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Long Identity Poems | Long Identity Poetry

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

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Long Poems
Long poem by Chris D. Aechtner | Details |

The Peter Conspiracy

This is not a poem, but a post meant to possibly offer an angle on why sometimes
people believe we are someone who we are definitely not.

You know, such as when a certain site member believes that you are named Peter, 
and live in NYC, that you are part of a "Peter Conspiracy", a ghost from the past who 
is haunting him/her, when you have never had the name, Peter, nor have you ever 
lived in NYC.
_______________


The human brain is hard-wired to seek meaning,
which includes making connections and finding supposed patterns from out of 
completely random data; connections and patterns which do not actually exist in 
the greater reality, but only within the mind of the 'believer'.

In statistics, the identification of false patterns in data, is called a: Type I Error.
This can be compared to "false-positives" in other types of tests such as:
Rorschach testing, Confirmation Bias Testing, and Illusion-Clustering Testing.

In psychology, the identification of false patterns and meaning in purely random data,
is called: Apophenia. This word has its roots from the Greek "apo"(away from) and 
"phaenein"(to show), to help reinforce the fact that the schizophrenic will initially go 
through a stage were delusion is experienced as personal revelation.

Peter Brugger attributed the term to Klaus Conrad, a German who made major 
break-throughs in the study of schizophrenia and psychosis in general. 
Klaus Conrad(June 19, 1905 in Reichenberg – 5 May 1961 in Göttingen) was a 
neurologist and psychiatrist who made important contributions to neuropsychology 
and psychopathology, which still stand to this day. Even after he joined the Nazi Party
("wot" a bad boy!)in 1940, neuropsychologists and psychiatrists from all over the
world held him in highest esteem, and refused to disregard his work because of his 
Nazi ties.

In 1958, Klaus Conrad published "Die beginnende Schizophrenie; Versuch einer 
Gestaltanalyse des Wahns"(The onset of schizophrenia: Attempting to shape 
analysis from out of delusion"). He coined the word "Apophänie" to characterize the 
initial onset of delusional psychosis, were the schizophrenic fall into a process of 
repetitively experiencing falsely abnormal meanings, connections and patterns in 
the entire surrounding experiential field, which are entirely self-referential, solipsistic 
and paranoid:

"being observed, being followed from place to place either by strangers or by 
known people who somehow take on disguises or other alterations of identity."

Klaus Conrad observed that when the schizophrenic move from phase I Apophenia, 
into phase II Apophenia, the intensity of the false revelations becomes more high-
strung, agitated and delusional, until the schizophrenic believe that many distinct 
individuals, animals and even inanimate objects, are actually one individual life-form 
or object who/that is a master of disguise; sometimes capable of performing 
extraordinary feats such as shape-shifting, teleportation and advanced telekinesis. 
These conspiratorial schizoid fusings happen because the schizophrenic notice 
that person A has the same favourite colour as person B, or person B and C both 
buy the same model vehicles during the same week, and person A and D use the 
same colloquialism; person A and E wear a similar piece of jewellry. 

The schizophrenic process these random, unrelated bits of data as a sign that all of 
these people are a collective villain, or are actually one person using many different forms. The schizophrenic blame these 'super-villains' for many of their supposedly traumatic past experiences, and these 'super-villains' are not only following the schizophrenic to make their lives miserable, but also because the schizophrenic 
believe that these 'super-villains' are attempting to undermine their genius, or to extract vital, 'secret' information or talents which the schizophrenic believe only they possess.


_________________________________________________________________

References:


- Conrad, Klaus (1958). Die beginnende Schizophrenie; Versuch einer Gestaltanalyse des Wahns. Stuttgart: Thieme. OCLC 14620263

- Conrad, Klaus (1959). "Gestaltanalyse und Daseinsanalytik". Nervenarzt. 
pp. 390 – 409.

- Brugger, Peter. "From Haunted Brain to Haunted Science: A Cognitive Neuroscience View of Paranormal and Pseudoscientific Thought", Hauntings and Poltergeists: Multidisciplinary Perspectives, edited by J. Houran and R. Lange (North Carolina: McFarland & Company, Inc. Publishers, 2001).

- Gibson, William (2003). Pattern Recognition. New York: G. P. Putnam's Sons. 
ISBN 978-0-3991-4986-3. OCLC 49894062

- GrrlScientist (29 September 2010). "Michael Shermer: The pattern behind self-deception". London: Guardian.

- Shermer, Michael. "Patternicity: Finding Meaningful Patterns in Meaningless Noise". Scientificamerican.com. 2011-06-29.

_______________



It can be extremely difficult dealing with the schizophrenic.
Especially when the schizoid openly express a hostile abrasiveness towards you.
This can erode any empathy held for the victim of mental illness.

We should have empathy for victims of mental illness,
but such things are easier said than done when one becomes a target within a schizoid's conspiracy theory; they can become very obsessed.
Also, just like with every other element in life, schizoid personalities drastically
differ from one another. Then throw subjective perspective into the mix.
A schizoid can be the most wonderful person to be around; a best friend; a safe
guardian.
And as with anyone else, the schizoid can possess a monstrous mouth of madness.

