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Long International Poems

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Long Poems
Long poem by Gary Bateman | Details |

What Kind of People Are We

What Kind of People Are We

In a Shakespearean sense of tragedy and doubt the well-used
“To Be or Not To Be” from Hamlet is not the question I shall
discuss in this narrative. Rather, I shall consider a few things
concerning the current Middle Eastern and European migrant
situation that has riveted the attention of the countries in those
regions as well as the rest of the world. And it’s my opportunity
to reflect on some of the things that have occurred (and are still
occurring right now), that I find quite troubling and morally 
offensive to me as concerned person and citizen.

As a writer and poet, and as a moral human being, I can say
that I was truly shocked at the sight of an innocent, young Syrian 
refugee boy named “Aylan Kurdi,” who had drowned and was lying 
face down on a Turkish beach near a resort with his head turned
slightly on its right side, as the ebb and flow of the salted waves
pushed and pulled on his little body. A real tragedy for sure that
might have been prevented, if humane, responsible, and responsive
migrant immigration policies had been in place so his father
would not have been compelled to put his wife and both of his 
sons—who all drowned together—on that fateful boat at the very
mercy of ruthless and evil human traffic smugglers.

The horrendous scenes played over and over on the 24-hour news 
cycle of the migrants and their innocent children from Syria, Iraq, 
Turkey, Afghanistan, and other countries being treated like cattle
(or even less than cattle), and indiscriminately pushed around and
tear-gassed by unfriendly and unwelcoming jack-booted Hungarian 
Rendorség (Police) were certainly most shocking and disgustingly 
revulsive by both their malicious tenor and insidious intent. The
actions also of some right-wing Hungarian demonstrators hurling
loud and abusive comments at the refugees was also quite tragic
and disturbing. I found the actions of the Hungarian Police under
the direction of Prime Minister Viktor Orban to be similarly
reminiscent of the actions of Hitler’s Gestapo and Sturmabteilung
or the SA Troops after 1933 in Nazi Germany. Shame on them!
Shame on them! This is the same old tired bigotry and stupidity
on display today.

Despite these despicable actions of the Hungarian Police and many 
of Mr. Orban’s governmental officials, a number of Hungarian
citizens still showed their kindness and humanity in helping the
migrants at various junctures on the autobahn as they trekked
toward the Austrian border in route ultimately to Germany. This
caught my obvious attention as well.

For me, the “so-what?” here turns ultimately upon the following
philosophical and human question: “What Kind of People Are We?”
The migrant problem as we know is largely the result of the massive
displacement of people that has occurred (and is still occurring) in
in the war-torn countries in the Middle East and in certain areas of
Southeast Asia. This tragedy is one of many of our world’s current
and future 21st-century challenges. How each of us as “concerned 
citizens,” in consonance with the policies and actions of the various
governments in the countries we each live under, will certainly
play a role in reflecting in the end the kind of people we really are. 

For me, the nationalistic actions of the right-wing parties and
extremists, in many countries (including the United States) and 
particularly now in Europe, provide no real solution at all, and 
become a convenient excuse for many people to forsake their
conscience and basic humanity—and to stick their heads in the 
sand like a bunch of frightful ostriches lost in the reveries of
their hate and prejudice, and disgraceful cowardice! There can
be no apology and justification for this ever! This type of
behavior is a deep-seated cancer ever-lurking in the genes of 
our human society and in mankind’s soul—awaiting its chance
to metastasize and reek its horrible destruction upon its victims.  

The point I’m driving at is this: The current responsible actions
of a number of world leaders, to particularly highlight those of
the European Union, appear to be taking several of the right steps 
in helping these refugee migrants and their families undergoing
this terrible strife forced upon them by the tyranny of war and the
resultant poverty and dislocation. Being stupid, hateful, and clearly
prejudiced as some people and certain governmental leaders are in
our global community today is not the answer and it never will be!

To people who really do care about this ongoing migrant tragedy,
it’s time to rally and act in support of local, regional, and worldwide
efforts to help these migrant people and their families so afflicted
by poverty, disease, war, injury, death, and territorial displacement. 

