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Long Growth Poems | Long Growth Poetry

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

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Long Poems
Long poem by Vic Pister | Details |

When I Die

When my life has finally left me and my last breath has been shed
And the silver cord is broken and my bodies firmly dead
I shall hover near the body, download the scenes of this past life 
Noting all minutest details rolling backwards past my eyes

I’ll store these scenes ‘til later when I can take the time to learn 
What the lessons have to teach me and help me to discern
How I treated other people, made them happy, made them sad
Examine all my actions, both the good and the bad

Three days later I’ll lose interest as my focus moves away
From the world that I just left behind, there is no need to stay
For a lifetime in the life of man to God is just a day
And my soul as God on the wheel of life must move along its way

I’ll take the download with me as I move into first heaven
It’s the first stage in the afterlife, in number there are seven
Here I’ll see and feel the good things that to others I have brought
And revel in the feelings of the kindness that I wrought

I will store these in my seed atom so in future lives I’ll know
They’re the things that I must multiply for my souls’ conscience to grow
For the conscience is the souls’ voice that guides you day by day
That still small voice that warns you in what you do and say

When that’s done my view will shift then to the things that I did bad
To the hurt I did to people that left them feeling sad
I will feel their pain intensely, ten times worse when in this field
For I’ll be purely spirit now with no flesh for a shield

These painful lessons will imprint upon my seed atom as well
In some religions we are told our soul’s in everlasting hell
In the stages of the afterlife, this is your punishment in heaven
This is the third and the most painful of the total seven

The Grim Reaper now has visited with his scythe so I will know
Through natures Law of Consequence I will reap what I did sow
He has shown me all my misdeeds and caused me many tears
And this purgatorial experience may last for twenty years

When my suffering soul recovers and the pain has died away
And I’ve incorporated the lessons to never act this way
In future lives I’ll be a better man from these lessons I have learned
One step closer to perfection that my growing soul has earned

Now I can sleep, Oh peaceful sleep, a state of heavenly rest
I’ll dream the dreams I love in life, of things I love the best
All desires that my soul has yearned, not a thing I can’t create
In the Great Silence of the spirit world to help me concentrate

The colors are much brighter, the scent of flowers more sublime
The senses are much sharper, there is no sense of time
I will see all other people as pure souls just like me
And I’ll know we’re all evolving to the bliss of eternity

I will hear the mystic music of the planets as they pass
Like a thousand singing angels, heavenly peace has come at last
Every planet sings its own song, we’ve grown deaf to this below
But in this super consciousness we’re in the eternal flow

I’ll be with my friends and family and others whom I love
The ones who left before me and currently live above
There they wait with arms wide open and rejoice when I arrive
In the fourth stage where I now live, it’s utter joy to be alive

I’ve incorporated my lessons, I now recall my goal
And my mind begins to focus on further growth of my soul
I must make further preparations and my vision starts to clear
I feel I must keep moving forward for all my works done here

I now have gone through five and six, there is just one more 
In years it’s been from birth to birth one hundred forty four
The time has come to move along and leave this place called heaven
Prepare for life in the physical world, I move to number seven

My soul has gathered the material, I now know what I must do
To make some more improvements in the places I need to
I must take another body, I must live another life
To grow and liquidate more karma though it means more pain and strife

I build an archetype of the body that in future I will form
When embodiment is offered, and I can be reborn
I will see the opportunities and be able to discern
The ideal embodiment for me when the right egg meets the sperm

I will hover near the fetus, influencing where I can
And I’ll have the power to make it be a woman or a man
I will help to build the body to suit the lessons I must learn
To overcome more issues so more advancement I can earn

When baby takes its first breath and my soul is taken in
With the imprint of my seed atoms that it has brought within
Now the babys’ atoms resonate to my seeds vibration rate
Making it the perfect body for my soul to habituate

The new body will be my new home, I will live a life anew
Gain experience, learn more lessons, through the things that I will do
I’ll apply the added knowledge that I learned in this past life
More evolved than in the last one, and cause me less pain and strife

This will happen just as often as required by the soul
As it pushes ever onward, pushing ever t’ward its goal
Of complete re-integration back from whence it came
To the universal soul of life no matter what its name