For a community, it is a fine line between having empathy towards the schizophrenic,
treating them as equals, for surely they are(no one is lesser than, nor greater than another), offering them support and help, and protecting itself against the 
schizophrenic who exhibit volatile psychosis. And then there are the sleepers.
Yes, it truly is a fine line; a highly debatable one too. 


Long poem by Neldy Jolo | Details |

THE CRAFT CAN CAPTURE IT

Oh well I got an angry email to begin my day
Because of my last post on the Jabidah thing yesterday
Galit sa akin but greeted me with Assalamu alaykum.
And kung personal Moro friends ko naman ito 
They know I don't criticize Moro leaders
I always leave that to them to criticize their leaders
According to my friends baka nasa gubyerno or something
Next time I'll write na lang about the sea and the palm trees and the beaches 

Pray and pray nalang para walang provocation
ako nga ang daming nag-message sa akin nagalit sa issue ng Sabah standoff
Ikaw pa kaya na wala namanng masama na sinabi dun
Alam mo ‘buti na lang you verbalized that kasi iniisip ko rin ‘yun
I know you have reasons and you know better kaya; I just read your posts
I don’t have to go against parties kasi both have rights
And the issue must be solved

Wala, kasi sa akin kundi independence lamang ang kailangan
May ganyan din kasing realities? 
Minsan you are being asked or expected to take sides
Yes, my side is peace – with peace is independence
Yes, I heard that sa dating Jabidah Massacre celebration
Somebody said that, “Walang kapayapaan kasi walang kalayaan”
And that is very universal, kapatid.

Moro or non-Moro and writing should always geared towards humanity
That’s why for me it “anti-humanity” if you will not listen 
Or suppress when somebody will talk about freedom.
That’s the problem with Filipinos, they don't listen.
Kasi the leaders may sarili ring interests.

How do you see being Filipino?
Ako, it's a cage, Filipino nationalism 
Agenda ng mga oligarchs and landowners 
Filipino nationalism is violence against Muslims and lumads
Kasi ‘pag ako ang tatanunginmo I will never say I am Filipino
Because Tausug it’s not a name but an identity...
I understand but kaunti na lang kayo

Ako sasabihin ko na I am a Filipino but I have reservations
When I was a teenager hindi ako tumatayo ‘pag Lupang Hinirang
ngayon tumatayo na kasi napapaaway ang mga kasama ko sa sinehan
Yes and identity should be critically assessed and examined.
Kaya if they say Filipino ang mga Tausug masakit sa aking loob
But not all, kapatid. try mo pumunta sa Manila
Yung mga Moro na malalapit sa mga institusyon ng Pilipinas
Bakit iba ang Moro at ibang ang Tausug
kaya sila naging Moro at masaya na tawaging Moro 

May identity na naiiba sa Filipino
Pinag-aaralan ko rin yan and ino-observe ‘yung pag-yield sa 'Filipino'
‘Will give Filipinos a disservice
Because it is tantamount to be an accomplice to a corrupt system
And this system is the one that oppresses Muslims
At alam natin ang Tausug di lamang taga-Sulu
Pati Bisayan, Tausug din

As much as possible I am trying to make my writings 'away' 
Away from Filipino nationalism
That's the right way for me and my writing
I will ask first, “How it is to be human?” 
At super last na ang, “How to be a Filipino” 
And the Bangsamoro struggle is the greatest critique to the violence
And failures of Filipino nationalism

Ang problema kasi kaya di successful ang Bangsamoro struggle
Dahil nagdadala sila ng pangalan na di naman originally sa kanila
How come ang pangalan ko ay Abdul sa rights
Gagamitn ko ang Juan para sa aking bayan?
Kaya war of ideas ito and alam mo naman sa akin, ‘pag ideas 
And perspectives walang kompromiso and peace talks 

I do not compromise my language, my craft and myself, my writing
Filipino is an imagined nation, as well as Bangsamoro
Bakit di natin magamit ang orignal nation natin 
Na based sa Sulu archipelago and Mindanao
Yes, actually diyan ako papunta - papunta

Bakit hindi i-Bangsamoro-ized ang buong Filipinas?
It doesn’t mean na i-convert ang Pilipinas 
But the spirit, the struggle it should mean something to Filipinos
It should kasi ang dami na nagbuwis ng buhay
Kaya ko pa na tanggapin kung Maharlika

‘Yan ang gusto kong ma-achieve: Filipinos should listen to Moros
Siyempre marami pang madidiscover along the way
Indeed. Ikaw ba ‘pag sasabahin ko na ‘Tausug’ ano ang maiisip mo?
Tausug is Moro and Moro for me is something that predates 'Filipino'
But now, I would like to know the concept of “Lupah Sug”
I want to know it, I think there are more and beyond Moro on it

