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Long Introspection Poems | Long Introspection Poetry

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

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Long poem by Trisha Sugarek | Details |

The Ash Can

The Ash Can  ©

I got the call on Sunday night.  I was traveling on business.  When I looked at the caller ID
 I wondered why my husband’s boss would be calling me.  I was unprepared for what
 he told me and my legs turned to water when he said that my husband was dead. 
 ‘A heart attack?  An accident?’ I asked.  ‘No’, he said, ‘John committed suicide.  
 They found him in your garage this morning.’  I heard someone screaming and 
wished that they would stop so I could hear the rest.  His voice was very far away
 and the woman just kept screaming.  ‘Shut up! Shut up!’  I need to hear.  I clapped my
 hand over my mouth when I suddenly realized it was me who was screaming.
 I don’t remember hanging up or getting on the plane. (beat)  Yes, John and I were having
 problems and we had been separated for about three months but nothing was official. 

 After thirty years of marriage I never believed that we couldn’t weather this and share 
the rest of our lives together.  This was just a phase he was going through…some sort 
of mid-life crisis.  This had to be some horrible mistake, a case of mistaken identity.  
My John would never do this, leave me like this.  (beat)  

I stumbled into our home around nine the next morning.  The house looked like a woman
 hadn’t lived there for months. Dirty dishes in the sink, groceries half put away, empty 
beer cans and a full ashtray by John’s chair.  Seeking comfort I walked over to his chair. 
 Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of a reflection in the mirror over the
 fireplace.  Some wild looking woman with mascara smudges under her eyes and smeared
 lipstick looked out at me. I walked closer to inspect this stranger in my house.  
She looked old and used up.  Who was she?  What had life dealt her to look so worn out? 
Oh, God, it was me.  Staring out with those eyes bleeding hot, raw pain.  (beat)  I curled
 up in John’s chair and closed my eyes.  Was this all I had left of my husband?  This slightly shabby piece of furniture that still smelled of him?  How could I tell our children?  Could I bear to go into the garage?  What would I find? 
 I knew that they had taken his body away but what had they left there for me to see?  
Maybe something there would prove that this was truly a mistake.    I rose to my feet and 
walked into the kitchen and through the laundry room to the garage door. (beat)

I slowly opened it and was knocked back by the remaining stink of gas fumes.   
John’s car sat in its parking spot, the garden hose hanging from the back window like 
some obscene snake.  I gagged and pressed the button to open the garage door.  
The passenger side window was open so I could look inside without having to touch the car.  And what I saw on the seat told it all.  There was John’s cell phone, an empty bottle of Vodka and a bottle of Excedrin.  (beat)  And something else…a second cell phone…what in the world? I was only allowed five seconds of blissful denial before it all came crashing down on me.  The second phone…the secret phone that men who cheat keep to talk to their lovers.  All those protestations he offered during the time that we were apart.  ‘No, there was no one else’, ‘I just need to find myself’, ‘I don’t want a divorce’, ‘I just need some time’. ‘I love you; I’m just not in love with you.’  Lies, all lies!  How could I have been so stupid?  Then I notice a crumpled manila envelope on the floor of the car.  Anger driven, I opened the door and picked up the envelope and the two cell phones and went back into the house.  Sitting in John’s chair once again, I smoothed out the envelope and read what was written there.  
‘Ricky, tell Sherry I love her. Tell Sherry I can’t live without her.  Tell Sherry not to cry
 for me. Sherry, I’ll love you forever. I’m sorry.....John-Boy.’  Who the hell was Sherry? 
 Did my husband of three decades kill himself over some tramp?  Some other woman 
whom he barely knew?  I picked up the second cell phone and scanned the history of calls.
  Where was area code 864? As I set the phone down my eye caught the partial title of 
a book lying on the rug under the table.  Picking it up, I read: ‘How To Keep A Long 
Distance Relationship Exciting and New.’  I opened it to the first few pages and found an
 inscription,  ‘To my tiny dancer, until we meet again.  Love forever, your John-Boy.’
My God, John, how could you?  How could you do this to us?  I yelled as I threw the 
book across the room; will this hellish nightmare never end? (beat)  I picked up the
 cell phone and scrolled down the history; Sherry Hoffman, Sherry Hoffman, Sherry Hoffman, Sherry Hoffman.  No other woman, huh, John? South Carolina…hence the long distance relationship…you’re such a fool, I told myself. There was voice mail saved and I listened to the most current ones.  Those messages told a story of a married woman who had a son and a new grandchild. 

