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Long Imagination Poems | Long Imagination Poetry

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

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Long Poems
Long poem by ravin Gupta | Details |

My Princess Of Imagination

                                        MY PRINCESS OF IMAGINATION
                                       -----------------------------
                                       -----------------------------

You are an empress of Heaven who descended on earth
A dear angel of God has taken birth

Your presence brings an awesome fragrance of joy
You are more beautiful than the Helen Of Troy

You resemble a symbol of peace, calmness, wonder and cheer
Like numerous scented flowers engulfed the entire atmosphere

Your presence enthralls the atmosphere with such an ardent passion
Flowers bloom, birds sing, oceans roar, Heaven rejoices in a supernatural fashion

Being a stranger but yet so familiar is an experience of mystery
I wanna be with your present, wanna be with the dreams of your future but never become your past history

I know nothing of you... but your life is a holy book written so well
Synonymous in nature to a religious novel

Every word of which would be so pious and divine
Their utterance will strengthen my soul and make it purely refined

And every word of which I wish you would share with me
And I would keep on listening with extreme curiosity

Hope this book of your life is so lengthy never ending and complicated
That while explaining me with clarity, your entire life is dedicated
Going through your inspiring life will make my mind so captivated
That in things of the world my attention will be never diverted

I would sync deep into your thoughts dreams and emotions
Explore your life like navigating through the depth of mighty oceans
The facts of your life will be as delightful as your nature
Synonymous in experience with a lifetime adventure 
                          to be remembered forever

I wish I was a memorable entity always alive in the vicinity of your thought
Some one who gifted u a special feeling which is beyond the scope of being bought
Spiritual connection with you is magical pleasure. My soul rejuvenates a lot

Your life is extraordinary, it is an eternal bliss
Similar to such a wonderful voyage, the bitter past I shall never reminisce 

Your soul resembles heaven's beauty filled with an angel's grace
I wish to find rest and comfort in such a sacred place

Worldly creatures are mesmerized by your supreme fragrance of serenity
The peace u provide, the calmness u bring resembles an heavenly entity
Synonymous to a medical replenishment of decaying souls to repair all their defects
Such that all disturbance, grief and sorrow are conquered and lose their effects

By the holiness of your spirit every evil existence shall perish
This divine revolution will leave behind only sweet remains to cherish
You bring forth the delight of eternity, a heavenly aura and shine
Which enlightens, encourages depressed souls, their lives renewed and new hopes defined

The everlasting impact of your presence inspires me to build an immortal attachment
And reside under your shadow which symbolizes an abode of holy settlement

I observe a pattern of silence in your behavior
I am unsure if this is part of your natural gesture
What is the reason for this sense of melancholy strain?
May be there is some trauma which brings you pain
Some moments of life you spend in mere solitude
What made u acquire such a lonely attitude?

I pray in your life there must not be any sorrow
Even if there is, I would willfully like to borrow
Any cloud of darkness over your life is beyond my tolerance
No power can besiege your holy throne of reverence

Alas and at last, there is something to say
I am striving with a pathetic feeling of dismay
Why I am so helpless that can not talk to you
Why are you a stranger? Am I some one so new?
Albeit a stranger, why I feel myself so close to you

Its my dream to talk to you for indefinite moments 
To disturb this peaceful conversation, i would'nt prefer ugly opponents

The passion of my imagination is beautiful far beyond the facts of reality
Where in I understand your holy life book in the sacred place with sanctity

I believe you live on earth but exist in the wonders of heaven
Alas your presence in my life may be something I am against hope hopen

Wish for an opportunity to express myself to you
Seems an awkward desire as u consider me so new

In the vision of my imagination, I will always find you near
Your divine presence eliminates any syndrome of fear
And I promise to cherish your presence in my memories till my days are over

I recognize your adorable nature rather than your beautiful look
I already defined you Synonymous to a precious holy book

Wish these feelings on your mind will have a profound impact
Finding acceptance in your life is still an unknown fact
Unknown is whether I bear that supreme fortune to experience your acceptance
Or Else you would consider me unimportant and indulge me in repentance

Wishing you all the best in your future endeavors
To honour my thoughts, please do me some small favours

Give me a true promise that you will forget me never
Request you to cherish these thoughts in your memory with pleasure
And edify yourself as heavenly princess as you are an eternal treasure

Thank You


Long poem by matthew harris | Details |

Desperate message to Kim jong un

Pardon any absent adulation, bequeathed capitulation, devoted dedication, indiscretion, blabbering peroration, improper salutation or any unintended vexation if this unknown earthling sent a nearly identical message. He over-looked a small number of errors and hoped that this version accepted as the most satisfactory to me.