Before ‘Moro’ was named to Mindanao and Sulu people
It was first name to Aceh people, Melaka, Brunei and then Manila
Sulu and Mindanao were the last places to have been called the name ‘Moro’
Sulu archipelago was united under the name Sulu archipelago 
The name of people is Tausug. 
Tausug is composed of different ethnics:
Arab, Banjar, Dampuan, Buranun etcetera.
The concept of Sulu as part of dar al islam 
Is already a nation and state 
Where the government is the people and itself headed by sultan or raja

Yes, and I would like to feel this from the ordinary Tausugs when I get there
I would like to experience this from ordinary Tausug and on from place itself.
In the hinterland of Jolo, their laws still on the ground not of Philippine law

I believe in narratives
I want to hear and feel this from the place and from the people.
And then capture it; I have these thoughts 
That Lupah Sug has something that the Moro concept does not have
And it’s a bit metaphysical but sige lang.

I know my craft can capture it.
I think there is a language that can capture it 
And specific craft that can carry its soul
Not fictionalize but put it in a form like a novel or a narrative
Which have their own logic and truths as crafts.






This poem is made after the conversation and sharing with Filipino writer Rogelio Braga who also serves as the editor of the poem. He is currently in Mindanao, travelling and writing; he will then proceed to Sulu Archipelago soon. 2:28PM, 19 March 2013, Facebook Chat across Sulu Sea!


Long poem by Cyndi MacMillan | Details |

SYLVIA, FOR CRAIG CORNISH, FOR ALL PLATH FANS

                         
                           It is a terrible thing
                           To be so open: it is as if my heart
                           Put on a face and walked into the world.


                                          Sylvia Plath, Three Women, 1962



_________________________________



SYLVIA

Sylvia, ever lucent, ever opaque,
an incongruity, a clever imbalance               
that spins collections her hounds facilitate.  
Failures and fractures she bravely lanced
with noncompliance. Reader, rebuff collars
labeled as forewords, smug introductions, 
for Plath’s voice is tenfold more a scholar 
than those receiving undue benedictions.    
Lofty beggars seek to bookend her words
and that empty space she instinctively refills
with her universe, a mayhem that girds,
unapologetic. Mirror images spill
over margins, searching for identity,
negating preamble, snubbing apathy.   

Negating preamble, snubbing apathy
with language that flickers, catches, combusts,
her volumes of wicks, her lit soliloquies,   
glint behind the stained-glass of trust.
There are those who are not really here,
they wander fault lines then crisscross chasms,
lost pilgrims who easily commandeer
unwary emotions. Some hearts just spasm,                         
pulled by their own nature, their delicacy,
for poetry is a weakness; poets die
between verses. Odes can become elegies.
The thin-skinned hear a snared rabbit cry,
and pray for the moonflower, always closing,
while cursing that page, unmoved and dozing.

While cursing that page, unmoved and dozing,
she corners rigid guides, keeps fingers poised,
synchronicity goes, the flow of typing
disappears, mislaid, that perfect noise
of a carriage return, a sound exclamation.
Joy is inspiration making its way home,
her Olivetti forages like a raven,
gifting found nouns, verbs that glare like chrome,
but love still flits, turns from hoarse requests,
and she longs for more than any man can give
for what snags worn ribbons will not rest,
it emits a strong beat, throbs as it loves.
Bless the bitter of life, all wisdom owing,
curse the open heart, its shadows showing.
  

Curse the open heart, its shadows showing,
for worldly delights take full advantage
of the wounded, their brokenness growing.
Everyday beauty wrings arteries, dredges
chambers with barbs, a prompt disobedient.
Fact, there’s no folder large enough to hold 
elation’s girth, no ink conveniently
on hand to black out depression. So, scold
the yew, its roots and branches reaching,
then poke at petals for being complacent, 
when all the while a candle is preaching
of give and take, surrender, luminance,
So, carefully archive apprehension,
revealing blue veins to tender lesions.

Revealing blue veins to tender lesions
requires much more than a room of one's own,
hours do dissolve, days lack cohesion 
when milk sours and tantrums are thrown.
Solitude is in short supply, loneliness,
however, is overstocked; her mind tugs      
at busy hands for attention, such darkness
contrasts to jammy smiles and sleepy hugs.
Elusive titles whimper each morning,
and short stanzas steep, so desperately,
all the while a manuscript is scorning
her swipes at dry crumbs, cold pots of tea.
A life sheds its months, gallows take delight
as sundials atrophy in the arms of night. 

As sundials atrophy in the arms of night. 
the moon blanches tidepools, suckles sand,
even the face of the clock is pulled too tight
and the new calendar can not understand
that writing is sex, is fresh bread, is air,
that time is a brute, quick fisted, rough,
that weeks come and go without a care
that a marriage vow is never enough
to mend adoration, repossess bliss.  
Words make better lovers, rarely stray,
upon her lips, the impression of a kiss
feels as cold as sheets then melts away.
Paper sops afterbirth, accepts her all:
fossil and seed, shackles and free falls.


