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Long poem by Stacey Brown | Details |

Wonderful Women


Mary was a virgin girl:
With big dreams and aspirations!
An angel came to visit her:
With honor and salutations!
Troubled by his sayings:
She did not know what to think!
The angel said to Mary:
My dear, no need to shrink!

Mary you are favored,
Blessed among all women!
Ye shall bring forth a child:
A Son whom God is given!
You shall call his name JESUS!
To his kingdom there’s no end!
He will reign forever:
And from heaven he will descend!

Mary said to the angel,
How shall this come to be?
I have not known a man,
And with that he did agree!
With God’s nothing impossible,
So Mary did reply:
Behold I am God’s servant,
And his will I won’t deny!

To be so compliant;
Is just amazing in itself!
The disgrace of an unwed mother:
Could knock Mary off the shelf!
Her fiancé’ may leave her;
And her family may disown!
But Mary did not worry:
About who may cast a stone!

Seeing that she was chosen:
One might think her life was smooth.
But oh’ the lovely Mary:
Needed God to gently soothe!
From the birth of our Lord Jesus:
To the time he was crucified:
Her journey was very bumpy:
And many tears she softly cried!

Starting with a quest:
From Nazareth to Bethlehem!
A summons to pay taxes,
They set out, both of them! (Joseph and Mary)
Now Mary was great with child,
And her time would soon arrive.
With no place to deliver,
They would both have to contrive!

In a barn full of animals,
Hay, dung and fears!
Mary will now give birth,
In blood, sweat and tears!
Meanwhile, in a pasture,
Where some shepherds work a field!
Angel’s came a calling,
And our Savior is revealed!

Glory to God in the highest:
Angel’s sang, when baby breathed:
On earth, is peace, goodwill towards men!
The shepherds now perceived!
The angel’s ascend to heaven,
Yonder the shepherds go:
In her heart Mary pondered:
Of the things which God did show!

Just try to imagine:
Laying your baby in a trough?
And then fearing for his life,
While the king prowls and scoffs!
Well that is just what Mary did:
In that time and place:
When they had to run:
For baby Jesus, King Herod chased!

A king to rule over him:
He would not accept!
He killed every baby child:
As their mother’s wept!
I just cannot fathom:
What Mary must have felt.
Joy for her baby:
Yet, with grief she must have dealt!

Traveling home from Jerusalem:
After feast and celebration!
Mary lost her precious boy:
She could not find his location!
When he was discovered,
Frantic she did ask:
Son why did you leave us?
In sorrow we did bask

Every mother has known:
The fear of losing a child!
Mary was no different:
For three days her fear compiled!
I am sure there was weeping:
Praying with despair!
While Joseph tried to calm her:
With love and tender care!

She couldn’t apprehend:
What his life would turn out to be.
But, Mary as his mother:
Felt free to go and see!
She followed with his brothers:
And listen to him speak!
He spoke about family:
His family, he did critique!

Sisters and brothers:
And mothers we also see!
Are not bound together:
By a family tree!
From our Father in heaven;
Families are made!
Now, did Mary understand?
The price she had paid!

Mary’s little boy,
Was no longer her own!
He belongs to the people:
And as kin he is known!
Gripping at her heart strings:
Affliction had to arise:
As a mother of a son,
That might feel like my demise!

News of his capture:
Must have brought a scare!
How did Mary deal?
Did she run straight there?
When Jesus was beaten:
Did she watch all alone?
How did she refrain?
As he was whipped to the bone!

A crown of thorns:
They pressed upon his head!
He was dripping in blood:
His flesh was bright red!
Nails were deeply driven:
Through his hands and feet!
Crying out he said:
My God, why so discrete?

She stood by the cross:
And watch her baby die!
She pondered in her heart:
For the reason why!
Is it worth it?
Did Mary dare to ask?
For the love of God:
She must complete her task!

Yet, it pleased the Father:
For him to suffer!
To give his life:
For another!
To shed his blood:
Would only prove our WONDER!
JESUS gave it all:
Our sins to cover!

