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Long History Poems

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

See also: Famous Long Poems

Long Poems
Long poem by Gerald Dillenbeck | Details |

Empathy as Green Democracy

I don't think it's just me.
I find myself challenged to change LeftBrain cognitive beliefs,
languaged abstractions of personal knowledge,
perhaps because it is not possible to change Right Brain's
Elder feelings of co-empathic trust
where dipolar co-arising mutual immunity
raises dissonance as noisy pathology.

I discover this issue as more of a question
about changing my feelings
by changing my beliefs about feelings
as something that could be wrong,
should be different, in a healthier, better, more beautiful world,
would be better if I were a better person,
we would feel and think better, if we could comprehend
our PermaCultural Golden SelfAsOther Political/Economic Rules
of dialectic ecology,
political power trends
with economic reiteratively polyculturing regenerating relationships.

Sometimes when I empathically feel like why and why not
I believe something is not right
about what I think I should rationally define as correct,
according to Business As Usual LeftBrain deductive dominance,
should be truth,
should become exegetical,
emerge as permaculturally orthodox co-empathic dominance,
unquestionable feeling/belief in health v pathology,
then I also think my RightBrain feelings
of not right-true
shadowing LeftBrain cooperative-affective dissonant information
of not Left-Right balanced languaged cultural belief,
yet;
truth-statement belief with empathic trust v. mistrust,
distrust as untrust,
chronically evolves as anti-trust, hatred,
monoculturally sociopathic
in more climatically critical political and economic
as ecological events.

I am reading Dr. Cyrus Ernesto Zirakzaden's excellent
"Social Movements in Politics".
The more I read,
the more troubled I feel about this choice of title.
It doesn't feel like it fully matches
the rich evolutionary messages unfolding behind these history lessons.

For example,
Zirakzaden, using Business As Usual academic-analytical narrative voice,
articulates the evolution of West Germany's political/economic
ecological environment,
the prelude understory leading toward more recent historical-cultural emergence of the Green Party,
in the late twentieth century
since the emergence of what became,
as far as I recall from my religious history lessons,
the Christian Party.

Given the enculturing titles of West Germany's social-political systemic structures,
if feels likely many Greens
would prefer Zirakzaden's choice of title to have been
"Political Movements within Judeo-Christian Organized Crimes Against Nature".

How I feel about this story
influences how I think I would best step into it,
empathize within these shifting thoughts and feelings,
most nutritionally,
most informed by empathic poli-economic trust
in healthy feelings,
in feelings which are healthy by definition of their accuracy,
their integrity,
their honesty,
speaking to pathological appositional beliefs as dis-regenerative,
diseased,
dissonant,
troubling.

Yet, this empathy requires a poli-economic choice
between using Advocate v Academic Voice,
at least on paper,
or invested in our great transitional digital cloud of unknowing.

The Green Party emerges as a social-political movement
away from Judeo-Christian Traditions
of Organized Pathological Stewardship,
problematic where divorcing human nature from co-arising sacred nature
of nondual nature/spirit biosystems,
love as synergy,
spiritual minds as natural sensory transregenerational bodies,
Green as notnot Revelations
of Organized Crimes Against OurSelves,
all Earth Tribes,
Earth and her regenerative open-solar co-arising
nondual EcoLogical EcoSystem.

As an EarthTribe global citizen,
reading about W. Germany's Green emergence,
I empathize with the Green Party
as Political Movement Heroine/Hero
EcoTherapeutic Story,
virally inserting ourselves
within every pore and cell
of our Elder Judeo/Christian/Islamic  Story
including Crimes Against Earth
now struggling to change our poli-economic key
from minor to major PermaCultural Development
as CoEmpathic Creative Design
and Primal Purpose for Politics
as a Science;
an EcoTherapeutic Political Tao of Science.

In "Trust in Black America"
Dr. Shayla C. Nunnally explores comparative politics of trust,
mistrust,
distrust,
and probably hate as measured in recent survey samples--
where haters would be unlikely to erupt from sinister closets.

Here we find political trust,
and lack thereof,
follows ecopolitical history,
power-over through Judeo-Christian-Islamic ownership
as the full story about stewardship,
while power-with through empathy
co-arises nondual mutually subsidiary mentorships of ecotrust,
most richly found in cultural-ethnic historical enclaves
within embryonic Earth's OrganicTribal Congress
of ReGenerate-Healthy Evolution.

Even so, my historically nurtured empathic trust,
like everyone else's, 
begins in embryo,
the dynamic fractal-dialectic existentialism of DNA
I believe and feel intends to grow out
as polypathically as politically and economically possible
from that safe healthy epicenter,
ecocenter of healthy holonic humane life.

Empathic Trust is cognitive-affective default
on the love-peace side of history,
absorbing enslaving other-as-self hate, 
anger-fear appositional warring about incommensurable positions
yet still within our own political-economic identity equation.

If we need trusting beliefs
to fully embrace empathic feelings,
do we also need untrusting pathological absence of belief
to fully embrace fears of mutual immunity,
internal ambiguities of unresolved ego/eco
Left/Right,
Self/Other ownership of mutually nutritional trust,
not quite yet discovered?
A mix of more active distrusting juxtapositions about fundamentals of ecobalance
and more moderate mistrusting juxtapositions about proportional aesthetics of multicultural truths;
diverse political positions internally and externally conversing,
noticing and listening for Golden co-empathic trust
to follow nondual bilateral light.
equal polynomial synergy parts
in-between past anger and future fear hearts.


Copyright © Gerald Dillenbeck | Year Posted 2016

Long poem by SillyBilly theKidster | Details |

Today In Billy the Kid History - April 28, 1881

"Sentenced to hang in the town of Lincoln,
Billy made his bold escape.
Both of his guards died from thinking,
that a shackled young boy couldn't break away."

