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Long Metaphor Poems | Long Metaphor Poetry

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Long Poems
Long poem by David Furlong | Details |

The Frog Prince - Part 1

A funny frog called Mr Snog,
once lived beside a slimy bog,
he was a most peculiar fellow,
his hat was red, his boots were yellow,
his waistcoat was an olive green,
the strangest sight you’ve ever seen,
no matter where you’ve lived or been.      

This self-same frog, called Mr Snog
had woes of every catalogue.
To move forward he hopped backward,
making life extremely awkward.
His funny face with fretful frown
made him such a comic clown,
for his whole world was upside down.

Now once the frog, named Mr Snog,				
who lived beside the slimy bog,
had been a very different fellow,			
his boots then red, his hat was yellow.
A handsome prince of some renown,
upon his head a golden crown,
and nothing then was upside down.

For then his name, was not the same,
around his realm they would proclaim;
‘He is the bold, the great Prince Gons,		
whose fame is sung in many songs.’
In everything he did excel,
gallant, witty, brave as well,
until misfortune him befell.

Alas to say, in early May,
a witch had happened by his way.
She really was a hideous hag,
and nasty things were in her bag.
An eye of newt, a puppy’s tail,
six slimy slugs and half a snail,
some grizzly bits to make you quail.

Prince Gons had rode from his abode,			
to find this witch had blocked his road,		
‘Out of my way you wretched bag,
out of my way you ugly hag.
I am the bold, the great Prince Gons,		
whose fame is sung in many songs,
to whom this land around belongs.’		

With such disdain he did proclaim,
the exalted nature of his name!
He stared, he glared, he leered and peered,
upon that witch that looked so weird,
‘Out of my way, or you’ll pay dear.’
Yet not one word did cause her fear,
for being deaf, she could not hear.

But from his look she umbrage took,
and so that witch resolved to cook,
within her pot a fiendish brew,
to teach that prince a thing or two.
And setting out to cast a spell,
by calling demons out of hell,
she brewed a stew - with ghastly smell.

This stew she threw – it didn’t miss! –
all over Gons. Then with a kiss,
upon his face - oh what a joke -
she vanished in a puff of smoke!
Gons then had a nasty feeling,				
round and round the sky was wheeling,
sending all his senses reeling.

When he awoke, this self-same bloke,
could only make a feeble croak.
And to his horror he now found,
that everything had turned around,
shrunk to a frog, whose name was Snog,
who sat bemused within a bog,				
with woes of every catalogue.

Within this bog, there was a log,
and on this log, sat Mr Snog,
gazing mournfully at the sky,
eyeing all that passed him by.
From time to time he’d try to speak,
with feeble croak, so sad, so weak,
his life just then was really bleak.

When meaning ‘Yes’ - as you might guess -
was not the word he did express. 		
Instead of ‘Yes’, he would croak ‘No!’
All were confused and all said so,			
but if, perhaps, you knew him better,			
you could substitute each letter,
and then it really wouldn’t matter.

Moving backward, never forward,
made his life extremely awkward.
Now who could help him, who could tell
him, how to break that witch's spell?
He flopped around within the mire,
never growing one inch higher,
until a meeting did transpire.

One sunny day in early May,
a princess chanced to pass that way,
her hair was gold, her figure neat,
she walked upon such dainty feet.
that now squelched in the murky mire,
nearly ruining her attire,
her situation was quite dire.

Just for a laugh, she'd left the path,
to cut her journey quite in half,
she was sure it would be quicker,
she was sure that she was slicker,
than her nasty little brother,
who’d said, ‘Race you home to mother.’
-	How they hated one another!

While she was stuck within the muck,
bemoaning all her rotten luck,
She then perceived this curious fellow,		
whose hat was red and boots were yellow,
it was our hero Mr Snog,
every inch a funny frog,
sitting gormless on a log.

‘Help, help,’ she cried . ‘I'm terrified
I’m really lost, I need a guide,
to take me from this murky mire,
that's totally ruined my attire.
Please help me now. I'm sure you know,
how from this place, the way to go.’
But Snog, when meaning ‘Yes’, croaked ‘No!’.

She was confused, she was bemused,
that this odd creature had refused,
to help her in her hour of need.
'What can I say, how shall I plead?'
She pondered so, then filled with woe,			
wept, ‘Won’t you show the way to go?’
But Snog, whilst thinking ‘Yes’, croaked ‘No!’