Oh please for the sake (and sock e) of brethren deemed friendly, i beseech ye with genuine humility to desist launching nuclear missiles!

This American bloke put his lock, stock and barrel of gunmetal faith in mister Dennis Rodman to serve as a figurative lightning rod against any aggressive actions that would set in motion the end of civilization.

Not only would the majority of homo sapiens (yes, some clusters of earth-linked yahoos might still remain a live) suffer a nasty, short and brutish death, but also other flora and fauna could be equally annihilated!

Understandable, those grievances against sanctions against the populace of north Koreans (who most likely experience unfair hardship) fuels resentment against the hegemony of western powers. Many of these societies authoritatively brandish their devout pledge for concurrence with democratic principles.

Any endemic protestations declaiming objection to the American way affect an immediate alarm. Imposition of so called "puppet" regimes get forcibly installed sans those countries leaders who run counter to capitalistic productivity.

This one anonymous citizen of those fifty states also takes umbrage how the might of american to predominate and demand that other nations follow suit solely based on what agrees with those like minded in power sans the brotherhood/sisterhood of vast swaths of the global population.

No great expectations (by dickens) to affect passionate sentiments per those peoples somewhat hermetically sealed off and separated (viz - by the demilitarized zone) from the billions of other human beings.

Thy sole missive from one older mwm dreads the catastrophic chain reaction of events once atomic warfare triggered by the disgruntlement over some differences in outlook could possibly resolved via "active listening" and access to exchange a word of reconciliation.

As one flawed chap prone to his own bouts of anger, he attests that more positive pleasing results can prevails with the treat of world war three diffused in a manner that plays less havoc once unleashing of weapons of mass destruction occurs!

This notion came to me while tending to a basic bodily urge, thus intent to share my poem whence sitting 

Upon the porcelain goddess,
 A most brilliant idea in me mind did lit
This sole seasoned bugs bunny car tune character son of kit
Soon after on the road his imagination
 Fired up with gaseous fleeting thought that softly hit
Attempting with futility to net ideas in me mind that flit
I yam a poet favoring words that rhyme a bit!
 
Iambic pentameter strands crochet themselves
 Magically into verse
Interleaving like boughs of an arbor
 Shielding this solitary soul
 From shafts of sunlight that doth dapple
 The canopy affecting shadows to disperse
Ebbing and flowing in tandem & sync
 With circadian metronome this troll
 Transformed by serenade from Mother Nature
 With hand doth scythe lent curse

Congregating amongst a distinguished flora and faun
 The latter sending tendrils
Poised on the brink of some philosophical revelation
 Delicate as hocked china
Which capricious metaphorical musings
   Resurrected from propriety
Devoid of any vicious evocations nor premonitions
While ensconced in eyesight of my adobe
   Dwelling away from mass of society

Return of this native son harbors thoughts
   Against madding crowd that cease to dwindle
   To less than the effect of a mosquito needling proboscis
   In the nape o me neck
As this contemplative human being feels
   Leaves of grass each like a spindle
   Completing a colorful pastoral palette
   Of utmost verdant splendor upon flotsam speck
Allowing wisps of euphoria
   To warm thine psyche easing books set afire to kindle
 
Under the azure vault
The entire warp and woof of one mortal male as he does lie
   Where arises finding incriminating fault
Beneath the celestial sphere transfixed where mysteries catapult
   As those simians who preceded him
Millenniums before similarly inebriated
   From wondrous panoply of one star
That comprises a near infinite candelabra
   Guiding the mind to posit the universe 
   This mission must come to a HALT!

From - one whom u kin newt re:fuse
   No claim to be Walt Whitman only venturing forth
That all of mankind we lose
   In the event of such apocalyptic once the fuse
Lit to launch missiles meant to zero in and cruise
Upon the masses a severe planet earth detonations 
 Inflicting concussions more fatal 
 Than the most lethal booze.