I've often wondered what thoughts were going through his head
as he stood staring out that window chained to the floor by his bed,
watching the gallows being built that would soon seal his fate.
Was he planning at that very moment his greatest escape?
Did he already know that his hanging would never come to be?
Was he already aware that before night fall, once again he'd be free?
Whatever his thoughts, they were interrupted rudely
by Deputy Bob Ollinger, one of his guards while in custody.
"Word has it you said that if we ever met again you'd kill me on the spot. 
Well here I am Kid. Now's your chance. Show me what you've got. 
It's a shame that you'll hang in another week or two, 
because I'd love to be the one who gets to kill you. 
I've got silver dimes in the barrells of my shotgun. 
I'd love to try them out on you, but I can't unless you run. 
If I free you from those chains will you run for the door? 
Oh by the way Kid, your Ma was one sweet filthy whore. 
I'll kill you before you hang Kid. That's a sure bet." 
"Be careful Bob," said the Kid, "I'm not hung yet."
Bob thrusted his shotgun hard into Billy's gut. 
The Kid looked up at him in pain and said, "Now what?" 
"Don't do it Bob," Bell screamed angrily, "or you'll be the one who'll hang for sure 
for killing an unarmed boy in cold blood who was chained helplessly to the floor. 
It's time for the other prisoners 
to be escorted across the street to be fed. The Kid's not going anywhere. 
He's chained to the floor by his bed. 
Anyway, I took the prisoners last so now it's your turn. 
Go and have yourself a beer 
and I'll stay here 
and guard the Kid until you return. 
Bob Ollinger placed his shotgun into the gun rack. 
Before he left, he said to Billy, "I'll see you when I get back." 
No one can say for sure if the above scenario ever truly took place,
but one thing's for sure. 
Ollinger tormented Billy at a merciless endless pace. 
They were enemies who fought against each other
during the Lincoln County War. 
Ollinger was in the posse that murdered John Tunstall,
Billy's employer, friend and mentor. 
"I have to use the privy Bell," Billy said to the deputy. 
Bell kept his rifle trained on Billy as he tossed him the key. 
Billy unlocked the chains that kept him bound to the floor. 
Still in handcuffs and leg irons, Bell escorted Billy out the door. 
Billy entered the outhouse closing the door behind him. 
"Let's not take too long in there Kid," Bell said with a friendly grin. 
While in the outhouse, 
Billy managed to slip one of his hands out of his handcuffs. 
"You fall in there Kid?" Bell laughed, 
"You've been in there long enough." 
"I'm coming out now Bell," Billy said opening the door. 
"Sorry I took so long Bell. I must have ate something bad for sure." 
Deputy Bell then escorted Billy back to the jail cell. 
Once inside, Billy spun around and smacked hard Deputy James Bell. 
Bell lost his balance, dropped his rifle and was momentarily stunned. 
"Hands Up Bell!," the Kid yelled. In his hand was a gun. 
Please, please don't do it Bell," Billy pleaded, but Bell tried to run. 
The Kid had no choice but to do what had to be done. 
He shot and killed Bell, then quickly got Ollinger's shotgun. 
The Kid never found pleasure in killing, 
but Ollinger would indeed be the exception. 
Knowing that Ollinger heard the gunfire, Billy stood by the window 
and waited for Ollinger to appear in the street down below. 
One senior named Godfrey saw Bell fall dead down the stairs. 
The moment probably gave Godfrey a few more gray hairs. 
Ollinger ran out into the street as Godfrey screamed, 
"The Kid's killed Bell!" 
Ollinger looked up into both barrels of his own shotgun 
and muttered, "..and now he's killed me as well."
"Hello Bob!," Billy called out with a song in his heart 
just prior to blowing Bob Ollinger apart. 
He blasted both barrels into Ollinger's chest and face. 
Pieces of old Bob lay scattered all over the place. 
Billy snapped his shotgun in two, threw it at him but missed. 
"You'll never rifle me again," he screamed, "you son of a bitch!" 
On the balcony he addressed the crowd whose jaws hung agape. 
"I do not want to hurt anyone, 
but I will kill anybody who tries to prevent my escape." 
In the office he found a sledge hammer
and smashed the chains of his leg irons free. 
He told Godfrey to fetch him a fast horse immediately. 
As he walked down the stairs, he came upon Bell's lifeless body 
and many eyewitnesses admit
that the Kid looked upon him and said somewhat tearfully, 
"I'm sorry I killed you Bell, but couldn't help it." 
As Billy mounted the horse 
the chains of his leg irons startled the beast. 
The horse bucked violently throwing Billy down onto the street. 
He was at this point his most vulnerable laying down on the ground. 
The crowd could have overtaken him easily, 
but none made a move or a sound. 
One might think that they were all too terrified to subdue him immediately,
but the truth is that he was so loved by so many
that they all just let him go free.
Once again Billy mounted the horse
and fled with the sound of his leg iron chains ringing. 
Many claim that as he rode out of Lincoln County 
that they heard the Kid singing. 
Billy had escaped danger so many other times in his past, 
but this was his greatest escape ever. 
It would also be his last.

*

It was a few days after the Kid's great escape, 
when the following happened to Sheriff Pat Garrett's dismay. 
A stranger rode into the town of Lincoln, 
with the same horse that the Kid stole for his escaping. 
The stranger approached Garrett and said, 'Excuse me partner,
"Billy said that you would return this horse to its rightful owner."
.....just another example of the Kid's unique sense of humor.

