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abortion absence
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Long Hero Poems | Long Hero Poetry

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

See also: Famous Long Poems

Long Poems
Long poem by Cyndi MacMillan | Details |



Near somber guards, units of children heap 
dead leaves, naive to any else fallen.
Friend, you chuckle, but your posture speaks
of duty on this day of contradictions.

Firefighters bow heads in silent paean, 
while polished trucks stand at attention.
Families have again answered the call
to attend this festival, so uncommon.

Here, laughter rings around the memorial
for exuberance must never be doused,
Gloriously wrought, a sculpture of angels
commiserates with each mourning house.

You say, I see valor in lives that inspire.
 I see heroes and their lines of fire.

*For Craig


Surreal, the way a contortionist knots
himself as the escape artist breaks free.  
Uptown, buskers beckon with what-naughts,
drawing thousands. Candyland, sighs New-Dali

at its epicenter, his true element,
and he takes it in: the sword swallower,
blindfolds, jugglers, clowns miming laments,
fire-fed gals, stilted-men and tots taller 

on shoulders. This carnival can endear,
turn heads, but only one with a seer-heart
studies the music box dancer, then swears
that she spins perfect webs with street-smarts.

Mirroring that swivel, awed by his entourage,
He becomes centrum to his own collage.

*For Chan, fully alive in Heaven.


Your brows are up. The Princess Cinema
is not your choice. C'mon, I don't fit here,
you snort. You, with all your charisma 
and kindness, stand in a short line, fearing

boredom or worse ... pretense. Promise me,
that we aren't about to wallow through
subtitles, you sigh.  Give me clarity,
a story, something that I can relate to.

But the charm catches you by surprise,
a star-struck atmosphere, the seats are new
and the popcorn is still warm. Friendly eyes
laugh, then amusement streams from you

for these Global TV spots simply delight
like each snippet that you joyfully write.

*For Andrea


There be Scots as farrrrrr as the eye can see.
Brawn calves and bright kilts delight lasses 
while pipers swagger out of the pub, tipsy.
Your smile broadens as a caber is tossed

end over end. Then, across the glen, highland                      
dancers in ghillies beckon with hearty flings.
Auch, it’s hot yet heather dare no’ wilt. Clans
gather, roguishly rib each other, as wool spins

in wheels. Aye, the romance can fair overwhelm
e’en the sensible. Worse for we, the fanciful. 
Come, here’s the tea tent. Let soft fiddles calm
as we nibble oatcakes. Tartans and tunes pull

heartstrings. We sit raptly, lost in Brigadoon,
put pen to napkin to let wee thistles bloom. 

* For Francine


Rustling maples break vows of silence,
naturally. As pleased, spears of hyacinth  
worship breezes with such soft reverence
that we give pause in this living labyrinth. 

Nothing here is still; wood thrush reverb
good news and cicadas buzz testimonials.
Nearby, a creek mumbles, Word-Word
while squirrels glorify their bounty. All

is abuzz with joy, save for the shade
under a weathered cross; it’s emptiness
resurrects veneration. A butterfly wades
the sudden hush, lands on your hand, nests.

My friend, you lift it to wood, sympathizing 
on bent knee, speechlessly evangelizing. 

*For Brian


Your eyes drink the hues of the Shisha Lounge:
art on walls, art brewing over charcoal.
This coffee ceremony is on the fringe,
far from the pallid and staid. I’ve marveled

at these dear blends, how culture can transcend 
barriers and ignorance. We order too much.
Tibsy, zignie, timtimo.. injera bends 
to each spiced delicacy as our plates touch. 

Gone is this haven where pleasure was shared.
Still, I’ll bring you there. Scribe, man of integrity,
sit with me. Exhale poetry. Imbibe tribal air. 
Mine, this moment and mine, this memory

but that mystifying brew, that receptive floor,
the smoke refined by deep respect… each are yours.  

*For my cuz, Scribe


A warbling vireo hops from oak to elm.
Your gaze wanders, too. This amphitheater
hosts the lyrical, almost overwhelms,
for beyond the mill ruins, the Grand River

is deep in thought, reflecting. It’s as though myth
lives; Summerland has come to the hillside 
where weathered fieldstones beguile the impish
to dance. They do or else tin flutes will chide.

