED ME.
WHAT HAVE I DONE TO MAKE YOU SMILE,
HOW DID YOU GET IN MY HEAD ANYHOW
.
WHAT PART OF ME DID YOU AROUSE.
WHY DO I SAY I LOVE YOU.?
WERE YOU SINCERE WHEN YOU SAID "AMEN"
TO THE WISDOM THAT I SHARED
WERE YOU ONE OF THOSE WHO THOUGHT
YOUR MOCKING,WAS MORE VALUABLE
THAN COMPLIANCE.
 
 I HAVE LIVED WITH THE
RESENTMENTS OF SCOFFERS.
I DIGEST YOUR RESPONSE WITH A GULP..
I THOUGHT SO MUCH BETTER OF YOU.
 
I DO NOT HAVE A REAL CLUE-AS TO WHY YOU
WOULD BE THE ONE TO UNDERMINE
AND SCOFF AT LOVE-WITH SNIDE REMARKS
OF FALSE PRIDE;
I WAS CALLED TO THIS THRONE
YOU SEEK TO BANISHING ME FROM.
 
HOWEVER THIS can NEVER BE DONE,
NO MAN CAN PUT ASUNDER
WHAT WAS SET IN MOTION
BY THE HIGHER LAWS OF NATURE
 
I SPEAK OF THE ILLS IN SOCIETY
I SPEAK OF FALSE REALITIES.
WHAT YOU DIDN'T SAY HOLDS FAST INSIDE.
I SAW WHAT YOU DIDN'T DO,
AND WONDER WHY.
 
IN-SPITE OF YOUR MOCKERY
I STILL HAVE A LOVE INSIDE OF ME
THAT ADORES THE GREATNESS IN YOU
EVEN IF YOU CHOOSE TO UNDERMINE
THIS ONLY BOTHERS ME
BECAUSE OF THE EFFECT 
IT WILL HAVE ON YOU
 
ONLY MY FRIENDS WHO ARE GENUINE,
WILL CONTINUE TO RIDE ON MY CLOUD NINE.
RECEIVING NO THREATS, AS
HUMAN I BE, HUMAN I AM 
WITH THE ATTRIBUTES OF
GODDESSES AND MAN
 
TAKE WHAT YOU LIKE AND LEAVE THE REST.
BECAUSE OF THE WORTH I SEE IN YOU .
BECAUSE OF THE WORTH I SEE IN YOU .
THAT'S WHY I SO PERFECTLY ...TOLERATE YOU .
AND OF COURSE WHAT IS LEFT 
NEED NOT BE DISTURBED AT BEST
 
ONE DAY YOU WILL FIGURE THINGS OUT,
ONE DAY YOU WILL KNOW WHY
I SHARED A PART OF MY LIFE WITH YOU .
ONE DAY YOU WILL SEE
THE VALUES THATS BEEN  PLACE IN ME
.
BECAUSE OF THE MIRACLE--
OF LOVE AND FATE COMBINED
ONE DAY REASON WILL COMPLY
WITH YOUR FINITE MIND.
I KNOW WHO I AM EVEN 
THOUGH YOU DON'T
YOU DO NOT RIDE ON MY RHYTHM
OR STEP TO MY DRUMBEAT.
 
BUT STILL you will -TWEAK TO MY HEARTBEAT.
YET MORE WILL BE UNDERSTOOD BYE AND BYE..
AND FOR THOSE WHO FEEL,AND
APPRECIATE EACH OTHERS POETRY or story                                                      
EVENTUALLY ...THE reason will BE REVEALED
 
SO... WHEN THE SLIPPERY HAND OF HOPE IS
EXTENDED UNTO YOU
REACH UP AND GRAB IT
MAKE SURE YOUR GRIP IS FIRM.
 
