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abortion absence
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Long Little sister Poems

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

See also: Famous Long Poems

Long Poems
Long poem by Carrie Richards | Details |

The Scar

“Only girls cry!…Oh, boo hoo!” laughed my brother, (as big brothers often do)
 He had been taunting me, teasing me, heckling me, as I whined, complained.
 Neither of us would have won a prize, for being the angelic sibling pride, 
 of Kirby street one day outside, in hot July...
              “You jerk!”..I cried,…a laughing stock...his mocking me.. 
               He smirked, while our brawl played out for all the world to see.

No recourse, no remorse..(poor me!!)… I was the butt of his demeaning jokes 
and by then my temper had been stoked, he had poked me once too often!

So HUGE, was my disdain for this smug, big thug, that grinning face, 
so....in retaliation, for my humilation, (as an enraged little sister might do..)
I grabbed one of his model airplanes….and threw....! But then.....
it broke into shards, big shrapnel pieces…I dashed for cover...
cowering behind the hedge…waiting for his own revenge!…

Instead it left a gash, an ugly wound, I was aghast...!
Above his nose.........a bloody rose
Well, of course our Mother got involved.. .
It was resolved by iodine and bandages
And a tongue lashing...
“You could have put out his eye!! ….and then we cried, …the two of us 

Well, we would repent, with orders to spend the day becoming friends...

The afternoon sun was hot in the yard….  
Until, a sudden, lightning shot
..tires skidding loudly down hot asphalt
One unguarded moment fell, and things came to a halt

As if a horrible spell, was cast upon the day ….
 there was a car,.... around the bend 
  the game we played, about to end....
         his dog, (a sweet dalmatiion friend) was hit
               ....and then....  
                      all time suspends........

My brother’s sweet dog, who slept on his bed, was gone
The next hours painfully hung…with weight of the memory lingering on….
Ending with me alone in my bed..
Mute with grief ….remembering his words….”Only girls cry”….
Hearing his sobs……all through the night..
And my parent's cooed comfort, the soundtrack to this tragic movie
That still plays in my darkest theater….all these years later

I shudder still, have a lump in my throat…how that faint little scar,
above his nose.... can still emote…    
such feelings of tenderness I felt on that day.  
Over the years…we have shared many tears…
            we have leaned on each other, me and my brother
Big girls will cry, just as little girls do…and big boys can cry,
                    ..And hey,...ya' know what? ..That’s okay, too.
--------------------------------------------------------------------

Carrie Richards

Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2012

Long poem by cherl dunn | Details |

THE VALVET WITCH


In the elliptical nights moonshine of night, a figure of lavender
And aged white lace, roams amongst the rocky sea shore, a 
Glittering phantom of beauty most fair, walking with an essence
Of smoldering evil and the smell of burnt sulfur fumes oozing
Outwardly catching upon the chilling autumn air!
In the bushes hear the rustling, the meowing of the felines,
For this is the velvet witch the care taker of the familiars,
Calls forth unto her four pawed legions, dwelling within
 The depths of the night, as eerie eyes pierce through the
Darkened glows of the shadow realm!
Glazing hypnotic orbs set in memorizing forms, glen in the
Flashing moon lights fine point of the ethereal sheen, small
To the large, they do so come, these creatures of the supernatural
Flame, called by their Mistress the Valet Witch, of Skat County!
Rubbingly, adoring at her shifts skirts of purplish hews,
These cattish guardians of deaths resurrection, and evils
Omens of shattered dimensions, purr with utter devotions
Loyalty, to her their protector!
As the last stroking of mid-night falls, a cloaked ghostly
Image, stalks the hallowed hollows near a rippling lake
Of lost reflections, no floating silhouette is composed
From the maiden whom crosses these waters of discontent,
Against these crystal clear waves of absolute calm!
Hidden beneath this bewitching shroud of ancient mysticism,
Echoes an enchanting voice of incantations speaking in a cat-like
Tongue, casting mystical spells of worships beguiling!
At the foot gates of the pet cemetery the valet Witch thus
So stops in sudden motions stance, than raising her arms
Upwards, she utters in words of a muffled language,
To those spiritually resting within!
All the winds breathe seems to cease for an instant,
As orbital greenish lights raise from their entombs of burial,
Floating within the waiting arms of this their honored
Matriarch, this cat collector dressed in lavender and lace,
The Valet Witch of Skat County!
In the mists of death’s vaporous out lashing, the capped
Figures shroud drops upon the soils consecrated ground, 
And in the night a voice whispering is heard, almost seemingly
As if a soft purring lingering within this darkness fading,
In the twilight of dawn first rays of light!
Two by two glaring emerald eyes flash into the forests wild,
Screeching in reverence respect, for their darkened mistress
Of familiar has left unto the gates of the neither world beyond,
The Valet Witch of Skat County.

BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN-fictitious legend-Dedicated to Skat my youngest soul sister!





Copyright © cherl dunn | Year Posted 2015

Long poem by Johnny Murphy Jr. | Details |

once

Once on a yellow piece of paper with green lines

he wrote a poem

And he called it "Chops"

because that was the name of his dog

And that's what it was all about

And his teacher gave him an A



And his mother hung it on the kitchen door


That was the year that Father Tracy

took all the kids to the zoo

And he let them sing on the bus

And his little sister was born

with  no hair

And his mother and father kissed a lot

And the girl around the corner sent him a valentine signed with a row of X's

and he had to ask his father what the X's meant

And his father always tucked him in bed at night

And was always there to do it.


Once on a piece of white paper with blue lines

he wrote a poem

And he called it "Autumn"

because that was the name of the season

And that's what it was all about

And his teacher gave him an A

and asked him to write more clearly

And his mother never hung it on the kitchen door

because of its new paint

And the kids told him

that Father Tracy smoked cigars

And left butts on the pews

And sometimes they would burn holes

That was the year his sister got glasses

with thick lenses and black frames

And the girl around the corner laughed

when he asked her to go see Santa Claus

And the kids told him why

his mother and father kissed a lot

And his father never tucked him in bed at night

And his father got mad when he cried for him to do it.


Once on a paper torn from his notebook

he wrote a poem

And he called it "Innocence: A Question"

because that was the question about his girl

And that's what it was all about

And his professor gave him an A

and a strange steady look

And his mother never hung it on the kitchen door because he never showed her

That was the year that Father Tracy died

And he forgot how the end of the Apostle's Creed went

And he caught his sister making out on the back porch

And his mother and father never kissed or even talked

And the girl around the corner wore too much makeup that made him cough when he kissed her

but he kissed her anyway because that was the thing to do

And at three A.M. he tucked himself into bed

his father snoring soundly.


That's why on the back of a brown paper bag

he tried another poem

And he called it "Absolutely Nothing"

Because that's what it was really all about

And he gave himself an A

and a slash on each damned wrist

And he hung it on the bathroom door

because this time he didn't think

he could reach the kitchen.

Copyright © Johnny Murphy Jr. | Year Posted 2007

Long poem by Nico Vivi | Details |

Celestial Mask

So many times, have I cried your name, and you do not answer. I know not your face nor your name, yet I only know you are a sir. Perhaps now married, perhaps still single, nevertheless, You are my big brother, the longing for you makes me restless. The labyrinth of my life, it is everlasting. Everywhere I turn, I find more sadness that becomes unbearable and strangling. I will keep my eyes open and wait for you, but even if you cannot return my feelings, please know, Us meeting was no mere accident, I believe God sent you to me to show, I needed a chance to change, a chance to smile! So those who like me now, they have you to thank, While, Those who despise me can kiss my derrière, Because I will not drastically change myself for them, so there! Don't you agree that it was fate? I could have met anyone else, but it was you who opened the gate. When I was alone, self-loathing because of how my relatives treated me, You comforted me and told me I could talk to you, and through tears, I can see, Wait for me... Please... We will meet once and for all, You are my savior who saved one child from the darkness that loomed over so tall. However, my heart is already the color noir and full of madness, corruption, hatred and sadness, But you have only seen the loneliness in my heart, the depression and suicidal thoughts, yet with you, the impossible was possible, it was my happiness... I shared my thoughts with a few others, but you are the first, the only one I truly feel comfortable not hiding from. Everyone else, for some reason, cannot be trusted or be burdened with this weight of incredible sum. But the reason I trust you the most, the reason I love you, is because you, out of all the people in the world, told me it was okay to... Be me... Everyone else after was far too late and by then, I would have been found dead in the sea. To cut out the heart that pains me, to shoot the brain that over thinks, to drown in eternal sadness or burn away the impurity of those who influenced me... To destroy it all and leave. That is what will happen, therefore, I cannot risk strengthening the bonds I have with others, for soon, I will disappear without a trace, because of what I believe. When I exact revenge on my family, I will be wanted dead and will have no further purpose. I will revert to nature's soil. So, my existence will be a nuisance and though I will plunge everything in a hectic turmoil, I shall not regret a thing. May 1st, 2013; 5:13 pm

