Long poem by
Trisha Sugarek | Details |
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)
Copyright © Trisha Sugarek | Year Posted 2014
Long poem by
Maurice Yvonne | Details |
sometimes you are in its minimal spotted light...sometimes!
other times you just know you've been touched and you freeze,
moved but frozen...like a stranger it moves in, does its work and leaves.
...maybe it's been a while since you two spoke...
when the dead sea still hosted life,
the hanging gardens of babylon grew in sinc with the breath of the planet,
before the tower of pisa started to lean or mayan buildings were in ruin.
so you write words...any words...they might at least soothe your hurt
hold your heart in a protective shield.
you know how crippling unrequited love can be.
do you still dream of its hug...genius?
life and love share more than a first letter
(like the first letter you wrote under the veil of inspiration).
they also share good and evil...it's a flip of the coin.
either way is fine with you. you'd bathe in holy water or sell your soul.
life, love...passion...somewhere in there...it lives, genius.
all of nature a reflection through its transparent figure glows dark
like the shadows live in the radiant illumination of evening rays.
so let me speak of us!
recently when i tried to hold you...
you were like a ghost in the bright of day,
a phantom out of its element...
there was nothing of you...i could embrace.
when i tried to enter you a freezing cold ran through me like a winter brook.
you exhaled me
as if i were fog on a deserted country road invisible to absent eyes.
still you were my drug of choice.
addicted, i chased the dragon...you...genius.
memories fill me...
days when we would paint words,
stitch in a metaphor or two,
weave in music,
write instruments to fill in the spaces,
ordain a voice.
you wanted to taste me
i was overwhelmed
how you put your fingers on my lips
how you licked them...you...genius.
you were that giant pine i would climb in the dead of winter
(why do they say that "the dead of winter"? winter will die
when hell freezes over. winter isn't death it's purgatory.)
the one with the needles that punctures human skin.
come to me again and touch me...
like the butterfly does the wind...barely but thoroughly.
(is it true that just a tiny flutter of their wings could be
the start of a hurricane? are the icebergs melting?)
i didn't just write that out loud...did i...with you I'm shy...genius.
don't show yourself.
don't speak to me.
don't bother with rising the sun today.
forget those showers you create your magic arc with,
vacuum away all the plants.
lower your wall of blue.
i'm not interested anymore in those pillowy shapes i use to love so.
i've always known it is fire that cleanses, water that burns,
it is the moon that breaks the heart,
the stars that slaps the face...with...i don't know...reality.
i've always known by the time we see a star...
in real time...it's already extinguished...already dead.
it is our friends that will use us...our heroes that will lie to our face...
our blood will betray our trust...our teachers will fail us...
our leaders treat us like just another job...
the devout that will exhibit hatred.
still i believe. no matter what else...the rose will always survive.
the petals deceiving. they will repel all that is unholy.
grab it by the neck and squeeze out its black ooze,
leaving a gentle soul there to admire its adversary.
don't even get me started on the orchid
or even the flowers all...alphabetically.
i dare confront the beauty of nature's art unframed...
canvas loose to admire...genius!
i miss you but i am out of tears.
do drop in though.
i can offer you a cup of dry warmth...
soothing like burning logs that crackle with laughter.
take you to my secret place.
behind the camouflage of forests dense,
where vines grow through spiral staircases
made of turtle shells and dressed in discarded snake skins.
green is the theme there. it is everywhere,
unabridged, unabated, unaffected, undisturbed
with a fuming, burning, yearning to be touched.
so let's...let's grab...hold...squeeze..
feel free from the cheap paradigm offered.
i don't think you know, even while you sleep, i hold your hand, genius.
dream a full rainbow on a fingernail moon night,
feel february twenty ninth its absolute might,
taste fully the slight of a pheasant in flight,
yearn eternal life, wish a vampire's bite,
concoct rhymes nicely fluffed with built in sight.
on this sombre morning the sun is blinding.
damn my eyes.
there is a negative entity drapes our children's world.
shame on us...shame on you...i need you.
i am reduced to an objective observer.
life glides on the little wings of its carrier,
its final resting point in the hands of the wind.