BECAUSE WHO KNOWS 
WHY SCOFFERS SCOFF 
WHEN LOVE SPEAKS OUT OF CONCERN 
JUST BE PATIENT AND WAIT
SINCERITY AND LOVE
NEVER NEEDS DEFENDING .
ALL YOU LESS CALLOUS , 
WHO SEEK UNDERSTANDING
AS OPPOSED TO MALICE
 
I WILL JUST WAIT AT THE MOUNTAIN TOP  
ONE DAY WITH OPEN EYES YOU'LL COME
THE SLACKERS SHALL JOIN US THERE. 
NO NEED TO COMPARE,WE ALL NEED PRAYER
 
AS LONG AS WE ARE NOT STUCK IN RUTS
OR ON THE SLIPPERY SLOPE OF CONTEMPT 
AS LONG AS WE WHO HOLD THE ROPE 
ARE WILLING TO PULL OUR BROTHERS UP
WITH OUR WORDS,THE POETS WORDS  
THE MESSAGE FOR THE MASSES IS HOPE..
.
SO I LIVE FOR THE POEMS YOU SEND MY WAY 
FOR I GROW STRONG IN OUR RELATIONSHIP 
SAILED BY THE WINDS OF YOUR ENCOURAGEMENT
TO MY POETS MY TRUE FRIENDS,
I TRULY KNOW WHO YOU ARE, and...
DON'T EVER THINK I DON'T.              

  EVENTUALLY ...THE MEANING OF THINGS WILL 
BE REVEALED, SO... WHO KNOWS WHY SCOFFERS 
SCOFF WHEN EVER LOVE SPEAKS OUT.
 JUST BE PATIENT AND WAIT, SINCERITY AND LOVE
 NEVER NEEDS DEFENDING 

.ALL YOU LESS CALLOUS PEOPLE,WHO SEEK 
UNDERSTANDING AS OPPOSED TO MALICE, JUST WAIT
 AT THE TOP OF THE MOUNTAIN. 
ONE DAY WITH OPEN EYES 
THE SLACKERS SHALL JOIN YOU THERE. 
NO NEED TO COMPARE,WE ALL NEED PRAYER,
AS LONG AS WE ARE NOT STUCK ON THE
SLIPPERY SLOPE, OF CONTEMPT , 
AS LONG AS WE WHO HOLD THE ROPE
 ARE WILLING TO PULL OUR BROTHER UP

WITH OUR WORDS,THE POETS WORDS :
 THE MESSAGE FOR THE MASSES IS HOPE..
.SO I LIVE FOR THE POEMS YOU SEND MY WAY,

 FOR I GROW STRONG IN OUR RELATIONSHIP 

BY THE WINDS OF YOUR ENCOURAGEMENT,

TO MY POETS MY TRUE FRIENDS

,I TRULY KNOW WHO YOU ARE,
 DON'T EVER THINK I DON'T.


Long poem by Stanley Collymore | Details |

Gone and hopefully permanently forgotten

By Stanley Collymore

Never speak ill of the dead we’re constantly and solemnly
exhorted regardless of who they are or the life that
they freely chose to live, as they’re no longer
around, is the lame and unconvincing excuse
that’s often and dishonestly given in explanation, to rebut or
defend their name, any accusations or adverse criticisms,
however concrete or valid they might be, being made
against them; and in those circumstances therefore
to then embark on such a plan would in itself be
quite unbecoming while serving as nothing
more than a cheap and cowardly way of
attempting to exact one’s own revenge.

But hang on a moment, how truly valid is this
simplistic and supposedly moral exhortation; and why
should the intervention of death, distinct from any
other known phenomenon, be the sole exculpation for
someone’s life-long sins and premeditated wrongdoings
that disparagingly have callously, schemingly,
perniciously, quite methodically and comprehensively
destroyed the lives of so many who were
exclusively picked on and especially targeted for
reasons of dogmatic political ideology, or
those specifically and illogically
associated with their race
or ethnicity.

I was never a miner viewed as the country’s low-life and
thusmalevolently castigated as the enemy within, but
I am and have longstandingly been a proud trade
unionist whose movement just as
viciously by this self-centred,
venal and privileged elite was likewise tarred
with the same condemnatory brush and
scandalously branded the same.