Fossil and seed, shackles and free falls,
unlocking visions, defying any cage, 
art resists validity, upsets stone walls  
to scale the scarlet heights of a rampage,
to breach the barricades to euphoria.
She excavates id, bares teeth at ego, 
plays the parts of illusion and phobia
then infuses rhyme with soft indigo. 
Colossus begins to shrivel as Ariel
unmans him, riding hard upon metaphors,
and will remain strong, constant, ethereal. 
but curtailed are epics that still implore  
like the cusp of dream long after you wake

Sylvia, ever lucent, ever opaque.









 

 
* For Craig Cornish, whose contest inspired this piece. Thank you, Daddy-O. 




About this poem

This is my first crown of sonnets. It took over 25 hours to write, a full week of me-time! 

These are modern sonnets and the syllable count is extremely loose, intentionally, as it would seem odd to keep things too tight when writing of Sylvia. If anything, I regret not being even looser, altering syllable counts DRAMATICALLY. Also, I used a great deal of slant rhyme for the same reason.


I really wanted to capture Sylvia Plath with this poem, and it was a real struggle. Her language is so precise, and I wanted to do her justice. I had wanted to feel, upon its completion, that Sylvia would have said, "Well, it isn't quite horrible. Not bad for a novice. And there are parts of me there, but only the smallest bits." I do not feel I did this.  I feel like I didn't even TOUCH her mastery of language. But, it is good enough for now.. one day, who knows? 

Oh, Sylvia's typewriter was a Olivetti Lettera 22. It was portable!


Long poem by Joel Lee | Details |

Unfinish

A Dark Identity

Days into nights... time without time
Normalities of everyday life beckons to remain
Shadows with lights.... to find to define
I am he who goes by without a name

The world is only up to date
And I’ve decided no more to follow
Bearing time to finally relate
Yet a self I’m to find to wallow

He who walks without an identity... walks alone
And he who walks alone needs be proud
Yet walking forever without finding a home
Have I that heaven beyond the clouds?

I cannot see either far or near
I cannot be to be neither nor
I’m listening... I cannot hear
I’m at peace... I’m at war

I did not know... am I suppose to?
I know I’m alive... is that enough?
Yet, rather not to know than knew
For knowledge shall never last

A mystery if not yet to be
That one mysterious hope to be searching for
I have dreams but what did I see?
I have no one... not one I can call

A darken need shall heed not words
For the dark shall rise as light
The fade will be a promise to be heard
For shadows are without night

And I started to listen distractedly
Hearing for what my eyes cannot see
A hallucinatory moment ever constantly
As I began to believe that of what cannot be

The instant my eyes close
My mind drew as suppose
Sketching a stand alone amid a world once seen
Of ranging fires to have had believed as a dream
And there I was... a lone figure enveloped in darkness
With crossing flames alight yet from a distance as useless
Left as I was before... I am to return as I am
Reliving once more this beginning with never the end
Thus did I continue my path away from the bloodshed
Carefully as one had hoped where a darker darkness be led
No more do I wonder what transported me here
To only know for certain I am riddled of constant fear

“Fear is a fire
To temper courage and resolve
Be it desire
To quench the thirst for one’s unfounded lost”

And there it was... words barely a whisper
Where it came from... no longer matters
For the intended vigor were already cast upon
Serving me with renewed purpose for a sense to belong
Before long, beyond doubts... my callings were clear
The source from where it first began was indeed here
Almost startled, I looked around knowing I’m blinded to see
Too dark as it was, had it not been a lighted green to be
And there it was... a single light beyond the almighty dark
That one greenish light to aid one’s lonesome heart
Rather peculiar for I haven’t notice it before
And naturally I am to walk towards the green grandeur
Flickering and wavy as I drew closer to my destination
Seeing finally for what appears to be the least of expectations
Astonishingly, it was a lantern where within was the sighted fire
And simply the fiery green alone ignites ever on in dire
Levitated in midair, it stands rigid with its haunting presence
With an aura more deserving then welcoming of essence
So mesmerized I was... I wanted to behold
That of warmth for perhaps deliverance from cold
A dare if not, if only, if I must
A flame to embrace, a curiosity to engulf
And surely... I lifted my hand with only a wanting touch
Surely but unknowingly... the flame itself is to parch
Sparkles of green eludes and transcends about
As well an aria, an ancient tune goes aloud
To only see to believe, perhaps my life to perceive
Yet the question being... what did I achieve?
Smoke arises... wavering, quivering, settling...
My time... misgiving, misguiding and misleading
And there he was... rather it be
A human?... isn’t to be I see