‘I implore you, I'll adore you,
something, anything I’ll do for you.			
just name your price, I know the king,
he’ll give you almost everything.			
Oh please don't leave me in distress,
oh please don't leave me in this mess.’
Alas, our hero just croaked, ‘Yes!’

First she shivered, then she quivered,
then finally, she grew quite livid.
She screamed at this outrageous fellow,
whose hat was red and boots were yellow,
‘You are the most obnoxious frog,
to leave me helpless in this bog,
to wander aimless in the fog.’

Then on a whim, she grabbed a limb,
with all her strength she hurtled him,
high into the silvery sky,
wondering if this frog might fly.
But as she flipped him, her foot tripped,		
upon her back our princess tipped,
into the slimy mire she slipped.

Our hero, Snog, was quite agog,
for being airborne, for a frog,
was a most extraordinary feeling,
sending all his senses reeling.
The sky and earth became a blur;
falling now he did not miss her,
landing on her open kisser!

Now, as she fell, she’d given a yell,
which helped to break that witch's spell.
For when she kissed the hapless Snog,		
it changed him back from being a frog,
and to a prince he now returned,
who sat there looking unconcerned.
whilst in the slimy mire she squirmed.

Copyright © David Furlong

Long poem by Poetryof Providence | Details |

Conflicted or star crossed lovers

Not a day goes by I don't think of you
you have permeated my fortress and walk freely in all its rooms
(examining it's furnishings)
how did I allow you entry without the
usual search scan and seizure ?
I'ts like a foreign substance and all
my antibodies are seeking to eradicate
your presence (anti-christs)
My mind and heart find your entrance exhilarating 
like ecstasy ( a neurologically happy drug ,
which by the way I've never imbibed in but the
other one I'm only slightly familiar with)
My body wants to throw you off like some
intruder to the death it lies in bondaged slavery of.
I finally understand the WAR.
I want to isolate this substance and imbibe at will
or as often as I desire.
There's no corner on the market for this substance,
you can only get this by freely accepting it as your 
own life blood , the loss of which kills us , but it's
flow is what keeps us alive.
I desire to lay in it's bliss
like basking in a warm sun's rays
unfortunately I burn easily , so I usually limit 
my exposure to substances I feel may do me damage.
But OH , HOW GOOD this FEELS , as though I should
have been born to this naturally .
But NO , love is not the natural substance of the world
in it's battlements and fortresses erected by men and
so thoroughly indoctrinated into his very being .
I just want to bottle this and share it with everyone.
But everyone "knows" every really really great substance
wears off and kicking the habit is way way painful .
But I want to suck this up and live in it , to have the heat
of it never dim , until it is an all consuming fire that lights
everything in it's sphere . Yes LOVE JUNKIE , child of God
a shameless addict to truth about the paths people choose
to "lose" themselves on . 
I've been like a bloodhound sniffing out every trail looking
for this substance the one that transforms you into fully
brilliantly vibrantly alive , and to roll in it until every fiber
of my being is saturated with it's fragrance.
The factory that manufactures this is built within , 
and I want unlimited access  , but my own body has
set up perimeters and walls to fence off my full access 
to my own God given life source ..(the curse)
You can only have full admittance when you can use
it's power to give life and not destroy others , to be 
able to manage it usefully for the benefit of all.
But I'm a natural indulgent in what feels good , 
substances always on the intake , seeking to have a 
balm that shields me from being abused or seeing 
my own abuses of Life. My ability to utilize a substance
so powerful is limited by my training , my will and my
exposure to everything that seeks to sell it on the open
market like a thrill seeker , or cheap whore who can be
had for a bouquet and dinner , which is quickly consumed
in one night and disappears tomorrow . Nothing that the
world offers can even slightly imitate the magnitude and 
power residing where Love dwells . When you've been 
allowed to taste its manna , the desire for a plateful
is now not even enough but the drive to constant partaking
of its presence is now an all consuming fire and I am 
driven to sign up for the lifetime plan . For better is a life
that feeds on love daily , than to choke and suffocate on
the bowls of hatred served up daily in the worlds menu.
I have relished the view from opposite sides of the room ,
when you're ready  for the permanent plan you will 
have to crossover to the other side . I know you read me,
like the good book , and when you understand you can
hide it from the world , but not from me , or yourself .
We want full access to the wellspring of life and love , I'm
willing to share the source , but it's a limited partnership (MLP)
on a lifetime plan , but it's riches are infinite and can only
be provided by the source. If you're willing to crossover , 
I'll allow you re-entry and full access ... Love  