Similarly, I was an anti-apartheid activist firmly
committed, as I always will be, to the noble concept
globally of the universality of human rights, equality
for all human beings and the ultimate eradication
of racism, tirelessly working also in tandem
for freedom of expression by everyone,
genuine democracy and the lawful and
moral right to withhold one’s labour,
and particularly so in manufactured industrial
disputes specifically designed to disrupt the cohesion,
deliberately break-up and ruthlessly destroy the
bargaining rights of all trade unions. 

So why would I, or anyone else for that matter
with a social conscience, want to actually
eulogize and not rightly despise someone who,
while together with their husband was
profiting massively financially from South Africa’s
apartheid system, none the less perversely saw fit
to label Nelson Mandela a terrorist and roundly
vilify the ANC as a terrorist organization, while
astonishingly and without a modicum of regret
laud the architects of apartheid and the
ardent supporters of institutionalized
racism as the veritable champions of
what they deem as democracy?

Unless, of course, such individuals have short or convenient
memories and are themselves a complete abomination of what
society, which we were told by this woman doesn’t exist,
or come to that humanity should actually represent!
So I’ve no apologies to make or will I relent from
the stance I’ve taken because Death, inevitable
to us all, has finally, and some would
justifiably say, long-sufferingly and somewhat
kindly stepped in and brought the life of yet
another tyrant to its end. So feel free those of you
who want to eulogize or even dress yourself up
in sackcloth and ashes if you wish amidst your contrived beating
of chests and sorrowful refrains; but in doing so, I’d like for
you in your unrestrained orgy of engineered anguish
and false grief to jointly entreat you to abstain
from ever doing any of this in my name.

© Stanley V. Collymore
12 April 2013.

In the midst of life there is death the great leveller of us all. We brought nothing into this world, and it is certain we can carry nothing out. So what doth it profit a man or woman if in their life time they gain all the riches of the world yet lose their soul for eternity? The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the Name of the Lord.


Long poem by Timothy Jacks | Details |

My Grandfathers Dying Wish

See problems they no worry Timothy
He was raised by his Great Grandmother
One day she taught him
Miho you can make life beautiful or ugly
Work hard, find a woman who has a strong back
Beauty fades it doesn’t last long
Now let me tell you 
A woman with a strong back may not be your perfect companion
Times are changing, I think Faith is more important these days
I say okay Grandma, can I have the horachata now that you made me
No hush up! You can have it when I’m finished talking
Timothy come your poor Grandfather wanted you to have this
It is his Journal and I have never read out of it
She hands it to me
I am struck by it’s cover, it is brown and plain
Yet it spoke to me by it’s elegant style
These words were printed on the cover “Blanco Vendetta”
I was drawn and pulled in untill I was covered by the spell
The first page I open too it says “My first Mil Besos”
The Temptess that blew my heart away
I turn to page 33
It says “The story of an Apache Warrior”
There are no rules to an Apache Warrior when it comes to fighting
He says if you are my enemy I don’t care how but I’m gonna kill you
Page 41 is like a fist full of words thrown across the page
Barrio boxing, The protection of the Shield of Faith
Brokenhearted for my careless speech has left her heartbroken
Strengthened by Love “Amor”
Nourished by the sunshine in her hand
There is healing in its beams
Blessed by her presence Del Dios I am Greatful
I’m like Grandpa what did you say wrong
Then these words come to me
Give her your full attention when she speaks to you
Because the Heart of the Wise studies how to answer
So I close it and my finger brushes a bookmark
It’s the Last page
It says To: “Timothy my son who is as mighty as an army”
I Thank you for the Greatest Gift
For the Greatest Gifts are as small as your small hand that touched me
I plant these seeds and they will take root and grow because you are good ground
Timothy let me say That without you I would of never found my Faith in GOD
Listen for it is your Grandfather who is dead and speechless
Timothy you see the good in everything
And I know you will understand my words clearly
If a man gives you his word
Promise me not to plan your future on it
And if you give your word my son
Do everything in your Power to fulfill it
AND NEVER Promise more than you can deliver 
For it is better to put out more than you promised
Everyman is considered unwise when he appears foolish
I wish I could give you some insight about women
But your Great Grandmother may help you better than I can
But never timothy, Never be quick to fall in Love 
Or give your heart to a woman
Listen carefully to her words when she speaks to you
Cherish Her give her your full undue attention 
Because the Heart of the Wise studies how to answer
Love your neighbors as yourself
And do not strive against another man
If he has done nothing wrong to offend you
AS much as it is possible live peacefully with all men
And it is okay for you to speak these things with your Great Grandmother
She is a very wise and God-fearing woman
Amor take the greatest care of her, I Love you Son
Timothy when the time comes to avenge my death
Hit harder then you ever have before
But not in a Duel son, not like an open Vendetta
Marry his daughter Maria
The one who is pretty and Two years younger than you
Oh! He will suffer greatly!
And it will kill him to know that I chose this way to repay him
And remember son to be ready to fight any man at the drop of a hat