 





Long poem by Ravindra K Kapoor | Details |

Pink Pink Pink


Pink- Pink- Pink- Every peak has its own attractions, Like the mountains, The mounts of a woman, Have always remained, Her pride possessions. 01 It has the charms, More intoxicating than wine, As it reveals the beauty, Of a woman's alluring binds. 02 These mounts gives, The wings of imagination and colors, In the mind of an artist, And they arise the passion, In lovers mind.03 Their rise and fall, Has shaken great empires, Under their cool and peaceful shade, The dreams of a child form shapes. 04 Its serenity has given birth, To most pious and holy figures on Earth, And their warmth have shaped the dreams, Of many powerful kingdoms on Earth.05 They feed life giving milk, To every new born light, Every time they laugh and cry, These lofty mounts, Help in forming shapes, When the child begins its story. 06 But these pride possessions, Of a woman, These lofty inspirations, Of Poets, Writers and Artists, These magical charms Which often become more attractive, Than the face of a woman, Are facing, A wide spread pollution,* Which is the unwanted gift of Modern living and They are also the gifts, Of worst living habits, Adopted by thousands, and millions of woman, As they fall prey, Before the charms, And shows of modern generation. 07 Many such wonderful women, Who are in the grip of this pollution,* Have brought this curse on them, Mostly because, Of their own follies and errors. 08 Many such suffering women, Can really get rid of, From the curse of this pollution,* If only they can show, The courage to adopt, The natural way, Of living and breathing, Possible under the boon like shade, Of real Yoga. 09 The reasons, Of the distortions,* Of their pink pink ribbons, Are mainly the results, Of their own creations, And these results, Are not something, For which, One should blame, The destiny or God every time. 10 Some of the serious reasons are, Not caring rightly, For one’s own pride possessions, And the lack of, Physical manipulations. Not keeping, A cool and calm mind, And eating, From morning till night, All the junk foods and wine. 11 And working, Beyond all time limits, While stressing, your peaceful mind. 12 Running and more running To catch others, So that you may not leg behind. 13 And madly crying, For more and more wealth, Even if you have sufficient, For your life time. 14 Are the reasons, Which invite the pollution,* To sow its rotten seeds, To spoil, The enchanting valley, Which exists, Amid the mounts of, Pink pink flowers. 15 The pollution,* Can still be derived out, With the little practice of Yoga, But it remains untouched, And unsung about, By most of the modern women. 16 These otherwise elegant women, Regularly face the problems, Of distress, Lack of peace, And sound sleep. Which ultimately take away, Their happiness, And coolness of mind, Resulting in strengthening more, The un sprouted seeds of pollution.* 17 Still it is not too late, If they can only change, Their life styles, Their eating and drinking habits, And adopt from today, The way of natural living, By adopting, The boon like Yoga. 18 As the practice of Yoga, Not only add years to your life, But life to your years, as well. 19 Ravindra Kanpur India 15th Nov. 2012 *Pollution- The other name of Cancer. Those who want to share their views on My above Poem may write to me on my yahoo mail id: kapoor_skk@yahoo.com I would welcome your brief comments and if possible I will reply you. Thanking you in anticipation. Ravindra K Kapoor Inspired by Poet Destroyer I am dedicating this Poem to all those women of the world, who are facing any such problem of Pollution* And to those also who are not facing it, so that their life my feel the joy of living under the blessings of Yoga. Ravindra
TO OVERCOME OR TO TAKE PRECAUTION ON THIS PROBLEM UP TO SOME EXTENT- ONE CAN START WITH ANY ONE OR TWO OR THREE OR ALL FIVE OF THE SIMPLE YOGA EXERCISES I HAVE GIVEN IN MY ‘YOGA IN POEM’ SERIES 1 TO 5 ON POETRY SOUP IT- SELF. YOUR COMMENTS WOULD BE HIGHLY APPRECIATED. http://www.poetrysoup.com/poems_poets/poem_detail.aspx?ID=490745 IMPORTANT NOTE: The best effects of Yoga can only be obtained if it includes the main exercises of essential ‘PRANAYAMA’ otherwise it wouldn’t yield the desired results and PRANYAM should be learn properly first. Ravindra K Kapoor


Long poem by Chris D. Aechtner | Details |

Frankenstorm 2012: A Haunting of Shelleys

A Cardinal darts past, and I cannot quite discern if it chirps out of nervousness
towards the impending storm.
If so, the twittering of cell phones sound far more nerve-wracking -- 
portable typewriters encased in the soul-less facade of laissez faire; 
of keeping track, of minding the flocks. 

Yes, everyone is a poet these days, tapping away on miniature, plastic typewriters,
typing away the next narrative filled with prose pretending to be free verse.