As my heart is wrenching:
I can’t help but wonder!
Did Mary even hear?
Those sounds of thunder!
The earth was shaking:
The rocks did rent!
The veil was torn:
And Mercy was sent!

With a broken heart:
Tear filled eyes!
Could Mary see?
Where his love lies!
Her baby boy:
Who brought some travail!
In the end:
Did definitely prevail!

Mary was chosen:
And highly favored!
And for our God,
 She willingly labored!
She had troubles:
Plus sorrow and grief:
Yet, she pondered God’s word:
This fought off the thief!

The wonder of this woman:
Is most definitely overt!
And your wonder is also:
So please let me assert!
Jesus arose:
Three short days later!
Redemption came:
And so did your favor!

God loves his creation:
A plan he has made!
He is not partial:
Nor, will he invade!
He leaves it to us:
To trust in his name:
So just like Mary:
Let his will take aim!

Now, ponder his word:
For it is real clear!
In Jesus we’re blessed:
Favored and dear!
We also have purpose:
Just like the Virgin Mary!
It is to share Jesus:
WONDERFUL WOMEN; don’t tarry!

No one can go to the Father:
Except through the Son!
And God uses his children:
To get the job done:
So if you refuse,
To share his love!
The world won’t know:
This Rock from above!

He is personal:
Yet, he is for all!
Proclaim his love:
It’s your curtain call!
Go into all the world:
And share his good news!
Mary’s child has risen:
It’s your turn to choose!

Stacey Brown
12-10-13


Long poem by T Wignesan | Details |

Is there an Exclusive All-in-One Principle

        
  ‘ In general, quantum mechanics does not predict a single definite result for an observation. Instead, it predicts a number of  different possible outcomes and tells us how likely each of these is. ‘

 
Which side of the Wolf-coin are we looking at

                  the red or the green

           
                                 nothing then is certain

not even death but the life one endures

             
 quarks protons neutrons electrons bosons

particles like men and beings in general

                                             bathe not necessarily in the same lifeless soup

         great teachers or rather teachers with great followings

     those that always attract those who prefer to let others do the thinking  for them

         especially through transcendentally transmitted interstellar telegraphy

                 would want us believe

                                             there’s just This One

  and all comes and goes to That Only ONE

        
If only it were just as simple as that

Then what is it that This One wants

Or is It caught up in its own caveat

And must of needs come apart

        on the seed that It alone plants

 
                           and do what we may

   nothing goes wrong

            whatever the explanation

everybody is right

right from the start

 

         Big Bang from a tight-fisted unfurling hand

         Big Crunch to a crushing tightening stranglehold

and out again

         for the Brahma Day

and after aeons the Brahma Night

 
And at the stillstanding blackhole singularity

         neither space nor time

            squeezed in and out

Birth as in Death

An eventual point of total extinction

        if ever there was one

 
Yet always the two extremes

      and the ever-changing in-betweens

Matter versus Anti-Matter

Here the Yang is not lkely to be set againt the Yin

Though matter itself is neither

Is nor Is-Not-ness

         And the 96% Dark Matter

          And the infinite number of parallel universes

Does it really matter

                                        when

 
         ‘ … if you meet your antiself, don’t shake hands !

            You would both vanish in a great flash of light.’                   

 
Vanish into what

                                    Dark matter

or just non-dark matter

 
Still the duality of matter

Still the ever-changing conundrum

 
              Everything moves jostles couples alters reproduces destructs

        self-destructs
 

         ‘Sex is emotion in motion.’

 
Emotion erupts

           into thin air

      into where

Dark air

 
Motion disrupts

         and roots one here

      tied to the lunar year

 
       why should it matter

if we cannot know the reason why

ego id libido

drive faith fame femme father future

 
if super/alter ego connects the ego

       to the collective unconscious 

     
       why drown the self in the Great Self

by wilful act

       when the Ultimate One

is the sum of all the little ones

 
Is the Original One incapable of absorbing all the ones

each of whom must move to eat drink sleep

copulate make money grow roots in a society

get and fight to keep a job

make love marry raise children

struggle to keep one’s wife one’s children        

one’s house  if one can get one

one’s career one’s future

and helter-skelter race to cheat death

 
If it’s the self-same thing that’s being born anew

What does it matter if it keeps changing in view

Of the desperate haste with which everything

We see smell hear feel intute sense

Keeps hurtling away from the Ding an Sich

And leaves us with a parochial Milky Way

Bastardised stealthily by grandiose Andromeda        

Left retrograded entwined within measely galaxy clusters 

Through some trillion cataclysmic light years

 
What’s the impulse to keep moving

Is the yogi’s stilled-centre

The death of all action

Which cannot call for a reaction

Or is the art of keeping still

Merely the art of making belief

 