For me, I desire to make my voice heard loud and clear as a writer,
poet, and concerned world citizen on this matter and in my own
most humble way. Keep in mind that many of us are descendants
of families who at one time or another were migrants from other
countries escaping the whip and lash of cruel dictators and their
terrible regimes masquerading as legitimate governments of the

In my estimation, the kind of people we should be or aspire to be
are those who relish the winds of freedom, the certainty of justice,
the spirit of friendship, the values of fairness and fair play, the
magnificence of humanity, the desire for cultural diversity and
inclusion, and the love of our fellow man under the very eyes
of God Himself. 

What kind of people are we? With this, I rest my case. 

Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved,
September 11, 2015 (Narrative)

Copyright © Gary Bateman | Year Posted 2015

Long poem by evrod samuel | Details |

The City And The State Of Play Today


No one worries about morals today 
They follow the rules they create
So to them all is ok
Those on the outside looking in 
Are the only ones feeling queasy 
As avarice and selfishness triumphs
So easily 

Good corporate citizens they claim to be
Industry awards abound on their walls
As thank you tokens from themselves
Yet society harbours a lot of ill-will
As it feels the often brute force of 
The raid
And destroy mentality
Of people only wishing to make money 
Any which way 
While Using up all of society’s communal resources

Sharks abound
The waters are forever bloody as they 
Know no fraternity and would gladly 
Cannibalize anyone with no influence 
The ability to upend competitors
A cherished characteristic 
In a bullish machismo drenched environment 

Bullet proof psyches
Absorb and repel any pangs
About unfairness
Blocking any regulatory or chattering classes’
Attempt at nirvana and equality 
They employ better paid lobbyist 
So always have the upper hand 
In influencing policy 

The gravitational attraction of money 
Towards another even bigger pot of money 
Numbs any cautionary instinct
That would take a long term view 
The thrill of instant riches
Overpowers common sense 
And even decency 
Fat cats they all wish to be 

The slickness of glossy tongued lobbyist
Who spin wrongs till they become rights
Embolden oestrogen low males with no inbuilt brakes
To take risks that eventually cost them disgrace 
They are champions of graft not of society 

Loopholes in legislation
That were built in by too friendly politicians 
Coupled with ambiguous suits and claims
Cause far reaching hardship when the good old days are long gone 
The villains only muster some phantom national pride
 When begging for a lighter sentence 
Some are forgiven
Others fatally wounded by an unforgiving public

Lots of money can be made both legally and illegally
As one racket is closed another materialises instantly
The conveyor belt of dishonesty
Overwhelms bureaucracy 
Who is not David to the goliath that is money

The ethos is wealth
The acquisition and the maintaining of gains
Not often acquired through hard work
There is no limit of acceptable financial comfort
For the millionaire always wants to be a billionaire
And the mega rich super rich

Money must always be hidden from the taxman
Shareholders want tax free dividends
Investors want tax breaks for buying with other people’s money 
Infrastructure and new runways must be built 
But not from the pocket of those who wish it 

With their hands outstretched
And always wanting more and more
From a government too eager to please 
We have a tax system geared to the advantage of party donors
And non-domiciled moguls and tycoons
Who know no philanthropy unless it is tax efficient 

Disadvantaging society by  
Never paying their fair and moral share 
The largess they reap so selfishly
They wish not to share 
Wages are low
Taxes are nil
Only the investor wins as we pay his bills

Fast paced expansionist dogma
Is preached within city limits
Only the highest paid
The biggest company
The greatest profits
Are allowed 
They are held up as ideals that all who
Wish to succeed must follow
Gunslingers they all appear to be
Rushing in to capitalize on the wanton success of their peers
The cloud of misery left behind 
Is never seen for the look forward 
Never backward 
Hindsight is never welcomed in this parasitic environment 

The political will to weed out these reckless demons
Is lukewarm at best 
The revolving door of government creating opportunities
For industry and industry gratefully accepting politicians post government 
Ensures that self-interest is king 