Nature is not personal, it does not seek revenge
If we mess it up we have the chance to do it all again
We arrived here by this process, nothing’s changed it’s still the same
But our souls have evolved immensely since we stepped into the game

We started out as fallen angels with no experience on this plane
We’ve grown to this by coming back again and again
Though we cannot remember for each conscious mind has died
The feelings in the soul remained in our subconscious mind

And so this is the story of the cycle of the soul
As it struggles through evolution on its way toward the goal
It’s this way for all unfailing, from natures law there’s no relief
All living things go through it, no matter their belief

Long poem by Ravindra K Kapoor | Details |

Yoga in Poem A Novel Approach Step 6 Temporarily Last

Yoga in Poem A Novel Approach Step 6

Brahmari Pranayama or Humming Bee Breath

IMP. NOTE: Temporarily I am stopping new episodes 
of Yoga in Poem due to personal reasons and will try 
to restart Yoga in Poem at a later date…

How to do Brahmari Humming Bee Pranayama

Sit in Sukhasana (Step 1) or in Padmasana in the morning hours, if you have achieved easiness to sit in Padmasana or else sit in Sukhasana. It is important that while performing Brahmari your stomach should be empty and bowls clear. Sit erect while practicing Brahmari in a neat and clean, quiet and calm place preferably an open place.
Raise your both arms and bring your all four fingers as a screen on your eyes. Now close your ears by the tips of your thumbs in such a way that your index fingers are touching your eyebrows and the middle finger the inner corner of your both eyes and other two fingers rests on the slopes of your nose and face joints gradually.
Take a deep breath and fill your lungs with the fresh air and then exhale slowly from both the nostrils while creating a humming sound. At the time of doing this do not open your ears and keep pressing it gently so that your humming sound gets more clear and it create vibrations in your mouth, throat, ears, eyes and even other parts of your body ( this stage would come when you  practice this exercise regularly ) 
Try to creat the humming sound continuously as loud and  clear as possible for you. 


IN PRAISE OF BRAHMARI PRANAYAMA We all know and accepts The miracles of Sound On everything which Surrounds us. We live, we love, and we work We play and we laugh With one or the other kind of sounds Often We become harsh or soft Even we weep and sometimes We hate with some or the other kind of sounds only These are all the effects of Different Sounds Which make us What we are and what We become as a man or woman in life Kind hatred or benevolent A lover or a hater A teacher or a Poet, a writer or an artist or a Musician A leader or a preacher Or even A dictator or a Don. When sound comes From a serene source It binds the hearts Of millions And we began to love and adore That sound and even that source And keep it as a source of energy and joy. But when it comes from A biased mind and selfish source and Tries to destroy our peace And began to dictate us We feel fed-up To bear that sound And then we try To get rid of that source or sound. Brahmari or the humming Sound Is one such elegant self-music Which opens our heart and mind With its vibrations To fill life in those dead or sluggish Nerves and spine To restore The Melody not only In your voice but also in your heart and mind. Brahmari would Restore your love and even your confidence Thus Bringing your beloved more close to you And you to your beloved Which often Becomes a soft target of differences Because of Age effected unnoticed deeds and actions. Brahmari gives you the boon of Music and melody Even when age has taken you On the withering heights of life And You often find yourself standing alone Looking for someone to Restore your energy and mind. The miracles of Humming bee sounds Brings an instant coolness To your otherwise Anguished mind and heart Which began to enjoy The colors and moods Of Love and Life As A peaceful mind Is the dwelling place of heavenly gestures And even of God. The regular practice of Brahmari Balances your hormonal secretions Invigorating the thyroid gland And thus increasing your metabolism. Even Brahmari balances Your blood sugar and helps Oxidizes fats In our body and It completely removes the causes which Leads to the curse of human body The Migraine By giving you the joys and comforts of Relaxation which ultimately Soothes your Heart to pump more actively The fresh flow of blood To your nerves and mind Thus making your pressures To work happily Without crossing the limits Unless you have done some extreme wrongs. It’s a boon for those Who suffers from Diabetes and heart problems And a real gift of God For those who are in pregnancy As its wonderful effects on Human nervous system Effects the pituitary gland To balance the growth and control Of hormones in our body Thus the practice of this wonderful Pranayama Pave way for easy and trouble free Child birth or delivery. I often ponder What a treasure of blessings Yoga has given to the world and Has exposed In these simple and wonderful Breathing exercises To make every human being More befitting and joyous To enjoy the blessings of Nature And Thus elevating the human body to absorb The Beams of the Light and Love of God. Ravindra Kanpur 4th Aug. 2013
Duration: Not more than 3 to 5 times in a day in the beginning. Maximum 10 to 12 times only in a day without any force beathing or straining yourself. Precautions: 01. Never perform this Prayanama while you are lying down 02. If you are having any ear infection do not perform Brahmati till your ears get rid of all infections. 03. Do not hold your breath while doing Brahmari and Heart problem persons should do it under a trained instructor only. 04. Do not perform it when you are not empty stomach and try to perform it preferably in the morning/evening hours only. 05. If for any reasons you do not feel comfortable stop it and take few normal deep breaths IMP. NOTE: Temporarily I am stopping new episodes of Yoga in Poem due to personal reasons and will try to restart Yoga in Poem at a later date… My Gratitude Brahmari Pranayama is a boon for human being brought mainly in the lime light of the world by Swami Ram Deoji about 20 years back. Ravindra

