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Long Identity Poems | Long Identity Poetry

Long Identity Poems. Below 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 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 Debbie Guzzi | Details |

A Crown of Thorns

1
Insanity has its own wellspring and demise.
There is no better place to hide than between coils
of convoluted grey-white matter which can't recoil.
Mind has no leering lips to scorn or show surprise 
as ungoverned, the ancient demon-dancers rise.
The traitorous bits, which cut with Brutus’ red fang,
have no regard for the womb from which they sprang.
They seek dominion; they care not for your cries.
Crazed, their freedom paid for on the rack, how they sang
of anything, of windigos’, and warriors winged 
of fresh flesh beneath a gibbous moon's harangue, 
where those in sanity beneath their blankets cringed.
Night terrors sweat the sheets of the weak, as fear sprang,
a ripened, musky-scent arose from those unhinged.
2
A ripened, musky-scent arose from those unhinged
cloaked in mirrored, morose, magic; the mind a foil,
the heart, the soul, the sunny days, caste down, embroiled; 
destined to languish convulsed in the depth of coil.
Brightness, so dimmed, is lost within a rancid soil,
left to meet horned demons all but unarmed, alone, 
no company except the mirrored self-entombed,
no bliss state, no ripening sweetness to uncoil
a compost heap of bitter memories, atone ...
atone, little mother, well-used wife, wander now,
seeking ever seeking, yet finding no one home,
insanity wakened, waits, patiently endows ... 
empty days and nights, the infrequent sound of om,
cuddling the traitorous bits, shooing brighter dreams roused.
3
Cuddling the traitorous bits, shooing brighter dreams roused,
the teeth of dogged night rise-up, they breed turmoil.
Deep within the sleeping mind of men, sorrows roil.
Abandonment, disloyalty, hatred espoused,
all shriek to the traitor, the night arouses. 
Niggardly night, loath to lose ground within the dome
of blanched white, gray matter, within this skull of bone,
delights in the sorrowful detail night houses.
Insanity licks raw the salted wound entombed, owned.
"What could we be?" the ego cries to he or she.
"What would we be?" the windigo screams but, “alone.”
On, on, they chatter in the carapace they breed, 
spreading dark matter, for they've no chaperone,
no friend to stay the brutal cousins, so mislead. 

4
No friend to stay the brutal cousins so mislead,
so in darkness, fear and hatred spread on fertile soil.
Yet, self-hatred shields its sharpened claws, as day uncoils
filling the breach with bright creations, dark concedes 
and dims the room while manic laughter recedes.
A sunrise bows through prism-glass and colors swell
a lighter laughter comes, newborn to dwell.
Hands that once drew only blood, now tune bent reeds                        
of green, blades of springtime grass within the dell;
where larks sing and long lost lovers dare to reunite, 
no mention made of darkness or the depth of hell,
for sanity has cast a lighter stage this night.                       
Daybreak suspends the demon-dance upon the fell
now fairies prance in pastures high, and verse delights.
5 
Now fairies prance in meadows high, and verse delights
her fancy takes a softer turn at his behest
with buttercups, in a Fairy Ring, they coalesce.
and shine the golden glow beneath a chin of white.
With the talent of a troubadour, love does strum
upon desire's strings the raging beast is culled
as coy love songs and  sweet lullabies emerge from
the hidden depths of mind where sanity is mulled.
With the talent of a troubadour love does strum
upon strings of desire the fearful beasts are culled 
as coy love songs and sweet lullabies emerge from
the stygian depth where her frail sanity is mulled.
How long will harmony dance to love's blissful hum
Will dark's whine wake, disturb, insanity so lulled? 
6 
Will dark's whine wake, disturb, insanity so lulled? 
A scent of jasmine fills the air with swarming gnats.
Her covered ears belay the sound of feral cats
yet, huddled in his sheltering arms, her pain is dulled.
Dulled, but not waylaid, raging, she becomes unglued
She starts to rock, to whimper, and then, cry out- loud
begging for the dev'lish tide to leave, as he vowed,
renting strands of flaxen hair from her small skull.
Torn, he watches as she fades within a shroud,
a witless waif, bedeviled by the harvest moon.
He had to leave; he could not stay beneath this cloud
ever waiting for this, her omnipresent doom.
His love had its limits and yet, he was not proud,
Oh, he could not stay and watch her be consumed.

