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Long Innocence Poems | Long Innocence Poetry

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Long poem by Therese Bacha | Details |

Punished

                            ~ Punished~
                        
One evening with her dad she met this man at a bar very
handsome well mannered visiting from England.
After a few visits she started feeling him approaching her 
with nice compliments.

His attention made her fall In love with him
For months he took her out running to the beach 
shouting out loud I love your body i love your eyes
you’ll never belong to nobody but me.
 
On a moonlight night he was holding her so tight 
kissing her lips caressing her tits expressing his 
desire to light up the fire that was burning in their
entire body and soul.

As he was her first this is what she thought at the 
beginning she was very reserved yet she liked the 
fire she was feeling they were new to her his kissing 
was sensuous he smelled lovely he was caressing her
hair while sitting on the sand she was so taken by her
thoughts suddenly she heard.

Oh my darling let me love you my way let me make you 
my woman without any delay I beg you to give up and 
stop the fight I am promising at the same time to marry 
you very soon I will ask your dad that you will become my 
wife next Sunday at soon.

She wanted to believe him her head was spinning her heart
was beating to the sounds of his powerful movements
she was reaching the sky so quickly sensations of ecstasy 
she was feeling with his compliments whispering his love 
to her out loud while she was dreaming of the marriage 
as being lifted up on a carriage listening to the horses 
tapping on the course to the hotel room where they will 
spend their honeymoon as she will become that bride 
at noon.

Before even her dreams were over she felt him suddenly 
role over and ran away with no delay she could not understand
why ? Why? Did he leave with no good-bye.

Not realizing she was undressed hurried to get dressed ran to look 
from side to side asking herself why did he hide he promised me 
to be his bride? even if she was yet a child.

She sat where they loved each other looking at the ocean maybe
he will come back he must he told her he is in love.

Already it was dark in a low voice having no choice she ran 
home straight to her room wiping her running tears and fears
covering her feet to feel some heat and fell asleep not to see
her dad as maybe tomorrow he will come back with an 
explanation to his act. 

Hoping not to be deceived and very soon to be relieved
when he ‘ll knock on their door and swipe her off her feet 
tell her dad to fix their marriage.

She waited for days and days but that day never came 
she knew then it was only a game and she`ll never see 
him again and will never be the same.
                          
That early morning she woke up before her dad to cheer up 
herself for him not to doubt she had maybe made a huge 
mistake.
Having her coffee she pulled the newspaper and screamed
Oh Oh the man she loved was an addicted rapist being 
searched from the Interpol in England, he had convinced 
everybody doctors and nurses that he was cured.

Continuing to read she read his history that he was battling 
addiction of raping teenagers for the past twenty years. Lived
most of the time in jail.
She cried and cried she was raped by an addicted rapist who
was never cured.
                             
She could not eat or drink not knowing what to think 
while running to the sink that’s when she found out 
but couldn’t shout that she was carrying a rapist child. 

Where are you? She thought you were honest
But you were only an ordinary man still battling
your addiction.

Forgive me Oh My God! Her dad
forgave her out of love to his innocent daughter.

She had to keep her child and trusted herself
to bring him up not like his father.
And she did her son became an international lawyer.

   Therese Bacha
      27/5/2013
Contest for PD....Any Poem Goes.

Copyright © Therese Bacha


Long poem by Ian Jones | Details | . You can read it on PoetrySoup.com' st_url='http://www.poetrysoup.com/poem/wheres_the_bravery_696163' st_title='Where's The Bravery'>

Where's The Bravery

Are you guaranteed a place in Paradise
For your evil on the beach?
Shooting thirty eight defenceless tourists was the price
Were you elevated to greatness when the Police shot you dead
Or was your reality seen, just a worthless coward.
Your rise to greatness only in your head.

Were you classed as a hero of the cause,
When hiding with the other rubbish behind refuse bins?
Your City Centre bombs left where school children stopped and paused.
The busiest shopping day you chose for slaughter
And another bomb on the escape route, total carnage you Sicko!
But will history remember you or the lost sons and daughters?

Two hundred and ninety eight innocents were on that plane
When that cowardly, dishonourable soldier brought it down.
Will you be covered in glory, Red Square chanting your name?
Oh no! Because you never had the guts to say what you had done.
Twelve Nations mourn because of you, lost in Sunflower field
And all you do is smoke and smirk you shameful moron.