Long poem by C. L. Thornton | Details |

His Nameless Horse

His Nameless Horse

The last horse my grandfather had
they shot one spring morning
behind the barn, in which it had 

lived for many years without a name.
Peach trees were in bloom, pink 
and striking, in chilly April air. 

It was an old horse, its backbone 
sagging like the roof of an old farmhouse;
it wore a gray matted coat of winter hair. 

Its mane was dry like a spray of weeds,
and its hoofs were ringed with tufts 
of dirty hair and bits of caked earth 

and dung; its long tail fell listless 
from its roughened rump 
like a cluster of coarse bailing twine.

It was the last morning of its life.
It had eaten its last oats and taken
its last drink of well-water.

My grandfather entered the stable
and led the horse out to the outside 
back pen. I followed behind as I had

so many times before. But that morning
the old horse walked with a limp
caused by a swollen, infected knee. 

Surrouding the pen on one side, I saw
the men standing, pressed agaisnt each
other, faces drawn like mourners.

Then I saw it, the familiar rifle, 
leaning against the weathered shingles, 
the small red box of bullets next to 

the butt. And I knew. I knew what 
the old horse did not know. In dread I ran
back into the barn. I knew what the old 

horse did not. And I pressed my hands
hars over my ears, and I waited. Waited
for the shot that would bring down 

the old horse I had befriended, the old horse 
I had talked to morning after morning,
the old horse I had fed pieces of carrot
and apple to; the gentle old horse whose 
knotted mane and tail I used to brush, 
the old horse I brought fresh water to 

on hot afternoons, the old horse I used 
to spread wood shavings over its stable floor. 
I waited. And I knew what the old horse 

could not know. I waited. And when 
I heard the shot, my knees buckled
and I jerked as if the bullet had entered me.

And I fell to the ground and I groaned
and I cried, and I kept my hands hard
against my ears, shaking my head

as if to dislodge the sound of the shot
that had filled my head and amplified. 
The old horse let out a sharp cry and fell 

with a hard thud, like a big bag of grain,
its knees buckling under its weight,
collapsing on itself, a pile of dead horse.

What hurt most that morning was 
my grandfather’s casual treachery –
not so much as a pat on the old horse’s

shoulder, not a word of farewell, no outward 
sense of loss or sadness, no tears. Only 
a cold guiltless betrayal, as it seemed to me.

And the men who had gathered there 
that morning, they had come to watch 
the killing. Did the old horse not recognize

their faces? Did it not wonder why 
they were there? Did it not see the rifle, 
the small red box of bullets? Could it not 

have surmised it was going to be shot,
and by the very hands it had trusted, 
the very hands that had fed and cared for it, 

that had spoken to it like a friend for so
many years; hands that had mended 
its harnesses, led it to pasture for so 

many springs and summers, had walked 
behind it for spring plantings, guiding 
the plough it pulled, breaking the dark 

earth into furrows, while the old man 
dropped pieces of cut potatoes in the furrows?
How could the old horse not have known?