7

Oh no, he could not stay and watch her be consumed,
to have his pleasant memories of ardor's bloom
be marred by images of her so poorly groomed. 
No, never would he stay to see her be consumed.
One morn he left, his sum was not what she'd presumed. 
And, she sat in the rocker by the door unfazed,
her bowed lips o'er cast and her eyes o'er glazed, 
alive, but not, her nascent sanity entombed.
Death had come, death of the mind, his metal now assayed
he ran from old memories, as each thought enticed.
Their first tryst 'neath jasmine vines vanished in a haze.
Was love's reward, a sweet repast, mania's disguise?
Would true love have held the course where sanity betrayed,
insanity has its own wellspring, and demise.

First Published Five Poetry Magazine 2014



Long poem by Robert Candler | Details |

The Sooner Recruit

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


Long poem by Jorn Kolding | Details |

Where my soul belongs

While a part of my soul longs,
To be carried away,
Far far,
From myself,
To another world,
To a mountain top,
To a lonely place,
To where the air is thin and light,
To where sensations stop,
To where feelings end,
To where noise is drowned out by clouds of silence,
Another part,
Just wants to be where my soul belongs,
Close,
To myself,
Entirely available and present,
Near to who I am,
Available,
In the moment,
Here and not there,
Truthful,
To the voice,
Who cries,
Do you see me?

—

The wings that lift me into the sky,
Soaring in the icy drafts, 
Glide with grace,
Leaving no trace,
Of the invisible pilot,
Who steers,
By the reigns,
Of the eye of the mind,
Alone,
Like a drone,
Operated in some far off place,
By a craftsman conjurer, 
Whose fingers mime,
What the imagination can not speak of.

Like a dream,
Where the magic fluid of time stops,
Just long enough,
To not disrupt,
The trust of continuity,
The wings contract,
Revealing an intention,
To impact.

In a slow, 
Steady gyration,
I am carried,
First up and around,
In a giant bow,
Like the swinging arch,
Of destiny’s hand in the sky.

The torsion and kinetics,
Leave no ambiguity,
The emotions, 
Though calm,
No doubt.

What awaits at top,
Hanging upside down,
In the air,
Strapped, trapped,
In a chair,
Is unspeakably worse than the crime,
Devised by the mind,
Of he,
Whose role is to parole,
The empty fallacies,
The narration of self,
Tells itself.

What awaits,
When the screaming starts,
In the eyes of those you love,
Is the absurdity of your own silence,
Is the utter feeling of having already given up,
Is the incompatible peace in knowing the end was near,
Somehow not bothering even,
To just say, hang in there my little friend,
I am with you, I am near,
Instead just sitting there,
Waiting for it be be over,
While he,
Who you love most of all,
Sits alone in tears.

That my friend,
Is horror…
The rest is just,
A blissful crash.
——
Hiding is the remedy,
Fighting the disease,
Forgetting is the poison,
That writers conceive.
—-

I will go then,
To that place,
Where solitary men,
Seek refuge,
From the fires of the soul,
Where broken drums,
Seek silence,
Where flowers,
Never grow,
To walk among,
Empty woods,
To count alone,
Scars and wounds,
To touch and wander,
To love and let go,
To make amends,
With friends and foe,
To whisper,
Just one last time,
The words,
Those ineffable,
Incredibly quiet,
Intensely eternal words,
Whose power
Only she could know.

Then,
As if by doing so,
The sun could set,
On the shoulders of all that I have seen,
I would say,
My friend,
I am not broken yet,
These words,
Do not forget.

Go then,
Reflect,
On the art of living,
For the sake,
Of dying,
Only,
Not just yet.
—-

The marksman who chooses his arrow,
Is not like the blind falling sparrow,
In his sight, 
Whether day or night,
The beginning of time is now,
Bend it then man,
Forfeit the other plan,
Make from the shaft and plant it.