another life carried away on a worker bee,
busy stealing nectar from a succulent bud.
a stowaway hangs on for dear life to the flyers leg.
gets off at the next flower.
meets up with a companion to create a new life.
everything changed when I met you.
was the sun rising or the mountain sinking.
was that an orange globe against a blue sky
or a lit round hole in a sad wisp of air.
i'll play a keyless piano if you'll paint me a horizon I can reach.
i'll sing you a ballad with a single note...
i walked into my life without consideration.
all the same...
when do I get a choice.
when will they stop holding death over my head.
if i could direct a few more plays with you as my guide...
my art, my life! genius i long for your influence...
even one last time to see your face,
unite and give you one last kiss...goodnight.
April 1 2015
Contest Name:A Million Dollar Poem
Copyright © Maurice Yvonne | Year Posted 2015
Long poem by
Anthony Amero | Details |
I live in America, as in the United States of America, and that used to mean something. At least to me it did. And it’s not so much in how I was raised but in how I was couched by my country. While I was never one to really fall into the “mom, apple pie, hot dog and baseball” America ideal, I did believe in the land of the free and the home of the brave, where all men are equal and rights for all men. And I still do believe that ideal. Yet this country of mine keeps despairing me as I continually see a degradation of those ideals over the last fifty years. And I have this following theory.
We are a melting pot of all societies and prided ourselves on accepting everyone. But take a look at that for a minute. Look at Europe and Africa and their history for a minute, I did. Throughout recorded history Europe and Africa kept all religious and racial differences segregated in their different countries, or areas, and fought each other over ideological differences and over the generations a deep-seated, in-bred hatred developed for each other developed. Wars were begun for the simple act of mingling with other races or religions. This is fact, look it up. Now flash-forward to the new country, America, with its open borders accepting the oppressed, where all flocked to start a new life. Now you’ve got a huge influx of natural enemies flooding a nation and now they are supposed to just drop their in-bred prejudices? Play nice after centuries of discord? But for the Civil War, I’m surprised we haven’t erupted into total anarchy. But the whole point of this is that these people want to come here and keep their culture, their identity. I see no fault in that and don’t blame them, but that brings me right back to my original question, where, or more fundamentally, what, is it to be American?
I believe the original creators of the Declaration of Independence were visionaries. It bothers me at times to see various Facebook posts and other mentions of such things saying they were racist, or this, or that. I do believe there was a lot of that in many of the implementers of the document, but not really in the actual architects. Why do I believe that? Mostly for this statement: “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness”. And the 11th Article of the Bill of Rights confirms the Declaration thusly: “The enumeration in the Constitution, of certain rights, shall not be construed to deny or disparage others retained by the people”. Yet in this country, just like in the mother countries of Europe and Africa, we suffered from racism and bigotry. I believe this goes back to my theory of the melting pot of people who came to America. They couldn’t overcome their bigotry or racism or hatred just because they came over here, although some really tried. Yet I believe the architects of the Declaration were far-sighted enough to not try to create some sort of Utopia either, but rather a working, self-sustaining country that was governed by the people, for the people. The biggest problem as I see it was that it got too big … that’s not totally true. The biggest problem as I see it is politics and the “American Way”.
When is the last time you heard a politician run a campaign and only talked of the issues that concerned the people? I only see and hear them talk of negative things of their opponents. Why would I vote for anyone who tries to smear their opponent? How is that helping me or my neighbor? How is that serving the public good? How is that engendering trust? It’s not, in my opinion. And the “American Way”? Americans are far too smug, too fat and happy. There’s very little strife so we take way too many things for granted. Don’t believe me? This may seems simplistic and a little childish, but take your household chores for example. We live in a country where you can wash your dishes in hot water, can even use an automatic dishwasher, can even wash your clothes in an automatic washing machine and electric dryer. We have so many modern, electronic conveniences that it’s actually making us dumber. Don’t believe me? How many of you have lamented the young cashier at the convenience store who cannot make change unless the cash register tells them how much to give back? Basic skills are being eroded because of the useless conveniences we keep making in the never ending quest to make our American lives easier. It’s disheartening, really. Maybe it’s just me and progress really isn’t that bad, but I see proof everyday of the dumbing of America, and if you’re of a certain age I believe you see it, too.