Copyright © SillyBilly theKidster | Year Posted 2016

Long poem by Justin Bordner | Details |

Operation Money Jump

Thanksgiving, 1971,
a parachute pilgrim approaches Northwest Flight 305
as Dan Cooper, anonymous businessman,  anarchist airborne, 
black suit, black sunglasses, a black tie
and a black briefcase broaching black motives,
Portland to Seattle, prison or criminal pantheon, 
before he can be inducted into purgatory, or the Valhalla of antiheros
the unknown villain of a quiet cause
got buckled into the last row of the 727
stealth as painless sin
cold bluish clouds smearing the November sky during ascent
as though flying through the palette of a sad Cezanne
while low volume, buttery jazz tinkered on the plane's airwaves,
as the Stewardess handed him his bourbon soda
Mr. Cooper placed a neat note in her hand with polite moxie,
she took it with salted style, uninterested in a comeon,
moments later, struting to the rear with applepie aplomb
the quaint stranger, sunglasses removed, needed her to heel,
to him she came, ready to reject his appeal,
however, there would be no ripe rejection on this special day,
her eyes of professional pity were met with his slow burning stare
as he informed her with untroubled insistence
that he had a bomb, and that she needed to read the note
without visible alarm,
reading the demands made her feel excited
she instantly felt sweat in so many places,
she knew she'd give no resistance, 
she wanted to cooperate,  for everyone's safety, 
briefly speaking with another Stewardess
she entered the dark cockpit,  danger in her hands,
there was going to be no argument
the stipulations were going to be satisfied
in exchange for safe landing and undamaged life,
returning to this man she'd never understand
who had the power to spontaneously change lives, she sat by him,
the plush red seats made her feel so warm
while sitting next to his insanely calm authority, 
it seemed as though he owned them all
the passengers, the crew, and aircraft,
the skyjacker opened his briefcase as if it's contents were sacred
showing her the parts of his lunatic design
then quickly, carefully, closing the shock box,
his eyes went back to the window
the view giving him vignettes of what he knew as Vietnam, 
the mountains and divided greens, the mischievous mists,
she asked him, "Do you have a grudge against Northwest?",
to which Mr. Cooper replied with wry correction, 
"I don't have a grudge against your airline Miss,
I just have a grudge. "
Upon landing in Seattle at 5:PM
the innocent and uninformed travelers exited the plane
onto the slick tarmac, untarnished and untraumatized,
oblivious to the epic history that was being fuelled in part
from their supporting roles on this Thanksgiving flight,
the F.B.I. and airline owners were playing nice
like cats whom wanted the amusement and the ambush,
Cooper was given four, nonmilitary parachutes as requested, 
and $200,000 in twenty dollar bills
unmarked, random serial numbers, also as requested, 
although, to help make sure that the "House" would win
all the money came from the Reserve Bank of San Francisco
with every bill number begining with "L" , and issued in 1969,
a little trick for the devil himself,
less than two hours had elapsed since takeoff from Portland
yet the hijacker was well on his way to meeting his ultimate objective,
each of his goals fitting together with precision
like watch parts keeping time of a fragile freedom,
after receiving the 21 pounds of illicit cash
giddy with blushing banditry,
intoxicated by the scent of fresh money harvest
Cooper did a jumpy Irish jig
out of view of snipers and cameramen, 
nightfall was dimming the stage
as the abyance of audacity amplified everyone's anxiety
including Cooper, who for the first time
exhibited a snakey irritation
during the ponderous refuelling of the jet,
he could taste the escape,
only he and the flight crew remained aboard,
at 7:36 PM the plane was lifting into a lawless legend
and the law was left clueless on the land,
heading to Reno so to refuel for Mexico
taking the final puff of his last cigarette
like a fugitive at peace with fate
he told the Stewardess that she was sweet
and that it was time for her to go,
to go up front to the pilots and close the door,
a thousand fantasies flew through her mind,
she felt attached to him
as though he were a nightmare that she needed,
turning around to see him again
to see that face which witnessed her heart change
while securing the parachute to himself
his eyes spoke to her's with excited fear,
and then waved her goodbye as she closed the door,
shortly afterwards he instructed the pilots
through the intercom to maintain at 10, 000 feet,
release the cabin pressure,
adjust the wing flaps to 15 degrees
and to fly no faster than 200 MPH,
he left the black tie with Mother of Pearl tie pin
on the seat of his former self
and then proceeded to the plane's rear stairway
as a paratrooper prepared to meet perdition, 
the weight of his crime tight against his body,
in the cockpit
where speculation was spinning on their nerves
the pilots saw the red glow of emergency
from the panelboard indicating stairway open,
as D.B. Cooper stood braced to the lowered stairs
freezing wind icing his mouth and eyes
he thought about how his Uncle
15 years earlier inspired his curiosity for skydiving
and how the U.S. Military should be proud of his proficiency, 
he recognized the Lewis River through a cloud break
and then hurled himself like a hawk
into the dropzone of America's elite outlaws -

J.A.B.

This poem is based on the true story of "D.B. Cooper",
whom has never been caught for the 1971 skyjacking.
He escaped with $200,
000. Other than $5,800 being discovered
along the Columbia River by a family camping in 1980
the F.B.I. has found no more of the money, nor his body,
parachute, clothing, etcetera. 
In 2016 the F.B.I. finally closed the investigation
on "Dan Cooper"...Justin A. Bordner

Copyright © Justin Bordner | Year Posted 2016

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

Nowhere Man

Nowhere Man

Star dust, the stuff of a fool’s dreams.
Oh !!!, to travel upon star dust streams
- that glorious, never ending journey -
into the realms, the space of many.

This old spirit, seems, not to fit into any
mold nor on any rung of the social latter, 
that, I think, should not, ever matter. 
And so I have to wonder ?, 
as upon this planet, I wander.

Is there any place for me ?, 
where I might fit in – one day to see ?
In my youth, some perceived me to be 
Sall Minnio, even the King, 
- Elvis Presley, - this idea girls would bring
with them, in their pursuit of me.

As an adult, I came to be seen
– an Italian, a Greek, a Mexican – 
a First Nations is what I’ve been 
as folks do the best they can.
As people guessed at my race, 
looking and looking into my face,
the essence, the spirit, the soul of this man.

Yet nowhere do I fit - I belong to no place.
Nowhere do I find a fitting space
for this German, French, British, Native, 
gene pool, my heritage doth give. 
Plus the few – long forgotten – more 
that came through the genetic door 
– open for viewing the heart of this old soul – 
where there is reflection and getting to know.

There have been some who would pass 
this face of many – this face of looking glass 
refraction – to see truth – a Redman’s blood in the veins 
of this First Nation soul – the spirit which remains
for this old soul, the essence of my spirit, 
even in times when many would not tolerate it.
And so, it is not a wonder 
why this soul seems to flounder, 
cannot find anything sounder,

between the jagged, ragged edges 
of created, keen, sharp - wedges 
between who and what I am, and
where it is I could possibly stand.
There is not – it seems to me – a place
where I fit in, can stand, turn and face, 
see a possible niche – a place to belong,
before, my life is almost gone,
as I look back upon all the roads, 
- the stories, the tales, the heavy loads –

I have travelled, yet know not what will be told
of what rung, on the social ladder I hold,
what plateau to find shelter in ?,
what plane to fly above, be comfortable in ?,
what place to rest my spirit, my soul within ?,
what space can I find to forget all the sin ?
I have walked with the sane and insane.
I have talked with the educated and uneducated.
I have been in the company of intelligence and unintelligent.
I have laid with the secure and the insecure.
I have laid with passion’s fire and frigid’s cold.

I have known the moral and the immoral.
I have known those of faith and the faithless
I have known the killed and the killer
I have known those who have taken their own lives
I have known the givers and the takers
I have known the movers and the shakers
I have known the honest and the dishonest
I have known the psychic and the blind. 
I have known the truth sayers and the bullshitters,
The fast lane, the slow lane, the middle lane I’ve moved in.
The sober, the drunkard – I’ve been and been with.
The strong, the weak – I’ve been and been with.