—

This then was not a poem,
Nor, was it ever,
Meant to become one,
Which is not to say,
Nor deny,
The obvious desire,
Immanently displayed,
In the mood portrayed,
To write something poetic,
A gem even,
A crown of jewels,
For the world of fools,
Those miserly souls,
Called readers.
 
Being something entirely different,
A monstrosity of sorts,
Manifestly opaque,
Entirely myopic, dystopian and fake,
More than blurry,
Always in a hurry,
To cover over what was never even there to begin with,
One might ask,
What was it?

To which I respond,
Hat in hand,
Letter of resignation,
Hidden in my sleeve,
Be patient reader,
Do not despair,
This little speech,
Is meant for the air,
To be inhaled only,
By those addicted,
To disreputable habits,
Those little rabbits,
Who rise from the orifice,
Of one we all know,
Yet never did notice.

This then was how it ended,
Never to be amended,
Retouched,
Or recommended,
Not redacted,
Enacted,
Nor retracted,
Just left alone,
To make peace,
With the words,
Who always do,
And say,
What they please.

In the beginning was the deed…


Silence.


Long poem by Edmund Woods | Details |

A God of His Own

My physical self is pitiful

I have been incapacitated since an early age

Inadequate in every regard

My body is a useless shell

Luckily, this place is beyond basic physicalities

This place transcends the grim and darkness of reality

This place is my world

I am the creator of this realm

I am Alpha and Omega

No longer do I answer to the call of another God

Now, I can correct prior transgressions

And eliminate the pain that made that world flawed

Man

My iteration of man shall be eased of suffering

They will not have to plead with their God

As I have

I was useless

A joke for the ignorant

A burden for the willing

Never again shall there be ignorance

Never again shall life be a burden

Life is a gift

A most precious gift

There

Well, I must admit, I do need some more practice

But in time, humans will be my angels

Animals

The world needs more than only man

An ideal ecosystem

A cycle of life of death

But death shall be quick and painless

And their lives will be treated with respect

Hand in hand- excuse me- Hand in paw

Animals and man shall work together

To maintain balance in this world

Balance is essential

Nature

To complete this world, there must be laws

Laws incredibly similar to the ones of my past world

But, there shall be new laws

New laws that the universe must abide by

One: Killing will never be sport

Two: Destruction of my world by the hands of man

Shall never take place

Three: All life is in control of their life

I never had control

I was always a puppet

A figurine on display for the amusement of others

Never again

Sovereignty is guaranteed, disease will be ridden

The cosmos

Perhaps the most important part of my world

It contains the mysteries of the universe

And maintains the order of nature

The secret guardians

The hidden monoliths

No one knows their true purpose

Some just like to stare

But they are my titans

There to look over mankind

Well, this is my world

What do you think?

I say it’s beautiful

Some may say it’s superficial

That imperfections and true pain 

Can never be suppressed

Even by a God

I assure you, this world is perfect

I have not made the same mistakes

I know the evil of that world

That evil has died with this creation

Is it not pure evil that I was a spectacle?

That I couldn’t use my body?

It was a damn trick

It was cruel

To have such a functioning brain

But useless because of my dysfunctional body

I was a waste in that world

But when I discovered I could create a world of my own

I knew there was still hope

My mind was merely a playground

Now, it is a field for creation

A place where life will begin anew

Life will always live in happiness

Misery is nonexistent

Man is perfect

Man will always be useful

Animals are not only tools

They are integral to the purpose of this world

Nature shall never again pull cruel tricks

It will maintain the perfection that I have created

There will be no bickering amongst the stars

The cosmos are there to protect man

From everything that destroyed me

I never want mankind to suffer again

I have been through too much suffering

I have seen too much suffering

This world will be perfect

It gives me hope

Hope that no one else

Will ever experience what I have

But I am no fool

I know that when I die

This place will die with me

This is all just in my head

All I want is a haven from that worldly misery

The same worldly misery

That made me resent God

What is the purpose of life

If that’s the kind of life some may have?