          ‘…actors act out the pun that life is the art of acting

until your performed role becomes your normal character.

Then you are safe inside your character armour.’

 

As soon as you have thought It out

It turns around and re-structrures Itself inside out

                 and you know just why

                                                               don’t you now

 

References to the quotations

Stephen W. Hawking, A Brief History of Time : From the Big Bang to Black Holes, London-New York, 1988.

Ibid.

Attributed to Mae West.

Eric N. W. Mottram,  « Men & Gods : A Study of Eugene O’Neill », Encore (London), 1963.

I’m not sure the « re-structuring » bit at the end comes from
Steven Weinberg or John Gribbin, or perhaps even from Fred Allan Wolf ?

 

© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2005 ; rev. 2012. From the collection : Poems Omega-Plus, 2005.


Long poem by Terry O'Leary | Details |

Another Cruel Link in their Chain

         Another Cruel Link in their Chain 

	1.   Beginnings 

Her babe was her joy, such a beautiful boy ,
	and he suckled her breast till the end...
The Massa sought cash, bestowed mammy a lash,
	sold her babe to a gentrified friend
It flits like a flash, a lithe leathery lash,
	yet another cruel link in their chain

With mammy not there, Sammy dared not to dare
	but to bide near the edge of the night
But nevertheless one must always outguess
	or absorb burning stings of the bite
It flits like a flash, a lithe leathery lash,
	yet another cruel link in their chain

Though learning the rules in the shadows of fools
	as he grew to a leery lean lad
He often defied but he never once cried
	although whipped at the post whene’er bad
It flits like a flash,  a lithe leathery lash,
	yet another cruel link in their chain


	2.   Youth

The cotton gin broke and nobody spoke,
	so the Massa said “BENNY’S TO BLAME”
But Sammy said ‘No...  Massa, jus caint be so,
	no ’tain’t Benny, ’tain’t Benny’s sore name’
It flits like a flash, a lithe leathery lash,
	yet another cruel link in their chain

“LOOK, SEE IN HIS EYES HOW THAT  N*G***  BOY LIES” –
	- replied Sam ‘no I’s tellin da truth’
But daring to speak earned him scars for his cheek
	and so blemished the bloom of his youth
It flits like a flash, a lithe leathery lash,
	yet another cruel link in their chain

“THE COTTON GIN’S BROKE, AND THAT JUST AIN’T NO JOKE”
	and he called upon Benny to pay
“WELL, BEN’LL NOW SWIM FROM THE END OF A LIMB”
	just as Sam feared the Massa would say
It flits like a flash, a lithe leathery lash,
	yet another cruel link in their chain

Dark faces soon blanched; Benny bended a branch
	near the base of a broken oak tree 
His body hung bare as it swung in the air
	and the buzzards and crows shrieked with glee
It flits like a flash, a lithe leathery lash,
	yet another cruel link in their chain


	3.   Flight

Sam’s feet were unclad, as befitting a lad
	as alone as a stone in his path
So oft on the run neath the sly sliding sun
	being followed and feeling god’s wrath
It flits like a flash, a lithe leathery lash,
	yet another cruel link in their chain

Surrounded and caught brought his efforts to naught,
	child in chains at the end of his trek
Winds wept as he went, with his spirit unbent,
	a cold collar of steel ’round his neck
It flits like a flash, a lithe leathery lash,
	yet another cruel link in their chain