“A dark wanderer, perhaps a lone wanderer alone
Regardless... a stranger afar returning home
Have you the teachings bequeath upon you?
From a once being of a knight who knew
For he alone stands unnerve by another
Serving a purpose to hold true forever
The resemblance I see forth leaves me incertitude
Both as mortals... though only he remains in servitude
Yet... my appointment upon you is clear
I am to you drawn as you to me when you hear
Nevertheless, far too long were you of absence
And once more I am in honor to be in your presence
It never is clear what the heavens contrive
For this unsung war... humanities were birth to strive
Every one mortal given birth were forged for war
To ensure the survival of humanities and of peace to befall
For many years this bloodshed wages in dire
Almost as certainly, the spirits of men responsively tire
No more are there ideas nor hopes they are to see
Battling on for pure survival remains what leads them be
Your return however, will perhaps set the tides in our favor
Though I know not the intention, I do not disregard altogether
Do not let the reasons why you have returned cloud your mind
I ask of you rather to remember who you once were to define
The land of The Ancients is never a quest for truth to seek
Purely for good to triumph over evil is the only idea you will need
Prepare yourself well stranger, for good will always be in disguise
Treachery and deception as often will never in itself be a lie
The unforgiving way is still a long one I’m afraid
However well is Heaven to plan... evil as always will await
And until out time will once more cross between us
I assure you... your time in this world will outlast”


Long poem by Verlena S. Walker | Details |

QUANDARY

QUANDARY

Opening the window for a breeze… Dogs are barking!  My mind is only on me.  Relaxing…  As my story of the day unfolds, someone knocks.  Startling me, I hurry to the front door.  There stands an image of long-ago.  We hug and I let him in.  I begin to remember how deeply in love I was with this man.  But our destinies had to part and I left with my heart.  We talked for hours.  No intimacy transpired between us because we knew our lives was not fair to us and therefore, we did not desire any closeness.  Just reminiscence of tragedy we had went through for healing purposes on this three-year Anniversary.

***

What happen?  You may ask.  This is the tale as is.

***

His mother desired to be me.  So she set out to steal my identity.  In darkness she laid in our bed waiting on Ted.  A man entered the room and she presumed her man had come home.  Voicing that she was there, my stalker shot her three times in  the head.  The bullets were for me.  In irony, she had really stolen my identity.  He shot himself as well ending my dilemma.

The police came on the screen afraid that it was me.  Ted and I played it off.  He had told me his ordeal with his mother as a teenager.  He was the star athlete at our high school.  His mother was unstable and desired him for her sex tool.  She will explain that this would keep them close but he could not tell anyone.  His grandmother, on his father side. had fill Ted in on his mother family history of incest.  Ted figured he did not want any part of that mess.  So he asked his father could he live with him but he also keep in contact with his mother because of his sister and brother.  His father said yes to Ted and asked his other kids did they want to live with him as well.  It so happen that his sister was close to their mother and his brother was also.  So they said no.

Ted graduated from high school as valedictorian of his class and his body was explosive.  Ted was fine as he could be.  He now could communicate with his mother without her approaching him for sex.  He had not told his father of this instead he kept this to himself.  Nevertheless, his mother, in secret, still desired her son.

Ted and I started dating in high school.  I was familiar with his family through us living in the same metropolitan city: however, not in the same community.  We end up going to the same university in the city we lived in and our relationship flourished.

We moved into our apartment while we were in college and his  mother use to come over.  And now, three years later, we remember the tragedy.  Ted cries out to me and I answered.  We are bonded by our relationship but not by marriage.  He has successfully conquered his demons and mine's disappear on that night of my stalker killing himself.

Ted mother was wealthy and I knew that she only was nice to  me because of Ted.  The police discovered she had paid my stalker to pursue me as his prey.  Ted has been told this as well and he stated that is why his mother is dead in which he says quietly to himself: “This ends this horrid tale.”

[Queasy Queen Beings and they do not know anything of it. Ted is Queasy Queen’s son and he has her powers. He would have acquired his mother’s powers without help, which would have been through incest before forty (40). However, incest did not happen between Ted and his mother, Queasy Queen; therefore, he will acquire her powers at the age of forty (40).  His sister and brother have theirs but did not divulge because there mother had explain theirs to them when she bestowed.  Telling Ted’s sister, Harmony, at ten (10) what she was doing as she assisted her in getting dressed, which was lesser than incest. she kissed her ******. Telling Ted’s brother, Destine, at fifteen (15), when she gave him a kiss as he was leaving why she ****** him, which was lesser than incest. Incest was only for Ted because he was the oldest and her first born. His grandmother on his father side knew nothing of this because she was human and disagreed with incest openly. More so, this was unheard of through an entity of the government.]


Long poem by Therese Bacha | Details |

A White Sheet Of Paper Part I

                       "A White Sheet of Paper."  Part1

Once upon a time I was a white sheet of paper
Pilled between hundreds on a shelf my neighbor 
For years was an old stapler.

I was full of life yet dreading never to find myself 
A home where I would achieve all my dreams 
With someone not all alone.

Suddenly I heard a murmur of a low sweet voice
Asking the sales man where he can find white
Sheets of paper closer and closer he approached 
I was praying to be chosen.

When Oh! I was in his hands pulling me from 
The pile between thousands relieved to run away
I quickly said good bye to the shelve 
I could no more stand.

My blood felt warm like after a cold winter storm
Abiding by a chimney opposite the fire.
I was thinking who is he? Where does he live?
Will he posses me? Will he become my master?
Will he take me for a ride forever to abide
Or would I be used just like a scratch
Piece of paper.