Copyright © Nico Vivi | Year Posted 2013

Long poem by Edward Hill | Details |

Sisters Passing

Life has curves
in the roads that are paved
bruised and battered memories 
some we have forgotten some we have saved.
All my life I looked into the heavens
for all of the answers
Now I'm seeking for God 
his Angels and his dancers.
Sitting in prison
with no one to hold
I scream out at Jesus 
who now I began to scold.
WHY?, I ask
in a rumbling rage
DID YOU TAKE MY LITTLE SISTER 
AT SUCH A YOUNG AGE?
Cursing at God
in a ugly angry voice
I ask, WHY HER 
AND NOT ME AS YOUR CHOICE?
ARE YOU NOT BRAVE ENOUGH
TO TAKE ON THE WICKED 
THAT YOU PRANCE ON THE WEAK
AND PUNCH OUT HER TICKET?
SHOW ME YOUR FACE 
AND STAND STRONG AGAINST ME
SHOW ME YOUR WRATH 
IF YOU ARE ALL YOU CLAIM TO BE!
TAKE ME GOD
AND GIVE BACK MY BABY SISTER
SEND ME TO HELL
AND LET MY SKIN BLISTER!
Just as I started 
to curse him out more
Something suddenly happened
as I was knocked to the floor.
The sky began to thunder
and my cell door started to rattle
Did God finally show up
to fight this lonely battle.
Within this mist
I continued to stare
Thinking, 'He wouldn't come
He wouldn't even dare'!
Suddenly the room 
began to clear
dazed and confused
a voice I can hear!
Soft and warm
the voice said to me
Relax big brother
it's me your sister Sandy!
The voice said, "Don't be sad 
or feel any sorrow
Live your life today 
for there is always tomorrow!
Where I am at 
is full of wondrous glory
Just read your Bible
it will tell you the story!
Be calm and be there
for our mother
Be strong for sisters
and for our brothers!
I'm just fine
and singing in Gods Choir
So please don't weep 
and let your eyes tire!
God has plans
for each and everyone
For me and for you
and for all that we have done!
It's never to late
to open your heart and your eyes
You too could live in this Kingdom
of clear blue skies!
Within seconds
the cell room cleared
The vision was gone
and all that I feared.
Full of warmth
and a comfortable feeling
I surrendered to God
and started to kneeling.
These feelings I have
will never be the same
There is more to life
than this prison game.
Upon my release
and as I exit this cell
I will kindly remind myself
that I was living in Hell.
So thank you little sister
for this vision so real
Soon we will be together
and share Gods glorious will.
I have now made my peace with God
and pleased with his decision
I will gracefully thank him
and praise him for this vision.

By Edward F. Hill

Copyright © Edward Hill | Year Posted 2010

Long poem by Senait Mohammed | Details |

A PERSON/ A PAPER/ A PROMISE

Once on a yellow piece of paper w/green lines
he wrote a poem
And he called it "Chops"
because that was the name of his dog
And that's what it was all about
And his teacher gave him an A & a gold star
And his mother hung it on the kitchen door
and read it to his aunts
That was the year Father Tracy
took all the kids to the zoo
And he let them sing on the bus
And his little sister was born
with tiny toenails and no hair
And his mother and father kissed a lot
And the girl around the corner sent him a
Valentine signed with a row of X's &
He had to ask his father what the X's meant
And his father always tucked him in bed at night
And was always there to do it.

Once on a piece of white paper w/blue lines
he wrote a poem
And he called it "Autumn"
because that was the name of the season
And that's what it was all about
And his teacher gave him an A & asked him to
write more clearly &
His mother never hung it on the kitchen door
because of its new paint & the kids told him 
that Father Tracy smoked cigars & left butts
on the pews & sometimes they would burn holes
That was the year his sister got glasses
with thick lenses and black frames &
The girl around the corner laughed
when he asked her to go see Santa Claus
And the kids told him why
his mother and father kissed a lot &
His father never tucked him in bed at night
And his father got mad
when he cried for him to do it.

Once on a paper torn from his notebook
he wrote a poem
And he called it "Innocence: A Question"
because that was the question about his girl
And that's what it was all about & his
professor gave him an A & a strange steady
look & his mother never hung it on the
kitchen door because he never showed her
That was the year that Father Tracy died
And he forgot how the end
of the Apostle's Creed went & he caught his
sister making out on the back porch
And his mother and father never kissed
or even talked & the girl around the corner 
wore too much makeup
That made him cough when he kissed her
but he kissed her anyway
because that was the thing to do
And at three a.m. he tucked himself into bed
his father snoring soundly.

Once on a brown paper bag
he tried another poem
And he called it "Absolutely Nothing"
Because that's what it was really all about
And he gave himself an A
and a slash on each damned wrist
And he hung it on the bathroom door
because this time he didn't think
he could reach the kitchen.