And they roped the dead horse
to the tractor, the small hole in its
forehead still leaking blood like

a liquid red ribbon. They dragged 
its body to a secluded corner of the field
grown thick with greening yarrow

and new shoots of goldenrods, 
the men following behind, silent 
and solemn, to where the earth 

had already been gutted open, waiting 
like a gaping mouth to swallow 
the horse’s carcass: a large meal 

that would take years for the soil 
to digest, leaving only a small depression
and a stench of rotting flesh

escaping slowly through a growth
of prickly blackberry, purple vetch 
and swarms of buzzing insects.

The men stood silent and watched
the dead horse dragged and fitted
into the open grave. And they stood

around the grave gazing at the dead horse,
noting how neatly its body fit there.
Then, to my surprise, my grandfather 

removed his hat and stared pensively 
at the nameless creature he had killed,
the horse he had known for most 

of his old age, the horse that had
served him selflessly. And wiping his eyes 
with the back of his hand, he walked away.

Certain men then took up shovels 
and began to fill the hole; the others
following my grandfather to the house, 

talking in whispers, as if they had 
witnessed the burial of one of their own, 
one they would never see again.

And for as many springs as they might
live, they would talk about the old man’s 
horse, the horse without a name, 

the harmless creature they had come
to watch die on a chilly April morning 
when peach trees were in bloom.

Long poem by Patrick Sutton | Details |

A Tree

                                                                    you grow so tall
                                                 so green and wonderful and bold
                                your branches  look so chaotic        yet so perfectly shaped.
            You give me the air I breath,        and the shade I need,    to keep me cool on hot summer days.                        
I love to just sit under you                 and watch your sparkling leaves glisten
        in the light of the sun.
               Sometimes;         my whole day                 can be wasted just noticing in amazement
                                                                                                              the awesome power of you.
                         You withstand the wind and the rain and the snow 
    almost as if it's not a chore at all.         I think to myself how neat it is to be you,       to see             
centuries pass by               without a word;                      you deliver            to the newest   generation                 
admiring                                                       your qualities. 
                             I really like how      every day                you reach for the light of our star 
and never get to your goal,
             but that doesn't keep you from trying.        
                                                                        That's what more people in this world need,
dedication,        commitment,            understanding of what life gives us      and how we receive it.
       You know tree;               you give me hope     in the way        we      as humans can view life.
                        There is      a possibility                    that we              might just have a chance.        
                If more people would just stop           and see your accomplishments 
      It might just lead to something wonderful.           Maybe even inspirational.     
                But I'm not the type of person                        that will get my hopes up.  
                                       Perhaps in that                                         is where  human
                                           problem lies?             We believe    that we are the
                                             are the ultimate         earthbound entities. 
                                                When clearly                  it is you.
                                                                 You live longer
                                                                  grow taller
                                                               breath in that 
                                                              which animals
                                                              breath out.
                                                         You use the earth
                                                        for growth instead 
                                                       of covering up your
                                                      waste for the next
                                                     generations to take.
                                                  You supply the earth with
                                                  nutrients for the ground
                                               and atmosphere for the air.
                                            You create your own rain and 
                                             shade so you don't burn.
                                           You give shelter for mankind 
                                           and home for animals and birds.
                                        You are what mankind will never be.
                                   A Tree                    A Tree                      A Tree

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

Night Moods

Night Moods 

Stars weep, they cry in the night sky
for those who laugh in the light of day, 
yet, not with spirit, heart soul or eye.
They see not the game they play,
nor understand what laughter is about,
nor can they know what laughter is all about.


Some cannot see by the light of day,
only in the darkness of night can one say
they see all, for that is when the veil slips away
to reveal all that has been blinded by what may
lay before the mind’s eye in the bright light of day.