My heart stopped beating for a while thinking
All the memories of my past and the future would
Just vanish depart my end in a waste paper basket
Carried away like a dead man in a casket
And thrown in a background of a graveyard.

No; I was carried by him and feeling his strong hands
Inside of me came a glimpse of hope I felt secure as 
I wanted to belong to someone for long.

Feeling assured for the very first time happy 
Within me and with him I saw him smile while 
Walking that mile to where his car was parked 
I promised myself to comply day and night I 
Will be on stand by forever.

His radio Came on with a Melody of Waltz
Rocking in the car My fate was still Unknown.

Than he stopped assuming we arrived to a 
Home or an office he gently carried me up the stairs
Opened the door I looked inside and at last I shouted 
We are all alone we were in his home will it be mine 
too one day.

With much caring he placed me on a huge big desk 
It was a mess magazines and books an ashtray that
Was not emptied for days.

I noticed next to me was a crystal white vase filled with 
All sorts of brushes still stuck on them multiple colors of paint.

That was when I realized oh my lord! I will be famous
My master was an artist from joy I was going to faint as
My thoughts pictured a frame and inside it one day I will 
Be born I will exist created by my master I will hang on a
Wall and will be admired from the soul.

The warmth of the room filled my heart I was getting tired 
Wanting to relax while turning my head before closing my
Eyes I noticed many paintings hanging on the wall 
From the ceiling to the floor.

I got jealous and ready with a deep sigh to whisper and beg 
My master to create me in an image of a dazzling woman
Surround me with such beauty cover me with colors
Pour on me paint and make me look like a wild saint.

Taken by my inspirations to provide him an identity
I felt his strong hands holding me opposite his eyes and
Pressed me on the desk and that was when I felt it hurts
Then a second pain followed by a third and fourth pain i 
Could not move I lost my breath trying not to cry I felt
I would die.

But not very long as I already knew my fate
Being a white sheet of paper I had to be pinned 
on the Table for me to remain motionless until 
his creation is terminated.

I was stunned when I saw a pencil in his hand
Smelling his perfume when he was tracing my face
It started to feel round small ears for future earrings
My nose was tiny he started with my eyes than he 
Stopped.

I felt him fixing and concentrating on the spot where 
He will create my eyes excited as I loved him when
I was blind and now he will unbind the bandage 
off my eyes.

To see him more to love him more to follow him 
Everywhere to watch him laugh and cry to see him 
Dress and undress caress his body with my Eyes.

Watch him drink and think eat sitting down or standing up
Amazed awaiting his decision to start by reviving my 
Inner soul and create me as his woman I was craving 
To have green eyes.


To be continued.part 2
                                         Terry


Long poem by Therese Bacha | Details |

She wrote to me

           She Wrote To Me

My secret lover I left you 5 years ago I could not take it anymore I had 
to fill my emptiness without you since I left I would cut out my heart 
every night & in the morning its full again. 
I got married to a rich noble politician thinking I can forget you I made 
myself well known here in London as a musician playing the piano in 
my own theater every night. 

The theater was full the sound of my piano was known to everybody 
living all over London due to my husbands political involvement in the 
area for many years the whole theater would be booked.

My entrance was always approached with loud voices cheering till I give 
the sign of performing .That specific night i was in a very determined 
mood to involve my audience listen to the sound of my piano around 
and everywhere the lights were on me already but no sign to begin 
waiting for another noble to make his entry in the front row.

I was wearing that long dress in black and white strapless the one I had 
worn on our first date doing my best to belong to my audience tonight 
while craving to catch a glimpse of your existence live standing opposite 
me the way we were your place was empty but not in my heart.

The audience were standing up clapping waiting impatiently to listen to 
what they had already known music from the tip of my fingers will allow a pause through their breathing.

The lights dimmed no introduction was needed I was going to play an old
tune from the 80`s called Feelings remember when we danced to that tune I am dedicating this musical evening to you my love my first lover before we were obliged to be separated due to family upbringing.

That same evening tragedy stole my expectations of living a love to 
perform an absolute change of a physical identity a living spirit awaiting 
to be executed when suddenly I collapsed unconscious on stage my fingers 
were numb my blood betrayed my heart. 

It was a heart attack paralyzing me on the left side cure or no cure 
is still unknown that had left me scarred when witnessing my dreams 
shatter in disrepair.
I have been forced retirement at a prime age left with no choice 
hide behind the shadows of the twilight abdicate my thrown 
to an unknown.

Escape was a forgotten word before this chute as an invalid carcass today 
my escape to the cottage was essential maybe a celestial miracle would prevail.

The cottage by the deep sea will become my quarantine from what was an enlighten world to a world of darkness, my retirement was a runaway from 
the mockery of mankind who might disperse my dissipated soul.

My shutters are unclosed as their usage was worthless brightness 
obscurity made no difference to me in that room.
The ocean view struck me by its calmness, huge waves were 
not prepared to release their passion and splash on the shore to bring 
forth their own melody.