Long poem by William J. Jr. Atfield | Details |

Epitaph Eulogy BY Linda Blair News Flash OBITUARY

 

Epitaph – Eulogy
BY
Linda Blair

This man, lying here in state – DEAD – lives.
His aged soul - but not his heart – he gives
to me – for me - this is such a shame,
so on him – everything – I will blame.

He has always – to a degree -  been there for me.
in my need – my desire – much more, I want to be,
and so, because these things I want, are not met
I have left him perplexed, to wonder, worry and fret.

Fret about the things I do, I do not want him to know,
and so, I play my little games, put on a great show.
Now that he / I have gone - to that great beyond 
I believe I now understand my act – him I wronged.

And so, I now leave this old man – alone
to take his life’s journey - on his own.
I wish I could find peace and glory
in telling Bill, - for my act – I am sorry

I think he knew ?, that it is just not in me
to face up to, and accept my responsibility.
May god speed you on your way Bill,
I pray, one day. you may, again find life’s thrill.

B. J. “A” 2
May 29th 2004

News Flash

   Found today in his Prairie Avenue, seniors apartment, Port Coquitlam B.C.
dead of wounds inflicted, it has been determined, on May 6th 2004 by one
Linda B. of Dewdney Trunk Maple Ridge B. C. who has been alleged to have 
stilettoed Atfield in the heart, many times, in the parking lot of a gas station on 
Lougheed Hwy., and then left him to bleed to death in the parking lot of 
Shaughnessy Station, under the shadow of the catwalk that crosses over
Lougheed Hwy. It hovers over the 701 bus stop, the bus that provided her 
with an escape route, Poof and Mrs., Linda B. disappeared .
   There will be no formal charges laid against Mrs., Linda B. for her crime 
of being a product of her nurturing and nature, for her indifference. 
Mr., Atfield left an impression, he understood the nature of the beast that
laid within and in parting – departed – forgave once again.
   An autopsy performed on Mr., Atfield, revealed that the weapon used
by Mrs., L. B. was similar to numerous others that have perpetrated 
the soul of this old fool, tried to destroy him copious times, on previous
occasions. The scar tissue found, that doth surround, covers much 
of his beating, bleeding heart. This is Friendship ???, this is Love ???

Article written by B. J. “A” 2
Published by The Now News Paper

OBITUARY

Found this gray, gloomy day, of a broken heart,
friendship past away, ended, no chance for a new start.
Laid to rest upon a heap, Wm. J. Atfield Jr. of
Port Coquitlam, British Columbia.
Mr. Atfield is survived by his three Daughters,
his Father, Brother, Brother / Uncles.
Mr, Atfield follows the demise, the destiny,
the fate of many – relatives, friends, acquaintances,
stranger, human kind who have put their faith,
their trust their lives in the hands of friendships .