Whether the majority is truly poetic or not, Frankenstorm surely is poetic;
named after Mary Shelley's, Frankenstein. 
The poetic justice of it all amongst a tragedy of broken necks and drownings, 
for the Shelleys were the epitome of Romanticism -- 
not of ritualistic bouquets bought from the florist who sells porn on the sly, 
or of waxy chocolate made by children in clandestine factories built from the bricks 
of Mao's dreams of anthills and selling short the power stemming from another poet 
turned arms dealer.

No, the romance for life itself; to become poetry as poetry turns into us. 
To find mystery in everyday moments; to distil this mystery, offer it to the reader, 
so that the reader becomes drunken, swooning in a stupor towards worlds 
that are 1,000,000 light years away.

Frankenstorm, the Haunting of Shelleys, lashes out at the dead poetry of today; 
at the empty, listlessly inane, lazy poetry of today. 
The brightest stars are falling into a void, turning away from the very essence 
they so wish to express....only because they want to be unique, to be original, 
to carve their own niche into the Jack O' Lanterns of a Hallowe'en quickly turning into cheap, dollar store decorations. 
They still have hope. They still have hope, even if many further detach themselves 
from their emotions with another dose of prescription pills meant to pacify; 
meant to reign in the emotional beasts of imagination, until only zombies preserved in formaldehyde, remain.

I can literally feel the Haunting of Shelleys ask wot has become of us.
It used to be about work ethic and soul - one had to kick, tear, bite, simply to publish 
a pamphlet that might be read by 10 people. 
Nowadays, everyone is a supposed poet. A few clicks, 'submit', and people from all 
over the world can read cotton-candy couplets, or a free verse rendition of another grocery list.
But we must embolster this with: 
"They are only beginning; they need to express themselves; 
they just don't care."

I don't want to be told about the pain, the tragedy, the beauty, the love. 
I want to be shown.
I want to feel it.
I want to feel it squeeze my gray matter into a bitter-sweet drink; 
I want to feel it go down.
I want to feel it warm up my heart, grip my stomach until the bottom falls out 
and I am left careening down a shaft in an elevator with a broken pulley and rusted-through brakes, and just when I think the end has come, the elevator bursts through 
a bottom which is actually the ceiling of a world now turned upside-down -- 
and by the time I right myself, have read the last line, there is still a remaining mysterious periphery of the cats that reside in the corner of my eyes; 
purring, waiting until I come back to re-read that particular poem, 
for it is so tantalizing, I want to come back to it over and over again 
for the remainder of my years.

Storms will always come and go, 
but I sensed the metaphorical message of the Frankenstorm very strongly. 
Yet this doesn't mean that I will turn the message into fruition. 
But I will certainly attempt to do so.
Within my delirium, I will continue to try distilling the intangible 
into a drunken tangibility; even for the sake of simply trying.

And as I ponder, as I witness the present decay of humanity, 
witness the state of today's poetry, I can only wonder how many more 
Hauntings of Shelleys are possibly already brewing.


                                                                                        October 31st, 2012
___________________________________________________________________




My thoughts go out to those caught in the path of Frankenstorm 2012.
Such events move me very deeply.

*I have already posted this prose in a blog, because at the time,
the character-count exceeded the limit of poem posts.











.