I would have killed myself long ago

But I can’t even express my desire to do so

I hate myself

I hate the world I live in

I want to die

Hell awaits me

For I have been blasphemous

I have cursed the life I was given

While I still curse my life

I am joyous for those given a happy life

Never forget

Life is a gift
A most precious gift


Long poem by Gerald Dillenbeck | Details |

Not So Divine Duet

Imagine with me for a moment,
if you would be so generous,
god as not only love
but also the most joyful joy we could be.

And why do I want to play this imagination game
with you
or even without you?
What is this joy of which you speak?
I know peace in silent music
and wind and surf,
but is therapy of sound this joy?

Perhaps not quite enough,
maybe only halfway here
toward pregnant now becoming being joy
with you.

While I assume this will not be news
I need to remind you
that your presence does not always feel like gift,
source of joy,
not so much really,
sometimes more painful in my ass.

Yes, I know.
But, it brings me joy to recall
in our more dissonant moments
that I feel precisely the same suffering way
about your sorry ass.

Perhaps you should find a different therapist.
One who evolves less sure that God graces eternal love
and much less joy,
one not so sure your God is humor Commonsensed.

If I understand your cynicism
I might write your song,
"I've got nothin' to say
And I'm gonna keep it just that way
'til my mean Ol' Dad
lets me go outside to play."

Your issues with remembering who I am
rather than who you thought I would be
seem not too distant clarity
or even acceptance,
but your troubling habit of editing my opera
into your joyful musical comedy,
this tangles our melodic frequencies
and harmonic function.

"How can I reach heavenly you
when all day through
you bind me to 
your flight toward earthy game play,
your fear of losing rich rewards,
blockade toward joy,
your life your toy
to blindly scream away?"

How could I throw away this toy
you never game me?
My defeats,
habitual surrenders to right-now desire,
or lack thereof,
steer me far clear of your enchantment
with joyful joy.

What is your purpose
when Earth's becoming
is your wise Being
if your Being
is not also Earth's meaningful becoming?
If you are not part of Earth's mindful nature
then humane Being cannot naturally become,
develop,
regenerate.
Your becoming cannot be not Our becoming,
my Being fades and wilts when we are not We
together.

What is this to me
your wilting Earth
and flat-line monopoly musical comedy?
My joy turns tragedy to operatic outcomes.
What you label Oppositional Disorder
I hear as resonant Cognitive Dissonance.
What you find naturally cacophonous
confuses my spirited silence.
Your values are not Ours
on my side of your Oppositional Divide,
my values are my own,
and I am free of Truth or Consequences culture
and economic gamesmanship,
Our Truth as Consequence game
sustains our chronically synaptic Tug of War.

Imagine with me
in this Eternal Moment
your Ego filled with endless joyful joy
as you pull all Earth toward finish line
and you are confidently winning
your Boddhisatva War.
Even should you not choose releasing life's course rope,
you have full faith that you have won
and this joy will never end.
Your Being has become,
your response fulfills your stimuli,
your effect regenerates your cause,
your What Ifs? answer your What Are We?,
all Earth recreates your joy.

I've got nothin' to say
And I'm gonna keep it that way
'til my mean ol' life pilgrimage
through dissonant pathology
let's me go outside to play.

That does indeed sound operatic.

Right, and not so much joyful joy
this side of my playground.
See ya.
Wouldn't wanna be ya.

Oh, but you are,
except your opera damns divine divas,
weeping and shrieking  in off-stage wings
of purgatory
while Earth's musical redeems comedy,
reenacts all that drama on your playground,
where Her Sky ain't bringin' no bad news
all eternal day.

Why do you always need to have the last word,
the last line?

We have a shared last line.

No, you just did it again,
with the We thing.

Yes We did.

I'm closing the door now.

Yes We are.

Hopeless.

Joyless.

Can I maul your head?

Our head.

My head.

Imagine with We 
are joy.


Long poem by Gerald Dillenbeck | Details |

God is Humor Sensed

Love wants nothing to do
with the everyday affairs of men.
Love's only intention
is to catch the lover!

Rumi

God wants nothing to do
with the routine affairs of men,
God's only intention
is to catch the lover's attention!

I wonder if Freud's id transfigured as a sociopathic burning bush
because Freud was drawn toward our shared holy ground of insanity,
internal competition for awareness and consciousness and belonging,
uncovering psychotherapeutic models for highly stressed cognitive dissonance.