May 29th 2004


Long poem by Kizito Sidegu | Details |

throwing the last stone

the episode took place near the sewer
the boy lay lifeless on the stiff ground
his white clothes dipping in red
a rowdy mob encircled him
like vultures awaiting the surrender of a fighting  spirit
his horrified eyes gave their last look
but no one dared to move a finger

yet we call ourselves humans

missiles of rocks were launched towards him
red gushes were the aftermath
a cut from a horrifying slaughter flick
a skinny woman wailed in pain
shielding the youngster as if she were her own
yet nobody breath a word
in mid air she was husked away
scuba diving into the greenish sewer
people watched as if it were a circus

yet they call themselves humans

the grim rippers gambled his fate
the puisne adjudged his eternal verdict,
cremation he thought was best suited
mzee Bakar condemned them to hell
they laughed and said they'll meet him their
the mood sombre,dogs barking,mothers muffling
another incident in the misty shanty
scattered beyond the files of disinfected news rooms
the boy was tied like a gift bag to Cerberus

yet they call themselves men

time flew and people were thirsty
craving for blood they named him a gangster
anointed him with diesel, adorned him with a treaded necklace
the matchbox lied in wait
women covered their eyes
men covered their laughter
suddenly gunshots came uninvited
people took to their heels
as a land rover grand to a halt
pale blue uniforms dashed out in haste

that's the humane spirit

gently they saw the boy to the vehicle
leaving the battle field in mayday
amidst curses and jeers from the angry mob
on reaching the hospital the obvious news
internal bleeding and broken ribs
was the free ticket to the other world
so young yet so easily
a life had slept from peoples' hand
yet we call ourselves humans

unable to pay the mortuary dues
another cross-less grave awaits him
deep 6 feet under his soul shall rest
his family shall weep forever
having lost the only son
unemployment being the cause
many boys shall follow suit
crime rates will be at their peak
but no one tries to halt the situation

and we call ourselves humans

Timo was his name
the only son of mama Amina
he died three years go
five hundred shillings was enough
to give the victim a death warrant
he wasn't the first along the line
many died before him
at the claws of their fellow kind

yet we call ourselves humans

the chief finished his eulogy amidst sobs
the whole of ghetto inhabitants cursed their act
anger had been the cause,vengeance the inhuman motive
yet the government was to blame
for the high rate of unemployment

Timo died a hero,a hero! - See more at: http://allpoetry.com/poem/11728524-Throwing-the-last-stone-by-kizocarson#sthash.5UurVg8M.dpuf


Long poem by Cyndi MacMillan | Details |

DARK ANGELS OF HIGHGATE


  
Enough Angelina, drop the bouquet of harebells.  
The flowers wilt as your graying hands stiffen. See, how grave
is our newborn son. We gift him a black crêpe layette.
Say Darling Edward, say, Golubushka, make me come alive.
Leave this chapel, return to his cradle, quicken your deadwood.  
Come, rock his sweet little boat, croon, sladkiy bairdark.
 
Your shade sighs as the mourners trudge into the dark
of All Hallow's Eve. A breeze stirs the hairs on my nape. Bells 
toll, the ringer incants “Unto the Church, I do You call, Death              
to the grave will summon all.” Freshly turned gravel
rolls from the burial mound, the earth’s answer to life’s 
reticence. Our son, whom I cradle, mutely lays.       
 
See, the ground moves.  There, there, my boy. Love's only mislaid.
Father, Mother, take the babe, go, shield him from Highgate’s darkness.
I stay. By will alone, I'll not let maggots deface beauty that lives.    
My Angel, please, tug the cord housed in your coffin so the bell
will ring, rouse London’s rigor. You will waltz on this grave,
speak of Siberian winters, then scoff, roll eyes at the vigor of death. 
 
Insubstantial lips brush the babe’s forehead, even death
cannot stay her reply. Ed’ard, Mother will take him home to lie. 
A chill north wind rises as if to show your sorrow from the grave,
clawing the headstone with twigs and pebbles; clouds darken
the moon. Your shade screams; a bough whips Mother's cheek, the bell  
on its gold cord is silent. Wind nigh swallows my howl, Angelina, live!
 