So I see this huge country I live in, called America, filled with so many diverse people living in … harmony? I don’t know, I still see racial problems and still can’t figure out why. I have a very simple philosophy on life: while we’re not entitled to material things, every person is entitled life and respect to be who they are, so long as they do not intend to hurt others. And, for the most part, I’m happy enough and I am oh, so grateful that I live here, in America. I can say what I want, I can worship who I want – if I want – and I can aspire to become what I want, if I’m willing to work hard enough. And you can disagree with me, if you want. We have that freedom. Because we are living in America, and we are free. For now.
But I do worry about the future America and what it may devolve into.
Copyright © Anthony Amero | Year Posted 2016
Long poem by
Maurice Yvonne | Details |
LIST POETRY - A FUTURISTIC INTERPRETATION
I cried yesterday
and I think I broke the world
so I braided some words into twine
planted some sweet and sour coated seeds
I grew free standing expressions and then I joined
them with left over thread to present these interlocking pieces
in their proper order regardless of the number they wear in an attempt
to confuse and deceive. I offer this humble list for your reading enjoyment
It is an honour to have you visit my page. The pleasure I assure you is all mine
WORDS ON PAPER - THE LIST
I loved you centuries before we were born.
You lived in my dreams before I ever slept.
When others wasted time picking flowers
I waited for when it was time to pick you.
Love calls you in the natural scent of your partner.
You'd feel their touch in the vacuum of outer space.
Your desire for them would melt away the ice age.
I want to find a door in the brightest part of the sky I
could open to erase what was, to shine a light so bright
it, like a book of golden words, would write ideas so vital
as to eradicate even a suggestion of our mournful past.
I want to be that magician who does not bother with
illusion but rather heals wounds and shatters burden.
We were at the fair, joviality in the air.
A memory filed, I was a young child
holding balloons floating round like full moons
in vivid colours bright. Fixed on this joyous sight
I was on Cloud Nine proud these were mine.
If I had not let go of them. If I hadn't watched them
as they flew higher and higher as my heart sunk lower and lower
I might of never learnt what it felt like - hurt.
Hope gloats, hope floats.
either your way or just away.
sometimes the afternoon sun is.....too hot
to walk barefoot........on the concrete path
still even then.......I refuse to wear my hat
I guess I'll never change, I'm just like that.
sometimes when I jump in the lake in late summer...
with all of my clothes on...I do it in the evening......as
I go down...way down to the bottom...there's a gentle
peace overtakes me..I want to stay down like a rock...
revel in the ecstasy...not swim back up..........not ever
ours was a paper mâché love
living in a cut out cardboard home
with a macaroni art painted lawn
and nothing real to call our own
nothing solid that we could hold.
we tried stacking lego bricks
but you have to be able to pop your cheek
to qualify as a kid - to get a license to build.
the castle we assembled didn't pass the test.
so much for fairy tales - hello reality check.
we rolled the dice but our thimble went
straight to jail and our mouse ended up trapped.
can you hear that buzzing the operation failed. where
are you going? your tricycle is still in the shop and I might
as well tell you..............I have no eights................."go fish!"
we fell through
the bunny hole
where i - jack fell ddddownnn
nnnnnnn and broke my crown
and you - jill came tumbling
it is a choreographed ballet our love
legs at the base digging deep
delicate hands branched out
long slim fingers define twigs
the body of our trunk thick
music fills our human needs
wind pixies dance meticulously
sunlight leaks effectively through
lifts carries holds and shapes
it is a choreographed ballet our love
our bodies their senses once immersed in I
I know the last thing I want to feel as I leave this world, it is your lips on
mine. When I take my last breath I want to feel yours with its loving touch.
no matter the roar or intensity of the storm
how severe the attack even out of the norm
i offer my hand with sincerity
aim to deal with it peacefully.
then suddenly it hits
like a swarm of locus.
a deep dark manifestation that greases my mind
my very existence in its unforgiving sense of doom.