Long poem by Brody Brown | Details |

My Thoughts of You

So fuck it, it jus causes me 
agrivation
Your killing me i can compare 
you to taxation
Your a constant source of my 
fucking aggrivation
Pretty soon there will be an 
altercation
Due to my fucking frustration 
Im gunna kill you both ooh, 
how about castration? But it 
was you caused it so fuck you 
and the god damn explination
Shut the fuck up bitch im sick 
of your  all your exploytation
You used me you slut, thanks 
to you i have inspiration to 
send you to heaven,
Ha more like hell and youll be a 
piece of shit call it your 
reincarnation.
I write with anger as a source 
of ventilation.
I wanna scream at you through 
amplification!
LOUD ENOUGH BITCH! 
screaming at you is my way of 
communication!
Because you dont fucking listen 
I just had a hallucination, you 
were going to prison 
then you came to me looking 
for compensation.
All i said was "congradulations i 
hope you rot and suffer from 
starvation"
Well go fuck yourself, i wish i 
could give the judge a 
commendation for putting you 
away.
I hope you have a realization 
that your a cunt, i only say that 
based on true information I 
hope they lock you up till the 
end of your probation and thats 
18 months with no chance of 
early cancellation. Maybe youll 
figure out what you did was life 
altering and you realize your 
actions are faultering your final 
destination. Ill tell you where 
you gunna go no where bitch 
cuz you a hoe who has nothing 
to show heres my explination. 
Your Satan and thats just the 
reality not my imagination 
heres whats on my mind im 
God you are my worst creation.
You're a fuckin' coke-head slut, 
I hope you fuckin' die
I hope you get to hell get a 
needle stuck in your eye
I hate your fuckin' guts, you 
fuckin' slut, I hope you die
And you wonder you Why?
Why not? But, please don't get 
me wrong, I'm not bitter or 
mad
It's not that I still love you, it's 
not 'cause I want you back
It's just that when I think of 
you, it makes me wanna yack, 
what you did was whack.
But What else can I do, I 
haven't got a clue.
Now I guess I'll just move on, I 
have no choice but to.
But every time I think of you 
now, all I wanna do puke my 
guts out. Now jus fuck it all, 
especially you. If i was you, id 
be a piece of poo and yes my 
album name is a fuck you so 
guess what? Fuck you and that 
asshole Tiger too! You call me 
boo boo but thats what you call 
him and every nigga youve 
played too. So haha fuck you, i 
hope the next time i see you 
youll be in a casket and ill be 
wearin all black crying boo who 
(boo who) but wait i wont ill jus 
laugh at you (haha) because 
youll be dead and ill be 
standing over you and ill spit 
on you! (spit noises) how much 
i hate you, you aint got a fuckin 
clue and your love cant go to 
two and im who you skipped 
you fuckin shrew. Savannah 
youll be the topic of my debut. 
I wanna stab and burn you call 
it fondue. Your the obsticle ive 
gotten through. You played me 
like a kazoo soo buzz buzz fuck 
you! I need to wash you off like 
some shampoo. your no longer 
one of my worries Hakuna 
Mattata just like your tattoo. 
What you did to me you cant 
undo. Theres nothing youll live 
up to youll be a bum haha deja 
vu. Huh, i gave you everything 
look at it from my point of 
view, you left me out of the 
blue, deep in love i tried and 
met the true side of you. You 
know whats true im gunna be 
big one day unlike you. So go 
ahead hold your head high but 
in the inside you know your 
worthless and theres nothing 
youll ever amount to. Im the 
reason your wrists are bleeding 
and cut too, and now im proud 
of it that shit cant be 
misconstrued. Ive got a large 
list of things to do one is to kill 
you, check, this verse just did 
you wanna review? Haha fuck 
you bitch, im done with you but 
alas i still think about you. I 
cant get you out of my head jus 
like I cant end this with out a 
simple goodbye and fuck you!


Long poem by Vic Pister | Details |

REVOLUTION IN TOGO

NEWS Item AP: TOGO
LOME – In an effort to topple a government set up to end a 24 year dictatorship rebellious army troops seized the state broadcasting station yesterday, then left the building but returned several hours later and recaptured it. Up to six people died in the clashes. The rebels forced a broadcaster to report demands that the prime minister Joseph Koffigoh resign and dissolve the high council set up to oversee the transition from military rule to democracy.


Revolution in Togo

I was lying on my lawn chair on a sunny summer day
With a dozen pack of Heineken and there I planned to stay
My wife came screaming from the house, most upset I must say
She knew there was trouble brewing, that I’d have to go away

In her hand she had the newspaper, waved it wildly in my face
I looked quickly at the headline and my heart began to race
What, I cried, a revolution? That could not be the case!
A revolution out in Togo? But we all came from that place!

“That’s impossible” I shouted, it is such a peaceful place
A revolution out in Togo? What a terrible disgrace!
I wondered what was brewing, what the problem there could be
My imagination then took over and the rest is history

I could see the picture clearly, I could see it all come down
It was all about the money, and the purse strings of the town
John Mulroy’d been in opposition for two terms maybe three
He was sick of watching the corruption and all the bribery

The foreigners came from Makaroff and San Clara and took hold
Taking all the jobs and contracts, lined their pockets with our gold
Johns support from Runnymede and Kamsack were stuck outside
Getting menial jobs and thinking they’d been taken for a ride

Rollie Hamel was Johns inside man, he was working for the town
Telling John what was going on and what was coming down
John was now determined to stop the debauchery 
And raise himself an army to set the people free