An economy built on flawed assumptions of wealth creation
Is one that must forever be in hyper-drive
Creating ever expanding demand and supply 
That is as real as a thief’s conscience 
When taking the rings off a dead persons fingers 

Money must always be made for 
There is no alternative 
Wealth is good
Poverty to them is laziness

The city is not the heart and soul
Of the nation
It is but one player in a system skewed in its favour
We all must share in the wealth of this country
To ensure its longevity  

Copyright © evrod samuel | Year Posted 2013

Long poem by Gary Bateman | Details |

Heinrich Heine Revisited

I can clearly sense your utter despair of Der Matratzengruft*
As you valiantly carried on your poetic works to the very end.
This did not change your literary accomplishments well-known,
And your courage through the misery and morphine* is undeniable.

Your lyrical poetry speaks volumes among all of German literature,
And it was most marvelously set to music by the likes of Schumann,
Schubert, Silcher, Mendelssohn, Brahms, and Strauss—to name a few. 
Their melodic tones as applied to your verses then, now live on forever!

Your role in and principal contributions to Romanticism fall in line
With the highest quality of your poetic language and its intention.
Your role in battling early nineteenth-century censorship in Prussia set 
You out front of many of your contemporaries who resisted much less.

It’s so tragic Herr Heine that your literary resistance so prominent in
Challenging Prussian censorship would make you ever so more noted,
And besmirched as the Nazis in 1933 burned your books and those of
Other German scholars as a reflection of their insane and twisted beliefs!

It’s with great irony indeed that the banning and burning of your works by 
The Nazis was parodied further by them as they ignobly quoted and used
Your famous line from “Almansor,”* when you likened that “where books 
Are burned, in the end people will be burned too.” We know what they did!

And so, with both honor and sadness I do understand the very cry of lament
From the confines of your mattress-grave about your final exquisite poetry,
Written through writhing pain and tears as you faced the end of your life.
It took great courage to face your end like this while staying true to your Muse!

Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved (December 15, 2014) 
(Narrative Quatrain poetic format)

*Der Matratzengruft from the German means “The Mattress-Grave.” 
(Heinrich Heine was confined to his bed, his “mattress-grave,” in 1848
with various illnesses until his eventual death eight years later in 1856.)

*Heine poetically referred to his pain predicament in the poem “Morphine,”
written near the end of his life, when he noted in two famous verses: 
“Gut is der Schlaf, der Tod ist besser—freilich / Das beste waere, nie
Geboren sein.” (In English: “Sleep is good, Death is better—of course, /
Best of all would be never to have been born.”)

*Almansor was a play written by Heine in 1821 that had a most famous 
line in German: “Das war ein Vorspiel nur, dort wo man Buecher verbrennt,
verbrennt man auch am Ende Menschen.” (Rendered in English: “That was
but a prelude; where they burn books, they will ultimately burn people as
well.”) The significance here is that as the Nazis burned the books of Heine
and other German artists on the Opernplatz in Berlin in 1933, they actually
celebrated this event by “engraving” Heine’s famous words from “Almansor”
in the ground at the Opernplatz site. The obvious depravity of this terrible
event reflects the innate cruelty, stupidity and evil of the Nazis as they 
burned the books and defiled the names and reputations of Heine and other 
famous German writers. Their actions were monstrous and shameful, and 
were indicative of mankind’s base instincts at their very worst. Moreover, 
despite converting to Protestantism from Judaism in 1825, Heine’s Jewish 
origins played a continuing presence in his life and were one of the major 
factors for his being scapegoated by the Nazis later in 1933. And besides,
the Nazis were always more interested in burning books, rather than 
reading them!  