COPYRIGHT © 2013 C Michael Miller
via Duboff Law Group LLC

Copyright © Poetryof Providence

Long poem by Rhonda Johnson-Saunders | Details |

Out of Control

I spin, faster and faster… losing control, I am a propeller rising. Once, you were my mystery to solve – my challenge, my highest vista to climb. You lifted me to your private skies. Spread out before me on red-winged flights, eradicated stars came back to life, painted iridescent by your own two hands. What could only be crayoned by inferior men. All aglow, the universe circled my head - round and round till the dizziness came, infatuation only to blame. I spin…slower, rhythmic, scraping. I am a pinwheel on softest breeze. memories come…memories go. With a crystal crown of constellations, you adorned my flowing hair – locks spun golden, locks I loosened for you. I became a glowing body for you to orbit, a fiery flood of sunlight traveling, Venus gifted in violet dusk, auroras of ribbon braided… I spin…slanting, lower, on tip-toes. I am a ballerina with an audience of one. I watched you watch me in light of all things. I wanted to be center of your universe… rings of Saturn encircled you and I. Mercury’s fire blazed through what was us. Blue-silver splattered moons orbited our sleep. I kissed the moon rock I named after you. I kissed you and only you until dawn slipped between the warmth of our linen sheets. I caught you in my arms time after time, clouds dappled with your eyes floated by… doting, they released scintillating showers upon a wilting flower. When it was time for you to catch me, you were gone…taking with you part of me. I fell hard…back to earth, stained crimson, star-struck. Forever is a long time to chase shooting stars through echoing space. I trusted you, trusted only you, trusted you with me. I rusted, no protection from your harsh elements. We all come back to reality of a spinning earth… we rise or fall, move or hide, heed the call or lie. We come to the self-sharpened point of swim or die. Time rushes by… I sat next to you, held your hand, feeling like my own miraculous sky, regaining my identity… while you read Hemingway, a man’s man you’d say. I spoke of the poem I wrote for you another day. “Yeah, yeah…Aha”, you whispered…my words dismissed, a foreign language never understood. Space and time altered our skies; below, your lies became our demise. Our footprints disappeared before my eyes. In my own miraculous sky, I have slowed my pace, aware of my mistakes, my fear, my grace. I embrace beauty, peace, tears I've cried, the ride… Dawn came early this new day, I drove away, weaved around a pothole, almost crashed. The gravel road rattled my faith. I started to spin again…disoriented, I faltered, but I never turned back. I wonder if I avoided my own catastrophe, saved face, or a little of both… I remember how I asked you about the meaning of love. You turned away, reading Williams that day, madness and genius you’d say, I planted my feet, met your eyes, then marched away. Head held high, you dimmed under a starlit sky. I searched myself and found the brightest star… it led me home. Now, I brush my fingers lightly across a constellation on high… Pegasus, I think. Only to realize, it’s reflection mottles in a rippling puddle below... beauty awakened by my grounded feet. Rhonda Johnson-Saunders, 4/11/15

Copyright © Rhonda Johnson-Saunders

Long poem by Odin Roark | Details |

Walking Meditation

Walking Meditation
                    by Odin Roark

“And I thought marriage was hard.”

Taking Meditation for a walk
nags me with why I’m such a failure at this.
It knows what I go through every morning.

I sit, cross my legs (kill myself with that lotus thing)
breathe deep, listen to my breath, et al.,
while all I hear is the traffic beyond the walls.
With eyes closed, all I see are
re-runs and first-runs, trailers, montages, full lengths,
pictures I can’t fade out.


We walk,
Meditation and I.

I’m so bad at imagining anything, you know?
Distraction always finds me.
Like the mangy mutt from the brownstone
across the way.  Not satisfied with just relieving
himself under a spindly tree, or on the
block’s fire hydrant.  No, he strides up beside me,
insisting with a obnoxious whimper, he’ll keep
me company.

Usually, a nameless dumpster-cat finally
gets his attention, and off he chases.
Every morning.  Same alley opening.