Though cozy the spot,  the world's at our feet.
Tanned toes can not help but tap. Strong is the lure
of pipes and those songs that dulcimers keep.
When night softly falls, one group brings rapture. 

They sing until stars tire and all are hoarse
like poets rousing words to supplicate verse.

*For Carrie


Pure pageantry, how publishers' banners
wave over tents. Flocks of readers graze
on glossy trades, leaflets, hardcovers,
chapbooks. My friend, a true gent, stays
his ground. Maybe, it is the press of page;
Its forthright weave petitions for slants,
favors unique fonts, yet gilds no edge,
sees no need for illustration, just verdant
language. I did not intend to read
over his shoulder. He grins good-naturedly,
tweed makes an allowance. Each line, poetry,
he praises and I still my chatter. We feed
on gems, unrushed, but their brilliance spurs
a verbose woman and a man of his word.

*For David

Copyright © Cyndi MacMillan

Long poem by Robert Candler | Details |

The Sooner Recruit

Fifty years, boy and man, I’ve been a Sooners fan;
And watched thousands of recruits try to make my Sooners Team.
Often, I’ve enviously wondered what it must be like
To be a touted Sooners recruit, living out his dream.

He’d had a great career through high school;
Made good grades, was a football star, played baseball too.
Coach said college recruiters were watching closely;
So, he tried his very best to make his dream come true.

You see, he’d played on the L’il Sooners as a kid;
Started getting serious about the game when he was only eight
Played with older, bigger boys and practiced hard;
Always told his friends, “To be a Sooner, ya gotta play great”.

Oh yes, his parents raised a football player;
And, even more important, a Sooners fan;
But he wanted more, to be a Sooner,
To feel the glory raining down from the stands. 

Now, the Sooners’ Head Coach is in his living room.
“Son, you’ve got talent.  We think you fit our scheme.
We’re offering you a scholarship, an opportunity
To be an important member of our great Sooners Team”.

His mother smiles her biggest smile.
His father nods proudly and pats him on the knee.
“Lord knows, son, it’s a dream come true.
Go be the very best Sooner you can be”.

He walks into the locker room,
Not quite sure what to expect;
But sure that to play for the Sooners
He will first have to earn respect.

He looks each man straight in the eye - 
Other recruits, trainers, assistants, and every coach.
“Be proud, but respectful”, his mother had said;
Your character, more than your performance, must be above reproach”.

His handshake is firm and he smiles.
“Only one chance for a first impression”, his father had said;
"Always put yourself in positive light, on and off the field.
That’s what it will take to play for the mighty Big Red”.

He meets so many other recruits, each one a high school star.
He’s played against a few and knows they share his dream.
And, to a man, each knows before any chance for Glory,
He first must prove worthy to play for this Sooners Team.

He knows a few will fail to meet the coaches’ expectations.
For some, the scout team will be their fate.
Many will suit up, but rarely play.
Only the very best will ever dare to be great.

Coach says, “If every man learns and executes when called on,
Then this team, we Sooners, will win a lot of games;
But, win or lose, if you play hard and give your very best,
You’ll never have to hang your heads in shame”.

“But gentlemen, with or without you, this team will win.
Every season, the Sooners strive to win it All.
So, listen, work hard, and prepare yourselves.  Each game is war...
And you must be ready when Victory calls”.

Through grueling practices, he finds himself.
As he walks to class, his closest friends are aches and pains;
But, just the other day, Coach helped him up, smiled, and patted his helmet.
“You’re doin’ fine, son.  Keep pushin’.  Remember, no pain, no gain”.

He sees his name on the "open scrimmage" roster for the very first time.
It’s a moment he’ll never forget, another milestone in his dream.
He calls his Mom and Dad, knowing they’ll tell his family and his friends.
He hopes they’ll actually see him play, proof he’s made the Team.

As he suits up for the last pre-season open scrimmage,
He wonders if the coaches would really let a freshman play at all;
But Coach puts him in for eight plays against the first team;
He makes two great open-field tackles and intercepts the ball.

He barely hears the roar of the crowd, as the whole defense “gives him five”.
He’s so excited, he forgets to ask if he can keep that ball.
Fans are buzzing, “Did you see that hit”!?  “Who is that kid”!?
“Will he red shirt or will Coach let him play this fall”? 