Another sad, pedestrian story of a restless woman trapped in a loveless marriage but
 unwilling to leave.  The daughter-in-law apparently would not let Sherry see the child. 
 It seemed that John, in a misplaced attempt to help, called Sherry’s son to insist that
 he let Sherry see her grand-baby. 
 Only to succeed in blowing up that family.   The final message was not so sweet and 
sexy from his lover. Sherry had dumped my husband. (beat)  I didn’t know whether 
to laugh or cry.  I seemed to be trapped in a crazed, unbelievable soap opera.  But what 
is it that they say about truth being stranger than fiction?  I sighed.  John had always
 wanted to rescue anyone in trouble…even when they didn’t ask for help.   He had crossed
the line calling that woman’s son.  Oh, John, what were you thinking?,  I asked the empty
 room. Didn’t you know?  You were her dirty little secret.... (more)

(from my book, Monologues 4 Women) 





Long poem by matthew harris | Details |

Letter to taeljejohn

uncomfortableness, and hesitation arose that you might reassess a possibility for friendship or.... whatever with me.

A disappointment set in place in the event that based on some facet of my being (inexplicable flaws within this corporeal human male), forecast that an about face (booked on charges inherent in this googly eyed, earth-linked, kool hotmail of a yahoo) would be un liked!

Juno what i mean? 

In retrospect, no matter that this average boyish chap desires enjoyment, he admits that ordinary punctuating various stages of development difficulty coping found him msn (miss sin, missin, missing, et cetera) on ordinary interpersonal experiences!

No matter yours truly usually finds me each morning, noon or night conjuring up maximizing temporary residence on this planet earth versus bemoaning those futile and essentially counterproductive mind games sans could a, might a, should a, would a...

today = the moment to cherish, enjoy, help others, ponder the remaining years
since fruitless to expend tears
for suppressed emotional, financial, grammatical, hormonal, physical, and spiritual angst
 that roiled mine inner sanctum - mainly from decades in the past
   which unseen scars with humor this fellow (who by the way likes you) wears!

Notice the sly inclusion of my comment per -- affinity, desirability, rhapsody for you
although just but a mere inkling prevails about an ye taelje john thru
a rather contrived manner - albeit an online adult oriented website - amongst a slew
which yields to this bipedal hominid a scant few
initial responses - as if a ghost app paired in the recipient email - going boo
which unwittingly seems to turn the ivy blue!

So...no matter a constancy of follow-up electronic communiques occurs from ye
bringing tears of joy, that nobody can see
while simultaneously delivering digital glee
a reality check restrains proclivity and predilection to let thoughts run wild and free!

Immense and immeasurable mounts in moi little rock
inducing an electric arc for myself to kin neck embedded in all this schlock
for a sixth sense arises that this holme body strongly suspects yar self 
 to generate sunny watts as an s spy she lee Sherlock

but, reticence to gush with ebullience reins in a cascade
of utter delight washing o'er this less than satisfactory mwm 
 who as a boy and youth happened to b a frayed
of his own shadow - while walking along the boulevard of broken dreams
 listening to the sounds of silence on a green-day.

Thus => the following from one 

Cerebral being ™ in the am and pm
 
This ordinary human
Finds himself a mystery
Within the terrestrial
Firmament and frequently
Feels in a feverish pitch
At his existence
That seers the temple
Mounted upon this slender
Frame - wrought by the
Combination of genetics
In tandem with exercise
Which latter helps to
Sublimate the coiled 
Tension wound tightly 
Like an indestructible spring 
Without a healthy medium at large 
To channel emotions fraught within
Me might find demise
That would rent asunder literate fellow 
And thus annihilate without a trace
One true valued father of two us special
Lovely lasses as just another statistic among 
The obituaries!
 
As the world turns (indiscriminately oblivious of the harrowing days per one simian), an agreeable, amiable, edible, immeasurable, likeable, pleasurable, sensible woman (such as yourself - predicated on a gut level intuition) goads more seriousness to share

Plaintive unheard heart strings o mine that wail
Displeased with this marriage fraught with travail
As if in a maelstrom whip-lashed vessel without a sail
Yet - averse to lambaste or rail
Against abby (whereby we pass like two ships in the night) who married this male
When each of us happened to seem more similar 
   And thought each ourselves to fail
At any endeavor, though now confidence 
   Buoys my heart while she doth ail

And exemplifies attitudes, beliefs, efforts, 
   Idiosyncrasies, pathos that life does rot
Ill suited to Matthew Scott, 
   Whose bon vivant manifesting faith in him
   Perhaps from herself deferring many domestic 
   And child rearing tasks not
Of course being boasting - even when scissoring the umbilical cord
   As a now beaming papa, whose daughters 
   Blithely ignore "mother" a lot
Thus necessitating this quest 
   For a counterpart to offer succor 
   To eden (age 16) and shana (14 on february 4th, 2013) 
   Yet accepts that i must dispel any dreamy fantasy even this ours - a mere jot
At this juncture knowing full well how unwise to set myself up for disappointment
   By thinking and rushing like a fool, 
   Where angels fear to tread
   Though "chutzpah" i got!