We are alone, Angel, save for those cemetery ravens which liven
roan weeds. Three nights I've troubled Highgate, plucking deadheads   
from your boney wreath. Obstinate wife, revive the grieving bell.
I hear them calling Ed’ard, Come. I am torn from your stone: waylaid,
outnumbered, locked in our bedchamber. At the next darkening,  
the babe's rattle rings, calling your name. I escape to your grave.  
 
Nightclothes drenched and shoeless, I topple onto the grave.
Yea though I walk … ring, damn you, bell, ring! Curse this life!
The sky cracks open, sheet lightning pierces the craven darkness
as if in answer a mother oak’s limb shatters. The deadweight
crushes me against the granite angel where you lay.
At sunrise, church bells rang Angelus prayer from the chapel’s belfry.
 
Angelina, Angelina, our grown son visits our grave to honor the dead.
He is our true afterlife; all my fears have been allayed.
All is too calm and well 'til his eyes darken as he batters your bell.


Collaboration by Cyndi MacMillan and Debbie Guzzi

Stanzas 1, 3 ,5 and 7 by Cyndi MacMillan
Stanzas 2, 4, and 6 by Debbie Guzzi



Long poem by KAMRAN RASHID | Details |

The Confuted COnceit

All has got the air to breathe,,the winds to chase.
All has got distances to cover,,& destiny to discover.
All has their wayz,,their trendz to live with…….
     Then why the winds are abstrusive,,,
      Then whyn”t you & me hold the concatenation,,,
       Then why are we always conniving against each other,,,
        Then why aren”t we congenial to each other………
Life has got an uncertain end,,so is the world,,,
Hatred & conceit of you & me is just a worldly trait,,,
Walking up before it”s so late is the best way to enjoy the  light,,                                                                The hawks n eagles flying in the sky & the chicks dying at high,,,
The wolf & fox eying at the deers & goats with the lions grazing the grasses……
The devil in the den has killed every hen,,with pen in his hand,,,,
The ghosts of evil have now captured churches,mosques & temples,,,,
The water in the river has vanished & now there are streams of blood flowing out,,,,
The knights of night have chained the sun in their cage & now their”s only the black out…….
             They don”t feel abashed with the abomination because they are the knights of the dark
                & we”re the knights of light..
  Pull those nerves away & respire white & green..
   Close the doors of west & open the doors of east..
  No more will u be abashed if u abandon the the evilz haunt..
   The flock of wolves & dogs won”t pass by you if you don”t enrich the dead soul..
     The life isn”t meant for hate & despair,but for cultivating white & greens all around..
       Remove the weeds of evil from the yards of your soul & paint it with some white & green..
      Stop the gamez on the red carpets,,& joggle on the soft & silky grasses.. 

From dawn to dusk  there are ups & downs,,but their”z always the  sky standing so tall…
We”ve not lost it but we”ve got far away from it..
Wake up,,rise up & pull yours socks up & chase the winds of light & glory…
No more will b the pain,no more will be the wars,,,,
        If we lead the way congenially……
Love the ways you are here & praise the lord here & there,,
Stop pointing finger at others & give up the complex of inferiority that”z drowning you in the dark….
 Their”z no god unless & untill you don”t accept him,& their won” t be discriminated,,,you won”t be ruled over if you don”T…
       There are a thousand wayz to the heavenz but only a single way to the hell…
 Cultivate the  seeds of love , peace & respect,,
     & walk the streets with roses in your hands….& that”s what conceivably is the real conceit…!
{{Live .....love.
respect....peace....!!!}}


Long poem by Mario Vitale | Details | . You can read it on PoetrySoup.com' st_url='http://www.poetrysoup.com/poem/vulturesdarkness_400738' st_title='Vulture'sDarkness'>

Vulture'sDarkness

Vulture's Of Darkness

Vile thought fangs waiting in vengence etched within

A twilight sun had tainted my inner vision again ?

Shattered fragments torn in desolation vanquished within
Vile degrade filled sweat pouring out in sharp contrast fetched;
Contrast...
In a caged fury proned to live yet not willing to forgive?