He sees his name in the Sunday paper, hears it on local sports.
He’s happy, but he doesn’t let it go to his head.
He keeps his focus and uses it as motivation.
After all, he wants to start one day for the mighty Big Red.

Yes, we’ll hear more of this young recruit.
Perhaps, one day he’ll be the hero of the game.
A seasoned veteran, maybe All Conference or even All American,
Who’s tasted Victory many times and helped glorify the Sooners’ name.

Oh yes, there have been so many who’ve aspired;
But many fewer who’ve actually made our Sooners Team.
They are our heroes, each and every one;
For it’s through their accomplishments, we fans can live the dream.

Billy Vessels, Steve Owens, Billy Sims, and Jason White,
The Selmons, Little Joe, the Boz, Josh Heupel, and “Q”
They, and so many others, were once touted Sooners recruits;
Who set a higher mark and built the Tradition that is OU.

So, c’mon! c’mon! all you great young football players!
Dedicate your talents to OU’s Team and OU’s Fans.
Make Oklahoma’s Owen Field your Field of Dreams,
And feel the Glory raining down from the stands. 

Copyright © Robert Candler

Long poem by Nola Perez | Details |


My father died prematurely while away on 
a business trip from a rogue blood clot to the heart  
I never doubted he loved me, would have liked me, 
(not the same thing), adult to adult, provided I 
was not too strong a woman for him.  He was difficult-- 
a Henry VIII of the times, two divorces, a first wife 
we never knew, one from my mother when I was six, 
then heated voices from their bedroom with a third, 
heard in darkness beyond my door, hands over my ears.  
But, he was DADDY. the god-like person who emceed 
his daughter's birthdays, planned games, gave out prizes, 
while a backstage stepmom provided cake.  Cake 
mistress, fond father.  Thus, I learned to turn to men.

Tennessee Williams wrote, "My sister was quicker
at everything than I."  I was like that, maybe not quicker 
than my brothers, but quick to fall in love with cities,
objects, water anywhere: tide pools, oceans, rivers,
mountain streams, stately geese, lake ducks in queues,
the vermillion of winter sunsets, purity of cumulus 
in a summer sky, the scarlet flash of a cardinal from tree 
to tree.  Good luck, always, but with bad luck, I always 
fell in love with impossible men, ones who left me, or I left 
them.  The husband who stayed? He was the true one.  
Then, there was Mr. K, my high school principal, a dead ringer 
for Thomas Wolfe, with whom the girl I was must have
thought she could go home again.  His costume
"de rigueur" was a rumpled white shirt, black trousers
splayed with chalk dust, coal black hair, and an imposing
presence no one took issue with, maybe not even his
British wife, teaching English in the same school.

I sent him my poems by a classmate to his office, too shy 
to deliver  them myself.  Years later, "Poetry mash notes,"
a colleague said, inciting laughter in a poetry audience with 
whom I shared my youthful infatuation, the energy lingering 
long after he signed my graduation diploma, because Yes, 
he read my poems, and Yes, I sat dazzled in his English Lit 
class to "Beowulf," "Chaucer," and the Shakespeare plays we
took turns reading aloud.  When he chose another to read
Portia instead of me, "for her gentle voice," I was devastated,
yet when a boy spoke out in class to criticize my poems:
"No one can understand what she writes," Mr. K. replied 
"On the contrary, she writes about very complex things with 
very simple language."  This praise never left me.

Years after, moving to Atlanta with my husband and small
children, our paths crossed again.  Living there 
at the same time, Mr. K. and I found each other in an 
Episcopal parish, its satisfying high-church "smells and bells" 
the only show in town, "Spiky," his wife said.  There, our
friendship deepened, until Mr. K. moved to England with his wife, 
she returning home to complete the cycle, finish out the years 
at point of origin. We do go home again, Thomas Wolfe not-
withstanding, as did I, seeking toward close of life 
the comfort and substance of birthplace.