The used, the abused  – I’ve been and been with. 
The users and the abusers -- I’ve known and know me.
The wealthy, the poor – I’ve known and know me.
Financial wealth and Spirituality -- I’ve known and know me.
The saver of a life -- I’ve known and was me.
The living and the dead -- I’ve known and know me.
Having a brush with artists has been my fate. 
Having acted up with entertainers has been my fate. 
Having had words with writers has been my fate.
Having become a rhymer, like my forth cousin, has been my fate.
I have played with players – strummed a note or two.
I have laid with singers-- sung a note or two.
I have laid with dancers – danced a step or two.

I have struck an arc alongside a welder – a time or two.
I have sprayed painted cars alongside a painter – a time or two.
Hammering out metal with body men – I have done.
Twisting wrenches with mechanics – I have done.
Busining along side business men – I have done.
Being a lover, I always thought, was my forte.
Being a husband, I thought I knew how to play.
Being a father, I thought I knew I would stay.
Being a friend, I thought was always my way.
To be a son – a child’s dream.
To be a brother – not to be it seems
as all the above drifts downstream,
leaving one to wonder, what life really means ?
Life’s journey can be a wondrous mystery !,
 
when one leafs through the pages of his history.
One’s life can also be a disastrous story ?, 
one of little hope, dim light and no glory.
So what is left for this old fool ?, 
but to carry on breaking the old rule, 
rules that make it possible to call oneself a poet, 
something I never call myself, a poet, and I know it !
I do the best I can
That is who I am !
Being a carny – traveling with The World’s Finest show.
For a couple of seasons – that is all I did know.
Being a dishwasher, a server, a busboy, a waiter, a manager 
of a restaurant, many dimensions of life. I was egger  
to come into contact with, to try and understand. 
As fate would have it, understanding never came to this hand.

Today, a bum – forty eight years ago – father said
“ the best dressed bum in town ” would be my stead.
What goes around – at some point in time – comes around.
There is some truth to this, that I have certainly found.
Even though I have touched the edges of many a life. 
Many places, pieces of each and everyone, not one has been 
a place for me, a place I felt I belonged, the places I’ve seen
do not leave pillows for my spirit,  beds to rest my soul, rife
with uncertainty, is my state, almost every day
I can find no place, no space for me to play.
Looking into this distorted collage 
I wonder if it is but a mirage ?
My flaws lie in the heart of my feeling !, it is my sin !,
this belief that there is no place, no space where I fit in.

B. J. “A” 2
May 1st 2004

Copyright © William J. Jr. Atfield | Year Posted 2014

Long poem by Gerald Dillenbeck | Details |

TeaTalk

Do you share my concern that your happiness and healthy life are too ephemeral,
short-lived?

No! Why? Do you know something I should know?

Not likely.
Just wondering,
awed by your capacity,
your relentlessly positive energy for life,
despite the odds of too-soon demise.

Do you share my concern that your happiness and health are ephemeral and short-lived enough
to harvest their wealthier sustainability through more cooperative logistics,
strategies of love,
designs of recreativity,
plans for healthier social and economic policies,
domestic and otherwise?

Of course.
Who wouldn’t.
Oh, that’s right,
perhaps someone substituting yangish eros for yin’s full-flowing agape.

Hmmm?
I know agape as Greek for Tao-balanced Basic Attendance.

Yes, well same transformational difference.
These language distinctions become complex
because of our continuing struggle with Yang dominating Yin,
Eros dominating Agape,
culturally responding by basically becoming a climate-change bitch.
Sorry,
I can’t find a more civilized English translation
for yin’s revolutionary anger with yang’s culture-dominating eros
when we could remember our Earth-balancing agape primal relationship,
not just in bed and during tea time,
although those do come immediately to mind,
but also more politically, economically, ecologically,
systemically harmonic,
integrative, if you will.

No offense taken,
but this reminds me,
what is your relationship,
if any, between boredom, basic attendance, and bliss?

Other than all those bees,
it seems basic attendance lies between boredom and bliss,
a midway, or tipping point, perhaps.
A “wear your everyday clothes, having tea in-house” way
of balancing yin’s excesses of sensory-cognitive internalization
with yang’s excesses of ecoconscious elation,
which is very nice, and beautiful,
but can be distracting for Business As Cooperatively Usual,
everyday-wear purposes.

Rather like now.
My basic attendance neither grasps for happiness,
nor despairs of ego’s ephemeral absence,
lack of interest in whatever you just offered as a mix of nutrition and sometimes more dissonant pathology
in the too-slow time of my under-investment in our more active agape.

I believe we both want what’s healthiest for this tea right now,
appropriately wealthy cooperative attendance
to Earth’s multicultural voices,
most certainly including each other’s.

Yes, so tell me more about this blend of AsiaticTao and GreekAgape,
your perfection of imperfect love,
always both too enormously grand,
overwhelmingly much,
and yet never deep and stable enough to fully follow,
boundlessly insatiable agape
as quenchingly ravenous eros thirst.

Oh, that’s too dear,
communicating about my imperfect life,
or even my personal agenda,
my hot issues of our immediate day,
or trying to,
prior to remembering our love,
mutuality,
our cooperative intent,
basic attendance as CoMessianic Occupiers,
hosting a civilized and proper tea
but without any hot water yet.

Having all ingredients,
knowledge,
resources needed for such an ambitious and worthy social undertaking,
while our best benign hosting intentions evaporate,
undermined by failure to establish communication’s foundation,
a primally mutual presence of engagement,
bilaterally enthymematic,
or even multi-laterally,
with larger rhetorical and therapeutic events than this simple bilateral tea.
I’m thinking even tribal events,
familial,
but also big political and economic systemic events of enculturing history.

Hot water fuels a civil politically cooperative tea
as passion fuels love,
as agape fuels life,
as life remembered and reflected,
experienced together becomes creative expression,
articulation,
transaction,
transportation of information between tea-time mindbodies
sharing our mutually-held Basic Attendance gestalt,
for and with myself and others.

I would add others as Earth’s interdependent Tribes
when discussing ecosystemic communication,
although here, for our larger sacred purpose,
yin-flow of water’s bilateral function,
freely shared and loved and known to compose DNA’s gestalt,
need not be quite so warm,
within these less domesticated circles of Tribal communication.

Water as Basic Attendance baptism
mutually recognized as our shared heritage of environmental history,
becoming Earth’s language biosystems steeping our genetic tea leaves
in and through Earth’s co-empathic waters.

Most certainly including a proper tea
lived, loved, and communicated therapeutically
within EarthTribe’s empathic trust
extending back through regenetic healthy Elder Commons
and forth
toward shared nutritional teas of tomorrow’s predicted cooperativity.