U r slowly filling my mindscape with joy
Thank you so much - for accepting without complaint how atypically words this writer wannabe 
   Named Matthew Scott Harris dozen ploy.



Long poem by Joe Flach | Details |

My Conversation With God

I have been praying to God ever since I first understood the concept of a deity.  Although I have struggled through life with my acceptance of and belief in the religion I was force fed as a child, the praying has always stayed with me – on an almost every day basis.  In some way or some form or for some reason, it seems, I find myself praying to a God I am not sure I believe in.

Over the years, some of the things I have prayed for or prayed against have worked out in my favor.  Other things didn’t quite work out the way I had hoped.  So, I wondered, was this proof that my prayers are sometimes answered or simply the law of averages?  It really didn’t matter, I was programed to pray and so pray I do.

This has been going on pretty routinely for over 50 years; so, imagine my surprise when, for the first time last night, God talked back to me!

I may not get this exactly right, but, in essence, this is what He had to say:

(I am not sure what font to type God’s words in, so I will just keep on with the default.)

“Joe, Joe, Joe.  I have been listening to you for all your life.  And, whereas I do enjoy your thoughts; your words; and your sentiments; I find it is time for me to respond.

You really do pray a lot for lots of things.  Mostly good and humane things.  Mostly with a pure and caring heart.  But, son, you need to stop doing so much praying and start doing more stuff on your own.  I am not up here to make your life easier and to do things for you.

When you were young, instead of praying for that bicycle, you should have been doing chores to earn money towards buying it.  You could have cut more lawns, washed more cars, got a paper route, sold lemonade, or many other things other young boys were doing to earn money for the things that they wanted.

When you were in high school and prayed to me to help you do well in your wrestling matches, you should have, instead, been working harder at practice; spent more time on your conditioning; spent more time in the weight room; and studied harder on the art of wrestling.

In college, when you prayed for help on your mid-terms and finals, you should have, instead, spent more time studying and less time partying – I think that is something you already know.

Even when you pray on behalf of others – you should be doing more.

Instead of praying I would help old Mrs. Conner at the end of your street, you should have gotten up off your butt and walked down to the end of the street and looked in on her yourself.  You could have offered to go to the store for her, pick up her prescriptions or simply keep her company in her final years.

When you prayed for me to care for the starving children around the world, you should have been volunteering to help out yourself or donating more money towards this cause.  If you funneled all the money you spent on unnecessary junk food and extra meals you consumed throughout the years towards charities that help feed and clothe the poor, you could have saved many of the children you prayed that I would save.

Instead of praying that I cure your family, friends and acquaintances that you knew were ill or dying, you should have been visiting them in the hospital or writing them letters or providing assistance to their loved ones to help ease their pain.

Prayer is not the vehicle for you to be lazy and yet gain the rewards.  Prayer is not a means to have me do for others what you have the power and ability to do yourself.

I am glad that you talk to me, but you have been granted the ability and means to do so much more by yourself and yet you choose to take the easy way out and pray to me – the God that I know you are confused about.  Please, do me a favor, and before you pray, ask yourself, ‘Have I exhausted all avenues available to me to achieve the result I want God to perform?’ 

If, after you have done everything you can possibly do, then I may be more willing to consider what it is you ask for.

And now, my son, you can wake up.”

I sat up quickly in my bed, sweating and confused.  Was I just dreaming?  Was that really God talking to me?  Then, somewhere from deep inside, either from my conscious or a left-over message from the Almighty Himself, I thought (or heard): “What does it matter?  Whether it was God or not – the message is valid and something I probably already knew.”

“Well,” I said to myself, in prayer, “I will give it my best.  But, is it okay if we still talk?  It kind of helps to give me strength?”

Silence.

I will take that as a, “Yes”.