	4.   Life

Sam grew to a man, branded ‘boy’ by the klan,
	as they spat on the trail that he tread
If he raises his gaze or he wanders or strays
	the pack promise to sever his head
It flits like a flash, a lithe leathery lash,
	yet another cruel link in their chain

Once Sam found a wife who they ripped from his life,
	yes along with the babe at her breast
(Was it simply their greed or by heaven decreed? ...)
	well, with hindsight you might guess the rest
It flits like a flash, a lithe leathery lash,
	yet another cruel link in their chain



	5.   Endings

From phantoms of fright neath the frail foggy night
	Sammy soared as he fled to escape
He no longer crawled (heeding freedom that called)
	through the darkness, a black hole agape
It flits like a flash, a lithe leathery lash,
	yet another cruel link in their chain

Unleashed! Frenzied dogs hounding Sam through the bogs,
	(baying beasts neath the bloody red moon)
White fangs intermeshed as they mangled his flesh,
	freedom flayed through the pale afternoon
It flits like a flash, a lithe leathery lash,
	yet another cruel link in their chain

Sam’s body was torn leaving little to mourn
	but there’s really no need to despair
And there’s no need to cry for his spirit can’t die,
	being borne by bound men everywhere
It flits like a flash, a lithe leathery lash,
	yet another cruel link in their chain




EPITAPH SAM Revolted and clashed ’gainst the cruel leather lash and broke free from the choke of the chain
EPILOGUE Those parts of the past that we gaze at aghast reveal harrowing questions quite plain - Why people so free, just like you, just like me, were so happy inflicting such pain? Why we bask in the throes of humanity’s woes while we wait while the tyrannies reign? And I’m wondering too (’cause I don’t have a clue) ... might we each be a link in their chain?


Long poem by Scribbler Of Verses | Details |

A Story My Mother Told Me

someone always told me this with tears in her eyes...


(for Lata Sethi's late-mother, who was my mother’s ‘sister’ and who took us all into her heart, and for Lata and Ravi Sethi of Defence Colony, New Delhi)


a wife left South Africa in the 1960’s to join her husband 
who was in exile at the time...

in 1970 the husband was sent by the African National Congress to India to be its representative there...

the husband and wife spent two years in Bombay...

one afternoon the husband fell and broke his leg...

the wife knocked on their neighbour’s door, in an apartment complex in Bombay

the neighbour was an old Punjabi lady...

the wife asked the neighbour for a doctor to see to the injured husband...

a Parsi ‘Bone-Setter’ was promptly summoned...

the husband still recalls his anxiety of seeing ‘Bone-Setter’ written on the Parsi gentleman’s bag...

by the way, the ‘Bone-Setter’ worked his ancient craft and surprisingly for the husband, his broken leg healed quite soon...

but still on that day, while the ‘Bone-Setter’ was seeing to the husband...

the wife and the old Punjabi lady from next door got to talking about this and that and where these new Indian-looking wife and husband were from as their accents were clearly not local...

the wife told the elderly Punjabi lady that the husband worked for the African National Congress of South Africa and had left to serve the ANC from exile...

and that they had left their two children behind in South Africa and that they were now essentially political refugees...

the Punjabi lady broke down and wept uncontrollably...

she told the foreign woman that she too had had to leave her home in Lahore in 1947 and flee to India with only the clothes on her back when the partition of the subcontinent took place and Pakistan was formed and at a time when Hindus from Pakistan fled to India and vice versa...

the Punjabi lady then asked the foreign woman her name...

‘Zubeida’, but you can call me ‘Zubie’...

the Punjabi woman hugged Zubie some more, and the two women, seperated by age and geography, wept, sharing a shared pain...

the Punjabi woman told Zubie that she was her ‘sister’ from that day on, and that she felt that pain of exile and forced migration and what being a refugee felt like...

Zubie and her husband Mosie became the closest of friends with the Hindu Punjabi neighbours who were kicked out of Pakistan by Muslims...

then came the time for Mosie and Zubie to leave for Delhi where the African National Congress office was based...

the elderly Punjabi lady and Mosie and Zubie said their goodbyes...

a year or two later, the elderly Punjabi lady’s daughter Lata married Ravi Sethi and the couple moved to Delhi...

the elderly Punjabi lady called Zubie and told her that her daughter was coming to Delhi to live and that she had told Lata, her daughter that she had a ‘sister’ in Delhi...