I love our freedom of time and capital to invest in cooperative frequencies,
functions, and rhetorical forms of life.

Cultural scars awake yin’s too dormant flow,
leading from extended familial tribalisms toward Yang’s dominating empiricism,
EmpireBuilding Totalitarianism,
leading from nature’s evolving equity 
toward Yang’s ruthlessly domesticating Slavery of Self and Other,
hubris of “owning” bio and ecosystems,
leading from Earth’s nature-spirit of cooperative basic attendance
toward contractual Welfare States of Mind
exacting indentured servitude of decreasingly valued self-commodity,
leading from Earth’s civil rights of ecobalance
toward too-Yanged civilization through empire-building reductive competitions
to control Earth’s domestic events,
revolving teas of integrative empathy
cooperatively served throughout each of love life’s warm-poured moments.

Do you share my concern that our tea is growing cold?

No. Why? 
Do you know something I should know?

No. Just wondering,
awed by your basic attendance capacities,
your relentlessly positive energy for agape,
despite the odds of too-soon love’s imperfect demise.

Copyright © Gerald Dillenbeck | Year Posted 2016

Long poem by ruta skendeliene | Details |

Juozas Miltinis Learning Years in Paris


It was September 
Of one thousand 
Nine hundred seven
The end of summer
With apples lying thickly
Under the apple trees
And the smell of Autumn
Covering the grass
Filled with ripe yellow
And orange squash
He was born in a little
Wooden house that night
At the very edge
Of a very small village
At the rail tracks
Where lonely train 
Run once a day
Every other Sunday

Then one rainy Autumn day
He caught a Paris train
And ended up on the stage
With Jean-Louis Barrault
Who was taming a wild horse
In As I Lay Dying famous
Performance that stunned
The artistic community
Of avant-garde France
And Théâtre de l'Atelier 
Became an icon of the time

After the show was over
They all got drunk with ideas
That were brewing up in the air
They disagreed about many things
And all had different images
Of what future is about to bring
Fiery proving his own point
Marcel Marceau broke a fight
Protecting the mime rights
On the modern theater stage 
Under Mullen Rouge cabaret lights
Where fancy elusive prostitutes 
Stepped down from the paintings
Of dreamy Toulouse Lautrec
Who was leaning at the wall 
At white clothed table very small
In a corner next to open doors
Women with blood red lips
On whitish anorexic faces
Whispered little dirty things
In slutty enticing voices
Into enchanted artists ears 
They danced around the tables
In blurred light with their eyes 
Framed with dark eye shadows
Like deep pools of water shut wide 
On the other side in a dim light 
He saw a man sitting at the window 
Who looked like Antonin Artaud 
With pale face suspended in frenzy
Whispering with bloodless lips
And eyes locked in a distant gaze
Mystical words of a secret prayer
To his own God whom he called 
Magical cruel double theater cage

Later he slept in a room
With Madeleine Renaud
Future wife of J L Barrault
Which they shared in the attic
Of a historical stone building
On the Augustine street corner
With trams running non stop
All night along till the morning
Waking up exhausted artists from
The marathon of intellectual orgies
After the premier of Volpone
J L Barrault was still dancing
In the dark narrow corner
With pale shadowy horses 
In his deep sleepwalking haze
When morning broke up
Through narrow windows 
And light was gliding through
The cosmic artsy scenery
Of cosmopolitan Paris streets

One-day Picasso showed up at the door
Of the little room on the top floor
Where the roof was serving as ceilings
In his pocket he had a bottle of aperitif 
And the party went on till next morning
When he inspired started Guernica drawing
On the walls of the attic with his fingers
Dipped in blood reaching the arched ceiling
A beautiful but suffering weeping woman
Emerged in the dark shades of the beams
Screaming about sadness of human being 
In the world that lost its own Identity 
For imaginary empty cruel things

Jean Cocteau brought a bizarre spirit
Of avant-garde into the community 
Of a little world of artistic attic
That was tremendously affected
By the ideas of surrealism in his movies 
Filled with mystical images of dark spirits
Elaborated shapes sounds and forms 
Never seen on the screen before
Love struggle death and rebirth
Of The Blood of the Poet that is 
A part of a divine sacrifice
And the modern world’s price
For being authentic and alive

The next day he went to a market place
With beautiful actress Marcelle who was
Maestro Charles Dullins’ beloved wife
He wanted to learn the lessons of life
And to get a reality check of street wise
Also to ask for an intelligent advice
How not to get lost and find a way
To freedom and not to scream or cry
In all this spectacular confusing mess
Of imagery and novel lavish ideas 

He chose Charles Dullin as his teacher
And Théâtre de l'Atelier became his home
And his rigorous training ground
For long  strenuous four years
That flew by as fast as one day
He was taught to master the secrets
Of sacred stage that is to become 
A new religion of the future to come
On the grounds of Intellectual belief 
That there is hidden true meaning
Of every living human being
In the world that lost its ability 
To be fair and true to itself
He spent days and sleepless nights
Learning behind the closed curtains
The hard lessons of the theater art
Taught by skillful masters of the craft
The signs of the time were brought to life
In that dimly lit space of a closed stage
And lit with bright light to emphasize
The importance of the sacred stage
And the future was to be defined
Of many aspects of the art of theater
That was conceived in that place
Into the craft he was ordained 
To be perfected to absolute space
And time limits expanded and defined
In a new creative enchanting way
He pledged to be true to the cause
To protect the dignity of human being
To fight for the freedom of art
To become a new century's religion

Deep impressions of Paris artistic life
Etched in his brain in a new pattern
That he saw in the back of his mind
He knew he had to find his own way
To bring this pattern to life one day
He was searching for fertile ground
In Paris and all over around
But couldn't’t find the right stage
Till one rainy day he took a train
Back to where from he came 
He opened a new chapter in his life's 
Book that he was about to write
In images on Lithuanian theater stage
He brought spirits of masters to life 
Off all times in to this little country’s
Tragic life that was about to unfold
In the shadows of the second world war
Brewing in the guts of European core
That was wide opening the doors
For dark evil unpredictable force
To come and change the world
in a way that will never be the same

Copyright © ruta skendeliene | Year Posted 2016

Long poem by William Masonis | Details |

The Ghost Dance, Part I

                                                    1.