He got the Nabe boys and the Burbacks and a couple of their friends 
To mount an armed insurrection and bring this to an end
They quickly took the broadcast station in the back of Richies’ store
Within two hours the regular army came crashing through the door

What a standoff as they stared each other down with dirty looks
Talking about the law and the dubious entries in the village books
It was turning ugly for no one was backing down
But Richie’s store was also the only liquor store in town

In the meantime I had panicked with a sense of responsibility 
For there are times when a man must fight to protect his dignity
I sold my house and all my toys to buy supplies and guns
To try and save the homeland from the invading Huns

I arrived in Togo just in time to get to Richies’ store
And found a bunch of bodies lying passed out on the floor
What happened? I cried, with dread to anyone that could hear
John Mulroy said, with groggy head, t’was the best party of the year

“We came down last night to have a beer and watch the hockey game 
Drank a too much and passed out on the floor here, what a shame
We drank up all the whiskey, the whole supply in town
Then we finished off the moonshine as the third period wound down”

I said “What happened to the revolution going on here at home?” 
He looked at my newspaper article and said “No, that says in Lome”
Lome I said, confused now, where the hell is Lome?
He said that’s in a place called Togo, I said well…. that is my home…..?

He said “No you idiot, that’s not here, it’s an African country  
Everybody’s heard about it”, I thought “Yeah, everyone but me”
I said “Damn it, I’ve got loads of equipment, what can I do with it?”
He said “Sell it I guess, to tell the truth I don’t really give a shit”

So, I have two dozen crossbows, two hundred arrows and 3 Willis jeeps
I came fully prepared to fight the war, prepared to play for keeps
I have enough stores and weapons so any revolution I can dowse
I’m trying hard to sell it now so I can buy a house


Long poem by gary thomas | Details |

My First Step

Wobbly I stood and wobbly I remain -

The sole  of my Soul untested and untried

Not trusting the firmament on which its stability stands.

So I must reach.




For a kind hand, a rock to assuage my rocky start.

Euphoria washes over me and I am utterly awed by this new and strange vision.

So that's a knee? And that a thigh?

And those are what?




What manner of visage is this?

This is not in my owner's manual -

Maybe I should call Tech Support.

I'm missing some parts I see in my minds mirror.




Do I cut or copy or paste?

Maybe I should just undo.

But, no, I have found the fork in the road and must take it

For better or  worse, in richer and in poorer.




The intrigue of this countenance seduces me

And awe engages my every  moment of discovery.

I must succumb to this rapture whatever my fate.

Be it ecstasy or defeat I will follow this sweetness or acridity to its end.




A flash of recognition burgeons briefly in my mind's eye.

Deja vu, maybe - but what the hell is a deja vu?

I have not been in this place before.

There is no trace of memory to beget such a sight




And who are these whose steps seem so similar?

A hand like mine and a foot straining as so

And a breath seems to be a mutuality unknown before.

I am behooven and beholden to acknowledge this other thing.




I cannot ignore so divine a connection.

But what is a divine?

What I cannot sense I am averse to imagiine

Lest my awe but supplanted by a terror.




A terror that could destroy "us" both

And who are these "us"?

I don't remember such a concept.

It must have been mentioned in the Prologue I neglected to read.




The Awesomeness of the first touch and the grasp of  two hands are beyond all metaphors.

And what is this "two", pray-tell?

Again a new and strange and exciting experience -

The wonder that  I feel begets a sanctity beyond any measure.




In this palm-womb I  place my serenity and my security

I am past the point of no return

There is no more amnion

And water is thicker than blood now.




My sustenance must come from somewhere, or something or someone else.

And what is an "else"?

I'm confused - why am I getting no help here?

Oh, of course - the hand.




My Power depends on the benevolence of this "other hand"

And what is a Power?

Another secret withheld

Left for me to define and, hence, acquire?




Who is dominant in this partnership?

Whose will will hold sway in time of danger

A what is a "will"?

Oh, I remember now - something having to do with this "power" I quake at.




My imagination runs rampant

With such a thing as a will -

From whence it comes is suspect and

What shall I do with it binds me in the strongest of fetters.





To break the bonds, to break the bonds - that is the question

And I am again beset with the sensation of this other hand - this bindless bond.

The way to break these bonds,

My raison d'etre

The modus operandum of my purpose,

However gauche,trite,quotidian,cliche-ish and common-place it may be,i

Is to love unconditionally.

To revere, venerate and forever worship this, no  MY mutuality,This soulful symbiosis.