every bone stiffens,
when I move, a sound
of dead dried out forest twigs
breaking against the boots of hikers
echoes in the confined space of my skull.
i reach for a pill
slowly it dissolves
under my tongue
my body is soaked in a sweat with its own cold and hot tap.
i assume the position, lying on an unstable floor. the creature
depression is now in full control of my faculties. this too i will survive
...that is what i do...what i do...this is what i do.......somehow i survive.
there is a deafening hush...
silently raging through the core
of my existence...still...I am humbled
by the light and the love I have witnessed
in my brief appearance...........here on Earth
there is a river...that walks at my side...
walks with me........at the same stride...
April 14 2015
Copyright © Maurice Yvonne | Year Posted 2015
Long poem by
Ivor Davies | Details |
Back in 1962 when I was just a lad
my dad gave me a holiday
the best I ever had.
A holiday of every dream
that one lifetime could hold
so listen while this wondrous time
to you I now unfold:
In bygone years to travel far
was not a normal thing,
to travel some six thousand miles
by plane was amazing!
Propellers aided by a jet,
a very modern way,
aboard a British Eagle plane
my life would change that day.
A little island in the sun
where British troops were based
on active service out Far East
where they would get a taste
of jungle warfare while they helped
to form a brand new state
by helping stop objections from
a few this change did hate.
But as a teenage boy, you see,
the politics of war
were not as noticeable to me
as other things I saw.
I felt the beauty of this land
with folk of every kind
for at this time in England
few ‘cultures’ could be found.
For back at home in Blighty
a youngster such as me
had to know his place in life
and couldn’t roam quite free,
but out here in the tropics
no prejudice I found
of the nature that had kept me thus
by England’s limits bound.
Now out here in Malaysia,
on this island of Penang,
I found a place where deep inside
stirred memories that sang
of a time in my existence
that I’d never felt before
born of ancient inner knowledge
that my soul was screaming for.
To continue with my story
of the time I was a lad,
when in a British Barracks
with a soldier for a dad
I had given up my schooling
for adventure in the world
and like a butterfly emerging
my wings were now unfurled.
On this truly wondrous island
Minden Barracks was my home
with excitement and adventure
wherever I could roam.
I immersed in all the wisdom
of simplicity I met
and learned that what you give to life,
returns in what you get.
For the Chinese and the Indians,
Malays and some ex-pats
had found ways to live together
though all wore different hats,
in perfect symbiosis
where all fulfilled their roles
and by leaning on each other
could emancipate their goals.
Now even at this early age,
I was not too dim to see
that the rich were getting richer
and the poor were never free,
but something buried deep inside
these people of Penang
bore a certain understanding
of the common song they sang.
Now I grew up very quickly
as my friends all went to war,
young soldiers who were now my age
what were they fighting for.
Atrocities befell them
as they fought Malaysia’s side
against those from Indonesia
who would not join this ride.
though Penang was hardly hit,
it was only very seldom
that we faced a scary bit.
When Minden B’ was threatened
all the locals stayed inside
just in case the British soldiers
started shooting the wrong side!
But throughout this ‘confrontation’
my job became pure joy,
for the Army’s recreation
then became my brand new toy.
On the island’s sandy beaches
you would find me day by day
driving speed boats for the soldiers
when they found the time to play.
In Penang, their favourite island,
the troops would take their leave
and have fun while water skiing
as they took a short reprieve
from the nature of their duties
that had brought them to this land
and for just a fleeting moment
could enjoy the sea and sand.
For three years whilst Water Skiing
I enjoyed this paradise
but the days I was not working
were all equally as nice
for at home in Minden Barracks
was a special swimming pool
where friends would meet
and wash their souls
with conversation’s tool.
This really was the centre
of our commune in this land,
the meeting place for sharing
where all friends would understand.
Soldier’s wives, their men at war,
and others gathered round,
if any place is hallowed
then this pool is sacred ground.
But Georgetown and its traders
was the place I loved to be
where the colour, noise and culture
always let my soul soar free.
Where the many, many trishaws
and the bikes and traffic mix,
with the hawkers, shops and markets
this is where I got my fix!