                                    Red Mesa Dreamscapes

The sun spreads its red light on the mesas, 
Those ancient sentinels, those fractured bones of the Earth
Scattered outposts that rise as lonely islands
Through the vast dry sea
That fills the heart of this continent;
Its heart beats in notes slow, deep and sonorous
Buried somewhere deep in its weathered flesh
Of canyon, mountains, desert -
All cast adrift upon this sea of hollow, howling spaces.
The mesas thrust themselves up, pointing at the sky
Like great bony fingers cut short at their last joints,
Reaching into the merciless deepblue immensity
Falling down on all sides, enfolding the distant horizons,
Where the light of the nearby yellow star
Goes shifting to red as this side of the Earth turns its face slowly away,
Burning in soft rose light
Caressing the cooling arms of the night in the brown flesh of the land,
So like the flesh of its people.

Dawnings and sunsets, ages and ages, the red light washes the mesas
Turns of the world beyond counting as the people gazed mute in wonder
Standing in the purity of the red light
Bathed in its clean magnificence, purified by its brutal beauty,
As alive in their way, these bones of a planet
Alive as the strong brown flesh of the people 
Who gazed on them in sanctified silence
The ancient people who took this land for their home
Long ago, when Man was new and still fearfully reverent;
These ancient ones were meant to live and die
Beneath this endless paradise of blue,
And to love this land at times in ways too deep
For any civilized mind to comprehend.

     The brown ones loved this land,
     And the land accepted their love in bountiful return to them
     In the fullness of the life and glory they once knew here,
     Singing to them in the eagle's screams that cut the still air
     Drumming in the brown waves of bison herds
     Speaking to their souls in Winter winds and coyote howls, 
     Rumbling in the dark voice of Summer thunderings
     Carrying down to the ears of men the mystic troubles of their gods.l

     They passed together a long, still time
     The people and the land.
     The balance smooth between them,
     Until the coming of the Others.

From across the Great Waters the Others came,
Beings white in both appearance and deed.
They walked and talked like other men.
But their ways were new and strange.

They came and they came,
More with every shift of the seasons
Filling the land 
Like the snow fills the forests in Winter.

They came, taming all that they touched,
The world to them a thing to be conquered and changed,
For this was their way; this their lives' purpose,
And the spirits of the land allowed it -
Neglecting their invasions, accepting the smallness of their thoughts,
Aloof and above in distant toleration.

Without the Spirits' help the people lost their fight for the land,
Falling ever back against the Others' strange magics.
More clever than strong they were,
But in the end, it's cleverness that wins.
They drew their strength from the magic words
Gifted to them by their god,
With which they would call on him for the powers of conquest,
And they were: Manifest Destiny.

Manifest Destiny granted them terrible powers,
The powers to build a new thing,
A thing which propelled itself in a way that none could stop,
And this thing's name was Progress.

Progress, right hand of Manifest Destiny,
Made everything change,
And change above all, as an end in itself,
Is what the Others loved the best.

The brown ones could not comprehend it,
And so they lost all before they fully new it was happening.

How to fight those armed with an oath from their god?
Through his will they held their power,
Never doubting the right of it.

For their love their god returned them power,
The magic of the metal tubes that boomed a hard burning death,
Weapons no magic could stop,
And more than this, numbers,
Numbers to drown the land.
Against all resistance they claimed the land for their own.

     The survivors they sent away
     To wait out their time in being forgotten,
     Casualties of Fate.

So now, the red light spreads across the mesas
Changed parts of a changed land that goes by another name
Part of a new nation vast of size and strength
And terrible in sleeping might,
Kindhearted giant, great and noble in its way,
Though forgetful of its native sons.

     Where now hangs the eagle's scream?
     - Lost, blown apart upon the wind.
     Where do the great gods of Old hide their faces?
     - They sleep, infusing the Earth with their dreams.

     Where walks the demon named Progress?
     Only look, his marks is everywhere.

Now we live in the long forgetting-time,
When the wrinkled elders sit in their ramshackle homes
The driftwood of some primeval sea's recession,
And dream.

They dream, in a fog blurred with the alcohol poison,
Of the stories of fathers and grandfathers,
Tasting memories again and again,
The salt lick of remembered moments aging like strange wine.

They dream of the ending-time,
Of the last stand made
In the face of the endless advance
When Progress buried the world in its relentless avalanche,
The dream of the wearied few,
Worn and shaken in disaster's wake,
Gathered one last time on the heartless plains.

They take a long straight look into the land of the Dead,
The shadowland out of sight beside our own,
Where the gone-before walk and watch in silence
The steady procession of the living,
Existing as memories until the time of reunion.