Lata and Ravi Sethi then moved to Delhi...

This was in the mid-1970’s...

Lata and Zubie became the closest of friends and that bond stayed true, and stays true till today, though Zubie is no more, and the elderly Punjabi lady is no more...

the son and the husband still have a bond with Lata and Ravi Sethi...

a bond that was forged between Hindu and Muslim and between two continents across the barriers of creed and time...

a bond strong and resilient, forged by the pain and trauma of a shared experience...

and that is why, and I shall never stop believing this, that hope shines still, for with all the talk of this and of that, and of that and of this, there will always be a simple woman, somewhere, anywhere, who would take the ‘other’ in as a sister, a fellow human...

and that is why there will always be hope...
hope in the midst of this and of that and of that and of this...

hope...


(for Lata Sethi's late-mother, who was my mother’s ‘sister’ and who took us all into her heart, and for Lata and Ravi Sethi of Defence Colony, New Delhi)


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 Adefemi Adejuwon | Details |

Shangri-la

So I wrote again. This took longer than it should have. Only fair to warn you, this is a long one.

SHANGRI-LA

Prologue

The village gates stood, like old men stand

Worn with age and bent by time

Rust had claimed each iron face

As had wrinkles done with mine

The iron giants stood apart

Shaking  as the north wind blew

Creaking as their maker passed

I felt certain that they knew

 

I am leaving Wuling now

Gripped she by the throes of death

Touched she by the hands of time

Breathed she the last of her breath

Nature would not save Wuling

Famine leeched away her life

Pes-tilence claiming  her people

Among them, my sons and wife

 

Pain speaks every language known

So I found when it found me

And while not all men know its tongue

I've come to speak it fluently

Hard times then were made much worse

My mind, seeking to reflect

Made my memories seem as curse

I, not master of pain yet

 

I was young, when youth prevailed

What held youth but sweeter days

And a certain frame of mind

That was bent on foolish ways?

We were fools ere wisdom came

We were glad to dream of heaven

Religion held our vices tame

Schooling us on sins of seven

We were glad and light of mind

Pleased with all our blind eyes saw

Joy, the birthright of mankind

Would dwell with us forevermore

 

We were young when youth prevailed

Nimble minds, and bodies strong

But the reign of youth was short

And we found that we were wrong

They came upon us sudddenly

The weeks of cold, the months of drought

A strange disease swallowing my people

Spitting shrunken corpses out

We had hoped but hoped in vain

I had prayed, it came to nought

I, once smith of a large village

Leaving it through gates I wrought

 

Shangri-la

Heaven having failed in hope

Hope itself found wanting

Having lost all I can lose

I am left with nothing...

I will go to find respite

Where the dreams of men collect

Where the signs of hard years fade

And the weary can forget

 

I will go to Shangri-la

Ease to soul and peace to mind

Strength to all those weak in body

All that man can hope to find

I am going to Shangri-la

South of God and north of men

West of every broken dream

East of those who hoped in them

 

Shangri-la, covered in snow

Dwelling there, the ageless Yeti

Older than the sons of men

Wiser than the stars are many

I am going to Shangri-la

Earth's last sign of heaven touch

Hidden from the eye of man

Kept outside of evil's watch

I am going to Shangri-la

Nature's lastborn wrapped in ice

Whitened by freedom from taint

Holy mountain paradise

I am going to Shangri-la

Far beyond the reach of time

Far above the grasp of fate

Webs spun of it's own design

 

Utopia will bring relief

Severing chains of desolation

Re-acquiantance with belief

By the aid of restoration

Let the past relent in chase

That the haunt of loss may cease

Gone sons, to a better place

Found wife, an eternal peace

 

Refuge be found in holy haven

Pain be lost on mystic land

Moved by change on tidal waters

As in castles made with sand

Shangri-la, a last resort

Sought by many, found by few

Hidden in the Himalayas

Shielded from external view

Shangri-la, paradise lost

Closed to all enslaved to vice

Seen by he whose need is most

Never found by one man twice

 

Shangri-la, the name brings warmth

Weathered face wrinkling to smile

I set on the road to rest

Which I know is marked with trial

Leaving all I know behind

That my pieces be made whole

I am going to Shangri-la

Peace to mind and ease to soul...