Not far ahead, panhandlers take up their craft.
Cardboard signs for begging,
or extended empty cup,
topped with the phony eyes
of an Academy Award winner.

Meditation gives me its elbow, and we proceed.
It knows the real test of concentration is the bakery.
This is a storefront that should be banned.  Bagels.
Not just any kind of bagels, the best.  That aroma
alerts the nose and the eyes just give up.  The ears capitulate.
and I hear nothing.  My eyes see nothing.  And for a moment,
just a moment, there is the sublime “nothingness” of
Meditation’s mission.  But only for a moment.
My stomach growls its usual curse of hunger, and…

I trudge on to the flower box.
I’m blocks away from home now
and always stop in front of it.
Safely wedged between the window bars and the glass,
its lone flower, always in bloom, winks.
An all-season survivor (most likely rescued
from a Chinese restaurant table)
its faded plastic leaves and pink petals
soaks up the new life of fresh air, sunlight
and pedestrian smiles. No one passes
this window box without stopping
and staring.  If you’re lucky, you'll arrive
just as the elderly lady, the mistress of
the one-room flat, raises the window
and gives the singular flower a drink,
usually the melted ice of her early
morning wake-up highball.

My doctor thinks these walks with Meditation
are good for me, but my other walking buddy,
Conscience, who inevitably tags along,
knows I’m a fraud.  I can’t do introspection justice,
back there, or on the sidewalk.  I can barely
make real these walks, let alone be of
any encouragement to my wannabe helpful buddy.

I’m a hopeless failure in making friends
with anything, except sleeping, and even
that relationship is starting to piss me off.
Takes up way too much time now, always 
wanting my devotion, which I willingly give. 

It’s just…

Well, there comes a time when job, marriage,
kids, you know the drill, the whole calamity
that demands an even more special attention.


Conscience says I should not give up on Meditation.
Back there, I mean.  Back in the padded cell
they gave me.  The place I never leave
except for these walks that seem to go nowhere.

Copyright © Odin Roark

Long poem by Louis Borgo | Details |

Falling in love

If the Heart of the Ocean Was a part of the mind where in time would I have to state original place of Time, it would be where ever UR, hold the picture hold the stare were going in, and Our love on top, tick top Rewind the clock, I think I found the time to place you first is it a crime to love. Without affect tall tales Will it stand the test of time, however bottom line no miss of a miss carrier lost one not two finest of art May it carrier us through time. Of happiness that of “Virtual woman” was detect as a child words carrier Barriers true tell of time I ask one question may I carrier on? My earth my shadow my wind I carry you pass all that is fear Why be hasted, blink and words may take you to a place the heavies of barrens of tastes, of word take Witness, take place love is not words to throw a round it is a key a key of just not a untangle able Material How can I put it “Untitled” be best way to describe it. I let you give name for the part depart or conscious mind, I say why do sailor never wave but Write pages a pound pages, of a voyage that seem to never end, can you say you witness first love, and It’s essence if man is to teach a woman how love is cycle continue have we reach glorification or perhaps Perfection Of romance, that develop from the hardness and “Heart of the matter” did a diamond appear? I let the ink run off the page can you tell them that dear? In the most chaos situation from darkness of abysses how chaotic is it that a diamond in the ruff could Appear “Songs of heaven a prayer” for today Perhaps even the Four Horsemen surely I plaque they mean no Harm just that of lost souls search for Athenian of Sophias they once seek and in a since everyone fall in Love, sometime hints from up above who would denied true love witness true birth I say to the “Moon Said to the Sun” uplifted such a burton do you feel such thunder let it rumple. My earth my shadow my wind I carry you pass all that is fear Hearts of kingdoms, of kingdom hearts, let it feather, spirit it away of spirits do you feel the rush Atomic fever stamp this as love, can you say you know why the cage birds cry, I’m cry out sign seal and Deliver, As a man are you too proud to beg, or is to complication to speak those words, I take a Leap Of Faith but please don’t crucified me as a man I stand at the end of the day, what hopefully will stand Is Our love and May it stands the test of time. My earth my shadow my wind I carry you pass all that is fear If love was a direction the path I take is straight ahead, no mountain no heath of a battle no under taken Unyeath, of an enemy may I stand firm, a “firm believer” I am of man, and of the word of god he did not Make man a fearful person, have you ever heard such a battle cry, I dare not share such pain with Anyone the reason why I let my pen reap the pain, of this page why at the end of the day I ask if it is ok For a man to shade a tear is the pain that real? Then “when is real real enough” To know the difference Of “Rain and Water” is to how deep the voyage. I say when you can admit all wrongs You Have Falling in love