Four good years I lived my life
in this very special place,
at a multicultural pace.
I’d been born into a country
that the world thought was mature,
but maturity is lost of mind
when progress is the lure.
Back in 1962 when I was just a lad
my dad gave me a holiday
the best I’d ever had.
Back in 1966 I went back home again
and the schooling that I’d given up
had not been lost in vain,
for I’d learnt the real meaning
of my Life in this short stay,
a meaning full of everything
I carry till this day.
So now I’m in My sixties,
not the sixties of my past
and the thing I’ve found along the way
is most things never last.
But learn from where you travel,
let morals be your guide
for none can steal the things you hold
and carry deep inside.
Ivor G Davies
Copyright © Ivor Davies | Year Posted 2015
Long poem by
Dorian Petersen Potter | Details |
~How Can I Not Love You?~
I met you the way I do now
knew about You, perhaps not
in the sense and the
right way that I am
so lucky to do up to
But I always
felt your presence and knew
of your existence.
And I know that for sure
I already loved
You all those years even
before I met
You all the way
that I was supposed
How can I not love You,
and want to know more
about You and
all that You are and
mean to me;
after all that You've done
not just for me but
for everyone else that I know personally
and that I may not know in my life.
You've made me the person
that I am today;
You've molded me into
a better human being,
and that's for sure,
I know that I'm a better creature
now, than I ever been in the
Since I met You personally and
accepted you into my heart.
Since I confessed each and all
of my sins to You,
with all my heart and
I feel for sure a lot better,
I am kind of relieved.
Oh my Beloved, sweet Jesus,
I do love You so,very much,
and I do thank You for all
that You've inspired me to be,
to write to paint and to do all thru
You're the biggest inspiration ever of all,
always will be.
You make me so strong by giving me
hope each single day.
With You I am not completely alone
ever in my life,
no matter what I go thru or what
I may feel at times.
My life would be so very empty and dark just
How can I not love You, when you keep all of
my darkness away
You fill my emptiness and refresh my
soul and spirit all the way
when I get tired and thirsty thru all
my long walks thru this dark
I am so happy that I met You at
last when I did
You'd brought me so much love and comfort
and goodness in all, and You forgave
all my sins and always You
do and will,
and in spite of all You still do and
I am reassurance that You always
will no matter what
ugly sins and transgresions I commit
against You or anyone
in this whole wide world.
You take all my bitterness away,
You complete all the puzzles of my
very existence and life.
I just believe in You 100% percent
and much more in my heart.
How can I not love you?
When You help me in all that
I am and I do,
if You've created and made me
the much wholesome person that I am today.
I just want to be more like You, and
grow better each day.
Since I was introduced in my life
to You and your sweet loving ways,
I've accepted you,You're my
Lord, my King and my Savior.
And I've gotten
to know you in my heart
all thru these very long years
of much ups and downs.
You dried all my tears away and gave me
hope, where none sometimes
was to be by me found, but
only in You.
You hear all my prayers when I come
I know that You will respond to them if that
fits in your plans.
I do know that You know everything better,
and that You will do what's is right.
You've loved me when I've felt
no love coming from anyone
around some times.
How can I not love you?
if You're the One who died for me and had
offered and given me
forgiveness and glorious eternal life,
You give peace and rest
to my soul and my
You take all my pain away
thousand of times over
all the years.
You put on a smile on my face
all the time.
You've given me so much beauty to
see and enjoy in so many things.
You've given me all the people that I love
and hold so dear to my heart.
Your love is unconditional
and You love me more and better
than anyone ever can.
How can I not love You?
when You're already part of my
whole life and existence,
You just complete me!
in every each way, because
without You I wouldn't be here
and be who I know I can and
You want me to be.
Because of you I can love and better and
feel the way that I do.
I have a heart more full of love and
compassion and forgiveness all
because of You,
my very beautiful and sweet
How can I not love you
and worship you the way that I do
when I think of love and life
and all starts with just You,
Thank you so much,
for giving me all that you've given
I am so grateful to You,
my Sweet Almighty Father in Heaven.