Had he deep learned himself into Positive Psychology Mentors,
Freud might have grown a more positive consciousness 
of self-id-entity as primally
and ecologically,
and economically informed by regenerative natural Supereco
optimizing ego-systemic development compost,
glimpsing paradigmatic Permacultural Design and Implementation,
regenerative standards for achieving and maintaining Climax Community
intimately and internally Yin-landscaped,
within coincidental external Yang landscaped awareness
of Other's natural systemic ReGenesis.

Natural systems not coincidentally balancing
both interior-Yin and exterior-Yang
fail to thrive,
cannot evolve,
become at-risk of de-systemizing,
de-informating,
becoming Non-Polynomial former spacetime information;
a no-longer-incarnating Black Hole Codexed memory loss.

Underlying prime organic RNA/DNA fractal tipping-point balancing potentiality,
Bohm's Implicate Order?
lies prime thermodynamic radiant circumferential harmony
polar-waving gravitational atomic protons,
over binomial QBit TrimTabbing neutrons,
over 4-fold dipolar explicating electrons,
ergodically and ionically synergizing away
back through linear time.

We weave agreement:
This Golden Ratioed Earth and all inhabitants
grow stressed in critical climatic transitions,
sprouting both degenerative dissonance
and confluent regenerative trends of 
Positive Deviant alternative karmic incarnations.

Our optimal diapraxis,
to notice these currently emerging ecological economic paradigms,
subcultures of cooperative economics and vocations and communities,
and cooperative health care and political discernment for inclusive well-being,
Green Occupier Gaia University Boddhisatvas,
and Permacultural Designers,
Food Justice is Economic Justice is Climate Justice is Ecotherapeutic Justice is Earth Justice.

These prune confusion toward prudent understanding of shared core eco-values,
rich with therapeutic seed potential
to plant investment more strategically,
cooperatively,
within our more persistently dissonant negative cultural sociopathology,
divesting from long-term monopolizing and monocultural high risks,
exchanging positively valued Life Id-Entity
to invest in loss of population through monocultural anthropocentrism,
achieving nihilistic trend returns
through lack of conscience, conscientific deductive rationality
and Super-eco balancing awareness.

As I more permaculturally comprehend natural system development,
it's not so much that God is dead,
and it's not so much that God has an ego-optimizing sense of humor,
it's more like God is our Supereco polycultural awareness
of dipolar balancing humors trading ego-eco role plays,
enlightening intuitions,
emergent coincidental evolution,
actively peaceful revolutions in cooperative enculturing id-entity comprehension,
recreation,
regenerative ecotherapeutic song and dance.

God grows empathetic love
to laugh within our dark places
to light their-our eco-identity faces.

To laugh with ourselves and others is divine.
To laugh at others, and sometimes self, is diva.


Long poem by Gerald Dillenbeck | Details |

Legend of Prince Polyculture

There once was a boy named Prince Polyculture,
which he knew he was not,
and maybe even not-not,
which would be not a prince,
not.

This was confusing and caused Prince Polyculture to suffer bouts of stress and anxiety and eating and,
eventually, sanity, disorders.

So he decided if he could not peacefully become Prince Polyculture,
that must be because he is incarnating Mindless Monoculture.
In this spirit of adventure and dark humor he invested much too heavily in the only role open to him at Court,
that of the Court's Redeemer Fool.
In the Land of Polyculture, you see,
Foolish karma regenerates laughter,
and it was their faith that humor is teleologically profound,
even revolutionarily and radically important.

Confusion rained down upon the Land of Polyculture.
Shall we bow to him as Prince,
or laugh at him as Fool?
And, when they asked him this,
he responded:

Foolishness can be both under- and over-calculating to resolve your identity issue.
Double-negative informed is also double-bind metric function,
a cross to bear in one of Euler's functional dimensions,
an equivalent fractal balance in two dimensional field-games,
a three-dimensional revolving dia-elliptical torus,
balancing Yang-form with binomially concave,
implicating String and Group Prime Theories of Fractal Order.