Copyright © Senait Mohammed | Year Posted 2005

Long poem by Mandy Tams The Golden Girl | Details |

The Man in The Mist

~~oooOOO The Man In The Mist OOOooo~~ Going to my cousins house, a long drive in the car Over the moors with dry stone walls, it was very far The house in the middle of a field alone and swathed in a mist The owls hooting, bats flying, but any trees I must have missed. “The sea mist is in” my cousin said, “lets go inside now quick.” A man was standing in the shadows, in his hand was a stick. The waves were nosily rolling in as she pushed us through the door A quick glance behind me as I entered, the man was no more. “Who is the man outside?” I asked as she drove huge bolts home That is Fred our ghost, we had a séance - and now he’s on the roam. What do you mean? He haunts this place, and his name cannot be Fred And people that died long ago do not come back - they are dead. Fred says he lived where the barn once stood there are owls and bats there too But since we called him he wants to enter the house – a chill wind blew. It’s when the mist rolls in, we find we must lock and bar all the doors If you hear footsteps in the night stay in bed until they pause. That night in bed the light went out; my little sister was afraid The sheets were damp the mist inside, so a small request she then made Mandy can I sleep with you I am scared and I am so very cold? I said "jump in but make it quick", but I did not feel really bold. Her footsteps came round the bed and she sat upon my feet "Get off my feet and into bed then perhaps this cold we will beat." Her little voice came to me - from her own damp dark bed I haven’t got out of it yet, I was looking for my teddy bear instead. I peeped over my bedclothes and saw a shape sat on my feet "Oh no" I cried "Fred’s in here, do you think he wants to eat?" My little sister whispered, "please don’t say that it's true What is he here for Mandy”, she whispered “what is he going to do?” My body shaking, my mind in tatters - a ghostly hump sat on my bed My heart beating loudly; the hairs prickling and standing on my neck and head. "Please Fred what is it that you want, please don’t hurt us here?" My sister whimpered under covers, "If he is dead, how can he hear?" The ghostly hump of Fred lifted suddenly from my feet I saw him shake his stick I thought us he was going to beat. He waved the stick, the misty room cleared, the light suddenly came back on I put my head under the covers and when I peeped over he had gone.
By Mandy Tams 22/04/12

Copyright © Mandy Tams The Golden Girl | Year Posted 2012

Long poem by Shanity Rain | Details |

My Dad

My Dad was Chicagoan.
He would light up a room just like my Mom. 
He loved to fish ! He loved his beer .
He also designed a Octagon home in the 70's 
Built custom by hand . I was very proud of Dad .

Alcohol hit our Family , a curse .
He left my Mom when I was 14 in Illinois.
To renew in California , leaving a trail of tears .
Meeting my step mom , my sisters age .
My 2 sisters they were accepted in her world . 

Not I , I looked too much Like Mom . Told this all my Life . 
She a petite Beauty , RN , real estate Broker .
I did not see why it was wrong to be like mom ?

I moved in with Dad, His new Wife , and 2 sisters 
eventually . All three women were competing for my Father .
I was kicked out at 16 yrs.

Years do pass , you try and accept people places and things .
At the end of Dads life , he was calling me once a week .
I ordered a Engraved Clock for the Fathers day coming.
This was a issue for the Wife and sisters , never invited to his new home , 2 Decades ~My little Brother & I , never wanted .

Dad passed suddenly one sad Spring Day . Not one word from his wife , all 3rd party,  how and when,  Dad Died . being denied the right to his address , even to say goodbye .
Not being able to send my engraved clock . 

 "Dad Passed " received call  from sister whom just stayed a week with me ,  I took her all around the sites here . "1st day I get call , you should come , 2nd Day after , Dad's been cremated already . " It was a lie.

I went anyway , finding the funeral home, the Funeral Director was appalled at the denial displayed.

He insisted I was given 10 minutes alone with Dad , my Birthright to say Goodbye , he was in dismay over the Hostility towards a daughter ~

I get to this room of mean relative's. His sisters , Mine, angry looks , hearing from a Aunt "What is she doing Here ! " I can't give nor reason or rhyme. 

 Shame to you and all that participated that wicked day.
 Are you Glorified with Power?  Denied the right to grieve , 

 Left with no sane answers to give in hatred received by Blood . Some , just Spouses , telling me I had no right to Say Goodbye to my own Father , My DAD .

My Dad wanted me there , I know he did . I love Him and will never forget , his youngest girl whom looked like Mom . I know in my heart and dreams he speaks. 
 We all see when we leave . May God not allow any Son or Daughter to go through such Evil.