Copyright © William Masonis | Year Posted 2015

Long poem by SillyBilly theKidster | Details |

Billy the Kid's Great Escape

*
Sentenced to hang in the town of Lincoln,
Billy made his bold escape.
Both of his guards died from thinking
that a shackled young boy couldn't break away.
*
I've often wondered what thoughts were going through his head
as he stood staring out that window chained to the floor by his bed,
watching the gallows being built that would soon seal his fate.
Was he planning at that very moment his greatest escape?
Did he already know that his hanging would never come to be?
Was he already aware that before night fall, once again he'd be free?
Whatever his thoughts, they were interrupted rudely
by Deputy Bob Ollinger, one of his guards while in custody.
"Word has it you said that if we ever met again 
you'd kill me on the spot. 
Well here I am Kid. Now's your chance. 
Show me what you've got. 
It's a shame that you'll hang in another week or two, 
because I'd love to be the one who gets to kill you. 
I've got silver dimes in the barrells of my shotgun. 
I'd love to try them out on you, but I can't unless you run. 
If I free you from those chains will you run for the door? 
Oh by the way Kid, your Ma was one sweet filthy whore. 
I'll kill you before you hang Kid. That's a sure bet." 
"Be careful Bob," said the Kid, "I'm not hung yet."
Bob thrusted his shotgun hard into Billy's gut. 
The Kid looked up at him in pain and said, "Now what?" 
"Don't do it Bob," Bell screamed angrily, 
"or you'll be the one who'll hang for sure 
for killing an unarmed boy in cold blood 
who was chained helplessly to the floor. 
It's time for the other prisoners 
to be escorted across the street to be fed. 
The Kid's not going anywhere. 
He's chained to the floor by his bed. 
Anyway, I took the prisoners last so now it's your turn. 
Go and have yourself a beer 
and I'll stay here 
and guard the Kid until you return. 
Bob Ollinger placed his shotgun into the gun rack. 
Before he left, he said to Billy, "I'll see you when I get back." 
No one can say for sure if the above scenario ever truly took place,
but one thing's for sure. 
Ollinger tormented Billy at a merciless endless pace. 
They were enemies who fought against each other
during the Lincoln County War. 
Ollinger was in the posse that murdered John Tunstall,
Billy's employer, friend and mentor. 
"I have to use the privy Bell," Billy said to the deputy. 
Bell kept his rifle trained on Billy as he tossed him the key. 
Billy unlocked the chains that kept him bound to the floor. 
Still in handcuffs and leg irons, Bell escorted Billy out the door. 
Billy entered the outhouse closing the door behind him. 
"Let's not take too long in there Kid," Bell said with a friendly grin. 
While in the outhouse, 
Billy managed to slip one of his hands out of his handcuffs. 
"You fall in there Kid?" Bell laughed, 
"You've been in there long enough." 
"I'm coming out now Bell," Billy said opening the door. 
"Sorry I took so long Bell. I must have ate something bad for sure." 
Deputy Bell then escorted Billy back to the jail cell. 
Once inside, Billy spun around and smacked hard Deputy James Bell. 
Bell lost his balance, dropped his rifle and was momentarily stunned. 
"Hands Up Bell!," the Kid yelled. In his hand was a gun. 
"Please don't do it Bell," Billy pleaded, but Bell tried to run. 
The Kid had no choice but to do what had to be done. 
He shot and killed Bell, then went and got Ollinger's shotgun. 
The Kid never found pleasure in killing, 
but Ollinger would indeed be the exception. 
Knowing that Ollinger heard the gunfire, Billy stood by the window 
and waited for Ollinger to appear in the street down below. 
One senior named Godfrey saw Bell fall dead down the stairs. 
The moment probably gave Godfrey a few more gray hairs. 
Ollinger ran out into the street as Godfrey screamed, 
"The Kid's killed Bell!" 
Ollinger looked up into both barrels of his own shotgun 
and whispered, "..and now he's killed me as well."
"Hello Bob!," Billy called out with a song in his heart 
just prior to blowing Bob Ollinger apart. 
He blasted both barrels into Ollinger's chest and face. 
Pieces of old Bob lay scattered all over the place. 
Billy smashed his shotgun in two, threw it at him but missed. 
"You'll never rifle me again," he screamed, "you son of a bitch!" 
On the balcony he addressed the crowd whose jaws hung agape. 
"I don't want to hurt anyone, 
but I will kill anybody who tries to prevent my escape." 
In the office he found a sledge hammer
and smashed the chains of his leg irons free. 
He told Godfrey to fetch him a fast horse immediately. 
As he walked down the stairs, he came upon Bell's lifeless body 
and many eyewitnesses admit
that the Kid looked upon him and said somewhat tearfully, 
"I'm sorry I killed you Bell, but couldn't help it." 
As Billy mounted the horse 
the chains of his leg irons startled the beast. 
The horse bucked violently throwing Billy down onto the street. 
He was at this point his most vulnerable laying down on the ground. 
The crowd could have overtaken him easily, 
but none made a move or a sound. 
One might think that they were all too terrified to subdue him immediately,
but the truth is that he was so loved by so many
that they all just let him go free.
Once again Billy mounted the horse
and fled with the sound of his leg iron chains ringing. 
Many claim that as he rode out of Lincoln County 
that they heard the Kid singing. 
Billy had escaped danger so many other times in his past, 
but this was his greatest escape ever. 
It would also be his last.

Copyright © SillyBilly theKidster | Year Posted 2013

Long poem by Stephen Barry | Details |

Reflections by Commodore John Barry

 “He fought often and once bled in the cause of freedom, but his habits of War did not lessen in him the peaceful virtues which adorn his private life.”  Doctor Benjamin Rush, signer of the Declaration

“In placing Barry at the head of the Navy I have special trust and confidence in [Commodore Barry’s] patriotism, valor, fidelity and abilities” President George Washington

Reflections by Commodore John Barry (1745-1803)
 It’s been a long voyage, this life. Me, son of a poor tenement farmer, now Father of the American Navy. I feel as though I have not unpacked my trunk since I first walked aboard Uncle Nickolas’ fishing skiff back at Ballysampson, County Wexford in ‘55. Searching like a young lad does for adventure, understanding, and lust. Wanting to escape oppression and to feel worthy and alive, I left my mossy island it disappeared with the tide.

It has been a little over a year straight now back here at Strawberry Hill. I believe it’s the first time I’ve seen all the seasons change consecutively since my youth. Father, he loved the earth but for me it would be the sea. The British kicked him off his land; they planted a seed in me. Cromwell watered that seed when, “by Hook or by Crook”, he massacred me countrymen, thousands: three. My enmity towards the British and oppression took root, grew wings.
 
‘Boutez En Avant’ our family motto ‘strike forward’ seemed not to be ignored. So off to sea I went under my father’s brother’s oar. Cabin boy, Able Seaman then Mate, what better place to feed my soul, then blanketed in mother oceans’ wave. I made my way to the new land, up the Delaware to Phil-idel-ph-ia. Easy to be a Catholic there and many ships come in and out every day. It’s there I realized that females would carry me through day to day; ships and wives and love letters to keep me on my way.

My first Merchantman Command the schooner Barbados, for a time, the West Indies my second home, nine runs on her, she ran steady, steady as a stone. “Big John” Barry they started calling me. I stood a full foot over most. The Patty and Polly a grand one tripper, the Industry, she a good sloop. The Page was quite a plumb for a Captain as young as I. Better still the Black Prince, I set speed records on her: 237 miles dead reckoning in 24 hours, if not in the blink of an eye.

Alas, the Black Prince was an omen as well, for soon the fight would come. I’d been waiting for the time to seize freedom and avenge my people from back home. The woman that drove my heart, my dear Mary Cleary breathed no more; in ’67 I was at sea when she arrived on heaven’s shore. When brother Patrick was lost at sea on a French frigate the limey’s sunk, my rage only grew. Feeding the old roots buried but now in death this marrow renewed. 


Saved from despair [by wife number two], Sarah Keen Austin, as Sally she was known. I had a home again and a dandy, steardy women to guide me, letters to see me through. Things happened quickly after the Prince it was war, and we needed a Continental Navy. “Get Big John Barry here, get him here immediately.”  I oversaw the rigging and reinforced the bulwarks. I secured the powder and the canvas, the hard tack and the jerky.