So, to predict who I will be with you, 
ionically and egodically, thermodynamically and electromagnetically,
binomially and bi-id-entity,
please help me reconnect balancing resolutions of multisystemic sociocultural therapy,
including dynamic, and geometric, and binary, and binomial,
and economic and ecologically balancing
convex over concave,
as without, so within,
as positively polynomial and Prince Polyculture,
economically resolving psychological, neural, energy, light, and spacetime, and temporal, and value, and nutritionally balancing theories and paradigms 
with optimizing permaculturally principled and ordered and planned and designed judgment,
so also, only a Fool like us could not see that 
+1 must always balance (-)0, 
or we could not rely on Golden Ratio binary systems, 
or electromagnetic balance between synergetic and entropic-diastatic implicating mutual gravitational coincidental energy equivalence,
so +/(-)(-) = P/NP,
so 2 = 1-fractally squared = positron/neutron,
and binomial metric spacetime square-root prime value = +/- 1 QBit

OVER

8-balanced double-fractal octave,
and crystal-Yangform convexly OVER fractal-Yinfunctional implicately concave,
RNA-regenerative life system structured metaphysical Original Intent
equals +/(-)(-)Zero-Tao ReGenerative Universal Open System.

So, my answer to your question is that I am Prince Polyculture for you,
and Mindless Monoculture the Fool laughing within you at yourself,
economically and ecologically pretending not to be mutually parasitic,
synergetically Polyculturing systems within.

Or, my name isn't Prince Mindless Monodisculturing Polyculture.
Kind of a long string,
but our line has a permaculturally regenerative tradition to balance,
in our own wu-Trim Tabbing wei.

To perceive our human id-entity as removed from Earth's supereco natural systems,
is to reflect upon the absurdity of our unbalanced economic and cultural  and languaged and metric systems.
Now, go away,
my bush is burning and I need to meditate!


Long poem by Robert Candler | Details |

The Doctor Is A Dead Man Walking

Bob had a special talent
That only worked in his men’s store.
He had ‘clothing ESP’.
He knew what his customers wanted…and more.

When customer would come into his store
Bob would invariably say, 
“Hello. I'm Bob. Don’t say a word.
I already know what you need today.”

And he was always right,
Never missed a color, fabric, style or size.
He even knew the necessary alterations.
Customers couldn’t believe their ears and eyes.

Meanwhile, in another part of town,
Joe had a pounding, relentless migraine
For every minute for more than five years,
It had driven him near insane.

He’d lost his job to the pain.
Then, he lost his wife.
He had lost a lot of weight and rarely slept.
Yes, his was a miserable life.

And, of course,  sex was out of the question…
Even a little self-abuse.
There was nothing left for Joe but pain.
He felt his life was of no use.

So, Joe went to his doctor.
“Doc, please help me end this pain.
Give me something to make me sleep
And never wake up again.”

“You know I can’t assist your suicide.”,
Then he looked sad, perhaps ashamed.
“I never dreamed it would last five years,
But I know how to end the pain.”

“You can make it go away?!
Tell me, Doc!  What’s the word?”
“I’ll have to remove your testicles.”
Was the last thing that Joe heard.

But…when he came to, it struck him.
Sex was out of the question anyway;
But he might enjoy his meals again,
And he could sleep for days.

“Please check me in, Doc.
This opportunity I cannot shirk.”
So, the doctor removed his testicles.
He did his very best work.

A few days later, Joe waddled along,
Headache free and feeling pretty nice;
But every attractive woman he saw 
Reminded him of his sacrifice.

He decided it was appropriate
To do something nice for himself for a change.
So, he went into a travel agency;
And a six month cruise he arranged.

As he left the travel agency,
He was excited, feeling ready to go;
But for such a glorious adventure,
He would need new clothes.

As he walked along, he saw Bob’s Men's Store.
He walked in, only to hear Bob say,
“Hello.  I’m Bob. Don’t say a word.
I already know what you need today.”

“How could you know?” asked Joe.
“It’s a gift.  I don’t know how, but I do.
You’ve suffered five years with an ailment,
Found relief, so now you’re taking a cruise.” 