Copyright © Louis Borgo

Long poem by Vicki Acquah | Details |

When Truth Came A Calling

There's A knock on my door,
 I ask "who is there". ?
Standing there are five faces. . 
They answer" IN UNISON "Truth"
I ask" Why the disguise"...?
It is I,"Truth" they all refrain.
How will I know which one of
you is to cross my threshold,
Let us all in and you will
figure it out in the end.
"No" I shouted I will never-
I will dismiss the one in
front he is much too "Clever".
Now there are four. Who shall I leave
to come through my door.
The next one began to explain,
every reason he should entrance gain,
a very convincing argument, I exclaimed,
"Go away you are nothing but" Rhetoric";
Everyone knows that the truth is Plain.
Now standing there in
front of my door left three,
The next one to speak
was beautiful, and very sexy...
"let me in, and I will prove I am truth.
You knew my mother her name was Ruth".
No! -You cannot lure me with sex
I read the story of your mother
and interpreted well.
If you do not leave my
door I will surely get vexed.
Now that I sent all but two away,
It was easier to tell ,
Who was left to welcome in..
Which of these two should enter my abode?
I had to ponder as to What truth really meant.
Was it something to be applied like a first aid kit.?
Is it true, that the truth is
sometimes ugly, and always plain?
Will the truth set you free after the pain.  
I pondered some more and let them both in.
One was life and one was death-
One was yen and one was yang.  
Truth number one started to speak, He said:
"No" The truth is not always in plain sight
Sometimes you have to search for it !
And:"Yes", The truth
can be ugly at times,
but you were right;
Real truth never wears a disguise. 
Some truth is Imagined and
real truth's are universal
Depends on the mindset of the
thinker. What he perceives to be real-
has had many rehearsals;
As his thoughts have been trained -
as to what he see's, knows and feels.
The truth is not convoluted,
nor contrived,and 
you will always KNOW
more than you think you do;
When the truth arrives.
When you enjoy the lies, 
and the rhetoric,
It's because the lies 
you believe, benefit you, 
Though PREJUDICE eyes
can barely RECOGNIZE
the TRUTH again ever.

And so you will remain 
To the self seeking lies forever.
We are truth,they lamented-
We are the wide and the narrow 
THE good,THE bad,
There was a knock on my door--
Someone had come,
disguised as one of truth's
Somehow he has come
to blame the innocent victims.
I prayed for my secret 
eye to be opened,
and my judgement 
to be discerning.

Because the truth, 
as it seems, I am learning.
Is subject to Interpretation.
And before "Truth" 
left my home, I was told.  
Man cannot reason out, that
which he does not understand-

If he thinks he understands the proof
but calls upon no spirit to discern -
He alone, is unable to interpret the truth

Copyright © Vicki Acquah

Long poem by Jesse James Forster | Details |

The Aswang Fable

Day quickly fades into a fearful silent night
Frightful because within the darkness evil comes to life
Abomination that became legend as legend became myth
The Aswang
The wicked epitome of sin
Beautiful by day but a shapeshifting demon in disguise
It has a long disgusting tongue with unspeakable desires
Blood thirsty creatures eating unborn babies in the womb
Fangs that'll transform people into dead flesh eating ghouls
Severing her body from her legs so it can fly
On serpent angel wings preying on its next victim to die
Bayani took his pregnant wife Amor to the hospital for becoming sick
A three day journey from their mountain village will now begin
Theyll travel through the valleys seeking shelter as they go
Amor wearing garlic on her belly protecting her babies soul 
Traveling through jungle & deserted roads along the shore
Knowing when they hear a dreadful cry theyre not alone
With every step they take they abhor the falling moon
Something once so beautiful is now impending doom
By dusk they came upon a village but every door was closed
Desperation in their voice they scream for help with little hope
Dismay dripping from their skin so the demon could smell their fear
Before they heard the dreadful cry the Aswang did appear
In horror they banged on every door pleading for some help
But no one gave relief having their own to protect from hell
Bayani remembered legend perhaps there is a way we can survive 
Destroy her legs before she reattached her upper body in morning rise
A task that may be difficult because the lower half they have to find
Before they made a move she swooped down with her evil yellow eyes
She grabbed Amor by her throat as Bayani pled for her life
Please let my wife and baby go and in return you can have mine
She said a lovely gesture but be patient youre the next to die
With a evil grin she slit her throat and consumed their unborn baby still inside
Falling to his knees with a broken heart he asked her why
She said I have no compassion or reason and let me tell you why