They gave me the first Captain’s Commission, a fantastic brig. I took this cruiser Lexington, so strong was she, in one hour I captured the Edward, loyal to the Queen. Then the command of the Effington sprung new up from the keel. While I watched her grow, they tried to bribe me but I spurned the eye-dee of being a traitor. Instead, I did some soldiering to pass the time while she was being built. I was handpicked to work for General George Washington what a privilege and honor I had felt.

As the British descended on Phil-idel-ph-ia I would have to scuttle the Effington to save her from red hands, leaving nothing for the picking, only splinters in the sand. I fought many a valiant battle with skiff and small boats, too. Ah, the Raleigh, she was a 32-gun frigate what a beauty; I had to scuttle her too, put fire to her on the rocks but I saved two-thirds of my crew.

It was the 36 gun Alliance in ‘82 that was my favorite lass. I took metal in my body in one grand battle but persisted as my blood ran, and the colors flew through the smoke and the crunching, through the fog and the mist. After I sunk the Atlanta and the Tresspassy I gave the captain back his sword, because he was and honorable man and my lessons from the Lord. By ’83 we had beat the red coats pretty darn well but I sheared off the Sybil for good measure and had the cook ring the ships bell.

Back to a Merchantman for a while and the Asia took me to Oriental lands but my country came a calling and me, always willing to lend a hand. From President Washington in ’97 I received Commission Number One and the 42 gun Frigate the [USS United States]. Keen, thought I-this is the one. We did many a mission in her; changed many a man’s fate.

Father of the America Navy, my contemporaries call me. Now I sit on Strawberry Hill, looking down on the port. I rake leaves for my daughter, my grandson, he’s a sport. I have more time now for my association, “Charitable Captains of Ships Club”. So many sailors lost in the war, their widows and orphans need the clothes, need the grub. I get called to teach the young cadets. I guess I’m father to them all. Boutez En Avant; persist, strike up an onward, good motto for one and all.

Copyright © Stephen Barry | Year Posted 2015

Long poem by Justin Bordner | Details |

The Whips Of History - 1

This whip is a relic of war
an instrument of severe education, 
come now Avia, look how lovely and vulgar,
it is essential for you to appreciate it's intention,
feel it's supple weight, the simple fright,
I use jasmine oil to keep it alive with impact
is it not the most gorgeous braid, three feet smooth and tight
come now don't pout, it is the cord of our compact
run your fine fingers over it's raven silk,
this braid of hair belonged to a Queen
her name was Ariella, her defiance was thick
see how her scalp covers the handle clean
I had lion nails sown to the end so you learn from the hit
I will beat you with it, choke you with it, and love you with it,

I will beat you with it, choke you with it, and love you with it,
like Ariella, you are my captive now, my precious property
and I will destroy you if your heart is unfit,
if I even sense ingratitude or pondered treachery
like her Avia, you will weep unto Azrael's wings
Egyptian law and custom grant to me this measure
but let us not frown and fret over penalties and harsh things
the Pharaoh gave you to me as a gift, a breathing treasure, 
you and I shall become close as love to law
I will be the law of exchange
you will be the love for life without flaw
and together we will honor the business of bondage, 
those pyramids on the horizon stand on the knowledge of sacrifice
your beauty Avia, will survive in the legend of Goshen's price,

Your beauty Avia, will survive in the legend of Goshen's price,
When I arrived in Hispania the smell of Roman cruelty was in the sunshine
disembarking from the ship we passed an abominable masterpiece
a man with his face skin split, peeled down, crucified upon an X on the shoreline
above his head was a sign that read...I have assaulted Rome's authority...
I was in Carthage in '46, twelve years old when the legions of Scipio came,
before Hannibal cut his wrists, looking at me with death wet in his eyes, voice hoary,
he said...Mathos, make an empire of your heart...I ran to defend my Mother's name,
I've been pickin' these silver veins almost a decade without a fix
after arriving from Sicily they had me run the water wheel
the mine master couldn't believe my stamina, said I ran like the river Styx
eventually I had to walk deep, to where silver and sulphur make you kneel,
I've seen men perish in the pits, basket boys buckle dead as fumes crept
brutality is in the very bedrock here, within the law insanity kept,

Brutality is in the very bedrock here, within the law insanity kept,
What do you know about honor and campaign
you're just a goddamned butcher of chickens and pigs gut swept
I was a galearii of the ll Legio Parthia when the whole world wanted us slain,
I've butchered and built in defense of Rome 
along Hadrian's wall, in the Rhineland and in Parthia's dry plains,
I led the rally of camp slaves in 217 that staved off the cataphract storm
when all we had were some caltraps, short swords and rusty chains,
the Prefect of Antioch awarded me a gold phalerae chest disk,
you might be a freeman but I'm a traveler of Rome's eagle,
yeah, I'm just a State slave for baggage trains headed towards an imperial dusk
where the march goes on to Jupiter's bloodbath renewal, 
remember this freeman, within every heart there exists a whisper of cowardice
yet it are the truly noble whom rise to death with confidence, 

Yet it are the truly noble whom rise to death with confidence, 
I knew from the moment I bought you from your bankrupt Father
that you'd become a precise killer, an armored angel of fatal chance,
it was tragically obvious that he cherished you but had four more, a farm and your Mother,
I needed to convert the rage of your abandonment into ruthlessness
to cultivate a sharpened hate, a taste for glory, my athlete of terror,
in my school you learned the spark of steel and lethal finesse
within the arenas Decimus you became a legion of one, exact, fury's victor,
you've taught the Roman world how to cheer for the lonely conqueror
and tonight my gladiator,  amid the light of a thousand torches
in a full capacity colluseum it will not be men but beasts that you will encounter
six starved lions will be chained loosely near six ceremonial arches
commemorating six centuries of triumphs, you'll be lathered in bull's blood to attract their frenzy,
slay the symbols of captivity and you'll be set free,

Slay the symbols of captivity and you'll be set free,
look here you Teutoni shewolf
you had better summon an unsalted seduction for the buyers to see
lest you be sold to some pig pimp in the Dacia district where life is ugly rough,
your pompous pouting won't last a day in the cheap chambers,
in five minutes your body will be on the auction block
and don't dare speak unless you wish to be blinded by pain,
charm some cock out there and just maybe you'll be bought high end,
listen woman, your life is about to change real fast
either you're gonna die soon in a disease ridden dump,
live on for who knows how long in grueling grinding misery
or perhaps, you'll live decently as the mistress of a sensitive patron
you have the power to influence this outcome, tempt intensely,
Gentlemen, behold, the wild yet curious Laurentia, an unexplored beauty,

J.A.B.

Copyright © Justin Bordner | Year Posted 2016

Long Poems