Mr. K. returned occasionally to Atlanta for a visit with his son.
He would call me, and it was then that we met for dinner,
most often at Zazu's an intimate bar and restaurant on Peachtree.  
What did we talk about sitting across a table from each other?
I do not now remember, but once I observed him glancing at
his aging hands and comparing them to mine, younger by a few,
completely irrelevant years.  I once asked him as he entered
his later years if he ever felt "old."  He said No, he felt the same
as he always had.  This was a revelation: I imagined people 
felt as old inside as they looked.  This is not the case, as 
I was to discover in my own lifetime.

On one evening I did not know would be the last time, Mr. K.
and I sat in my car in darkness after dinner in front of his son's
house.  As he prepared to leave, he said, "I don't know how I shall
get along without you, though I've been without you all these
years.  We never touched, save in the bond of friendship, and more's 
the pity.  Some time passed.  I wrote a letter to Mr. K.and his wife.  
It was returned unopened with a message on the envelope, 
"Both deceased."  In my car, then, that last night, it was Adieu -- 
To God, not Au Revoir.  Now, with "All time, all attitudes washing 
away," as I wrote in a poem called "Fernandina," he lives 
in the room in the heart where no one enters but me.
No need for a phone call.  I hold the key.

Copyright © Nola Perez

Long poem by Isaiah Zerbst | Details |

Kate and Isobel

*There are only two damsels in this tale; all variations were simply for ease of writing.

Once Kate and Isabella went
To see the pretty fields of Gwent
And traipse through forest shade
They packed a picnic lunch for two
And skipped away in dresses blue
To find a charming glade

First tea and cakes, then off to play
They laughed and wandered all the day
'Till day was waxing faint
Then homeward faced, linked arm in arm
With never fear to cause alarm
Nor caution bring restraint

Alas! Alas! there lay a hole
With plot to swallow heart and soul
One golden-headed girl
That wretched hole may death berate
And end of being imprecate
That vile, vicious churl!

"Oh, help me, Kate!" cried Isobel
But fingers slipped and in she fell
'Mid shock and disbelief
Then Isabella, far below
Called, "Quickly, Katie! quickly go
For aid and sure relief."

Then Katie knelt beside the brim
Once sparkling eyes with tears aswim
And said, "I'll here remain."
But Isobel at once demurred
"Oh, Kate, some help must be secured
I cannot move for pain."

So off she went and searched around
But not one soul could there be found
Nor ever likely step't
She stopped awhile to sit and rest
Her folded hands to bosom pressed
And there she softly wept

A mounted knight then riding by
Beheld her tears and heard her sigh
And off his palfrey lit
Said he, "Fair damsel, golden-haired
Such doleful frame must be repaired
So speak thou whilst I sit."

"Alas, good Knight!" quoth woeful Kate
It may, I fear, be just too late
To save my friend to day
With haste, good knight, come, follow me
And see if succour yet may be
Oh, help me, knight, I pray."

The knight bestrode his lofty seat
Then set her aftward nice and neat
And off they set at trot
The knight she held with firmest hold
'Till at the pit both dark and cold
They Isabella sought

While night sped on at rapid pace
The knight set out to win the race
And save the damsel whole
A rope he from his saddle fetched
And tree to Isabella stretched
Then clambered in the hole

Right down the rope he quickly swung
And to her side he deftly sprung
He raised her from the dust
He tied a rope from waist to waist
And she her arms about him placed
In sweet, confiding trust

A span or two to hand he climbed
With Isabella right behind
'Till safety was secured
Then Kate and Isobel embraced
Said Kate, "What awful things you faced
And terrors you endured!"

Well, this was Isobel's reply
"Oh, Kate, I should not tell a lie
In word or even deed
Except to brave that curséd fall
It really was not bad at all
I knew you would succeed."

Then to the knight she turned and saith
"I thank thee, Knight, by all my faith
For saving me this night
Thus here I give my ring to wear
And trust that ye might ever fare
As well in ev'ry fight."

Then quoth the knight, "Thy ring I take
With faith that it myself will make
A nobler, better man
To fight for justice, truth, and peace
In hope that vice and evil cease
In ev'ry way I can.

"But let us neither tarry long
For hark! the cricket's evening song
Pervades the damp'ning air
So let me take thee, damsel, home
'Twould never do to leave thee roam
On halting legs to there."