"Im the first Aswang of this village
A maiden by the day
Im the reflection of their darkness and their evil ways
Desires that cannot be spoken
A blackened heart equally broken
Habits that are disgusting
I am made of nothing
I am the mirror they will never face
The fear that keeps them all awake 
But the truth is much more powerful
I am the face behind their faith
The contradiction of forgiveness 
For every time you kneel and pray
Im the fear that keeps the children crying and afraid
It started with a lie
Then desires to reach the sky
Which resulted into sadness 
but with a deeper understanding why
Sad because I can see the darkness they themselves alone hav caused
Many more will be like me and many already lost
Failed secrets buried forever
And I will be like them
I am also you 
If you wear the wickedness of all your sins"

Copyright © Jesse James Forster

Long poem by Mark Goodson | Details |

Treasure of My Heart

Yamaha impressed me the first time I laid eyes on her glistening blond maple wood, her stylish body details, her long fretted mother-of-pearl inlay; lobed with golden keys. Her voice called to me the first time I held her in my arms. I strummed her six strings slowly in the key of G, then moved softly to D and C. All the while, I searched earnestly for her purity in sound quality and style. She was not the most beautiful in the showroom. But oh yes! She did flatter me with her musical presence. She was beautiful to me! I knew from that moment on she would be mine for eternity. 

Within the hour, I took her home to meet the family. She was shy on the journey, not making a sound; perhaps due to this being her first automobile ride or simply wanting to see a world she was now a part of. Yamaha was cased in alligator leather, a brown dressing which was stylish for the day. We were both nervous as we arrived and got out of the car. My strong caressing grip on her handle assured her she wouldn’t fall and it would be alright. She knew it would be alright as I smiled at her. 

I opened the door, allowing her to enter first. When in the living room, I called to everyone to come meet the newest member of the family. Dad was taken by her simple yet elegant beauty and style. Mom touched her first and she was most pleased. At that moment I realized the importance of first impressions as Mom marveled at how pretty she was. I sat down in the best chair in the living room while Mom listed to Yamaha talk and I sang a popular country love song.  I was pleased with the family acquaintance to Yamaha. It was evident she had become a part of the family.

 The first few weeks, I couldn’t keep Yamaha out of my arms. I longed to be with her every minute of the day. In my eye, she made me smile by just gazing upon her. I fumbled with her in those beginning days. She ignored my elementary attempts at refinery and permitted me the time to catch up to her mastery rather than bow down to my level. Like any two lovers, both must reach to the need of the other. Only then is love truly in harmony. 

Today, Yamaha is not the young glistening blond I held in my arms some thirty years removed. Her wood has been scared by my love to play her. She has received countless face lifts which cover her tainted mother-of-pearl. Her brown leather case dress stands in need of a seamstress care. But as with all things having been learned through love, we now make beautiful music together. She is my treasure, a light into my soul's well. She amplifies my inner being. As I perform, she is glorified. We have grown old together,and gotten better in time. I still hold her in my arms day by day as this lover has risen to her grace and expectations. She is my treasure for a life time.

Copyright © Mark Goodson

Long poem by Su Ben | Details |

A Frog

A Frog

Frog, what did he do wrong?
He was run over by a car, dead.

Long and bitter cold winter months
he was hiding in a cave, frozen,
did not move like a rock. 

When the earth began yawning
the icicle from the ceiling started to melt 
and as its weight grows, the water drip, drip, drips
wetting his head thawing his stiff body.

As the drops of water accumulate
it becomes a little pool that allows 
the frog to submerge his body in the water.
As he is immersed in the water his skin begins to soften
and his body becomes flexible; he exhales the hard wintery 
solid air effortlessly and inhales the floating spring breeze lightly, 
and as he begins to breathe freely his heart starts to beat. 