Those poor Japanese tourists at Egypt's ancient monuments.
Gentle folk, just taking pics to show the folks back home.
But here you were again, armed cowards killing unarmed innocents
With knives and guns, they didn't stand a chance.
They didn't even have an idea why this thing had happened.
But twisted freaks believe their glory is now enhanced.

Setting fire to night clubs where party people in shorts,
Were dancing and laughing not oppressing or killing,
But rather than debate your case in Parliament or the Courts
You burned alive these ordinary guys on an evening out.
You say you want an independent state, I wouldn't want to live with
Liars and murderers running it even though devout.

You kidnap one hundred school girls, studying for exams,
Because girls should not be educated, is your stupid motto.
We all know why you took them, you perverted religious shams
And when I saw your broadcast it became obvious too
As you grinned, twitched and fidgeted you were thicker than glue.
And the slowest girl from that class was still a hundred times smarter than you.

There are hundreds more examples of this self delusion,
Where the mental movies of these guys even have a soundtrack.
They think their God favours them, glory forever, illusion.
You're just cowardly half-men afraid to take the fight
To people equipped to face you, a level playing field,
You never say your cause, demands because you know that it's not right.

So next time you're planning atrocities, with cliched battle yell,
Bare in mind that in Holy Writ, no matter what the faith,
You've got it wrong, mate, you're going straight to Hell
Not Paradise, Virgins or streets baring you're names.
If you've achieved nothing in your lives and are probably mentally ill
Please kill yourselves before you do harm because your victims are always the same.

Copyright © Ian Jones


Long poem by Chris D. Aechtner | Details |

Money-God

Trust not in the words: "In God We Trust", printed on currency,
for God and Money should be kept separate,
unless one desires to tempt fate with the Money-God,
tempt fate by not over-turning the money-lenders' tables,
although many might argue how this isn't good for business.

Why not know the value of life,
instead of focusing too hard on the prices of Idols.

People are bleating at the prospect of "God" being removed
from money, arguing that if God is removed from money,
the grazing grounds will become Godless.

Godless? 
With or without the words, 
a Money-God is a God nonetheless.
There is at least one true God, 
whether man-made or not;
an authority of control,
a God of profit margins.
Violence is a profit margin.
Hatred is a profit margin.
Bullets, Amendments, and Death, are all profit margins.

The war being waged upon children, is a profit margin.

If I had been given the chance, 
I would have tried my best to take him out,
morphed the vapours of my remaining hatred into bullets,
or torn him apart with my hands.
To stop innocents from losing their innocence.
There are lines drawn in minds,
that if crossed over, stretch beyond the bristle-board of rehabilitation.
Even Clockwork Orange bleeds into crimson spatters.

When a child survives a massacre,
runs across his school field to find safety from a stranger,
proclaiming to the stranger, "I can't go back to my school, it isn't safe there.
My teacher was killed, I don't have a teacher anymore.
All of my friends are dead."....

....then innocence has been lost, and the Money-God is empowered even more.
Lost innocence spreads like a disease through the minds of global villagers.
Fear breeds fear, breeds control and disintegration of the Stream-Mind.

If I had been given the chance,
I would have fought fire with fire,
fed the beast within, 
taken him apart with a breath of hatred.
Breathed it out, pushed it out, purged it out.

Satan is a scapegoat used by people who are unwilling 
to take accountability for their actions and sacred responsibilities.
The Beast is humanity -
not marked by a fairy-tale Devil,
but instead marked by the Money-God created in the image of man;
recreating the image of man through fear.

Some people might be intrigued by how many definitions of God there are.
Even if money is a necessity,
within our core there should reside a different Kingdom -
without and within, within and without.

If I had been given the chance -- past tense....

....if I am given the chance,
I will try my best to take him out,
smudge him out
with the remaining hatred in my heart.
Breathe it out, push it out, purge it out,

until all that's left is to love,
until all that's left is to love.







December 14th, 2012 - S.H.E.S:  28 - 2 = 26




January 7th, 2013




.

Copyright © Chris D. Aechtner


Long poem by Odin Roark | Details |

X Continues Marking Many Spots

X Continues Marking Many Spots
                        by Odin Roark

Anonymous living suits many,
gypsy fever of the brain.