Thus Isobel his palfrey rode
While Kate and he beside her strode
Right to their township sweet
"'Tis Belle and Kate!" the watchman called
And quickly down the drawbridge hauled
That they their kin might meet

The threesome turned from roads away
To streets of black and muted grey
'Till safely home at last
"Oh, praise the Lord," quoth Isobel
That though some trouble us befell
Those troubles now are past!"

"'Tis not so true," quoth Knight with grin
There yet remains to get thee in
And halting legs at that."
Then from the palfrey off she slipped
The knight her falling figure gripped
And bore her o'er the mat

His burden carried up the stairs
'Mid father's, mother's wond'ring stares
And gently placed in bed
Her father asked her why he came
She said that she was nearly lame
And dizzied in the head

At that he wished the knight to stay
But through the dark he rode away
His lamp the crescent moon
And though he had some deed to do
Those pretty maidens somehow knew
The knight would see them soon

Copyright © Isaiah Zerbst

Long poem by Kim Patrice Nunez | Details |

BLOODLESS - Tale of a Hero and the People He Died For

You knew you were going to die. 1
And yet you came, thinking no matter how insane,
the man on the seat of power would never want you dead
… it would be too much on his head.

And so you came, and there in the brightness of the day
they took your life away, on the tarmac… in broad daylight. 2
I was too young to  fully understand, and yet I cried  -
The greatest leader we never had, the greatest leader we needed to have … died.

August 21, 1983 was a day of ignominy.
The nation suffered from shamed infamy;
Too many people, not just one witness,
yet not anyone saw, everyone was witless.

The world mocked our country of too little people.
Seemed all we could do was pray on the steeple,
we were hopeless, hopeless…helpless…
Quo vadis, Filipino?

The tide of justice was slow in turning,
even though on the streets, one felt intense mourning.
Peace loving people were silently seething,
faithful and compliant, yet inwardly…defiant.

Seventeen years seemed still not enough,
the man on the throne just couldn’t give up;
With close-knit advisers, and media sanitizers -
If one contradicts, he sees the gunpoint…with silencers.

What must have you felt the days after you left? 
Did you think we were too blind, too mute and deaf?
Took almost three years for us, to finally get our act
I guess we were too set in our ways, too afraid…to react.

What the man in power and his cronies up the tower.
must not have considered… are the new movers and shakers.
There was only so much we could take…
There was only so much we could tolerate…

February 25, 1986 was the day we started to fix 3
the road of our shamed history. 
It was the day People Power came to be
the man in power was kicked out from tower
as ordinary citizens , nuns and everyone
faced his armed men aboard the tanks.
People unarmed, just some bottled water, 
a few sandwiches and bunches of flowers.

It was the day we looked up the sky, 
offered a fervent gratitude to heaven’s door -
and told Ninoy…thank you for believing 
“The Filipino is worth dying for”. 4

History Notes:

1. Benigno "Ninoy" Aquino, Jr., then senator and leading opposition leader (to Pres. Ferdinand Marcos, Philippine dictator who was in power 1965-1986) was advised  by the First Lady not to come back from 3-year exile in the USA, as there was a plot to assassinate him. As to whose plot, it was not clarified.

2. Manila International Airport, right after he went out of the airplane. Media took photos from the window.

3.  There was so much social unrest, and Cardinal Sin, through the radio and other respected media men, finally appealed to all people to go out and stage a massive peaceful protest with people making human barricade against the tanks in EDSA Avenue, Metro Manila's main thoroughfare. No one was killed. Ninoy's wife Cory Aquino who won the election, took the oath of office. The People Power Revolution, the first of its kind, in the Philippines and in the world, was eventually copied by France and other countries.

4. Ninoy Aquino, in an interview a few minutes before he left the plane to his death.

31 July 2015

Copyright © Kim Patrice Nunez

Long poem by Brenda Meier-Hans | Details |

Daniel the Conqueror

In a land far away was a family with two boys
The oldest loved sports the youngest only toys.
You should be like your big brother the father would always say
It’s time for you to toughen up and leave this childish play.
Yes Quinton was a fighter, loved games of every sort,
But nothing did he want to do more than play a sport.
Daniel he was meek and mild a softie like his mother
He hated when his dad would say, “Be more like your brother.”
Hurt and down he took a walk up on a rocky hill
Throwing stones hard at the water, he let his anger spill.
Why doesn’t my dad love me? Into the air he cried,
Kicking rocks with fists curled, tight against his side.