Long poem by Robbie Butler | Details |

Meaningful Screw You's

I'm done with this I've had enough of this/
Slushy trip since Hell Paso son just quit
This empty pursuit
Of letting the past keep livin' through you/
Go ahead and equip the damn truth
It is that simple to choose
What state of the neighbor of the temple you use
But you're just so adamant to worship/
Every preliminary negative
Which is why you have sentiment for those sedatives
Want evidence man your head has been/
Set on making your *****Titanic as
You steer into a gigantic crash/
Without any ****ing idea what effect thy absence has/
On the kids and on me too/
My heart feels ripped the honest truth/
To see you empty as your holes in the wall
You're like a ghost to us all/
Pale as the Seroquil pills you down/
I want to help but under the meds what you feel gets drowned/
I have the inauspicious fear you'll end up just like Tommy
That's why I pray every night/ I can't lose you Robbie


You have no idea 
What it's like
To watch you die
Every day
Every night
All the time
You can't even see that I am
Here with you
By your side
But as much
As I try
You deny
That I fight
For your life then I scream that
To me your life's meaningful (good riddance) 
But I'm 'bout this close to sayin' **** you (you idiot)
To me your life's meaningful (good riddance)
But I'm 'bout this close to sayin' **** you (you idiot)


Why can't you just forget the past
Take some time to look at the bigger picture and not be back in a flash
We're Kruger (pronounced close to sounding like Kroger)/ the fear you helped restore gives me bags
And I'm beyond tired of takin' attacks from your last-
Ing grudge for my darker days/
I love you but I wish to part our ways/
There's only so much my heart can take
In terms of holes and you immerse me in 'em the Spartan way/
It's not our choice we're physically far away/
And yes half the reason is me that our spark gave way/
But this time it's your fault that our world is shaking
You shut me out because the ears of another girl were waiting/
It seems that even for Britney your concern's decaying
It's ****ed up/ 'cause you never acknowledged how much I changed/
'Cause of our rapport me and my fam are pretty much estranged
**** these games you love to play/ 'tween now and then nothin's changed
Good luck not lovin' me as much as pain


You have no idea 
What it's like
To watch you die
Every day
Every night
All the time
You can't even see that I am
Here with you
By your side
But as much
As I try
You deny
That I fight
For your life then I scream that
To me your life's meaningful (good riddance) 
But I'm 'bout this close to sayin' **** you (you idiot)
To me your life's meaningful (good riddance)
But I'm 'bout this close to sayin' **** you (you idiot)


For a year it's been suicide with clues to find solutions I/
Don't think you're usin' my heartful l advice/ damn dude have I
Not been full of time so you could find/ reasons for you to not be blue and live/
But everytime I cope a sit and let you vent/ you walk off and do the opposite/
Talk about exhausted *****try listenin' to all your promises
And problems it's/ a shame how it's all turned out
I'm so burnt out/
I'll be the last to say this won't work out/
If you take your anger out on me again like I'm a dating spot/
Speakin' of those feelings that you refrain from not (knot)-
Icing was it honesty/ or rants of despar (as in spar) ity exasperated by deprav (as in im"prov") ity/
Or is there a real fervor (as in carni"vore") for me
If so then why you ignor (same as above) ing me/
For a Vai's you say you are not strong enough to close
Go **** yourself with a rubber hose
I don't care where the **** it goes/
I was there when no one was and this' the thanks I get
Never was I a dick to you so why'd you wank me *****/
My tears have turned into repressed anger/
For you a brother to me now a depressed stranger
That I have to put up longer than my dress' hanger


You have no idea 
What it's like
To watch you die
Every day
Every night
All the time
You can't even see that I am
Here with you
By your side
But as much
As I try
You deny
That I fight
For your life then I scream that
To me your life's meaningful (good riddance) 
But I'm 'bout this close to sayin' **** you (you idiot)
To me your life's meaningful (good riddance)
But I'm 'bout this close to sayin' **** you (you idiot)


Long poem by James Kelley | Details |

As the Castle Fell

For every step I take toward the sun,
the spark that lit the fire inside me dwindles.
History slated on unforgiving stone erodes;
A weakly chiseled dream.
But I will remember it all,
and tongues shall breed these words
and hold them with intent.
Oh, how we have fallen!
Mighty and meek alike.
We were once just, and strong.
But greatness has cast down it's
poisoned banquet and corrupted hearts
that once bled for glory.
It is with a bitter tongue I speak these words!
Remember the reason we set foot outside
of our city gates.
Remember the certainty in your hearts;
that we men would give people hope!
Hope for life without malice.
Hope for a life of freedom!
A chance for prosperity!
                   ...but what prosperity have we given?
Short of the bountiful throng of arrows that have captured
the eyes of this land and left it's people in fear?
Does a just King rule with the might of fear?!
Or does a King rule with compassion?
I ask you men,
you loyal few.
What would you have me do?
Would you have me slaughter this woman;
this beautiful princess of her people and take her
home as a prize for conquest merely because her
husband was the one that stood in the way?
Is her beauty the cost of her life?
She has wronged not one of us,
and yet you Brakkdus scoff at the thought of
her surviving her King. Why?
Here I thought men of honor followed me,
I thought men of courage swung my blades!
And, yet you fear this woman who could no
sooner do you harm than your own from the
bed that you left her in!
No, Princess Xavia shall survive her King
and remain here with her people.
I refuse to conquer the land of a tyrant,
only to settle for it's fallen ruler's morality!
If that does not befit you, then surely I am not your King.
-James Kelley 2013, All rights reserved
 