How can I not love you?
If your very name signifies love,
hope and life in all
that I see and know.
You're with me now every single
step that I take,
You hold my hand and help me
rise every day.
You love me so much and loves us all,
With You I have an eternal home
in Heaven and that for sure
I do know.
How can I not love You my sweet Lord then?
Dorian Petersen Potter
Copyright © Dorian Petersen Potter | Year Posted 2015
Long poem by
matthew harris | Details |
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
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.
Copyright © matthew harris | Year Posted 2013
Long poem by
Poet M.e. | Details |
Playing Batman and Robin is a lot different
When the Riddler is your Stepfather
And simultaneously an alcoholic and pedophile
When your secret mission is to keep him
From bringing heroin and pornography
To Gotham city
Your mother wanted to save you both
But Catwoman captured her
And held her six children hostage
You tried to save your brother
From the Riddler that October night
But you were just nine and
The Joker had you in quicksand
The rope was too rough for such small hands
Twenty years later you both get married
And you laugh at those childhood battles
Neither of you knowing
That those villains were still there,
The Penguin was waiting in the shadows
Batman gets arrested for Statutory rape
They put Department of Corrections
On his fabled cape
No Batbelt to help him escape
Batman sends Robin thirty-three letters
Written on that yellow prison paper
With those light blue lines
Tells him he's found Christ
Read the New Testament twice
Robin pretends to be happy for him
Even when he really doesn't believe him
And is too disappointed to care
And returned letters from his two children
Hurt him in the worst way
When all he wanted to do was
Give them four or five dollars
For Christmas or their birthday
Still in every Former Super heroes life
There is a Forrest Gump/ Gomer Pyle
That just takes it all in
Regardless of his sin
Just because he's your brother
And because you love him
Because you were the one that rode
On the handle bars of his bike
Holding the umbrella on the way to the store
While it was thundering and lightning
Not knowing that the real rain was yet to pour
And you were the one
That sailed into the wind like Mary Poppins
when the bicycle stopped
"Make sure Mama's groceries don't drop."
You open those letters
Because he was one that you looked up to
When there was no father to answer your call
And a twelve year old make-believe father
Was better than none at all
Because he built you a ten feet basketball court
Out of throw away scrap wood
It wobbled when you shot the basketball
But he did the best he could
And you were the one that used to ruin his fishing trips
By getting your hook snagged every ten minutes
And he would still ask you to ruin his next trip a week later
And he would walk in the dirty lake to un-snag your line
Because you didn’t like getting your clothes dirty or wet
You don't tear up those those letters
Because he was the one that
Shared those stupid
At your mother's funeral
And you hated it when his kidneys failed
And he was only fifteen
And he couldn’t fight bad guys anymore
And you both swore never again
To wear those stupid capes
Your heart failed when he was charged with rape
You open those letters because
When you can't sleep or rest
Nothing like a game of Russian Roulette
Ignoring the voices in your head
The next letter is the one you’ll regret
But hidden in those letters
Between the lines of
Those religious rants
Somewhere Between the Johns
The Deuteronomies and the Acts
Were those unknown facts
That never made it to
Was never read by the DA or judge
The DNA that got lost by Vice
The bloody tissue misplaced by
The evidence clerk
The real trial was in those letters
And you learn that he wouldn't
Tell the Judge the real truth
Waived his right to a trial
Because he didn't want his kids
To end up in Foster care.
And Robin wasn't there
And he broke his promise
To never ever play hero again?
They gave him fourteen years
For another person's sin
We could have put those capes on one last time
We could have beaten the Joker
And put him and the Riddler on the run
Could have shot Cat Woman with our toy guns
After five years in prison
Batman dies at forty-one
And Robin has to go on
And it sucks that you left
All the clues with me
And I can't even use them to set you free
The rape you confessed to
Was never what we all believed it to be
And somewhere in Gotham city
The Joker, Penguin and Riddler
Are still running around free
Growing old with you
Would have been better
But the best of you remains
In these thirty-three letters
Copyright © Poet M.e. | Year Posted 2016
Long poem by
arthur vaso | Details |
Notes: I am putting the notes upfront, suicide is no laughing matter, however, anything that makes it something that can be discussed I think is a good thing. Humor really is an aid to many an illness. Note the poem starts with a reason, when someone is at the point of suicide, there is NO reason. It is an illness like any other. Also inside humor and innuendo is meaning. Enough said.
