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absence abuse
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books boyfriend
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cheer up chicago
child childhood
children chocolate
christian christmas
cinderella city
class clothes
color community
computer conflict
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cousin cowboy
crazy creation
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day death
death of a friend december
dedication deep
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graduate graduation
grandchild granddaughter
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grave green
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growth guitar
hair halloween
happiness happy
happy birthday hate
health heart
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heaven hello
hero high school
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horror horse
house how i feel
howl humor
humorous hurt
husband hyperbole
i love you i miss you
identity image
imagery imagination
immigration innocence
insect inspiration
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ireland irony
islamic january
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light little sister
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love hurts lust
lyric magic
malayalam marathi
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me memorial day
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miss you missing
missing you mom
money moon
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mother daughter mothers day
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music my child
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name native american
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Long Miracle Poems | Long Miracle Poetry

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Long poem by Carol Eastman | Details |

That Spark of Hope

A little girl lost her home this year, for her, Christmas wouldn't be there.
Her family was angry from all the troubles, they simply couldn't repair.
Don’t bother us about presents her parents said, they were depressed by their fate.
With bitterness they said, you’d be lucky to have dinner tonight, or even a plate.
Life was harsh, nowhere to go, anger and fear had put their souls, in a terrible place.
The little girl had found no hope or joy, lurking near their old car, of late.
The car was their home, gas money was scarce, and with few places they could park.
Yes, their troubles had slowly extinguished, that precious hopeful spark.
Without that spark, they’d never find their way, from this terrible place of cold and dark.
And life’s darkness grew deeper nightly, as hope vanished under a reality so stark.
Even the very fiber of her family, seemed to be shattering slowly, slowly, apart.
The child felt alone here in this dark car, as sadness tried to engulf her little girls heart.
The future seemed filled with hopelessness, as shame and dread, were leaving their mark.
Embarrassment to be seen and turned away, made it hard for them to reach out, to restart.
But life goes on, and we can’t fear to rebuild, or the future will be hard to impart.
The girl suddenly declared there’s more to life, and she wouldn't let it conquer her heart.
She decided triumphs will come, and all will get better, if she held to that hopeful spark.
Seeing the desolation and anger here, she couldn't stay around, she had to get away…
So she climbed out of the car, and she walked into town, not so very far to stray.
She went and looked at the store windows, where Christmas was being displayed.
The music and people filled her heart, lifting her spirits, deep inside, that day.
She noticed a store, way down at the end of the row, on the next block, where it lay.
No one was there, it seemed lonely, and the darkness was again, spreading it’s decay.
She ran there in time to see an old man closing up, with sadness on his face betrayed.
What use were his goods, if no one would shop, or come down along his way?
The super store down the block, was daily making him lose more and more in the fray.
He could no longer afford to hire people, and the season had very little time, to stay.
As they talked the girl saw that she couldn't let the darkness take another, so she prayed.
Then she told the old man, if he’d open the shop, she’d bring customers down his way.
She added, she’d find reasonable workers, if her family could live upstairs, she portrayed.
First bring the customers, he said, and the rest will be yours little friend, he conveyed.
She had him put his best toys, as a contest prize, and to add lots of lights on the display.
He set a contest, “Winners-the best collectors for families in need” on Christmas Eve.
He put out a bright contest sign, but still nobody came to his end of the block, to survey.
So she had him call the Salvation Army, for a kettle, Bell ringer, and Carolers, who came 
Lickety split, their way.
Then she had him call a dear old friend, and farmer, to bring a tractor full of bails of hay.
Another volunteered his horse and sleigh, both, to see the city lights thru New Years Day.
This was a great idea, since the older drivers, could use the help, for their bills to pay.
The girl ran all over spreading the excitement, and to come see the prizes, his way.
The families suddenly started heading toward his door, and to those wondrous rides.
At that moment her parents came, and she explained what her hope, had improvised.
Her father talked a contractor into building a disabled family a home, to help advertise.
He could get a tax break; come to this store for supplies, and hire unemployed workers, he devised, so wise.
In the end, each night grew brighter, because of a girls hope, and heart-warming delight.
And the old man began smiling for the first time, in a long, long, time, starting that night.
All was saved, a home was found, and another built, as a sad little girl taught grownups to smile along the way… 
You might say, A Spark of Hope lit a candle, then a raging fire, which was burning bright by Christmas day.

The moral to my story is:
Never give up on Hope; it’s your best friend, as life brings its troubles your way…
Know that with time, a good heart, good will, and friendly ways… 
You can find God’s gifts again, if you don’t let the dark take you away…


Long poem by Robert Ronnow | Details |

The Ordinary Care of Providence

Madison's defense of the establishment clause to the Virginia legislature:
"Religion both existed and flourished, not only without the support of human laws, but in spite of every opposition from them, and not only during the period of miraculous aid but long after it had been left to its own evidence and the ordinary care of Providence."

                                          May I say
electromagnetic waves. Radiant energy.
Light travels in waves
                                  Waves of what?
Electromagnetic waves consist of electric and magnetic fields
oscillating at right angles to each other
and to the direction of motion of the wave.
                                                                 All waves can be described
in terms of amplitude, wavelength, frequency and speed.

Waves of what?
                         Think of a hand waving. The wave itself
is virtual, ideal. The hand and eyes are waves. The wave's
a quantum guess.
                           Religion and electromagnetic waves - visible, audible,
                           ideal
causing real reactions in earth-time (real as it gets). Madison's
ordinary
             care of Providence
                                          impossible to handle.