Meanwhile on an island far across the sea
A leader spoke to the animals, almost like a plea.
Legends say a leader from mainland shall appear 
A strong and faithful warrior, a boy that has no fear.
How shall we find this man child? Asked the animals out loud,
We’ve never seen a human said a yearling really proud.
The Albatross said strong and brave, I will bring him here
I know he isn’t very far, I feel his presence near.
The bird flew out across the sea searching high and low
Wondering where he’d find him, the boy they needed so.
There; high up on a hill side a warrior stood so tall,
He knew it was the chosen one, for he could hear him call.

Now in a flash he swooped down, grabbed Daniel real fast
The albatross was thinking, I’ve found the boy at last.
Daniel he was screaming as he dangled by one leg
Flying over water yelling let me go I beg.
As they neared the island, the animals all gathered round
Watching as the big white bird, let their hero down.
Welcome said a racoon, we’ve waited here so long
Today we’ll have a party, let’s fill the woods with song.
They sat all night telling horrible tales of an enemy they feared
And all felt a little safer now that Daniel had appeared.
I’m not the hero you think I am, there’s been a bad mistake
And a little bunny looked at him, you must be for my sake.

Daniel fell in love that night with all his new friends here
None of them made him feel bad, they made him feel so dear.
For their sakes I must beat this foe, an enemy, a disgrace 
Making sure he never comes back to this peaceful place.
For days they planned together, what everyone would do
And when the varmint showed up they stood up to him too.
Instead of running and hiding, they stood together tight 
The badger lost the battle and ran home fast that night.
The wise old owl thanked Daniel for ridding the beast at last
Conquering their worst enemy, who now is in the past.
On wings of love the hero left his friends on the islands strand
When Daniel went back home that day, he had become a man.

The moral of my story? With a little love and trust,
Everyone can be a hero, we are more than clay and dust.
Written by Brenda Meier-Hans 
Carol Eastman’s Contest: 
Fable to the Rescue 

Copyright © Brenda Meier-Hans

Long poem by Loch David Crane | Details |

Siegfried and the Uniq-Horn

Siegfried and the Uniq-Horn
by Loch David Crane, "The Magic Santa Claus" 
October 10, 2003       

This is the story of the Unicorn,	
of Siegfried and his friend Roy Horn.
These immigrants first met on a cruise ship 
and formed the bond of a lifetime trip.

Magicians, not stewards, would they be
inspiring audiences like you and me.
One was with animals always kind;
and the other could fool the human mind.

Siegfried grew a golden mane,
but never a cat or dog could tame;
his talent lay in illusion grand
with mystical SARMOTI hand.

While Roy would blossom on the stage
'cause he could train anything from a cage.
When Roy's cats would poop out on the front lawn,
Siegfried could clean up with a wave of his wand.

Roy's love was so great he would cuddle the cats,	
ride 'em and kiss 'em and pet 'em like that--
but even in play a Unicorn
can accidentally slash you with his horn.

The two were a beacon of onstage intensity
who altered Las Vegas in the Twentieth Century.
They saved Bengals and lions and preserved the pride
and respect for performing cats worldwide.

Brave Roy and Siegfried illuminated a hall	
riding tigers in circles on a great mirrored ball.
An army of soldiers would march 'round their stage
and tame down a dragon from spitting his rage.

Six thousand performances with hardly a scratch
as the people in anticipation would watch:
the way they watch racing and boxing and sports
to see which brave performer gets his in the shorts.

The morbidly well-dressed are a curious thing,
and for decades they've made Vegas registers ring.
But now the World's best trainer must pay
for teaching his big cats to sit up and play.

The cyclical nature of the Unicorn	
 is that it was here--and now it is gone.
So cherish your friends and family each day,
'cause you'll never know when they'll be taken away.

The dangerous nature of a live show
is what makes it exciting for people to go.  
The Coliseum was built on a thirst for blood
but the Mirage made millions on treating cats good.

So why the surprise a White Tiger will bite?
You can train them by day. . .but they still hunt at 	night.
‘Tis the nature of cats and the Unicorn:
Handle with love but beware the horn.

So the legend of the Unicorn became a memory:
like the lions, tigers, and dragons we'd see.
And brave Roy the trainer showed all the World how
to love and reinforce them to be in a show.