I went to the casino of love last night
I placed a bet on romantic seven
Lost all my chips, ain’t going to heaven
Broke me heart
Lowered head, I walked back to the car park
Next morning I woke up
Put a gun to my head
I can’t even win at Russian roulette
Need a change, to get away
Mending the pain or soul, some might say
Took a plane to Bengal
Ended up in beuruit
Walked right into the middle of a war or 2
Explosions all over, around me head
Thank god, soon I shall be dead
I saw a terrorist with a real mean look
I waved hello, shoot me, shoot me!!!
I am sure he would have given a chance
But someone else tossed into him a lance
Seems even in a war I can’t make myself dead
Sadly I lost at even this deadly dance
Then an explosions tossed me sky high
Was i going to heaven, was this my grand demise?
No, I landed in the sea and just on time
For a cruise ship to save me, soul and all
Off too Florida it seems
Death sure has some gall
I was walking along a sunny beach
When all of a sudden two gangs appeared
One Cuban, one Mexican, they sure looked mean
Two gangs known as killing machines
Here is me smack in the middle
My lucky day, for how could I lose
Suicide was assured, come on, you know it
I yelled to both of them
I am DEA, and I think all of you queers are very very gay
That out to get me the bullet I wish
What the hell, they all dropped their guns and surrendered
I admit I was starting to be mighty offended
So now I have this Medal of Honor
For saving a community of drugs and plunder
I just can’t win at the casino of life
I can get myself killed no matter the plight
So back home I go
What the hell
I’ll fill the bathtub
And give that a go
You think I’m bragging or boasting of death
I am serious, this will work, why drowning for sure
What could go wrong? with such a fine plan?
All I want to be is a dead dead man
So yes, I fill up the tub with water and suds
I down some pills, some booze and some bud
I am drifting off, to my purgatory bliss
When I hear an alarm the wakes me
What’a darn bitch
The buildings on fire, ok I can burn in my sorrow
Except the bathtub collapses and doses the fire
I am a loser, this is for sure
They gave me Medal of Honor again
For saving all the seniors by making it rain
I am not dead, and I am not happy
Seems I can’t accomplish
Even my death
Even this task I make a mess
Now I am curious, I have to ask
Have any readers killed themselves yet?
This tale that’s a mess, being alive is giving me stress
If not read on, it’s gonna get better
Someone I will succeed at this suicidal adventure
OK now a bridge I hear is a good place to die
Not to hard, you jump and say good bye
I can do that, doesn’t seem hard
So now I stand on a Golden Gate Bridge
Happy at last that life will be over
All of a sudden a huge shaking occurs,
An earthquake , oh lucky me maybe the bridge will collapse
Not to be and you know that now, it tosses me infront of a car
The car brakes and halts and honks its horn
Till it sees the crack in the road just up ahead
If not for me falling right right there
That car would be the one drowning in the ocean of despair
They jumped out and hugged me and kissed me with thanks
Apparently I saved an ambulance full of pre mature babies
You know what happens next, and don’t you go crying
Another Medal of Honor for me, a hero without trying!
What the hell I give up
This suicide profession is harder than you think
Hell I might as well go back to my whiskey and drinks
Live in the darkness, and pray that one day
Life has enough meaning that I wish to actually stay
So now that these ideas so dark and so deadly
I have discarded without hope, so now I will be friendly
I will join the world of human souls and laughter
Even if inside I still lack such basic character
No more silly ideas of death
I need to move on and make life the best
So off to the store, to get me some groceries
A new leaf I have turned and I confess to a smile
When I am crossing the street, I see to my horror
That I am hit by a bus, and finally no damn tomorrows
Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2015
Long poem by
Joe Flach | Details |
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?”
I will take that as a, “Yes”.
Copyright © Joe Flach | Year Posted 2012