This night brings

This night, as so many have come before,
take flight – life / night, brings nothing more
than those that have been, will be born.
nights waiting, harbingers of the forlorn –
as I sit before this one eyed monster.
For life’s many moments – the creator
as we exchange glances, stare
into the abyss, the windows – and share – 
of each other’s lifeless soul,.
To learn, what ?, what is there to know !,?


Time’s light, dances across the crucifixion,
falls upon the cross, the spaces in-between
- two thousand years is where we have been -
and on towards the light of resurrection.
Springing out from that darkened cave,
came a man who was not, yet was brave.
I, and this place, in time, dance alone.
Then, as before, we were on our own.
Not once – by anyone – was it shown,
- nor by any means we have known, -
that the hearts who know and are known,
took the time, the thought to care,
or a fleeting moment, in which to share.

Passions lost to the past -
passed a long time ago

The childhood of Linda B

From the sickness of a father, came bricks !
From that denial by mother, came bricks !
From genetics, experienced sister, came bricks !
from the same, created brother, came bricks !
From fear, denial, burial, nothing will fix !
Walls, fences, barricades, road blocks does the trick !
The pain inflicted by the hands of father, brother,
perpetrated by sister, a blind eye, turned, by mother
have been the masons, laying all the bricks for this wall,
walls that have created the rough ride to your fall,
keeping you uptight, in fear of one and all.
Searching, finding, experiencing, all seem to lead back.
Throughout the years, nothing found to put you on track !

Reaching out – Touching

Grappling hooks tossed to the top of this wall 
- catch !, -, yet, are unable to pull it down.
not one brick comes lose, wall will not fall
to earth, will not touch the ground.
the attached rope, a possible means by which to scale.
with every attempt to climb over, to allow, doth fail’
Try, as one might, to scale these walls !
Try, as one might, to knock down these barricades !
Try, as one might, to go around these road blocks !
One finds these walls to high – far too high to climb,
the bricks, far to secure in their mortar to be dismantled,
the barricades, of cement, cemented in time – immovable,
the roadblocks stretching out into infinity, no way past.
All merging, meeting, greeting with restricting rejection.
Hands, thoughts, feelings protecting the soul, with a piece of cloth
that tells a story, has more to say then words ever can.
It prevents freedom, the motion of every man.


The bush within which I live, the wilderness of my life,
- life created by the hands of men, men I know not -
life created by the very hands of this man.
Wilderness lies all around me, in lifeless memory,
memories of a life lived in the realms of others.
A life once lived ?, now but a memory
of another life that overwhelms.


My heartache weeps, profusely, for you Melanie !,
knowing that my tears will never wash away
the pain, the fears you are feeling within your growth,
your understandings, your desires, your desire
to be needed, appreciated, loved and your need to be.
All I have to give you, is all the love that is within me
Melanie, and I pray that it is able to help you through,
allows you to see the roads clear, the paths far and near
and is able to allow you to set your soul free
and not to be waiting on life to happen,
waiting for life to ring.
Open the doors and, my Dear, sing !

B. J. “A ” 2
April 13th 2002

Long poem by Spenser Jones | Details |


God created hands for building things. Sometimes before you build something, you must first destroy something else.

Wildfires are never supposed to be put out. Their sole purpose is to burn the entire forest to the ground, transform living things to fertilizer, making room and preparing the soil for new growth.
It is almost paradoxical, 
that there must be death before birth

My hands have stared the grim reaper’s reflection inside the pool of my best friends blood. An old student I used to tutor told me that I am the best brother she could have asked for
She said she will always love me
This was after I burned every bridge that traversed the gaps between us
Stared at her from across her desk
Told her that she will never be my sister. That our bloodlines will never match.
Our gene pools are just strangers that made the same wrong turn.
I spent so much time trying to find my way back that I never realized I was home in being lost I found something comfortable, without expectations. I only corrected myself after she spoke,
because I heard something familiar in her voice.
She sounded like family.