Long poem by William J. Jr. Atfield | Details |

Phantoms Women and Love

Phantoms

Phantoms, nightly steeds, flared nostrils all aflame 
with their steely hooves thundering on my brain, as they came, 
these apparitions shrouded in blackness, to carry me off, conscious, 
into the darkness, into the mystery of the subconscious, 
they came to light the fires within, and within my soul, 
to shed light upon the darkness, for me to see, to know 
just how far to go, just how far one can go, 
is what these phantoms, nightly steeds, want to show.

B. J. “A” 2
March 26th 2002

Women and Love

Even when it is lavished upon their fragile, fractured hearts, 
their desperately searching, lost souls, their buried spirits.
Some women - with sex – are reaching out for security, financial gain,
for some, it is playing a game, reaching for the ladder they see,
reaching for material things they can touch, some out of fear,
some for a future that will take them passed their past,
some out of anger for that past, some out of spite,
some for revenge upon the unknown, 
out from the subconscious, some, 
just for the passion. 
Many – I do Believe – by the hands of Mother Nature, 
from the pure essence of purely biological needs.
Many of the reasons for a woman making love, having sex, just ****ing
are buried deep within the psyche, the subconscious, of which, 
most no nothing about and likely never will understand the mystery.
For those who do know ?, understand ?, little or nothing will change !,
as does, with those who live in ignorant, blind, bliss, for the patterns
form a lifetime rut, most remain the same, habit, ritual the game.
And so, for the self-destructive, the destructive nature, they doth permeate  
the heart and soul,  permeating the very essence of every relationship,
regardless of how shallow or deep, how meaningless or meaningful.
And so, are the reasons for woman
( let us not exclude men from the analyses, the meaning, 
the understanding of human nature as stated above )
to be many colours of butterfly wings ?,
shades of gray ?, or be the blackness of the whole ?
That journey, for them, most of us will never know !,
for we, after all, are not but human beings, 
products of our life’s journey, our life’s experiences,
our nature and our nurturing, our life’s march
through history, times past, present and future.
In their passing, in the here and now, in what is to come ?,
some of us have been most privileged to have tasted pieces,
moments of it all, and understood, and in that,
have come to know some of what it is that makes a woman
come and go, as the seasons, seasons with reasons untold.
Sometimes, even if we ( men ) cannot understand, only see
the unreasonableness that fills the air, our eyes, our minds
and our thoughts, we still climb aboard that ride,
that roller coaster turmoil, that is laid before us.
Leaving the mental anguish, the emotional whirlpool behind,
letting the intellectual analysis go, in lieu of the purely physical, 
is where my thoughts now take me, with my experience, my words
that will bring this monolog to a logical conclusion
To have “ tasted the pieces ” !, what a journey !, for one’s mind,
even as one suffered the searing pains of being burned by the
flames of a troubled mind, yet to have tasted, to have felt 
– not in mind but in reality – the “ fire down below”,
what a thing to have experienced, to have come to know,
that electrifying heat from the flames down below,
as they galvanized one’s manhood, and in unison,
in harmony one’s manhood electrifies,
sets aflame the motherhood in her.

B. J. “A ” 2
March 27th 2002


Long poem by Suzette Richards | Details |

Et in Arcadia ego

Et in Arcadia ego                                               Even in Arcadia there am I [1]

'Wepyng and waylyng,                                      'Weeping and wailing,
     care and oother sorwe                                       care and other sorrow
I knowe ynogh, on even                                    I know enough, in the evening  
     and a-morwe,'	                                                 and the morning.'                                                                                            
Quod the Marchant, 'and so doon 	                  said the Merchant, 'and so does 
     oother mo                                                            many another
That wedded been.'					          who has been married.'[2]


Une femme parfaite[3]

      A perfect Woman, nobly planned,
          To warn, to comfort, and command;
      And yet a Spirit still, and bright
          With something of angelic light.[4]

From obscure origin appears,
a tranquillity not surpassed,
with only virtue in arrears.
Instructed and morals to last – 
admiration is thus fanned.
A perfect Woman, nobly planned.