This is a god of my construction,

A divine gift.

And what is a "divine gift"

Tune in next week - the denouement is just around the corner.




And, oh, the step, the step , the step - i almost forgot.

One day when I am old I will remember this moment.

And my heart will ache for the breach that time has rent.

And my heart will ache for the breach that time has rent.

           


                                      G Tiberius Thomas





Long poem by bahram sediqi | Details |

tell my blond dream

i dont know who is she i dont know where is she from i dont know what is she doing i dont know where is she leaving but if you saw her please tell her:
youre hair remind me of sunshine*you are perfect but its just fine                                      you are the shimmer of coldest night*date palms feel jealous of your height
the ocean of your eyes is so deep*the color of red roses is a lone from your lips
if being with you is not fair*hang me with a peace of your hair                                             hoping to reach you make me smile*the best wishes for you and your regrets are mine
hoping to reach you make me over come my fears* tell her that her holy voice is like music to my ears
just imagining that you are here*makes my eyes the river of tears                                  tell her that her love is like flood*without her love i prefer to get sink in my blood
tell her that her love had filled my vessels*without her i prefer to cut this vessels                          tell her that i dream about her every night*tell her that her love makes me fly on night
the heat of her breath is burning my soul*her love wont let me sleep like a night owl                 
what if getting sink the ocean of her eyes is crime?i will burn in fire till the end of time                if reaching her is so cruel*i will dream about her like a fool
her eyes are like ocean not like a pool*i will try to reach her till my lifes glass become full           if one day i reach her oasis*i will over come my crisis
this world has always made me screw*theres lots of problems i cant pass through                i dont want to know that is my dream is false or true*just tell me will my tall blond dream come true
the reason i dont speak is not shiness*if i approach her i will break my silence           if she reach my heart walls*the walls of my castle falls
tell her that her love had destroyed my resistance* tell her that without her i dont want this existance           
how can i make my self satisfied with some drink*when her love made my heart to shrink             without her i cant sing i cant dance i cant think*if you know her please tell me some thing
shes the only flower of the spring*tell her that my tears are like a spring                   im asking her from fortune to bring*these rose gardens are her foot print
i can hear her name from canary that sings*im asking fortune to bring her to my ring                my only dream has blue eyes*with my dream even hell is nice
oceans feel jealous of her eyes*if sun see her hair it wont rise               words are not enough to explain her so they lies*shes price less but treasures have price
shes greater than black holes and hawkings explanation*she had destroyed the borders of my imagination
tell her that my heart is empty of temptation*its filled with best dreams and sensation             
 you are not lovely you are the meaning of love the perfection*if this whole world is ugly you are the only exception
you are the perfectness you are the heat of the fire*the ocean of your eyes had filled my heart with desire
my heart is burnt with your fire*so the ocean of your eyes should be admired           if i said your the highest it can be im a lier*cause you are a million time higher
tell her that me and the night are both lonely*cause shes the best shes the one shes the only    tell her that the beauty of her eye brow*is a million time more than rainbow  
the wind in her hair has perfect smell*the smell that is alot more than i can tell


Long poem by Inaam Al-Hashimi | Details |

Final Wishes of a Poet

Final Wishes of a Poet 
Arabic poem By: Rukn-al-Din Yunus
Translated into English By: 
Inaam Al-Hashimi (Gold_N_Silk)
========================
(Part 1 of 3)

Lend me a handful of earth
So that I may make you a statue 
You have not seen the like before
In your dreams.
Lend me a breath of spring
I’ll paint you cities, seashores 
And passionate rendezvous.
Lend me some of your crazy letters 
And I will dispatch couriers
To deliver them to gardens
And send elegantly dressed devotees
With a touch of sadness 
To receive them from the gardens
And read them to the river.
Lend me some of the words
Escaping from under your hat, 
Which has no resemblance to Pablo Neruda’s,
To write you an epic 
Spelled out by tyrants
Every night 
To cry their own fates in the morning.
Lend me an evening you could spare
To romp through virtual streets 
Named after living poets 
From different generations
Wherein a river of music goes over the heads of passersby
Drowning all in ageless glamour. 
Lend me the rest of the golden letters
In your pocket
To disperse them over the outskirts of my words
And the lanterns of my dreams
To light up what’s left of the opaque sentences 
In the imagination of the painter
And the wisdom of the poet 
Who is crazed about the clay
On the banks of the Hilla River.