Copyright © Gary Bateman | Year Posted 2014

Long poem by cherl dunn | Details |


In golden chains of bondage, was the royal queen
Brought forth, force to kneel, before the newly crowned
Pharaoh of Egypt!
Branded a heretic, a blasphemer of the Gods, a traitor to
Her people, unworthy to wear the serpents double crown,
Of upper and lower Egypt!
In silence, this once proud princess of the
Royal Egyptian court, stands convicted of treason, and
Sedition, without a trials voice, guilty is the rulings
Judgment, by nobilities closed court of law!
Thee Nefertiti are found guilty, and banishment
Is the judgement by thy kindred blood, your final
Punishment to be given unto the God’s themselves,
Let the name and image of she, Nefertiti, be struck,
From all monuments, obelisks, and never spoken
Of again, so the newly crowned Pharaoh, declared!
She was then so expelled into the custody of the
Royal priests, and taken beneath the royal throne,
Into the hidden temple of the unknown!
Deep beneath the golden throne of power,
Underneath layers of dust, and mortar stone,
Was she so led, before the Alters of Bathe, and Horas?
The priests spoke with incantations ancient tongues,
Evoking the deities to come forth, tossing sacred
Dusts into the burning flames, two figures of smoke
Materialized, a large cat Goddess, shimmering in
Illuminated torch light, and a dark black God, of death's
Underworld kingdom!
At the roaring growl of the cat Goddess, Bathe,
As a great wind, chilled the temple hall,
Priests fell backwards stumbling as to fall!
Then as the quivering temple did shake, Horus’s voice,
Thundered wide from hells gate, accursed she that
Whom stands before me, is to run forever, a beast,
Of fur and fangs, never to enter the afterlife beyond.
Bathe then stride forward, striking at the bare flesh of
Nefertiti, then both deities vanished into thin vapors mists!
Shaking as the bloody wound eloped forth red, beauty did
Transform, by the illumination of the basking moon above!
In sheer pains agony, the once proud Queen of the river Nile
Clasped, into a heap upon the floor!
The supple flesh of skin tore away, by the sharpened claw,
Her tresses of raven black thinned, as a short coat, of animal
Fur burst forth, the noble features of beauty, turned awkwardly
Inside out, leaving a canine wolfen mask behind,
Thy judgment is thus so given, daughter of Pharaoh!
Run she, this Nile banshee, howling beneath the
Elliptical tidal moon of Egypt, begging from within
Side the beast to be freed, from this the corse
Of Horas, but the Deity remains silent, and 
A lone devil hound, runs alongside the 
Shores of the River Nile!
Is this just fantasy’s legend, for no tomb of Nefertiti,
Has ever been found, or mummy identified.
Yet it is true that many monuments, that bore
Her name, were harshly damaged, why or whom did this
Remains a question for debate, no one truly knows for sure?
But the howling of the Nile wolf does sound,
When the moon appears full, and the shadows
Encroach, upon it at high tides monsoon!
Does the she, Nefertiti, the wolf so wails,
In the weeping tongue,
Trying to speak her hidden name, Nefertiti,
Only a forgotten Deity knows for sure, he
And the fallen Queen, whom once called
Herself the Living God, the Pharaoh of
All Egypt!