Her arms are strong and she is fit,
her stamina unlimited,
not only work, but hearts to lift.
At her hearth you will be admitted,
welcome to man of blue blood strand – 
To warn, to comfort, and command.

Her tears she may hide from the world,
cruel in its assessment of her,
leaving her golden heart in the cold.
Her true value measured in myrrh.
Her ready smile to set things right
and yet a Spirit still, and bright.

Love, only arrow in her bow
to teach us the lessons of life
and that we shall reap what we sow.
Testimony to the perfect wife.
She inspires all to a new height
with something of angelic light.

**************************************************************

[1] An example of memento mori , a cautionary reminder of the transitory nature of life and the inevitability of death.
 "Bliss for medieval man was a heavenly not a worldly condition. When medieval poetry or painting looked at rural life, it was for something charming and simple, not a dream of perfection. Medieval man had to die to be happy." ~ Arcadia, by Adam Nicolson

[2] The Merchant's Prologue, by Geoffrey Chaucer. Chaucer was a Medieval poet and his Canterbury Tales [written chiefly in verse (from which this verse came - expressing man's view of women/wives in general)] was the first recorded document written in English still remaining - at that time the literate wrote chiefly in Latin. 

Languages used in medieval documents:

Three different languages were in use in England in the later medieval period – Middle English, Anglo-Norman (or French) and Latin. Authors made choices about which one to use, and often used more than one language in the same document. Eventually English emerged as the standard literary medium, but it was not until the eighteenth century that Latin disappeared from legal documents.

[3] A perfect woman

[4] Perfect Woman, by: William Wordsworth (1770-1850):- This is a record of the general view of a perfect woman/wife which existed at that time in history. Equality of the sexes did not exist: "To warn, to comfort, and command."

POETRY FORM: Glosa


Long poem by Robert Candler | Details |

The Doctor Is A Dead Man Walking

Bob had a special talent
That only worked in his men’s store.
He had ‘clothing ESP’.
He knew what his customers wanted…and more.

When customer would come into his store
Bob would invariably say, 
“Hello. I'm Bob. Don’t say a word.
I already know what you need today.”

And he was always right,
Never missed a color, fabric, style or size.
He even knew the necessary alterations.
Customers couldn’t believe their ears and eyes.

Meanwhile, in another part of town,
Joe had a pounding, relentless migraine
For every minute for more than five years,
It had driven him near insane.

He’d lost his job to the pain.
Then, he lost his wife.
He had lost a lot of weight and rarely slept.
Yes, his was a miserable life.

And, of course,  sex was out of the question…
Even a little self-abuse.
There was nothing left for Joe but pain.
He felt his life was of no use.

So, Joe went to his doctor.
“Doc, please help me end this pain.
Give me something to make me sleep
And never wake up again.”

“You know I can’t assist your suicide.”,
Then he looked sad, perhaps ashamed.
“I never dreamed it would last five years,
But I know how to end the pain.”

“You can make it go away?!
Tell me, Doc!  What’s the word?”
“I’ll have to remove your testicles.”
Was the last thing that Joe heard.

But…when he came to, it struck him.
Sex was out of the question anyway;
But he might enjoy his meals again,
And he could sleep for days.

“Please check me in, Doc.
This opportunity I cannot shirk.”
So, the doctor removed his testicles.
He did his very best work.

A few days later, Joe waddled along,
Headache free and feeling pretty nice;
But every attractive woman he saw 
Reminded him of his sacrifice.

He decided it was appropriate
To do something nice for himself for a change.
So, he went into a travel agency;
And a six month cruise he arranged.

As he left the travel agency,
He was excited, feeling ready to go;
But for such a glorious adventure,
He would need new clothes.