I went for a walk walking like in a dream a dream with no feelings of body 
and soul the moon provided me to detect another lonely shadow of a stranger yet this time it was the shadow of a lost fish wavering on the sand nearly lifeless, our eyes met needed to be rescued I said to myself even not feeling my withered hand I bent down kindly carried it and threw it back to life what a wonderful sensation. You will do that to me my darling, I will wait.

My decision to escape to the un inhibited cottage was a knowledgeable 
step as only seclusion and spiritual wounds would heal to prompt a new attitude that will lessen my sorrow inspire my moral to long for 
a tomorrow differing than a yesterday. 

Stand by me today, my awakening will hoist a sparkling light of recovery 
during this long coming journey. Intentionally I am your free woman.
Here I will sleep now until destiny will allow both of us to cure and leave our fears behind with our past, together venture back to where we belong. 
I loved you and still love you. Me!


Therese Bacha
6/3/2013


Long poem by PENINNAH NGANGA | Details |

CRIME OF PASSION

One Sunday afternoon in spring,
i was tending my garden,
trimming and watering the roses,
when he first passed by.
I remember standing up to break the ache,
and as i ran my hand across the face,
to wipe off the sweat,
there he was this breathtaking scenery!
He had the most fair face i had ever seen,
better than the men haunting my dreams from the Men Magazine!
His bone structure was well highlighted by the brown tinted aviators covering his eyes,
and the red Porsche reflected his perfect skin!

I don't remember much what happened next,
but with pure clarity i remember dropping my shears,
as he leveled the sun glasses fifty degree,
and cast a shameless stare to my long naked legs,
with passion so wild;
his eyes were like flames of fire!
Then with an evil smile that clearly said;
'i will be back for more sugar honey',
he fired his auto box and disappeared.

The second encounter found me sipping sweet tea,
reading 'red leaves' by Paulina Simons at the Porch.
He was in a tight green sweat t shirt that emphasized his muscles,
and long baggy shorts that revealed his manly hairy legs.
He dropped the paper pack which contained seedlings of,
every flower i could think think of from his hands,
gave another evil wink,
made a bow,
and left without a word wearing a mysterious smile.  

And when he rang my door that Friday evening,
there was no need for more formalities,
our eyes told all the undeniable emotions we felt,
within seconds,
his hands were roughing up my clothes,
his long nose teasing mine as our mouths locked in deep search.
And when he started to nibble my ears,
and taste my skin,
i knew this adventure would forever change my life.
But when the cold metal on the ring finger touched my flesh,
as he tenderly caressed every spot his tongue baptized on my body,
i realized i had not only witnessed a crime of passion;
but had blood on my hands too.
But that did not stop the want,
it did not make him less desirable,
nor quench the fire!
And when his long John finally splashed my inner with his malt,
and both simultaneously hit the paradise and bounced back,
on my bed sweating and panting like teenagers,
i knew this lust will not end without me getting hurt.

And so the call came in this Sunday afternoon!
Her worked up voice playing on my machine,
rudely interrupted our third round of explosion.
She said she knew!
"The wife always knows" she exclaimed!
She told me i need to stop ****ing her husband,
and the father of her three kids,
or else the last thing i would remember,
"will be the Sheriff asking if you okey as you draw the last breath on this earth!"

And so i plead with you,your Honor,
the Jury and this Respectable Court,
to take me under the wings of the Witness Protection Program,
where i will be well protected and preserved from the risk of our encounters.
Kindly take me far north;
to a jurisdiction where his love cannot preside over.
Where my eyes will never again sparkle at the sight of his perfect body,
Where his fingers will never bruise my soft skin with a gentle caress.
Take me to a safe house where my heart can never be made by his love,
nor can my body die in his arms ever again.

Issue me a new identity that has no clue;
how good he is at this art.
Far from this soul that adores his being.

And in turn,
i will take the stand against him,
my palm on the Holy Book i will make the Oath;
to tell the the truth and nothing but the truth,
on the case of this organized crime,
committed by my man who should have never been mine,
against the one to whom he made vows of fidelity and stability.
Whom he promised to cherish,protect and forever adore,
through the fires of hell and pleasures of life,
till death do them apart.
Amen.

  






Long poem by Kira Olson | Details |

The Chains That Bind Me: Letting Go of ED

Chains, so heavy. Binding every body part.  
A cell: its cold metal bars blocking out light.   
A wall, originally meant to protect, now a barricade nothing penetrates.
A net, once safety, now entangling, strangling.  
A trap, caught with no one to rescue, screaming yet unheard, misunderstood.
A thick fog stifling my breath, clouding my mind.
A prison of mirrors, taunting, criticizing, hating.
A barbed club, beating my flesh raw.  
An inescapable grading system consisting only of the letter “F.”
A harsh judge, always condemning “guilty.”

What happened to the Friend, the Protector?
Have I lost control? To this monster that possesses mind and soul?
How did I get so lost?  Even my voice can’t find its way. 
Where is freedom, light, joy?  …In this meaningless existence.