 
Princess Xavia's Response
 
 
I stand with humility before such valor
My people have borne
the burden of swords and arrows,
they are silent with fear and trembling before you
Which would be yours
to burden them with once again
yet you offer them freedom
and me my life...when you could shame not only me
but those who are entrusted to me
I would prefer to fall upon the blades of your men
than to become flesh passed amongst them
the destiny of a woman
who has became the chattel of a lost victory
My blood be shed before such shame
be cast upon me
Yet you.... you have offered me back my Kingdom
and restored my name
 
Gallant your soul in the shadow of such a night
beneath the dark stars
where only the flames of a burnt, ashen city
provide any warmth for my grieving people
You have offered them hope
through a frail vessel such as myself,
such honor is seldom written upon the hearts of men
in days such as these
Your compassion is a light in this darkness
these times inscribed with blood
such is this age,
when the voice of stones speak more gently
than the hearts of men
 
Dark are these days and black is the moon
of these nights,
in these lost reveries we journey through
dreams that have become nightmares
Yet strength has arisen in one man,
a leader who throws light back
at the fallen stars
granting the nights a moment of solace
for your honor has returned hope
a light stronger than blaze of the midday sun
 
And as I take back my broken people
we shall take refuge in your kindness and in that light of lights
shall we rebuild this Kingdom,
our sanguine ties shall bind us
and we will rise.
 
 
I gratefully accept my life
returned to me through your kind hands
And secretly, within a whisper
it is my prayer
that when I look upon your countenance
and the time comes
that I shall gaze into your eyes again
it shall be as the queen you have restored
to her throne and to her people
and who keeps quietly within the space between her heartbeats
gratitude...
and the hope that she will share her throne
beside yous
should you find her efforts and her heart
worthy.
 
 
 
(c)  Katherine Wyatt 2013


Long poem by Bob shank | Details |

History's Sad Song

History's Sad Song (Revised)

throughout my life
I've heard many a sad song
relating to the lyrics
that seemed to play too long

way back during the Crusade
where religious debt was paid
by the bloodlust of so many
could not ye God spare any
as hundreds of thousands died
over manmade religious pride
these wars continue today
justified by words we pray

Oh, when the saints go marching in
....(Sang by the Kingston Trio)

they hailed from every nation
to defy the written proclamation
prohibiting ownership of God's creation
many fought with such bravery
to continue the practice of slavery
another man's misery
has always been the key
for the powers that be
and who cares about equality
when Kingdoms can be built for free

A Change Is Gonna Come 
........(Sam Cooke) 

but as I study history
one thing has occurred to me
there really isn't any change
Hitlers, just go by different names
as we remember the Holocaust
Sodom and Gomorrah was never lost
but found within the soul of man
burnt crisp, the devil's plan

Momma's Don't Let Your Babies Grow up to be Cowboys - Waylon Jennings 

everybody's got a gun
buying ammo by the ton
myths of old western days
seem like broadway plays
acted out in the streets
a daily performance society repeats
gunsmoke, and the ponderosa
replaced by La Costra Nostra

"Wake Up Everybody"
by Harold Melvin and The Bluenotes

John F. Kennedy died 
a shocked nation cried
what many could never figure
is if Oswald pulled the trigger
while Marilyn slept in the grave
Martin fought for the slave
yes even hate was still around
as Eldridge went underground
Malcolm X was gunned down
with bullets from the nation
to ease Elijah's aggravation

and the temptations sang "Cloud Nine"

another Kennedy has died
Ted needs a place to hide
only not within the bottle
nor behind the throttle
congress opens its doors
to pageboys and lobbyist whores
but they did put a man on the moon
right before Joplin sang her last tune
who would have thought "me and bobby magee"
would be over shadowed by the Manson Family
the blind leading the blind, neither could see
Jim Jones and the Guyana tragedy

Even Earth, Wind, and Fire, "kept their head to the sky"

praying for an end to a senseless war
that no one knew what they were fighting for
our "vietnam" seems up to date
while nixon got caught up in watergate
whitehouse rose "bushes"we love to hate
Lennon left the beatles ill-willed
never to "imagine" he'd be shot and killed

and War Sang, "slipping into darkness",
followed by "the world is a ghetto"