I have the scarred and wrinkled hands of a senior citizen
I’m only 22 years old
I once got my palm read
This gypsy woman told me that my lifeline should have been cut short when I hit 17.
That was a year ago.
What do gypsies know anyway
I have defied the odds my entire life.
Been broke down and built back up too many times to count
My fingernails chewed raw to the cuticle out of anxiety
I enjoy the taste of my own pain
Sometimes I use my own hands to destroy myself just to see who my real friends are who will build me back up when I can’t do it alone

My hands have a desire to learn how to cook, but I’m not that great.
So when I am alone,
I tend to be hungry, not just for food though.
I starve for someone to talk to
It never satiates, because it’s not you.
I know what it tastes like to completely give myself to someone.
My biggest fear is being abandoned.
When I look into your eyes, I am not afraid.
I need to cook you up a feast of myself, then feed it to you every day for the rest of our lives
Please tell me what I really taste like,
Be honest.

Years after my grandfather passed away, my grandmother moved into my aunt’s house.
Since I was 5, every time I speak to her she asks me:
“Spenser, did you thank God for waking you up today?”
I think to myself, I never did tell my eyes to open themselves. It just happened.
So I don’t know how to respond to her correctly.
I tell her that I love her, that I am writing a lot.
She tells me that she puts her hands together for me every night
Prays that I will get the job I want
I guess some prayers do get answered.
Sometimes two hands in the right position, matched with a conversation with God,
Can change things.
I even accidentally call that place home sometimes.

My dream is that my hands evolve into wolves, become part of a pack and work together with other hands to make a difference
Some days they will be the alpha male.
Full of confidence, at the head of the pack
Other days I need someone to show me the right way to go
Because if I’ve learned anything
It’s that I am not always right
I can not always be in control of everything
The only thing I have ever really wanted is to know
That my hands were truly
A part of something.

Long poem by Cyndi MacMillan | Details |


                                                                                                    July 2000

It’s early morning, Sunday, midsummer. I have the kitchen to myself, and I decide to make an omelet from the brown eggs and farmer's cheese that I bought at the market, yesterday. The house is still, save for the sound of the fans and the occasional squeak of a floor board. I consider turning on the radio, but change my mind. How often do I allow myself silence? 

Tea is steeping, a blend called Nile Pearls, and the aroma of pineapple fails to overshadow the black currant. I’m still in my nightshirt. Day can wait. The view from my window makes me smile for my herb garden has gone quite riotous.  I decide to make my simple dish more flavorful. 

Pushing open the screen door, I pause, stretch and lift my face to the sun. The thermometer is sure to climb over 30 today but, right now, it is comfortable. Stepping off the deck, my toes are grateful for the coolness of the grass, the absence of tight shoes, those self-imposed feminine trappings.

my clean feet wet with dew – warm breeze
There is a feeling of sanctity, here. My garden is raised, built into a small hill that provides privacy, yet swallows yard space. I pause to sniff the lavender, let the week dissolve into soft, purple splendor. Pointless, really, to even try to ignore the rhubarb. It is a tyrant, defying borders, refusing to compromise its position. Enormous leaves rustle and I grin as a chipmunk streaks for the cedar hedge. I close in on the herbs, consider my options and snap off several long, verdant spikes. Close to fields, we have had our share of visitors, small frogs, grass snakes, rabbits, red tailed hawks, the occasional raccoon. Nature is taking back the encroachment of suburbia. I rip off a mint leaf, finger its fur and a movement catches my eye.
through thyme a snail inches towards my sundial
There is no artifice in dawdling. Often, I think that my small plot of land is enough for me. No adventure to the far East, no sabbitical on a windswept isle off the coast of Wales. Pleasure, riches, surround me. Perhaps, I will never see the Louvre, but then, in small ways, the Louvre visits my plain home.
a spider's web and my clothesline tangled
The neighbours tolerate my brown thumb, our patchy lawn and my horrid bird calls. They have witnessed the earth under my fingernails, encrusted knees , those afternoons I spent coddling seedlings. One keeps gifting me surgical gloves, a nurse who fights weeds with an antiseptic resolve. The gloves pile in a drawer, unused. I gaze at my roses, notice the gnawed growth, wonder who thinks them delicious. Smart wee beastie. The street is stirring, and my sojourn will end, soon.
the widow next door refills her new bird bath - empty nest
I search for a cloud, find one so far away that it appears otherworldly. Peat and black soil perfume the air. Inhaling, I accept a gentle invasion, a piercing that brings a deep sense of purpose and peace. For just one moment, I feel that I am not walking the earth at all, but that somehow, as impossible as it seems, the Earth just began to move within me. *written May 2013. I miss my herb garden!