As he walked along, he saw Bob’s Men's Store.
He walked in, only to hear Bob say,
“Hello.  I’m Bob. Don’t say a word.
I already know what you need today.”

“How could you know?” asked Joe.
“It’s a gift.  I don’t know how, but I do.
You’ve suffered five years with an ailment,
Found relief, so now you’re taking a cruise.” 

Joe could not believe his ears.
How could this stranger possibly know?
"You're right! That's amazing!
And I'm going to need new clothes." 

Bob then laid out a fabulous wardrobe
All the right colors, fabrics, styles…and each size.
Joe was incredibly impressed.
He could hardly believe his ears and eyes.

“How do you like the wardrobe?”
“It’s wonderful!”  Bob could see that Joe was pleased.
“Now,” said Bob, “What about undergarments;
You know…shorts and tees?

Let’s see…medium crew neck tees, all cotton.
I believe that you prefer white….
And jockey shorts, all cotton…. 34s.
Yes, I'm sure that’s right.”

Joe beamed, “You’re an amazing talent
And I just this second realized,
You've laid out this entire wardrobe
And only missed one size.”

Bob, surprised by his mistake, asked, “Really?
What did I miss?  I did my best for you.”
“Well…you’re right.” said Joe, “I do wear Jockeys,
But…well…I wear 32s.

“Oh, no!” said Bob with an ugly grimace.
“That would be a serious mistake.
Thirty-twos would be too small, 
They would cramp your balls.
You’ll get migraine headaches.”


Long poem by Terry Trainor | Details |

Gone are the Gardens

After many years a man returned home to put to rest some very dark demons,
He left as a boy with hatred in his heart and an anger to match that hatred,
A wretched upbringing the spite from his family who hated him was so harsh,
What could a young boy have done to cause this bitterness the answer nothing.

One day very early the door closed behind him the young lad had made a decision,
He decided to leave that awful place and to make his way into the big wide world,
With experiences of his existence he understood nothing could be as bad as now,
With that thought he would not miss nor be missed, off went a lonely little boy.

Making his way it was hard but and he knew that there could be no turning back,
His father a vicious drunk would come home and blame him for his wretched poverty, 
His mother hated the boy she blamed him because he was the cause of this anguish,
His brother wanted him gone as he got scared he would receive the same treatment. 
 
As a man his mind now strong living so long with a monkey on his back he returns,
Walking the streets in town the place has changed a grey place of grim despair,
People he knows walk the same streets they have lines etched deep in their faces,
Etched lines are a calender of life's events of misery hard work and hard times.

Their clothes are clean but shabby why dress up when there is nobody to impress,
Shoulders rounded and heads down their lives are wasted they are nothing people,
Hard men from his youth are beaten and pathetic living on stories of yesterday, 
Years of drunken weekends and family abuse have clouded and poisoned simple minds  

How many years have these so called men drunkenly beat wives and their children,
Count the bruises made by the connubial fist through many many years of misery,
Remember the drops of blood that have flowed since the words 'I do' were said,
How many tears have been collected as trophies since a wedding day so long ago.

When these people were young and full of hope their life was rosy and scented,
There were stores of honey in their minds and a thousand acres of wild flowers,
As lovers they walked hand in hand along paths bright with a finesse of nature,
Look at them now how things have changed their garden is overgrown with weeds.

Once in a fountain of youth happy children chased after each other playing games,
The dancing spray fell on their flushed cheeks as it gushed in the warm sunshine,
It cast its silvery beads all around but now nobody listens to its rippling tunes,
And people have fallen away and crumbled beneath the tooth and finger of neglect.

Now all the flowers are drooping and faded no footprints walk the old path of youth,
They live in a freezing emotional wilderness growing tired of each other love gone,
Their houses are now gloomy and very unhappy it is hard to pretend this is not so,
No signs of any happiness no 'smile and be merry' as they have now stopped trying.

I am glad I returned to my roots where happiness was just a dream hate was reality,
Now I can close the heavy book I am satisfied that my leaving was the right decision,
The people I saw were ruined wasted people whose lives went where the rut took them,
I left and went back to my own life and like a ghost I faded from my own past forever.


Long Poems