Copyright © cherl dunn | Year Posted 2015

Long poem by cherl dunn | Details |


It is a witchy tradition to pass down your first broom to
The next generation, but poor dear sweet Mable inherited an eye 
Sore from her elder granny, the handle topped end was crooked
In a twisted bent way, the middle was weather warped and taped
Together by gorilla glue, but the worst part of all the broomy
End, which instead of straw horse hair hanged like a droopy tail!
Embarrassed, Mable begged to have a different choose,
But her mother would not hear of it, it is a tradition 
After all, so make it do child, is all that she would say!
On Halloween night, all the other witch children took to flight,
Proudly riding propped side saddle upon their magical broom
Sticks of pristine condition, but poor Mable suddenly came down
With a mysterious cough!
Don’t you worry her mother said, I’ve got just the cure for you
My dearest daughter, some raw eye of newt will fix what allies
You, oh know Mable cried I’d feeling better already sorry got to
Fly, leaving her dear sweet mother laughing!
Jumping upon her broom stick of utter embarrassment, Mable
Zoomed straight upwards towards the moon, it zigged than zagged
Against the night skies, this youthful witch had a hard time just
Controlling the wobbling hobbled handle, than she felt something
Give way beneath her very bottom, the middle was splitting!
In complete horror Mable screamed, and in that moment
A disembodied voice spoke upon the winds of Halloween,
It was her long past away granny’s voice, child believe in 
My broom and it is a marvelous mystical thing!
So Mable spoke to this her witch’s broom, I believe in
You, and at that very moment, this object of distain
Turned into a golden rod, its misshapen bits shone
In brilliance against the moon’s illumination, piercing 
Through the darkness, oh my Mable sighed!
But at the end the horse hair still clung, the brooms
Energy level was low, time for refueling so to the dark
Side of the moon, where the nearest scare station,
Was located, here a stray cat jump upon Mable broom!
Skat cat, poor Mable tried to drive this calico kitty away,
After all she was a witch you know and only a black cat
Will do for her familiar, but this kitty poised itself on
The horse hair end, as if it were her place always!
Mable tried to lose it by dodging between satilghts,
Yet Mr. Tag-A-Long four paws held on with all its might,
Alright she thought we’ll test your true grit, in a free fall
Drive she zoomed, side swapping between power lines,
And street telephone poles, but when she turned around
The cat was still there, grinning right back at her!
Again her Granny’s voice spoke to her, I’ve sent you a
Gift my girl, my familiar if you’re nice to her she,
Turn into the finest kitty you’ve ever seen, so Mable
Leaned backwards ever so slightly, and patted the 
Ugly thing, and it changed right before her eyes,
Into an emerald eyed, black cat with sleek fur of 
Ebony, and the horse haired tail changed into a proper
Straw end!
Oh thank you Granny, Mable declared, I’m sorry
I judged your gift by looks alone, I’ll never do that
Again, and from that moment on Mable the witch
Judged things on a different scale, by what lies within
Not by appearances, the end!


Copyright © cherl dunn | Year Posted 2015

Long poem by Gary Bateman | Details |

King Vlad Redux - Second Cold War

King Vlad Redux – Second Cold War

Vladimir Vladimirovich Putin’s grimy fingerprints on current history
are for him nothing to gloat about—au contraire I say emphatically:
His actions bespeak one who’s not an architect for peace—not at all,
rather a quite deceitful dictator and a harbinger of a Second Cold War.

King Vlad’s old Soviet-style actions are clear for all who care to see,
and make no mistake about it—he’s without remorse and a soul to boot.
A Master of Malarkey and an International Bamboozler Supreme, he
certainly is, with a menacing image and not one iota of conscience.

King Vlad risks a Second Cold War with his violation of international
law concerning the blatant, illegal annexation of the Crimean peninsula.
With his brand of new style Soviet adventurism on the march, the Old 
Soviet Bear has been resurrected anew—and it’s hot on the prowl again!

King Vlad’s new spirit of nationalism for Russia is not at all progressive
as evidenced by his current war on certain ethnic minorities: Jews, Tartars, 
Armenians, Gypsies—to include anyone who chooses to resist and protest
against his new age fanaticism rebranded anew in the twenty-first century.

King Vlad’s lineage to and proclivity for the old Soviet Union and its star
cast of past gangster luminaries: Lenin, Stalin, Beria, Molotov, Brezhnev, 
and Andropov—to name a few, are quite telling since they reflect the real
nature of his psyche and the tragedy he brings now to the world stage.

And lest we forget, the innocent souls of the murdered passengers from flight
MH17 in eastern Ukraine who cry out, as do their families, for justice from
the criminal thuggery and hooliganism perpetrated by King Vlad in support
of proxy groups that do his evil biddings soaked in lies, treachery, and deceit.

King Vlad takes pleasure in fulfilling a fanciful role today of the old Soviet
Bolshoi Nachalnik (Big Boss), whose historical antecedents from Soviet Big
Bosses of past fame, doesn’t augur well for future democracy in New Russia,
and doesn’t align with the precepts of good governance and human rights.