Joe could not believe his ears.
How could this stranger possibly know?
"You're right! That's amazing!
And I'm going to need new clothes." 

Bob then laid out a fabulous wardrobe
All the right colors, fabrics, styles…and each size.
Joe was incredibly impressed.
He could hardly believe his ears and eyes.

“How do you like the wardrobe?”
“It’s wonderful!”  Bob could see that Joe was pleased.
“Now,” said Bob, “What about undergarments;
You know…shorts and tees?

Let’s see…medium crew neck tees, all cotton.
I believe that you prefer white….
And jockey shorts, all cotton…. 34s.
Yes, I'm sure that’s right.”

Joe beamed, “You’re an amazing talent
And I just this second realized,
You've laid out this entire wardrobe
And only missed one size.”

Bob, surprised by his mistake, asked, “Really?
What did I miss?  I did my best for you.”
“Well…you’re right.” said Joe, “I do wear Jockeys,
But…well…I wear 32s.

“Oh, no!” said Bob with an ugly grimace.
“That would be a serious mistake.
Thirty-twos would be too small, 
They would cramp your balls.
You’ll get migraine headaches.”


Long poem by Therese Bacha | Details |

A Portrait

                         ~A Portrait ~

A mother feels that her life resembles
 to an unpretentious painting 
hanging on the wall in her residency,
it projects nothing except 
emptiness,stagnant,old,
no ocean with the seagulls 
flying on top humming 
happy sounds to express 
how much they love their liberty.

That portrait is dark lifeless 
when she is far from her children,
the sun doesn't like to wake up,
there are no tourists walking 
on that beach,even the waves 
are stuck they do not have 
the energy to move and splash 
on the shore.

The crabs don't come out 
to breath from underground 
as it feels lifeless,the moon 
changes its course not to be
 seen in there and is not ready 
to shed any lights to avoid 
this obscurity,even the fish 
are sleeping dizzy without food 
due to their sadness 
with all their surroundings,
nothing is alive, and knows 
she is stuck for a while 
with this painting having to 
look as is and accept it.

Until she lands and sees her children
 holding a bouquet of roses,
then the painting starts breathing,
everything awakes,sleeping or dead
 come to life, the waves splash 
on the shore,the seagulls fly 
and the melody is beautiful, 
the sun peeps looking so happy 
and clear,the crabs start popping 
up crawl with pride,the tourists 
stride with huge smiles,lovers 
holding hands, kissing love is happiness,
later the fish cant stop swimming 
from one place to the other 
searching for their breakfast,
later on the rainbow appears 
as a surprise the sun will leave 
and the moon will take its place
 to shine from above on everybody
 in that portrait,now she could start
 looking at it because its alive 
it becomes the most beautiful portrait.

She was one of the most beautiful 
women when she turned 32 after 
11 years of marriage with 2 children 
young boys she would walk in 
the streets with them everybody 
would turn and double look at her.

In that portrait she is wearing one 
of her black & white Chanel suit holding a 
champagne glass in her hand standing
 on the sand an everlasting peaceful look,
sometimes she wears her hair up 
with pearls to hold them firmly,
the white and black earrings from Chanel,
always has make up with such elegance, 
she has a small nose everybody admires
 and envies her,she has green eyes beautiful,
very sexy lips as she knows how to dress
 up her lips a brown contour and a light 
pink lipstick,her body is gorgeous 
tall & slim now she's admiring 
her living portrait.

She sees beauty and sharing only
 with her children when she feels young
 & has a wide image of describing
 this same painting which is hanging on her wall. 
When she goes back home she becomes blind 
only by looking at it with no tomorrow 
except her sitting on the couch 
watching TV or writing poetry.

Most of the time shedding 
tears of fear and loneliness. 
But when she leaves home 
to join the outside world,
everybody thinks she's doing great,
looking good with her make up,
after all those years of being 
separated she knows
how to camouflage her pain
 in the presence of strangers.

All what she asks for,
is listen to her sons voices
 whispering her name.
Voices,through a wire for years. 
Today,I am that woman of 76 years old.


Therese Bacha
  5/7/2013     Win No (7)


Long Poems