Even "the greatest" shall soon fall 
but in defeat they stand tall
unlike the berlin wall
the thriller in manilla
refused to be a killa
as rap became the new wave
and crack became the new crave
along with video games
just another war, with different names

Teena Marie sang "Deja' Vu"

Nerd Gates becomes the new Donald Trump
while history gets taught by Forrest Gump
a great poet died at the age of twenty-five
though many claim Tupac is still alive
and I saw Elvis and Bruce Lee too
singing the blues with you know who
then came the white bronco on the loose
nobody could manuever like the Juice
except maybe Bill when he said please
a simple word that brought Monica to her knees

and Snoop Doggy Dog sang, "Ain't nuttin' but a "G" thang baby

Beepers became replaced by the cell phone
on 9/11 no one could call home
as war and mother nature ripped us a new ass
even Martha joined the inmate class
now she's out, but Oprah's still the queen
sorry Latifah, you know what I mean
the mother drowned her five children in a tub
she got sent to a Psychiatric health club
the ruling was it's a new sickness
my head screws off from such thickness
so many changes and hypocrisy
I guess that's what they call democracy

and Queen sang, "We are the Champions, 
of the World"

throughout my life
I've heard many a sad song
relating to the lyrics
that seemed to play too long

Bob Shank


Long poem by Adefemi Adejuwon | Details |

The Poet

It is a fever.

  
The poet

They found the poet outside the park

His steps spoke many words of wine

His upper half seemed half asleep

And his feet walked a crooked line

His arms were spread as if to fly

His lips apart as though to speak

The telltale flush of liquid joy

Told tales of  rum from cheek to cheek

The night herself caroused with him

Drunk on sadness, drunk on care

And drink they drank, the weary lovers

Setting wine against despair

The bonds of reason, broken down

His mind amok, and absent sense

The world in woe, the world in glory

Lay before his presidence

 

And it was then they walked to him

Rudely rousing man from dream

Casting eye on village bard

Taking man as man would seem

"Sing for us again, o bard

Cast your words at senses keen"

This was why they broke his peace

Winters twice his summers seen

"Sing for us again o bard

Spin sweet words from bitter truth

Stir the embers of your heart

Dig through elder years to youth. And

Let the fountain spring with might!!

Showering us with wisdom earned

Showing us the link in hand

Of teachers harsh and lessons learned

Free yourself from wine's embrace!

We would hear a tale or two"

Turns to them, a wizened face

"Ask not man, but what is due."

Graying eyes regard the gathered

Moving on, from face to face

"The world whirls in the hands of time

And yet all things remain in place"

"As yet all men remain the same

The board reset a dozen times

Pi-eces unaltered, so is game

Though rearranged, the given lines

You come to me as bank to debtor

You plague me with unbridled want

Says at last, man to tormentor

'Cease at once your unjust haunt""

It is a fever

"It is not a gift so given

It is not a boon bestowed

Nor is sight beheld as blessing

When the eyes have overflowed

With the sorrows of existence

Pain cavorts with all men born

Know the price of your persistence

Hear the words of man forlorn

What is loss compared to weakness?

What is pain compared to need?

When the soul suffers from sickness

To give blood to those who bleed

O for those suffering in secret

O for hidden scars concealed

Know a secret's mark of secrets

Is in wounds that never healed

The world at large, and I remain

Numb in spirit, numb of mind

My inner coldness feed by pain

Reaped from years left far behind

 

It is a fever that I have

It is an illness I possess

It is a symptom that you worship

It is a sign that you profess

To love, to need, to love to hear

While I remain diseased of soul

You chant and clap then disappear

Then falls to me, each telling's toll

 

It is a sadness that I feel

It is madness that I suffer

When the muses offer gifts

Turn your backs and run for cover

Talent has a price, and paid

This price I have, each passing day

Rise to cup and rise to can

Drink my fill then come what may

All my masters come before me

Warned me of the poet's curse

Know you all of Byron's story

Know you all that Poe's was worse

Happiness is bound to beauty

Joy to all that beauty, see

But for those that birth said beauty

All is pain and tragedy

Listen to my fading voice, now

Listen to my silent plea

Know the doom of every poet

And ask of this, no more from me

I will fellowship with Bacchus

Gimlets of the finest sort

Rise to can and drunken glory

Fall to pleasure and cavort

Now my night bids me return

Wine is all that shields from sorrow

Sets me free from all concern

Trouble enough, will be tomorrow"

His soul unburdened, back unbent

All is caught in a lengthy pause

He turns to go, the air is rent

With sounds of cheer, and of applause

Now lowering balding head to ground

"Man may speak but none may hear

Sing for us again o Bard,

Has now become a thing to fear"


Long poem by Just That Archaic Poet | Details |

Humble Pie, Anyone

NOTE: This blog entry was erased because it was deemed "inflammatory". So I ask you, the audience: did this blog deserve to be erased? Let us read on as I have included it in my poetry section...