Seldom hiding in the shadows,
the glare of klieg-light attention
forever glares upon responsibility,
a disease to many,
a growing malady for most,
a welcome invitation to others.

Even back then,
at twenty,
the waking age,
at least for this X,
a Midwest-ignoramus,
a miscreant not even aware,
experience was about
to render raw and tender the face.

The vengeance proffered
gloriously fait accompli,
needing not the klieg light focus,
better mere awakening
by simpler means
like...
like,
a few beers,
so liberating,
so embarrassing.

This '56 student of students,
bathed in the drenching of
Kerouac,
Baldwin,
Miller,
Bergman,
Fellini,
Truffaut,
Godard,
Kieslowski,
Antonioni,
damned near drowning
in flailing need to see
and survive.

After all…

This was education,
totally missing
from cult religious dogma,
not offered in Aristotelian mode.

So…

Here X was,
always at the Plaza screens,
or the Waverly,
Saturday nights,
lasting forever.

X along with some buddy Y's and Z's
exited the art houses and made their way,
oh yeah,
to the Russian Tea Room.

Saved up rations of money…

Black Russians,
minimal water,
more Black Russians,
the world as we discovered it,
not the world as professed
All around us.

There
in Italy,
France,
Poland,
life seemed somehow more real
not caked over with candied syrup
like American’s urban seduction.

Oh how we longed
to be part of it…
make films.

But more important,
discover what it was all about,
this life
that for many

Was but professed by a God.

Those were times,
magical times
where peeling away the facade
was so delicious,
while we got wasted.

Along about 2 AM
Columbus Circle Books.

Sit on the floor,
thumb through 25 cent paperbacks,
always a Nietzsche,
a dog-eared Menninger,
a used Baldwin,
treasures we could afford.

‘Course…
We had to careful to save enough
for the subway.

We…

The X Y's and Z's hugged,
kissed with manly disregard,
Hell,
we didn’t care who was watching.

We were happy.
We were learning.
We were happening.

X dragged his weary ass up
the 4 flights
screwed back in the light bulb
old man in 4f always unscrewed,
figuring no one's gonna rob
a dark floor.

Simple shit.

But…
love him
to this day.
He was wise.
My first introduction to street cred
in spite of his oldness.

Next morning…

Ah,
Sunday New York Times,
Espresso,
Aspirin,

Growing up.

Learning the hard way.

Sublime,
One’s x’s.

Copyright © Odin Roark


Long poem by Audonus Taylor | Details |

Landslide

Of all the memories I hold of you,
I have written of all except the most 
vivid.
Maybe I am afraid of sharing that
 deeply as a writer, as a man, as a 
person.
Perhaps I fear I cannot hold my 
breath long
enough to survive the submergence 
without
tears freeing drops of salty liquid 
from my lungs. Just enough to keep 
me conscious and myself during the 
descent to the most beautiful and 
guarded memory I have to date.

I still recall the day my eyes learned 
to properly interpret the beauty of a 
portrait, because your face tapped 
my sense of sight.
I still recall the way a simple touch 
could
wake a body more than life itself,
because you touched my shoulder to 
gain my attention, the one thing that 
was always yours.
I still recall the chill of an owned 
heartbeat willingly belonging to 
someone who was once a stranger,
Its skip when you smiled, its race 
when you teased, and the agony it 
felt when you were the slightest bit 
sad...

Yes, I recall each of these 
experiences happening with 
successions of breaths.
Three deep ones, and I was too 
attached
to decide which of us I loved more.
One more, and reality slipped away
to become a single recurring 
thought:
"Awake or asleep, alive or dead, 
wherever I am now, with her, is my 
day, my existence."
Yeah, I remember every single 
second.
Each one was a few moments of 
finding
forever, and they each bear the 
imprint of my clenched hand...

For me, that was the landslide.
The time in my life when
all structure and foundations of 
beliefs
were destroyed by emotions 
unknown to me.
Where the purity of powerful snow 
collided
with the earth that once rested 
firmly beneath my feet.
And all I once believed, as a boy, 
was too damaged by the laws of life 
to get back.
I was a teenager afterwards, and 
my childhood innocence left the 
moment I chose to love with the 
urgency of a body, trapped beneath 
the rubble of what was, seeking 
oxygen to survive to what would be, 
could be, should have been.
And that clueless boy with the 
nervous smile died that day.
Life stole that innocence with 
promises of a lasting first love, only 
love, being offered at the end of a 
yoyo string.