In such a Christless society having abortion on demand?
Hoping someday that all will truly understand the implications?
Heightened fears & worry of the day I prey;
Saturated with light with the willing hope by which to stay/

Images filled with braided women's hair in derision/

The fragments our collectively enhanced for its chosen dance


If they listen they will come;

Shattered fragments all in gloom/

Shelter lies dormant onto its beckoning call asunder Instead they push God aside with 
walls to hide in pursuit of pleasure ever more 
enhanced!

The prepare for the dance;

Primal decadence shaded briars to hide the eternal pain from within
Burdened soul in bondage within a cavity tooth in hue decayed form
Burdened soul in elapsed bondage with cavity in hue
Desolation & myraid temptess with gun for hire!

Vultures of darkness ate the crumbs you left
Got no place yet to retrace your steps
Lead it to me I'll take you home
Vanquished
For a real desire for more/
Yet for what I do not know?
Out in darkness one can negate to shine a visible light
In sadness sought to give up on the fight curse the night/
In sadness sought to give up on the fight
Still truth still negates the lie
The lie that says I am what I do ?
Some may even have bitten way more then they can actually chew?
Truth is turned to rubble strong
Out of words spoken in the dark it won't be long
Truth still negates the actual lie
Fear is constant source of will to triumph
Truth is strong rubble stregnth with legs to walk
Out of clear worrds spoken in the dark to light
Truth negates the lie
Amidst the sadness running circles in my fragile egg shelled brain
Patterns of worry lest of course I shall refrain a distant fervor
Fragments of weary traveler's embraced by sight in sunlight
Particles of dust although fluent from its eternal myraid pillage sought
Particles of dust although fluent from it's sought after cud
Truth in the end will save a weary soul in unrest
Let it go & turn it over to a higher source
The one who chose the one who gave his life to you
Just leave to him he'll take you home
Vulture's of darkness on a weary process
Strong in violence within viscious long hanging fangs that bite in the night !


Long poem by Mario Vitale | Details |

The

As an attempt, in the most philisophical sense.

A line was drawn in the sand yet filtered;
Through its etched silence within hand...

Amidst twilight with adjective faith will break the mends,

It is my hope that someday we will live to understand
~

Through its inner torn desolation marked on its blotted page yet fully intact

In its bitter silence shouts filled with laughter in fits of rage;
The ultimate decision based on the mere notion of commonplace.
Can we ever escape its soul vested trace;
Mark the man who is willing to explore hence the opened door,

An open door through its billows torn chase;

Among its pain a certain intellectualized gain lest I refrain.

To count the cost through its heart felt trade;
The ultimate decision amidst its fray
A cover that was once blown within its sequential way
Broad spectrum as an ellusive figure 
A tree with leaves blowing through its breeze
Some may make their beds while others simply lie in it
Simply put, we either will make or break our covenant
The ultimate desicions within life's means
It's a matter of life or death.

Count the cost

We often will let things fester too long

We trust in self to sing its gloomy song
We each need a tender shoulder to cry yet find none
We often slip away to into its crimesome tide that only blinds some;
We sit in idle turn to its words as if you haven't heard
We each mix viscious words that know it hurts
Yet do we ever count the cost
A given sense of logic torn across
Back alley decisions made in the dark
Having come full circle into its light
The to commonly shift toward its gloom & doom
A fatal lost story of remorse shall seal your tomb
We often get a little frantic in its complacency
We then reflect to look inward toward its choiced resolution
With a solemn word that was once spoken in the dark
Has now come fullest circle into the light
A peril vex sort proned into desolation
Count the cost when all of reason ceases to exist
It's either a hit or a miss?
An inward look at harmony marked on its blotted page intact
To its sequential hidden beast reality
In sore torn displeasure to numb its pain
We then look inward toward its choiced resolution
Was their a word spoken in the dark?
Has now come to the fullest of light
A peril vex proned to desolation!
Count the cost when all of reason ceases to exist
An inward look at harmony
In sore displeasure to numb at the influx of weather
Yet if we reach inside within its ability to hide
Behind the false hidden garb of compromise
Count the cost!


Long Poems