Poets, writers, and artists who are good at what they do have no need to publicly brag or boast about their art; it speaks for itself. For one to express or proclaim they believe they are even better than Shakespeare and the Masters of the past is to commit poetic heresy and blasphemy in my eyes. Such behavior is beyond uncouth and unbecoming of any artist. Anyone who actually expresses or believes that they are the "best" at whatever art form, in the world, or  at the very least on the internet, has a screw loose somewhere, I think. Narcissistic, delusional people make such erroneous statements, and I can only assume it comes from a place of low self-esteem perhaps, or possibly an inferiority complex. I think Kanye West is a poster-child and paragon of a deluded artist who thinks he is much greater than the sum of his parts. We do have a Kanye or two running amok here, sadly. 

I deplore and despise pretentiousness; it's a sin. It is repulsive and repugnant. Humility and modesty are virtues to which all artists should subscribe. I don't need to be told I am good at what I do nor do I have the compulsion to be a haughty public braggart. I should pity their erroneous proclamation, but instead it makes me angry. But I will let this ire subside for I will not allow unworthy people to rent space in my head. 
So, what am I getting at, you might be asking? Well, I'll be blunt: I am weary of the delusions  of grandeur, and the false sense of entitlement. Some people need a big ol' slice of humble pie, myself included at times. This may be considered "venting", but I ask you: is it venting when I am pointing out that humility is a virtue to strive for and pretentiousness is not? Is that "venting" or am I simply making a "philosophical" conclusion? This is where the water truly gets murky.

This is a belief, and is sharing one's beliefs so wrong? Am I to be silenced just because I voice my beliefs? Am I incorrect to express my laments regarding bloated egos, and hopes for a greater understanding of what ideals for which an artist should strive? 
Am I being "inflammatory", or am I just being honest? Is one's honesty and perception of truth the same as "venting"? Depends greatly on your point of view, I suppose. I am talking  to no one in particular, of course. It's just my fervent hope that people take a step back and re-evaluate their stance and perspectives; it would do us all a world of good. It's a New Year and never too late to change gears. I've learned a lot about myself in the past month or so. It may be time for more introspection and self-reflection. Dig deep; is that what you really believe? Let's all take a long, hard look in the mirror and ask ourselves: how are we behaving; is my ego in check; do I really need to brag and boast; is humility worth striving for; do I conduct myself as a "know it all"; do I really need to make sexist, self-aggrandizing  remarks; am I promoting peace and harmony or am I adding fuel to the fire? 

Naturally, I am well aware that this could be misconstrued as being "negative", but I am really speaking of my hope for change; for peace, balance, humility and modesty- publicly, of course. Tell your friends (as I will tell mine, also) in private of how great you and I are. Public virtue; private vice; that's the way of things...

END. I don' believe anything I voiced should have been deleted. I'm curious about what the rest of you think :) 