(Part 2 of 3)
--------------

I'll die tonight...
O my dear wife!
I’ve never liked farewell ceremonies
In my life
So let things be normal and quiet.
Forgive me! I will not kiss you tonight
Just lie down beside me on the bed
For now.
Don’t tell the boys about my no-return journey 
Don’t let the girls cry with you
Especially the married one
And the little one
The middle one as well.
Let everything be as ordained for me
By those I don’t know
All I know for sure
I will die tonight.
How? ..... I do not know!
How? ..... I do not know!
At what time? …. The mind of the poet is unable to tell.
I will die my dear wife
But....
Don’t forget to feed the dog “Yoyo” early in the morning.
Don’t neglect spraying the garden 
First in the morning
Even if it was time for the funeral.
And don’t forget the seven o'clock news
Listen to it for the sake of your love for me
They always mention news of the lost homeland.
Don’t forget ever....
The chicken feed
I’d like to hear 
The cock’s crow every morning in my grave.
And hide the empty wine bottles
Out of the sight of mourners...
I don’t want them to accuse poets of infidelity.
And if they ask you 
What was with him before he died?
Just tell them:
He forgot to live!


(Part 3 of 3)
--------------

Before I died
My wife made me a clay statue 
And cried at it
She and her five daughters did.
But my two sons took no notice
Of their mother crying
Nor of their sisters wearing black 
But, rather,  
They seized the opportunity
And went out to join their peers
In a football game!

Before I died
My friends vied 
And jostled in front of  
Mercenary and non-mercenary newspapers’ buildings
Led by “Riyadh Alghareeb”
To provide their elegies for my immortal soul
Which reminds them of their own
As they greet death.

And since that day
I am holding on to my soul
Lest it slips away 
In a moment 
Of inattention
From me
The poet
Rukn al-Din Yunus
***
Translated by: Em. Prof. Inaam Al-Hashimi
USA
November 2013

* Rukn-al-Din Yunus is a poet from Iraq



Long poem by Andrea Dietrich | Details |

Tangled Vines

I walk along the old familiar path in the wood of my childhood - the place that I willingly abandoned for the lure of new friends and activities that carried me ever farther from my simple carefree days. Nothing here is quite the same, and all that once was large to my child’s eyes has grown small. How can it be? The houses on the fringe of this old wood are the same houses we always came upon as children as we ran - exuberant wild Indians of our enchanted forest - away from our foes and into the safety of “clearings” - those back yards of neighbors whom we never really knew. Our small legs ran so quickly down that well-worn long-ago path in the days when we were soldiers hastening to secure our forts. Other times we searched for treasures in the wood's crevices, finding - one day - bed springs, metal pieces, and old mattresses and converting them into contraptions for jumping. I tread slowly, noticing how many spots along my way are now overrun with weeds and tangled vines. How did I ever not notice there were vines here at all? They must have been well hidden off our path. Perhaps a kindly neighbor kept the pathway clear of them out of consideration for all us kids. I cannot know. . . It was so long ago. I glimpse the raspberry bushes we used to happily discover each summer when fuzzy berries showed brightly red and plump. And there’s old man Miller’s house, whose fence we used to climb so we might quickly steal the juicy apples fallen from his tree. Sadness tugs at my heart. The tree has vanished, and in the place of old man Miller’s shed now sits a swing set looking barely used. I head toward the center of this miniature forest recalling how it used to hold such grandness in my young imagination. The pond where we used to skate in winter has disappeared as well. In its place is a broad high pile of dirt, and at the north outer edge in the distance I can see diverse machines used for excavation. Maybe soon the wood will be cut down. Though small, this place was once so wondrous! I think back to our Christmas vacations, looking for the perfect little hill to drag our sleds up- and the thrill of barely missing trees as we slid back down. Everything was magical, crisp and clean. Suddenly I trip on tangled vines I’ve failed to see. The vines are stumbling blocks that have blotted out the utter charm this locale once held for me. You’d think that being smaller to my grown-up eyes, the wood would seem even simpler now. But no, it’s lost the grace of my simple and easy childhood days; It’s become a labyrinth of too lush plant life. I think how - like my complicated life - this old familiar place is decaying and is overwhelmed with all these obnoxious vines and how one day - like the pond and Mr. Miller’s apple tree - this dear wood will have vanished. inspired by events of my childhood and the contest of Constance la France and now for Caleb Smith's In the Woods Poetry Contest


Long Poems