Long poem by Shadow Hamilton | Details |

The Little Fir Tree

There was a plantation of fir trees
for some unknown reason, most of them
were three to four years old but one
It was only in its first year of growth

When Christmas drew near, the loggers came
and started to cut down some of the oldest
The little fir asked what is going on?
the other trees said its Christmas time

They will be taken into people's homes 
then they will be decorated and lit up
parcels at their feet sharing the joy
of Christmas, a real honour to be chosen

I want to be a Christmas tree said the fir
you are much too young and far too little
they take most trees when they are four
you will have to wait and do some growing

I want it to be spring it said not winter
then I will be able to grow big like you
soon the loggers had finished cutting down
now there were large gaps in the rows

The little fir thought lots of sun helps
at last the spring came and with it growth
the little fir stretched as high as it could
filling out as it reached upwards for the sun

In the morning men came and started to plant
soon there were lots of little trees around
one worker said strange there is one little one
should we cut it down, no leave it to grow bigger

The little fir grew all through the summer
enjoying the hot lazy days while it could
it saw many changes over the weeks and months
as autumn passed away the land cooled down

Then came the snows of winter, a blizzard or two
the snow lay heaped around the little fir's roots
It will soon be time for the loggers to come
then all us four year old's will be Christmas trees

I wish I could be a Christmas tree like all of you
you will have to grow a lot more before they take you
the little tree sighed, it so badly wanted to be one
next day the loggers came and took the older trees

Once more the rows looked very bare and also bleak
the little tree hunkered down to wait for spring
then one day a little girl and her dad came
they walked down the rows looking at all the trees

That one she shouted dad, pointing at the little fir
it is rather small, would you not like a bigger one
no, no, said the little girl that one is perfect
I can reach to do most of the decorating of it's branches

Fantastic thought the little tree, I am a Christmas tree
they gently cut it down and carried it to their truck
when they got home they put some growth power on the base
and planted it in a great big pot that was a shiny red

The tree looked around the room in awe struck wonder
there were flashing lights around the snowy windows
cards strung over the fire mantle so very colourful
streamers hung from corner to corner looking so gay

Then they started to put baubles, tinsel and lights
and a lovely angel to go on the top it felt so good
at last the little fir would know what Christmas
was like, it watched all the fun as the presents

Were passed around and eagerly opened with sighs
and shouts of delight, the tree smiled at their joy
now finally they sat down and ate their dinner
with many toasts being passed, at last it was over

Then next day they took the little fir outside
and put it in a cold frame to protect it for the winter 
oh wow it thought I will be a Christmas tree again next year
and so the little fir tree got it's dearest wish

written 12/20/2013 

contest Tell Me A Story

Long poem by Samir Georges | Details |


It has come to be
such that we are risen
from the fabric of sustenance formed,
come to be
that there resides a structure
so rarely formed
beneath humble conditions
of stagnation and retention
in which the atom has come to grow,
from substance develop form.

These hands and flesh,
this fire and zeal that from absence flared,
grand constructs
that like others absorb
reforge, and retain.
How is it then, that matter has come to converse,
reproduce, recreate?
How is it that from this ore I make civilization,
how is it that from the space about I unsheathe sword?
And all that is within our reach
is like a sea of humble play dough
that yet threatens to drown us out.

So we are atoms that can reforge
In their own image remake,
look at the bonding of tree
and see with these curious eyes
a fortress, a stake.

Humble little cretins that scurry beneath the sky,
bitter little sprites stung deeply by defeat.
Lo it is only human
to suffer, to fall, to writhe
to cry out in supplication and victory all the same.
Human to take joy, roar with passion,
intent, to savor fragrance and flight
fervent upon our plight.

Yet look only to your nearest possession,
your last sentiment, harbored gift,
you who will one day possess the stars
you who have laid claim upon all
and it rests so easily in your palms.