Long poem by Kelly Crenshaw | Details |

I hope

I'm 51 today.
51 tomorrow, yay
Was 51 yesterday.
52 is months away,
And yes I'm thankful.
Although it's not my real birthday,
It kinda is in a certain way.
I'm still alive another day.
I had the notion to celebrate.
And be thankful.
Though it's not a holiday. 
Thanksgiving has come and gone away,
I'm just alive today.
For that I'm thankful.
Honestly, I am not just trying to make these lines rhyme,
Or reflect upon the deep sublime.
I'm just grateful today to be alive.
I mean really thankful.
I'm not trying to wow you with philosophy,
Or impress you with theology.
It matters not at all to me.
I just feel thankful.
So tonight I take a walk outside,
I look up into the endless sky and then I breathe.
I breathe in deep,
And I say thank you.
And maybe not just to Who you think, 
Man let's throw in the kitchen sink,
And include all who've touched my life, to whom I'm thankful.
Some of you I'm glad you're gone,
Frankly you stayed a bit too long
And some you the grave stole far too soon,
And yet I'm still thankful.
Today the living and the dead
You've both been right up inside my head, 
And synergized this verbal thread.
For that I'm thankful.
I close my eyes and think of Tim, named David right there toward the end. 
I always smile when I think of him,
And now I listen
I heard a siren going by,
I wonder who and wonder why,
Was it a wreck, did someone die?
Yet still I listen.
Neighbors dogs are going wild.
Was that the laughter of a child.
Seems like I can hear for miles.
Still I listen.
I hear the hi-way roar of cars.
Tho I have never heard the stars
Is there really life on Mars?
Shhh brain please shut up and listen!
The soft night whispers in my ears.
Pressing through my random fears,
I stand amazed at what I hear.
And now I wonder.
I open up my eyes and see as I feel this winter breeze
The silhouette of leafless trees.
I stand in wonder
Then I wonder about the first man to ever be,
Or the first time he looked up to see
The Milky Way the galaxies.
Did he wonder?
I wonder what he did
How he loved how he lived.
If he ever lost a friend?
Man oh man I wonder.
Was he the first to dig a grave?
How it sounded if he prayed?
How he fought?
How he played?
If that man could see us all today,
What would he say I wonder?
In ways was he a lot like me?
Did he sometimes fear what he could not see?
Did he create unseen walls 
Of unbelief?
I stand and wonder.
Did he ever hurt the ones he loved?
Did life convince him not to trust?
I wonder.
My great grandfather lived
My DNA is shared with him.
I wonder how we are the same,
And I don't even know his name.
Still I wonder.
Will my great grand kids know my name?
Will it even matter who's to say?
Will they look up in wonder?
Will they listen?
Will they be thankful?
Not much I can leave to them
That would matter too much in the end.
I suppose the primal hope in man
Is the hope I hope lives on in them
I hope they wonder. About the universe.
I hope they listen. To life's unspoken verse.
I hope they're thankful. Even in midst of deepest hurts. 
I hope they're thankful.
I hope they listen.
I hope they wonder.
And no matter what life hands them,
I hope they hope.


Long poem by Mark Leeper | Details |

My Clone Got No Soul

My Clone Got No Soul

My clone, it seems, came out with no soul,
I guess it got lost, in the petri dish bowl.
In the mirror, a face like me would come through,
But that’s where it ended,
He was more like Deep Blue.
He never did find that “happy” place,
He never belonged, to the whole human race.

I wanted to console my clone with no soul,
But which part was actually there to console?
His head, his heart, his hand or his foot,
That’s a soulless sole, with no spiritual root.
He tried yoga, and diet, and Zen meditation,
But the chakras weren’t there for his elevation,
And soon he came down with “no motivation.”

I gave him the novel, that old Frankenstein,
He was all Shelly and shell shocked,
And out of his mind.
He took to drink, his gourd to console,
He even packed up, a nice little bowl.
I guess any change of mind will do,
When you’re trapped in your ego,
All cornered and blue.

So I bought him a TV, 
With a satellite dish,
But it didn’t satisfy, not one single wish.
“Too many reruns,” he said with a stare,
“Heather’s cheating on Alex, but what do I care.”
I’ve got more problems that are troubling me,
All existential and twisted, to the nth degree,

My guanine, and cytosine, none of them blessed,
My adenine, thymine, just like the rest,
All of them sequenced, in neat little clips,
Here comes the four horsemen,
Of my apocalypse.

I felt sorry for him, so sorry you see,
It was not his decision, to be all you can be,
Or not to be, that is a question, posed
with Shakespearan glee,
He couldn’t read the fine print, you see
With no eye’s you see. Oh say can you see?

My clone passed a man with a pamphlet to read,
Jesus saves my dear boy, that’s all that you need,
this contract you sign, will grant you God speed.

“I’m soulless and homeless,” said my clone with a smirk,
I haven’t had time, to be a real jerk,
I’ve been in a fog, an unfortunate haze,
I’ve been only alive for a couple of days.”

.My clone moved around on the physical earth,
With no hope of redemption, release, or rebirth,
“If love won’t release me, it’s hate I will breed,”
I‘m a terrible spawn, from a terrible seed.
In a losing game, I have to concede.”

(Now I never thought a twitch, to put him on a shelf,
But when we sat together, he was beside himself.)

My clone on his birthday sighed a terrible sigh,
That he wanted to, “just lay me down and die,”
His desire for this, was so total and blind,
His own DNA began to unwind,
I called up the Church, the Lab, and the State,
That my clone was dying at a terrible rate.
“Your call is extremely important to us”,
As long as you don’t raise, or kick up a fuss.

He died on a cold night on old Halloween,
Alone and frightened at the terrible scene.
And there, I laid my clone to rest,
But alas, he had no soul to bless.

I took a walk, to kick my heart rate,
And was grateful, 
that I had a different fate.

And if your neighbor greets you,
with a blank full of stare,
I hope he’s just tired, 
and someone’s in there.
But don’t call the Church the Lab or the State,
They usually arrive just a little too late.




 










Long Poems