But now, as child became teenager, 
teenager is now damaged young 
man. Bitter, cold, and still clueless as 
to what is worth changing for, dying 
for.
Still terrified of the next landslide to 
destroy the little that was salvaged 
from the first.
Wishing like hell that he could be 
that little boy once more, but all the 
while knowing:
No amount of digging will ever see 
him live again...

Copyright © Audonus Taylor


Long poem by Carol Eastman | Details |

Clueless Job Applicant

You’ll never guess whom the cat drug in; have a day where you just couldn’t win?
He came strutting in, smacking his gum loud, dressed to the nines Goth Punk style.
Tats trailed down his left arm, with my notice, he said, saving up for the other arm.
When ask about drugs, his answer to me was: “Yes, I’ll share” most invitingly…

Metal adornments on ears, nose, and lips, didn’t want to know, the all of it, at this.
As I noticed, he smiled most cattily, asking: ‘Want to see where else they might be?’ 
Hair a Mohawk with a trail down his back, colors of the rainbow, left nothing to lack.
Steel studs on a black leather butt, said, ‘Bite Me!’ with each and every staged strut.

What are you kidding?… Do my eyes me deceive, or did he just make a pass, at ME?
No Way! I’d rather drop kick him from my office fast, didn't he have any real class?
The application, a Sales Manager Job. Who would try to send me over the deep end?
Bet it had been a practical joke, beginning to end, so I simply held on, my friend.

He must've read my face, forhe smirked, I continued to ask for his list of experience.
His experience was none, but he said he managed his I-tune collection, very well.
Of course, he was the Leader of his ‘Chat Room’. I wondered, ‘Who could tell?’ GEE!
Also an impressive set up on his Facebook page, for his innumerable video games.

I ask how he was qualified for ANY job? Said, Dad ‘THE CEO’ wanted him employed.
I verified this with a call, was told not to be too Harsh, he had Potential, after all...
Ask what job he wanted to give his son? ‘Let him chose himself’, came the real clue!
Ask him, what job he really wanted to do, ‘VP in charge of Recreation’ was imbued.

Said he'd check out all the great places, in his Dad’s fancy Porche. Honestly True!
I kid you not! And he wanted his girlfriend, made into his secretary, Yah! No Doubt!
Believe it or not, he got all he thought he was due. All approved by the CEO’s! True!
Just when I thought things couldn’t get any better… I began to really reconsider…

Really, who had been clueless… It hadn’t been him!… Which left me in a dither…
Knowing I just couldn’t win!  I’d be glad when this day was finally, truly, done… 
The kid had probably thought this a great joke on me from beginning to the end!
My perfect job, had just come undone! Apparently, being in HR isn’t always fun! 

My college degree, that took so much sacrifice, no longer sparkled, so much to me.
Boy did I now WISH, I was a CEO’s SON! As I simply got all the paper work done. 
Later, I saw the family portrait on the CEO’s desk. Lucky me! One down!… 
Only eight more to go!