King Vlad’s treachery and deception are certainly open for everyone to see 
as he executes his plan of disrupting the balance of the current world order.
We all should be forewarned of the clouds of tyranny and aggression that
could be unleashed one day on the European continent and the world today.

King Vlad, despite very strong objections and economic sanctions imposed
by Western leaders and diplomats, understands only one word rendered so 
poignantly in the German language: die Macht (or Power), which lurks ever  
behind his public mask and psychological makeup as a former KGB officer.

King Vlad’s actions reflect his virtues of lying, denying, accusing, rejecting,
and criticizing—all poison arrows in his quiver as a Master of Prevarication.
His real mask is that of a Monster who had the very best Soviet teachers and 
wishes to tilt the axis of his New Russia on a collision course with the West.

And so Generalissimo Stalin . . . how do you like your nasty little boy now???

Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved (November 30, 2014)
(Narrative Quatrain)

Copyright © Gary Bateman | Year Posted 2014

Long poem by Gary Bateman | Details |

A Progressive Shadow

A Progressive Shadow

A series of real challenges and troubling world events 
In our twenty-first century give us a definite reason and
An urgency to pause and reflect on mankind’s situation.

Our world today—more than at any other time in the past, 
Is faced with an uncertainty and a palpable anxiety that is
Pervading on the world stage for all of us to sense and see.

These challenges and situational-events are so daunting and 
Form a “progressive shadow” engulfing the soul of mankind.
They cry out now for collective action to find real solutions.

Our technological advances are indeed impressive for sure,
But our stewardship of our planet is lacking, a true tragedy,
As the World Climate edges closer toward a vast cataclysm. 

Our political leaders choose to bury their heads in the sand.
Now is the time we must to face down all of these problems, 
As Mother Nature herself cries out warnings to our deaf ears.

The classical scourges: Tyranny, Poverty, Disease, and War 
Are still with us today as they have been from the very start.
They accentuate mankind’s great shame for all of us to see! 

Atrocities, Famine, Refugees, and Terrorism add their lot
To this growing list along with Nuclear Proliferation and
Political Mendacity for Personal Gain—with no end in sight!

Reasonable answers and solutions abound to these enigmata,
And people are in strife and rightfully want something better;
Yet the oft-noted solution is the “Head-in-the-Sand Syndrome.”

Despite any true faith in God, mankind must be self-reliant,
As a distant deity plays tough love with the bad decisions of 
His “Divine Creation” as we all stumble along without a clue. 

This creates fear, frustration, and anxiety that multiply readily,  
Making potential solutions and decisions even harder to do.
There can never be easy answers under these circumstances!

The tasks facing mankind are many and Sisyphean for sure; 
Yet we must have the courage to face them down as we seek
Realistic accountability from our politicians and big business.

Meanwhile God is watching and Mother Nature is waiting . . .
For mankind to do the right thing and to step up to the plate;
For the “Collective We” hold the keys to make these changes.

Can we do it? Will we do it? Can we rectify our inhumanity?
Can our nation-states serve the people and not themselves?
Can we not all realize that we’re in this tragic mess together?

Tin-eared dictators and fools will gladly tell us all differently.
The temptation to take the easy way out is always there for us.
But are we prepared to inherit this wind and reap its vengeance?

Meanwhile we continue on our present tortuous path oblivious
To the realities facing us squarely down every minute of the day.
In a mythical sense—perhaps we wait for Jotunheim to save us?

Eventually all the sand in “Earth’s Hourglass” will run out and
Our gig will be up, and all of us will be forced to pay the Piper!
Are we not better than this? Let us hope we can find the courage!

Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved – October 29, 2015
(Unrhymed Tercet)

Copyright © Gary Bateman | Year Posted 2015

Long poem by cherl dunn | Details |


Beware the wrath of the Northern Polar boogie man, 
The Anti-Clause, a legendary beast of nightmarish voracity,
From folklore mythology, a dark creature of demonic prowess,
Lurks in the hidden shadow realm, in a freezing forbidden zone,
Of Artic temperatures deadly depth, where raw instincts thrive
On basic survival alone!
Sensing his ill prescience even Jack Frost takes shelters 
Offensive stance whistling not, nay instead leaving the area
For friendlier territories beyond, this creatures evil grasp!
Blistering creaking, bone chilling bitter winds blow thus,
For tonight it emerges, from whereabouts’ murky passages
 Unknown, beneath ice covered alpine mountains, a hissing
Snarling echoes against the rocky ragged slopes!
Behold the fork tongued beast, with piercing red glowing eyes, 
Steps outwards from the hollows darkest myth, and into the
Realm of humanities reality, a ram horned satyr, 
Whose existence is linked by fate to none other than
Father Christmas himself, the balancing scale of good
And evil must be maintained after all!
To mystical legends intertwined, by ancient scrolls
Of positive and negative, a good list, and one naughty,
Twin opposing sides, Old Chris Kringle beloved by all
The children of the world, and the Krampus feared!
A gigantic Manimal grinning with a seething grimace,
Unrolls his sacred parchment of tainted names and 
Deeds mischievous, checking by his talon clawed 
Digits each child will receive crimes punishment!
As the Krampus drool drops upon the newly fallen
Snow stinging it to burn and sizzle, an anticipation
Of his hunger never satisfied for violence and
Mayhem, the whipping branch quivers in this
Anti-Christmas creatures massive grasp!
As Santa Clause’s magical crimson sack holds the
Dreams of millions innocent, so within the Krampus 
Black ebony knapsack, lies the screams of countless
Generations of lost souls forgotten!
In the cold of the forbidden night, a stalker crunches
At the layers of ice and snow, with heavily laden hoof
Steps, seeking, waiting for the lights of houses to be
Shut off, then the Krampus will strike with cruelties
Unmerciful limb of justice!
Nay but some naughty offenders receive a terrifying
Fate beyond the clashing lash, at the double check mark
Of the Krampus’s fine point claw, these greedy and soiled
Children of humanity disappear, within the bowels of his
Ebony knapsack, never to return again to the
 World of men!
As the Krampus’s bag threshes, this beastly Anti-Clause,
Recites an Ancient unnerving tune:


Fee-Fi-Foe-Fume I smell the foul stench of a naughty one,
Be she or he fast asleep or wide awake, their souls and 
Flesh shall be mine, by Christmas morns faded rays of twilight,
Now hush, hush little Johnny or Jane, for I am thy equalizer
For eternal pain, beware my wrath and stinging branch,
Greed’s spoiled and guilt’s bullies, for I am the ageless,
The unrelenting, the creature known as the Krampus!



Copyright © cherl dunn | Year Posted 2015

Long poem by cherl dunn | Details |


His is the whispering voice echoing within the athlete’s field of dreams,
The harkening leader, a teacher of strength and confidence, whom takes
The raw abilities given unto an individual then molds it, shapes it until
This natural turns into a legend, to be remembered throughout all time,
Behold the sports mentor, known as a coach! 
Undefinable is the terminology of what makes a courageous role model,
Is it the sacrifices made in the name of a sporting event, or his brave spirit
To overcome obstacles challenges, set before him as a human being! 
Nay it’s the humanity, compassion dwelling within this individual, he whom
 Is willing to fight and drive another to their utmost degree of performance,
Bringing out the best of their athletic abilities no matter the cost, the 
Show must go on!
Honor bound by humility, he whom stands in the shadows of living
Giants, a ghost figure of fame's silhouetted legends, who walks off 
Into the footnotes of history, smiling at a faded photograph, signed
By a remembrances talent, simply reading to my coach, I’ll never
Be able to repay what you’ve done for me, or meant to me,
Sincerely always yours, the natural!
At the cracking of the first balls sounding, or the clashing of
Helmet’s bashing, alone wolf strolls across the golden
Evergreen battlefields of this modern day colosseum!
A scout seeking the next gladiator, to fight in this arena
Of combatant’s best skilled division of honor, valor,
And glories finest!
Behold a taskmaster of men’s souls, endurance's judgement
Caller testing the winds of destiny, listening for that distant
Voice of hungers desire of a champion waiting to be discovered!
Grasping upon the heels of an uncertain breeze, this man thus embarks
Searching beneath every chained linked fence school yard, or back
Alleys scrimmage field, then by fates chance, he sees the next
Rising star to shine in brilliances appendages uniform!
What is the true meaning of life anyway, is it not to make
A difference in this world, for which we are all born upon,
And this is the reason, a coach wakes up every morning!
For this man’s everlasting legacy, is to listen for that 
Voice crying out in the wilderness of the inner city streets,
Or the suburban outskirts of now where’s vile, and bring
The gifted home, to that stadium of fame and recognition!
God grants the blessings of the athletic talented to rise up,
But it takes a leader of men to spot this raw force, and tenderly
Nurture it, until it is finely hewed in the fires of training flame,
With respects confidence, the coach tests the metal of the natural,
Then releases the next Gladiator unto the field of honor,
Shouting go get hum boy, you are the best I’ve ever seen!
As a newly born star shines above, a shadow man walks
Off again, writing another line in the annals of history,
Smiling at a faded photograph, simply stated to 
The coach always, and sincerely yours, the natural!