And who
but the gods
was made to anguish?
Who but the gods
rose to care?
Who but maker, master
from mere hands create?
We stand above all else the makers of fire,
thunder, the benders of substance and form.
Young Zeus and kin,
milling subtly beneath the ire of titans,
our parents the sun, the earth, the depth of space;
in innocence shying away from our birthright
yet dare I claim what is ours:

Look only to your hand, the length of your sight,
the depth of your heart.
Look next upon the fated atom, the collapsing star,
the waning giant.
See then your magnitude,
young God astride the Earth.

See then that immortality is but the guile of innocence,
a child’s dream upon the night.
Here we are, learning to stand
our gaze locked surely to the maw of defeat,
we know that all there is must crumble,
we know that all we touch must change,
we know that we are shaper, sculptor 
not sacred nor divine.
Nothing but the children of stars,
birthed upon their godhood
and we need only claim our death,
stare down our demise,
learn that godhood is not given or granted
but once upon a twinkling star
comes birth and growth and complex form,
though tiny and frail it may be
has come to hold all the structures within me
that love and laugh and dream to see
the skies above so dark and clear,
it draws my gaze and thrills my depths
with the seduction of silence it calls me near.

The many gods of humankind,
yet too busy upon their strife
battling over mother’s teat.
I wonder if you will grow soon,
crown yourselves king,
stand tyrant before that which is free,
and how long till we relinquish this potential
before the certainty of matter?
How long till we truly learn
that gods are by their own substance humbled,
that gods are by their flesh curtailed,
nothing more than ashes
that before a star had flared.

Long poem by Therese Bacha | Details |

Today We Are In Love

  ~Today We Are In Love~

We are in love since 43 years: 
Today we know how to get back to the way we used to be 
by removing our internal bleedings.
Love today as it is a present from God if not our now can 
disappear when we are not there and that now will be lived 
without memory.

We are in love. 
Today our hunger for each other will grant our shadows never 
to be separated.
Today we are in love as we cannot live without it,every night 
our craving to be in bed together is never ignored.
Now our given love is immeasurable immortal sacred miraculous 
full of passion voluntarily.

Our Love today has the strength and beauty 
that would never die.
Our Love Today could light each others lanterns 
with our flaming kisses when our hearts 
might feel the darkness arrival.

Today we could have a life with a remarkable strength 
run together towards the ocean lie on the wet sand hand in hand 
allow one wave to engulf us 
to the unknown.

Today we could save each others souls 
when needing protection & patience 
time will heal all our anxieties 
by allowing our future to
never work against us. 

Today we will stop grieving over 
our past unhappinesses when we are together 
but live in the present not to allow it to escape us.
Today we could love our love that 
is durable & not forget to watch 
each others eyes and lips craving to be together 
linger through that journey to a future 
that never existed before.

Today we will think just to remember 
our living moments cling to our life 
and make it easier to breath.
Today our love will venture to drink from the fountain of lovers 
laid under the nightingales branches 
while singing a melody of love.  

His voice his face his eyes urges me to vow and bow
tell him how much I love him, I want him to listen
to the echo of my voice forever repeating 
you are my spirit my soul
my whole existence without you 
i prefer to melt into ashes.
We are in love since 43 years:                             
At this stage our love could breath and not suffocate 
feel the freedom of the moment 
freedom of smelling the earth 
freedom of feeling the heat 
freedom of imagining the gift of beauty in having choices 
to be cuddled as we are feeling younger 
and so deeply in love.                                   

We will sleep just to dream how growth is so exquisite 
as they leave traces in the mind,which will develop into 
engraved images. 
Today our love will feel life to be so intense 
when we are lucky to watch the birds 
arriving from a long journey craving to rest 
on top of our nest: why? 
we know they sense a connection 
which is our love. 

Today is why our life combined with our love 
is so precious full of hope & love 
passion & compassion
with tears of joy
caressing our lips.

Now at the end of this wise philosophy of how to be in love 
we both wish all lovers to reach out for the rainbow 
to color their colored existence 
when in love.

                                                                         Therese Bacha  Win. No. 4
 Best Love Poem contest for PD.                             12/5/2012

Long Poems