There's only one question to ask of the cat:
Why didn't you bite Yasser Arafat?
Camelot won't see another Unicorn
nor such great Magicians as Fischbach and Horn.

"The act's on hiatus" as show people say
awaiting new costumes on some sunny day.
And somewhere on the planet an immigrant dreams
of taming his Unicorns as the audience screams.

Copyright © Loch David Crane

Long poem by nick alexander | Details |

Whistiling Past the Graveyard

A dull ache becomes masked by a generous shot. More and more opium pours into her trampled vein. Her heart slowly beats, the mania creeps, and she slowly loses a piece of herself. Drowning her past sorrows beats keeping up with the pain. Facing mighty dark secrets just seems to leave a stain. Now her fate is placed in the hands of a diluted substance because pleasure seeking has commenced. Full of euphoria, yet still discontent, she falls back into a lifeless mimic. A single tear fills up and sends her to the other side. Death has not yet came, but she is now on a hell of a ride. Her deepest fears of reality all come fading back as she starts to awake. 
  That single shot seemed to hold all of the fate. Her stash has now run bare, but the tyrant is near ready to hand out sin. He hands out a death card, as she slowly trembles to hand him a dead president fin. Her sickness now runs deep, but a treat awaits her needy soul. Too many times she has danced with the devil in the moon, yet she still plays the reaper as death will come soon. Her sad eyes cock back ready to catch a nod, but then nothing is felt. She then notices a fake burn is what she was dealt. She sweats as sickness creeps in. this cycle of Russian roulette cannot go on, it just cannot win. No more faking for what it is worth because she now feels that her time is now and she plans a rebirth. 
  True horror is seeking way to die. Constantly she let pain in and let it help with the brain fry and soul cry. An exorcism may be needed because she has been so depleted. Far too many times devilish ways were once needed. Like a wick to a flame she burns to live. There is no more letting this phenomenon hold her captive. She now seems to ache with a desire to be free and clear from all the terror that always has been near. So many tears were shed in the wake of her new reality, but the animal inside has now been set free. Believing in the here and now gives off an essence of hope, and all the strangeness will now let her be. Knowing nothing but bad news most will turn to run towards that old numb feel from the drug deal. 
  A distance sits between her and the dread that once filled her relentless past. Robbing, lying, and cheating was her vicious way of allowing and engaging with the demons that surrounded her. Real life allies now completes her conscious spirit and mind. They fought off the antagonist dictator and enemy by letting spirituality take her to a superior place. The mask is now taken off, as she can now face the old mimic in the mirror and can now erase. The door is now shut and her strength gives her the ability to show praise to those who helped her that dark bleak day. She can now let her winning psyche give the strength she needs to no longer be afraid.

Copyright © nick alexander

Long poem by Thomas Hsi | Details |

Buzzy's Legend

Poetic Lyrics By Thomas Lam Hsi

SAVE FROM Satan...who plays 'all' roles...the devil...the 'Lord Jesus'...
the 'Father'...the 'Holy Spirit'...all 'Other Gods'...and 'alien gods'...HE...THE
IS THE ONLY WAY TO GOD THE FATHER...and to an Actual Heaven!

The Legend of Buzzy...fantasy or fiction...or simply...a mindless dereliction?

The spontaneity of...cloves and garlic...the well-worn charms...or a worthless 

The innocence of a laddish boy...or simply...her well used toy?

Riverboats and trees...brackish booted-knees!

Bows 'n arrows...pickled toes...'fer twice 'yer sparrows?

Sons 'a courage...'n 'notta sweets...'tho warmed...ricey 'pur-rage!

Piper's 'ol yeller's lie!

'N a lacky...'fer...some...old...pipe 'tabacky?

The Legend of Buzzy...strange or true...the drunken crew...of a...shipwreck fluzzie?

A one-eyed'goddamit...blew '!

'Po boy's charms...lucky rimes...hairy arms...'an some dirty rimes?

Mama's spoon...Pop's a loon...'n a blackened...lifa crime!

Bows 'n arrows...pickled toes...'fer twice 'yer sparrows?

Sons 'a courage...'n 'notta sweets...'tho warmed...ricey 'pur-rage!