Copyright © cherl dunn | Year Posted 2016

Long poem by cherl dunn | Details |


The mystical maid of the seasonal change, in summer darns a
Gown of evergreen, with rose petal blossoms of bows, and leaves
Ribbons woven intertwine through thorns and beauty.
In the rush the colder winds blow at natures rare textured garments
Of elegance personified, limb by branch, fall do the delicate flowers,
Tenderly bidding the great lady a loving farewell remorse, until next
Years calling madam, they do softly whisper till then my dearest love.
Now in the white dress of the elm, a white maiden of porcelain skin thus
Stands alone, brushed by the on coming chilling breeze of autumn, decorations
Multicolored rainbow leaves create a sheaves protection of golden copper, mixed
With reds crimson detailing of perfection’s design.
The waltz of the timeless begins to play the harmonic music, so the tree
Of life it so does sway, in glories joyous dance.
Ever lightly stepping on the stage of destiny, this lady grace moves with
Her charming silhouette whom keeps in rhymes precision to the tune.
Attempting to beguile this mistress of the season, winter wishes her to yield,
So she may ware his whitest gown earlier this year.
 But nay the lady will not be tempted by the icy gown of winter’s seductions,
For it is she whom decides the changing of the seasons.
It glitters in the air, shimmering with like rarest gems of the sky, enticing
The maid enchanting the women beneath the browning leaves the are blown
Away one by one unto the quickening air swirling around her.
So a tarried figure will appear, ravaged threadbare, a Grecian statues goddess,
Standing stark naked held captive beneath the winter’s lustful spell.
Surrendering the beauty yields to the beast, dressed in sorrows brilliant shifts
Of ivory, that sparkles and shines beneath the moonlights illumination.
Heavy is the burden she must bare, this now ice maiden, waiting until the life 
Cycle to begin again, then a lighter a gown she’ll darn once more.
In the night the sweet music takes a harsher tune, yet she dances onwards,
Her tears turning to snow fakes white lace, thus before they have even a chance
To hit the ground, a damsel of ice and snow waiting to be rescued by the first
Kiss of spring.
In faith she puts all her trust, to end this season of death, she prays to the almighty,
Oh lord it’s lasting to long, my inner heart bleeds so with agonies longing, the heavenly
Father thus sends her a small sign, a minimal of insignificant size, the ground hog, I’m here,
For thee he says standing before her majesty, don’t give up hopes loving embrace.
Then in a lightening flash of colors array, winters chill is whisked away, melted now
Is the heavy garments tethering, and she smiles in the warmth of springs gown of 
Fragrant flowers, and she the maiden of the seasons, praises the power of God on high,
Thank you my father, never again shall I forget your loving grace.


Copyright © cherl dunn | Year Posted 2014

Long Poems