Carol Eastman and Hubby

Copyright © Carol Eastman


Long poem by Madhavi Sarjare pagare | Details |

The Intensifying love story

The Intensifying love story by 
Madhavi.S.Pagare
 
I simply adore you, my Mesmerizing 
Persona.
As you are my first love.
Who lighted my heart with full of pride and 
joy.
Who ignited the ecstasy towards lovely life.
Who relieved my pains and took sorrows 
as boon.
You made me fall sick in your love when I 
see your madness.
I like the way,
The way you gazed at me and my smoky 
eyes.
The way you smiled at my mystifying and 
enigmatic appeal.
The way you every time praises me.
The way you galvanized me and proved 
the meaning of life.
You are the one,
Yes, you are the one who aroused my 
feelings, my emotions.
Yes, you are the one who explored my 
passion of love, flaming in my charismatic 
soul.
Yes, you are the lovely treasure which god 
had baptized me.
Yes, you are the one who turned the page 
of my life.
Eureka, I found my true love!!!!
Bewilderedly I did not know, where is my 
love taking me to ??
But still I like the way,
Like, the way you clutched me into your 
arms.
Like, the way you kissed my palms.
Like, the way you hugged me, caressed 
me.
Like, the way you rubbed your fingers on 
my lips.
Like, the way you tickled me on my neck.
Like, the way you squeezed my cheeks.
Like, the way you holded me up towards 
the sky.
Like, the way when you inspired me to fly 
so high.
Tears dropped from my eyes and the very 
next moment I realized that it is my 
sensational love. My true love. Then I 
decided that no one had right to do this 
except you. If you want to know the 
reason?? If yes??
Yes, because I seriously fell in love with 
you.
Yes, because you are the one to whom god 
had assigned me to.
And here comes the Swifted instance 
when??
When, the moment you wore the golden 
ring in my finger and I was happily waving 
around.
Just can’t forget the time when our long 
lasting friendship turned into lifetime 
relationship.
It was just the blooming of two lover’s 
indicating the herald of the marriage. It 
means a lot for any girl in this amazing 
world.
And yes, you will always find my heart 
topped with love showered only for you. 
For you!!
And till my last breathe, my heart beats, 
beating for you, only for you SUYOG!!
In fervour I wanted you to be mine forever, 
forever.
We both sojourned in each other soul so 
deeply that we just can’t wait for a single 
second, unless and until, we share what is 
running in our mind. It’s just because we 
are so much accustomed to each other 
now. 
I Love you, adore you, adore you forever 
my Love.

Copyright © Madhavi Sarjare pagare


Long poem by Jessy David | Details |

A Cleansing Touch

  

The morning was calm and cool
After a rainy monsoon night
The wind was playing with everything it can put hands upon
Pushing down and thrashing, making a scene so bizarre
Pretending like the world cup players in the grounds of  Brazil
In this third floor apartment at Kochi, India.

Got up a little late than usual
Walked straight to the front door
To catch hold of the morning newspaper
As if something will happen to the world              
If it is not read on time.

On opening the  front door
Off went the healthy mood as  something unpleasant  awaited  there.
The two big waste buckets, our neighbor’s,
Lying side turned down, wide open,  touching our door.
An ugly sight  seen sometimes, 
Today the naughty monsoon wind had done it.

No! This is something a lady hates to see right in front of the door
Especially in a tranquil morning, like  today’s.
Blue and clear was the view of the sky
But clouds  grey and dark gathered in my mind
Before late it might pour
I feared much.
Let the neighbor come, will  put an end to this
Lapses no more I’ll bear, the last one will be today
Sat on the sofa waiting
For somebody to appear.

Moments passed and  neighbor’s door opened
The youngest of the family came out.
Placing  the first step out,  turned to me with a lovely smile
As though a  bud is slowly turning into full bloom
Then came a  “Hm.." from the little dear
To attract my attention
“Good Morning!’’ What else can I say?
He is our dear Thejus  who came to the world
Only  just three years before.
 
Thejus came to our door, was  still in his nightwear 
Presented me  with a more hearty smile.
Oh! The boy's sparkling eyes noticed something unusual about the buckets
Of which of course  had a little doubt 
Who the owner really is. 
Asked with the innocence only a three year old can own
“This is mine, no?”.”Yes”
“Shall I take it and place it there?” in the sweetest tone of a toddler.
Don’t know to where my ill feelings
Those got  sedimented in the serene morning
Flew away
Feeling ashamed by the little one’s magic touch.
Finishing off all the stains in my heart
More like a machine,  pronounced a “Yeah”
The boy lifted the bins one by one, a little heavy for his age
Placed them in their position and didn't care to turn back
Started playing with his small bicycle
Leaving his grown-up neighbor to reflect over a verse from The Holy Bible,

   "Verily I say unto you, Except ye be converted, and become as little children, 
ye shall not enter into the kingdom of heaven".


Copyright © Jessy David


Long poem by Elaine George | Details |

The Price of Admission

So many shades of grey beneath a 60 year old glossy exterior.  

1951

Pig bristles when rubbed the wrong way -  that’s how they felt - the seats in the old Chevrolet.