Fears suffocate me.  Trapped in mind and body.
If I’m living, it’s a nightmare.
I can’t move, can’t scream, can’t breathe, can’t feel.
I’m crippled, though not physically.
Worshipping an idol that leaves me empty.
God, where are you?  
Where did I go wrong?  
I only meant to be perfect.
Meant to shut out pain, to stop feeling.
To please You and the world.

I rejected my true identity, didn’t I?
Didn’t trust in Your love and power.
I played God, Decided I knew best.
I hated Your Creation, attempting to change the cracks that make me beautiful.  
Rather than allow You to mold them.
I shut out Your plan by choosing mine. 
My control led to chaos, to self-destruction. The opposite of Love.
I chose bondage to self and fear, not Freedom.
Judgment instead of Grace.

The dangers of perfection, of self-idolatry, of control.
Not just an eating disorder, but so much more.
Why cling to sickness and defeat when You offer safety, Triumph?
Why deprive myself of True Life?
Why choose chains when meant to run in Freedom?

I let go, surrender, give my life to God.
Chains break; my body crumbles.
I rise, facing the Monster guarding my prison cell.
Finding my voice, I scream: it shakes the walls.
The same club I use to beat myself,
I turn on him, until his flesh too is raw.

Though aching from being bound so long,
I see light.  My heart skips.
Cracks of light pour through the wall,
It shrinks in stature.
Gentle Hands hear me, untangle me.
I open myself to the mind of Christ,
Asking for transformation of thought and heart.
The fog lifts – I can see, I can think.
Emotions flood in, no longer feared.  
Instead a gift, an adventure.
There is comfort that He is near: my Friend, my Protector.  

Over the mirrors, I glue God’s Truth.
The taunting ceases; A new reflection appears.
A daughter crowned with jewels is what I see,
Holding the hand of her Father, the King.
Light radiates from the pair,
A halo of peace surrounds them.

In His presence is power and healing, acceptance, love.
Judgment is gone, as is the drive to do and be.  
He has drawn me with everlasting kindness,
In me, He is well-pleased.  
His works are wonderful,
That I am beginning to see.

Why choose a prison of our own making?
When He offers hope, love, freedom, all we need.
Why hold to darkness when He is light?

Turn and face the enemy – 
Muster His strength. Fight its deathly embrace.
By letting go.
By letting Him.
Transform. And break the chains.


Long poem by Audonus Taylor | Details |

Blood and Stains

There is a sadness in her smile, 
a sorrow that conceals itself within 
the curl of the corner of her lips.
It's like watching someone discover 
the
small good in a series of bad 
memories.
There, she sits, with her back arched
away from the comfort of the sofa,
ready to run but hoping to stay 
awhile.

All she knows is the me of hearsay,
the whispers and tales from the 
tongues
of mutual acquaintances who will not 
allow me to change from what was...
This is the me she expected.
This is the me she wanted to not 
want.
The ambivalence was painted on her 
face,
the outer layer of sheen that 
illuminated
the make-up she wore to protect her 
emotions.

But I knew, more than I knew her 
reputation,
I knew the look of self loathing that 
stood
beside wanting something, someone, 
that
was bad for you. This was that look.
She had come to me with purpose,
with no goal less than the 
impossible.
She wanted my heart 
and would risk her virtue 
for the chance to confirm 
I did or did not had one...

She had heard my stories, read my 
words,
and desired the wounded writer she 
heard
no woman could have beyond a 
night.
She yearned to be the exception...
She needed to be more than merely
another distraction to me.
She would disprove the rumors of 
her
own identity by capturing a user of 
the users
who had dirtied the name she truly 
deserved.
All she had to do was become more 
like them,
lessen the value of her body, offer 
herself 
for the fragile promise of my 
attention for as long as possible.

All she had to do was make sex 
become love.
The reverse of what she was raised 
to believe.
The opposite of what she wished 
for...

This was years ago...
when ignorance allowed bad and 
good,
black and white, to be equated 
with the world in her eyes.
Before life itself taught her 
of the truer reality of shades of grey.
Back before she knew that her 
identity
was hers alone to create.
Back before she had children,
no husband, and a list of lovers
too long for her to want to 
remember.
Back before she realized that she 
could not
change anyone but herself...
Before she made the choice to give
herself to my drunken desire, 
lascivious nature, and uncaring 
touch...

Today, I saw her long enough for her 
to confess this all to me...
Standing before me as every single 
thing
she once prayed to never become,
She confessed her honest regret of 
that night,
her actions, and all decisions that 
followed...
It was after I returned home that I 
thought.
It was only then that I remembered 
her, that
I vividly recalled the night she spoke 
of.
And a sad sense of sorrow came 
over me 
as I recalled the morning after...
And I remembered everything...

And one memory filled me with guilt,
One memory knocked the wind out 
of me
and replaced it with shame and 
regret...
One memory ensured that I would 
always
remember her name from that 
moment forward.
It was the one truth I should have 
cared enough
to never forget after my night with 
her:
"She was inexperienced, 
she was in pain during, 
and...
there were blood stains on my bed 
sheets."


Long Poems