The heart-beat brings him back to life,
and as the number of heart-beats increase
his reason for life becomes more meaningful and obvious,

life is not a one-time deal strait-lined horizon but a circle 
that is to convey the genes from one generation to the next 
for the betterment of new lives. He opened a history book 
and found that he is one of the successors who won the theory 
of natural selection and survived through the harsh winter.
The history book enlightened him, his family genealogical
record tells him that he came from the pond in the lower land 
at the foot of this mountain; his father was eaten by a snake and
his mother was swallowed by a stork.

His desire to see the pond becomes his obsession, 
his eagerness to pass his genes to his offspring becomes intense,
and that’s why he became a hypnotized that moves only by a sexual 
urge, he becomes a slave of carnal desire and goes after a mate blindly.

He jumped out of the pool and started to jump and leap 
for the lower land where the pond is, but a well-maintained wide road 
which was not mentioned in a map of the history book lay before him 
to cross; he hopped into the paved road anyway, 
at that moment, to quench his inflaming carnal desire, 
clouds gathered and covered the sky, then, 
a torrential rains started to pour,  

simultaneously a car—he never saw before or heard of, 
dashed through like a thunderbolt; alas, he was run over by the car.

What did he do wrong? His only desire was to be
carried on a she-frog’s back in the pond to sow his seeds.

All the body-fluids from his broken body also gushed out
and the sperm, which drove him into the flame of lust, 
was mixed in this fluid as well; 
the rain water carried semen downward with all his other body-fluids.

Some of them became the flowers that after flowed into the pond,
while others became the ripples in the pond that will diminish one day
pacing the surface of the water like an annoying tinnitus. 


Copyright © Su Ben

Long poem by Yorn Called | Details |

Cadogan Place

On this side of the inferno,
A cool breeze gently tugs the sleeves,
Of the man whose plan is to seize,
Just enough children hands to die,
Before the rot of paradox,
Sets in to make him lonely again.

His idea is to take a metaphor,
(Which is not quite a living thing
But still something you’d be best off
Keeping an eye on, so to speak),
Distill its essence in vapor,
Inhale, and, if all goes well, fly.

Looking down at Cadogan Place,
A lost poodle looks left and right,
Searching for his lady of fate,
A woman of some pedigree,
Whose appointment with the doctor,
Should have come before the bridge.

It was not a long war, exactly,
The casualties were kept low,
So as to keep things kind of fair,
The armies fought against the words,
By which means it was a real war,
In her head that is, before she jumped.

A man, with a broken wheelbarrow,
Full of gall and grinning onions,
Stood on toe searching the night light,
For the coming nocturnal gift,
Showers filled with resentment,
Enough by George to make him rich.

The flying man grinned and waved,
A dream much more than good or bad,
Beyond the English din of facts,
Horizons paved by German rats,
Lay a frontier, the final font,
Where little magic verbs chanted.

Like the zipless art of friction,
A new slang fell upon the land,
The man on the ground pointed down,
His boots heavy with laughter’s sound,
Making his rounds by selling nouns,
Penny magazines for the poor.

If living was only to be,
Sick for most of eternity,
The parlor lady almost drowned,
Might just have counted her blessings,
For when truth gets told by owls old,
Dying deals just another blow.

When she got back from near defeat,
The water of fire, air, and earth fell,
Like a hundred thousand thoughts,
From her shoulders in one big swell,
Soothing not just the ache in her heart,
But healing poetry’s lost art.

Be not deceived when fiction flies,
For it takes two ones to make a third;
The tears of lies flow down a stream,
To where a receptacle awaits,
A tiny grail called the ocean,
Which opens its mouth and cries. 

Artists, saints and philosophers,
The proverbial trinity,
All in it from go to finish,
To make laws out of points of view,
From flaws so fake and sick to see,
As to shame the sun into tears.

Thrice removed from the heart of life,
Sat a man in a pyramid, 
Holding a timepiece to his chest,
Geometry’s essence for rest,
The wet kiss of life fleeting fast,
He forgot why lips were therefore.

The noise of all the busy streets,
Starvation teasing Burden’s ass,
Words by numbers laughing loud,
The Stone, the Rock and all the crowd,
All crushed by the turn of a crank,
While exploding stars meant nothing.

Copyright © Yorn Called

Long Poems