The last crackling remains of winter covering the black holes in the road, breaking beneath the tires, as the firs flew by.

Itchy pink calves ignored.
Hands in pockets, clutching King George and three maple leaves, dreaming of Old Henry down at the General Store.

The Galbraith’s place, the Maguire’s, the Baird’s, the Orangemen’s Hall. 

Then,

she sees him,

standing on the roadside in the same place they stood on that hot day on the 12th of July when uncle Stanley and his old mare led the keepers of the Battle of the Boyne down the Point road, hooves and leather soles tapping the granite-flecked pavement in perfect sync. A sea of orange and white, moving through sweat, horse dung and the sweet breath of the wild Sea Salt roses as the parade passed.

Then,

the rustling of the tall scorched grasses in the field behind the Reid’s place, when he gave her a Life Saver for a kiss.

Then,

at the end of grade one, on a dank beeline through the woods - sidestepping a trickling stream that ran through the silence below the shafts of light that cut through the pines and their pirouetting needles. The snapping of dead branches as grade7 crossed her path, marring her straight A’s with a D grade on a trail of destruction covered in Jelly Beans.

Then,

mother finding the planted torn dress in her best friend’s bed. Pal banished to the doghouse with his tail between his legs, whining below her bedroom-window every night as she fought to find sleep.  

The old Chevrolet rounds the bend.

God’s house sits on the top of a hill. She has never met him. He’s never home, but the Reverend delivers his messages every Sunday in a voice like thunder that ricochets off the walls with the wrath of God... 

IF A MAN ABIDE NOT IN ME, HE IS CAST FORTH AS A BRANCH, AND IS WITHERED; AND MEN GATHER THEM, AND CAST THEM INTO THE FIRE, AND THEY ARE BURNED.

Shaking, she slinks down in the pew beneath the rose, lavender and blue faces on the window, who stare at her red face as she bows her head, and with trembling hand, reaches into her pocket and finds the nickel, and prays  it will be enough.  

                                                              * * *


                                    Written:  April 30th, 2013
                                                   Elaine George




Copyright © Elaine George


Long poem by Recina Dhillon | Details |

Happy Dream Angel

I sat in bed the other night,
The room only lit by the moonlight.
I shut my eyes but couldn't sleep
I looked to the ceiling and began to think

But before I could sleep, I saw a shadow
Almost like peter pan
The shadow was there 
But Without a man

Out of bed I did leap,
But the shadow moved, quickly on its feet
I couldn't see what it could be
I thought my head was playing tricks on me

Back into bed I got
The shadow gone, or so I thought
The shadow then sat on my bed
I turned and listened to what it said

I am not here, yes that’s true
You’re not going mad, I’m part of you
I’m the part that comes out to play
I’m the good in all your bad days

Now don’t freak out, let me say
You’re dreaming now, a world away.
But as you sleep, out I come
A happy dream angel to get rid of the glum 

It’s not all about fairy dust and glee
You my friend hold the key
Somewhere deep inside of you
Is a little girl trying to get through?

The one who was always happy and fun
The one who loved to play and dance
The one who too used to cry at night
The one like you, who knows how to fight,

And then in the corner what did I see
A little girl who used to be me,
I grabbed her hand and gave her hug
A little girl I wanted to love

But again I looked and all I could see
Was how much she’s gonna hate being me
So happy and joyful now it’s true
But wait she’s 30…Bipolar now it’s over to you.


In all this upset the shadow stepped in
And parted me and the girl and said let me begin
“You both can live here happily together,
And let memories bring you closer than ever”.

When you’re feeling sad and blue
Think of the little girl who lives inside of you
At night she always comes out to play
But your sadness sometimes keeps her locked away.

A happy dream angel that I am,
Now both of you hold out your hand
Let’s go fly and be free
Let’s go and experience what real happiness can be

So off we flew, to where I don’t know,
Me and the girl laughing all the way through
Back in the bedroom all in flash
It was time to say bye to the angel of dreams

A ringing in the background began to distract
I woke in bed alarm clock in hand
I jumped up and the girl was nowhere to be seen
Neither was the angel who protects my dreams

Another day like no other it’s true
Except no one knows what I've been through
For what I saw last night will always be…
What reunited the little girl in me x

Copyright © Recina Dhillon


Long Poems