Long poem by
David Furlong | Details |
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 | Year Posted 2015
Long poem by
Andres Rocha | Details |
"I agree," Bayard murmured while looking at the few people walking I across the street. Summer was over and the boy was beginning to get frustrated at the sight of girls wrapped in blankets of clothes.
"Bayard do you even know what I just said?" Lyel interrupted his brother's observations. "Could you at least pretend to care once in a while?"
"I heard what you said man, relax." He took the cup off of the table without bothering to turn his head. He sipped his coffee in the most nonchalant manner.
"I hope that caramel frapuchino is to your liking. It cost some people money you know."
Lyel turned his attention back to the small pile of papers sitting on the table, "Mhm how to end this chapter. Maybe I should end it with the girl confessing."
"Stop with your story for a while or two and take a look at the outside world. By the way don't forget to give that girl a body that makes the guys stare."
"No. See you weren't paying attention when I was telling you about my story. Women don't need bodies for a man to love them. Why do I even share my ideas with you?" Lyel placed the papers back inside a blue folder.
"Because you have no one else. Finish your coffee after all you paid for it. The coffee here is good after all."
"You almost did not want to come in here in the first place."
"That's because this place looks like crap from the outside."
"Anyways how was trick or treating with your friends yesterday?"
"Finally a topic that doesn't involve your lame romances. It was one of the best ones so far. We went to this neighborhood on the west side of the city. Bro you should have been there. Haha a whole neighborhood full of girls with sexy Halloween costumes. I couldn't decide wether the chick with the devil costume was better than the one with the cat costume. Man awesome night." Bayard placed his hands behind his head and laid back on the chair.
"What about the haunted houses? The candy?"
"There was this one house where there was a graveyard and zombies. This girl was too scared to go in it. So I told her I'll hold her. We all got good candy in that house."
"I hope you saved some candy for me too."
"I did. Some candy corn. I'm pretty sure you like it."
The waiter went to the brothers' table inquiring if they needed anything else. Lyel politely declined and thanked the waiter for his kindness. Breakfast was almost over and the scent of coffee was beginning to fade. There was only a few people in the shop. An old man lost in the swirling of his coffee and a young man sitting in the corner reading.
"So as I was saying. When I got home I ate some twix and kit kats, but then I found this box of chococate chips. Strange because this was the first time I received this box before."
"It must be only in that neighborhood."
"I opened it and at the top was a raisin. One raisin in a box of chocolate chips."
The sound of the bell on the front door rung more frequently as the hands on the clock tired in their endless cycle. Lyel's coffee no longer had steam. It was getting cold.
"What did you do with the raisin?"
"I threw it away and ate the chocolates. What else would I do with it? I was there for the chocolates."
"Eat the raisin. Why would you throw away a perfectly good raisin away?"
"No one choses the raisin over the chocolates man. Why would you? What if the raisin was poisoned?
"The raisin is ten times less likely to be poisoned than the chocolates since there are more brutes than intelligent people."
"Hey stop being a smart ass. Let's put this in real world terms alright. Let's say the chocolate chips are the hot girls in the devil and cat Halloween costumes. The raisin is some ugly chick in a chipmunk costume or something. Who would you chose?"
"The girl in the chipmunk costume. Looks have nothing to do with my decision."
"Bro are you serious? Even if you were insane that is a no-brainer."
"And that is exactly what is wrong with society. No brains. I'll pick the raisin over the chocolates any day and I'm sure I'm not the only one. Even if I was I'm not afraid to walk alone in my opinion."
"So what you are saying is that instead of a box of chocolates we should give a box of raisins on Valentine's day?"
"Maybe we should since people have forgotten what really matters."
The shop had more people now and people were beginning to stare at the two brothers arguing. Bayard noticed this and took the last sip of his coffee. He brushed his dark hair back and stood up. "Whatever I finished my coffee. Let's go."
Copyright © Andres Rocha | Year Posted 2015
Long poem by
Poetryof Providence | Details |
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 | Year Posted 2014
Long poem by
Rhonda Johnson-Saunders | Details |
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 | Year Posted 2015
Long poem by
Odin Roark | Details |
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.
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
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.
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 | Year Posted 2015
Long poem by
Vicki Acquah | Details |
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,
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
as a BIAS SLAVE,
To the self seeking lies forever.
We are truth,they lamented-
We are the wide and the narrow
THE good,THE bad,
The HAPPY, The SAD-
LIFE AND THE DEATH.
THE YEN AND THE YANG.
WE DO NOT CHANGE- ACCORDING TO
WHAT YOU BELIEVE-WE ARE A CONSTANT-
AND WE ARE also CHANGE.
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 | Year Posted 2014
Long poem by
Jesse James Forster | Details |
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 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 | Year Posted 2013
Long poem by
Quincy Mac | Details |
Flawless flamboyant meaningful words in written verse’s,
Never heard by nervous useless unproductive pawns within man made curse’s,
Drawn into ignorance, clueless and purposeless,
Powerless and can’t see this, sitting on the fence torn and withdrawn,
An existence lacking cognition, seen as a young child but not ever since,
Poor intellectual performance, a condition called cognitive dissonance,
You may never understand in your time and this is why,
Incapable of holding two beliefs at the same time in your mind,
My use of vocabulary, holds validity, like the words of a well-loved Maori Chief Warrior,
A far away Eden but no atoms to create physical form,
Read everything I write, I’m coming like a thief, in the middle of the night,
Unexpected, undetected, undeniably my rhymes bring pure insight,
Bringing true light uniquely and usefully right now as I take lyrical flight,
Fearing nothing man made and conceptual,
Fear brings trouble and makes you ill,
A mindful sightseer ultimately authentic,
So much truth I get from playing with words,
They come to disturb, to divide, so decide, take a side,
Incomprehensible lines to those who are blind,
You’re not ready for this life changing ride,
Collide, stop being unkind, controversial perceived ideas, do you even ask yourself why?
Received but rarely discussed openly, outrageously showing a display of no respect,
This is filthy, but still it prospers within society’s collective state, which irritates me,
Repetitive actions lacking intellectual abilities, so you don’t understand this,
Dismiss and think you know? Instead you twist it, can’t understand it,
You fitfully have wisdom, but when you do, ignorant over thinking is what you do! Isn’t this true?
Living in sin asking questions like Hopsin, majority of people unconsciously living,
So humans can’t answer them, so I’m on my own, strategy in this truth movement,
Does everything really lead to Rome? Feeling good and in the zone,
I’ll never be a simpleton clone, get out your binoculars,
You’re all frozen and Am I the last man standing?
Blowing mind’s ruthlessly, your hopelessly in psychological denial, I’ll defile you, consciously,
You can’t even see, I’m the calm before the storm, divine energy in human form,
Right from the start, smart with skills of semantics,
Quick thinkable quintessential schema, cautious like an old school gangsta,
Thank you, I send it out from inside where I reside,
Beside me is wisdom, caution is also needed and it’s awesome,
Your thoughts! Sort them! Be intellectually prepared,
This has been documented and said, a revolution of mass magnitude,
Be balanced and don’t change your mood, let’s wind this up so I can conclude,
Wake up, stop ignoring your inner self, that’s the lowest level of rude!!
Copyright © Quincy Mac | Year Posted 2015
Long poem by
Mark Goodson | Details |
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 | Year Posted 2012
Long poem by
Su Ben | Details |
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 | Year Posted 2015