Thank-you Poetry Soup for returning my voice .

Copyright © Shanity Rain | Year Posted 2013

Long poem by Sidney Beck | Details |

DAY OF THE BEES

Through her window,she could see nothing in the clear blue sky. 
Its deep colour was reflected in the calm waters 
Of the estuary  which spread out in the distance. 
Even the normal busy shipping traffic 
Seemed to have been lulled to sleep this hot summer afternoon. 
There would usually be the sound of ships' horns 
Out in the Elbe as they signalled for the lock gates to open.
 
Water was calm, sky was calm.
It felt to Petra that she was looking at a painting where nothing
Was really alive but only replicated in oilpaint. 

The ever-growing buzz in the sky was the only indication that the scene was real. 
Others had heard the sound as well.
Like hundreds of bees,  but these had a special sting

The temperature was  high and it was very dry
There had been no rain for some time.  Now there was  a rain of bombs.
Petra saw the explosions through her window before she heard them
In the distance as the skyful of   B17 s unloaded their cargoes.
Petra and her little sister were terrified, struck immobile in fright.  
Their window bellied in like a giant glass balloon suddenly over-inflated, 
And jagged, face-ripping shards of glass snarled across the hall 
And embedded themselves in the cushions of the sofa.
The woolly innards of the cushions spewed out, 
Dangling lifeless from the slash-wounds. 
Luckily the girls were not cut.

Suddenly, the whole area became one big fire 
With air being sucked in with the force of a storm.
Fires  joined together, temperatures rose to melting lead,  
Wind speed picked up to hurricane levels, 
Trees were hurled into the flames, furniture, cars, even people hurled in.
Fire trucks unable  to get through roads blocked by rubble.
Dying by carbon monoxide poisoning
When all the air was drawn out of their basement shelters,
The shelters were filled, but few people were really alive.

And then it was over. As the exploding fireballs gradually died away, 
The drone and throb of the buzzing B17s faded off 
To the blue sky of the east, to torment some other part of the city. 
Walls crashed to the ground, gas lines exploded, people cried and screamed,
The girls shook with terror, but the B17s had gone. 
History called it 28 July 1943  -  Hamburg firestorm.  
Petra always called it  Day of the Bees.

.. .. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 

Entered in Debbie Guzzi's Contest  Hot Time Summer in the City 

Copyright © Sidney Beck | Year Posted 2012

Long poem by Marycile Beer | Details |

Ghosts of South Dakota part 3

                     There were seven Indian Government schools.  All built alike.  The 
one I'm writing about is Spring Creek.  He Dog, Soldier Creek and White River, 
Grass Mountain, Two Kettle, and Black Pipe were the other schools.  The 
Headquarters for these schools was at Rosebud, South Dakota. 
	On some summer evenings we were able to talk our mothers into 
hiking to the lookout tower.  We followed the ankle deep sandy trail road to the 
cliff north of the school.,  A canyon lay at the foot of the tower but we climbed the 
bluff.  I don't know why we didn't explore the canyon unless it seemed dark and 
sinister.  The footing was better once we reached the summit.  The closer we got 
to the tower the taller it grew and standing at the foot of the steps looking up was 
easier than getting to the top and looking down.  My mother didn't usually make it 
to the top because she didn't like heights.  But she didn't mind being left behind 
this time.  We never could get into the building at the top because it was locked, 
but we could climb the steps to the very last one.  Even my little sister managed 
to elude mom and followed us to the top. 
	From the bluff we could look down on the garden.  My aunt grew a 
huge garden and canned the produce for the hot meals served the school 
children.  We kids didn't work in the garden very often, but we looked for the arrow 
heads and fossils.  Which, I suspect the adults probably considered the best 
place for us.
	At the end of the road, living in shack, was Old Lady Grease.  I have a 
vague recollection of seeing her.  Tiny, frail, wrinkled and gray headed is all I can 
remember.
	In spring and fall we were in school in Kansas.
	It's Christmas now.  Cold and usually snowy.  We were in a winter 
wonder land.
	I'm standing at the fire escape window.  The ghostly pale full moon is 
illuminating the naked arms of the trees as they shiver in the wind, swaying to 
and fro as if dancers in a ballet.  I listen to the winter sounds. The frigid air 
enhances their sharpness.  The ax's thud echoes up the canyon as one of the 
Indians across the river chops another supply of wood.  One of his peers beats 
on the drum.  It is one-thirty a. m.  but the thin walls of the tents do not keep the 
cold out.  Day or night this chore must be attended to for survival.

Copyright © Marycile Beer | Year Posted 2007

Long Poems