Piper's 'ol yeller's lie!

'N a lacky...'fer...some...old...pipe 'tabacky?

Gold dabloons...'n 'ol cartoons?

Sissy's purse...'n a pirate's curse!

The Legend of Buzzy...weird or true...a 'Kuma-Kazee's...'ol peez...or a
...worthless 'Squeeze?

A slivery hand...on...her...candied land!

Toothy tease...'n a...cousin 'ta 'Squeeze?

'Po boy's charms...'n a lifa crime...'selling...dirty 'ol rimes!

Bows 'n arrows...pickled toes...'fer twice 'yer sparrows?

Sons 'a courage...'n 'notta sweets...'tho warmed ricey 'pur-rage!

Piper's 'ol yeller's lie!

'N a lacky...'fer...some...old pipe 'tabacky?

Gold dab loons...'n 'ol cartoons?

Sissy's purse...'n a pirate's curse!

The Legend of Buzzy McGoon!

The Legend of Buzzy McGoon...worthless 'ol tunes...harlot's swoon
...or yella-belly...'n pure spi-toons!

'N a lifa crime...she 'taint worth a dime...gotcha 'spin-in on...tattered

Gamblin boats...'n long-tailed coats...oh 'mah's 'mah katoozie!

'Po boy's charms...she licked 'mah rimes...a pink bee-hind...'for-evr set
...'n a...lifa crime!

Bows 'n arrows...pickled toes...'fer twice 'yer sparrows?

Sons a courage...'n notta sweets...'tho warmed...ricey 'pur-rage!

Piper's 'ol yeller's lie!

'N a lacky...'fer some old pipe 'tabacky?

Gold dab loons...'n 'ol cartoons?

Sissy's purse...'n a pirate's curse!

Copyright © Thomas Hsi

Long poem by David Dunlap | Details |

The Boy and the Dragon -PART ONE OF TWO-

Long ago and far away
In a town called Mellongourd,
There was a boy who tried his hand
At training with a sword

The boy was young and energetic,
But not quite agile and free.
He stumbled and bumbled and tripped and fell,
Right into the apple tree

The boy was small and very weak
And he wasn’t too quick with a blade,
But the boy was smart and much too clever
And he never acted afraid

Now over the hill and ‘round the bend,
There was a giant cave.
And in that cave there lived a dragon
Who made even the mighty no longer brave

And ev’ry night at ten-o-clock
The dragon would visit the town
The people screamed and hid and ran
Yet in his fire they still would drown

This lonesome town had a kind
Who feared the mighty beast,
“Whoever kills this thing,” he said,
“Will be thrown a splendid feast.”

So knight and knight would try again
Only to be defeated
They’d try to trick the awful thing
But it simply couldn’t be cheated

Every day as new knights marched by,
The boy would smile and wave.
He’d watch them go up to battle,
And most likely their grave.

Constantly the boy would train
With his combat teacher
For the boy had a simple, sly plan
To slay the awful creature.

One day the boy thought he was ready
To complete his dangerous task.
He grabbed his sword and shield
As well as a large bucket and a flask

That night the boy snuck out of his house
And went on the small dirt path.
He reached the dragon’s gigantic lair
And hoped he wouldn’t feel its wrath.

The boy reached the dragon’s hollow
And stuck his head inside
“Come on out, you mean ol’ monster!”
He prayed he wouldn’t be fried.

The boy began to survey his surroundings,
To ensure his plan for the brawl.
He saw some trees, a river,
And the massive, stony cave wall

When the dragon slithered out of his den,
He was met with a sly smirk.
The dragon reared back to burn the boy
Then, “Wait! Don’t be such a jerk!”

The dragon stopped and stared at him
As the boy pulled out his shield.
“What does it prove to burn a young boy?”
He asked as he backed into the field.

“Nothing, I suppose,” the dragon muttered
And scratched his scaly head. 
“But what do I do, if I don’t burn you?”
The dragon slowly said.

“Well first of all, you could prove to everyone
That you can burn anything to the third degree
If you can, you will be more than able
To scorch that massive tree

“Of course I can,” the dragon scoffed
And reared its mighty head
With a giant breath and a burst of flames,
The tree was gone and the ashes were red

Copyright © David Dunlap

Long Poems