Needed is a medium: antenna, cathode ray, page,
body
        hairy, sweaty
                            diurnal
with the capacity to say Providence electromagnetic visible light
element god.
                    Alone in your life and body. Say
the heavy word
weighty word
isotope
            charged word (ion god)
the particle physicist and political philosopher have it over the poet
who is sharing ignorance
                                      pretty much all he doesn't know.

Or who stays within a dimension she knows she knows, extrapolating
her hand in a child's hand or husband's hold or nest in a tree hole
limited government
                             separation of powers
                                                             daily low intensity warfare
light, radio and gamma waves
                                             Waves of what?
"Matter can be treated by both wave and particle theories (the duality of matter) since its convertible counterpart - light - has long been treated successfully by both theories."
convertible counterpart
                                    light matter light

Solutions to the equations are called wave functions, or orbitals.
"Religion or the duty which we owe our Creator and the manner of discharging it can be directed only by reason and conviction, not by force or violence. It is proper to take alarm at the first experiment on our liberties. We hold this prudent jealousy to be the first duty of Citizens, and one of the noblest characteristics of the late Revolution. The free men of America did not wait till usurped power had strengthened itself by exercise and entangled the question in precedents. They saw all the consequences in the principle and they avoided the consequences by denying the principle. We revere this lesson too much to soon forget it."

Last night's movie She's No Angel on the Christian channel
begged many essential questions (and had bad music)
                                                                                 why
the loving liberal successful couple should
keep a shotgun in the home (later used per Shakespeare)
                                                                                      what
the community's (authority's) reaction to the violence
and precipitating dissembling might have been (per The Crucible)
                                                                                                 whether
the golden spiritual couple would subsequently dissemble lobby or defend
themselves and the loved one legally and lengthily (per Dostoyevsky)
                                                                                                  where
unclean tragic outcomes end in Death's cleanliness
ravens eat the fur and guts of bad guesses off the roads (per A Designer
      of Systems)

but not I think missing
the deeper lesson

that she is neither her past
nor her wings

but a pure goodness
                               bone stillness
                                                    potential energy

a light wave
and a particle.






Long poem by Cayla Carr | Details |

Watching Me

It was midnight and my dream was shattered
I fell into darkness
A nightmare
I was sinking, drowning, dying…
But then I heard the laugh of a child
Carefree and joyful was the music of her lips
She smiled and suddenly I had the urge to fight
I slowly climbed out of the shadows and emerged in a hall of pale silver
“Where am I?” my heart was racing as I asked the question
“Look around into the pictures,” a gentle voice replied
Nobody was there
I let my eyes adjust to the images scattered about the room
I strode to a photograph in a golden frame
I saw the child with a babe upon her knee
They sat in an empty room with chords scattered about, the walls stark, the light blinding
The picture gradually came to life
I watched for a bit as the child slowly rocked the babe
Tears laced the eyes of the young girl and the baby fell asleep
All was silent as the picture faded
I paced in confusion as I arrived at the next illustration 
I gazed speechless as I saw the child sobbing
She knelt and I watched as she screamed at the sky, shaking her fist in raging fury
Beyond her I saw grass and trees in desolate shades
She pulled a small necklace from her pocket and placed it on the broken ground 
The only extravagant color I saw was that of a red rose which she placed on a polished stone
The colors swirled and I knew it was time to move on
The pictures I had seen thus far left a nauseating feeling within me
I didn’t want to journey on, but I heard the comforting voice once more
“Three more pictures… You’ll soon be finished”
I knew then that it was my place to take another step
I stumbled slightly and fell before the next portrait
I saw the sky cluttered with a river of mist and the amber rays of the sun
“What is this?” I inquired curiously
“Take a look,” the voice answered
I peered once more and took a sharp breath
I saw a gate and a man with dark hair standing at the entrance
The baby from the first image was carried by two figures
 Clothed in pastel garments with radiant beams of light circling their heads
I knew where I was, but it was not where I wanted to be
Not yet
 I stared at the beautiful spectrum
My head was pounding and I abruptly drew away, breathless
I closed my eyes then opened them to behold a teenage girl 
Quietly I realized it was the child from the previous pictures, now grown
She faltered helplessly until she fell, crashing to the ground, chains holding her down
“No!” I screamed, my voice echoing in the stillness
The frame that held the picture fell to the marble floor of the hall
“One more picture…” the voice retorted sternly, “You must see this!”
A woman appeared before me 
Gathering me up in her arms, she placed me before a long golden frame
I steadied myself as she stepped back
I looked at the frame and found myself staring at my reflection
“What do you mean by showing me this hall?” I asked, a tremor in my voice
“By showing you these pictures, I am depicting lessons of life” The woman answered softly
I looked at her incredulously
She continued on in explanation, “Follow me back to the first image”
She grabbed me by the hand and led me to the picture with the empty room
“In your lifetime you will be blinded by tears… keep your innocence”
I felt myself trying to comprehend what she meant but she rushed me to the next frame
“You will experience sorrow, and despair… but you will cope”
She gestured to the rose and the necklace, then gave a soft smile before leading me on
“While you do well in life, others will die… yet prosper eternally”
She smiled in awe as the baby in the picture was placed into the arms of the man
The woman 
“You will struggle and you will fail many times… but you must keep trying”
She chided me and I felt tears running down my face
Slowly she turned me towards the glass mirror
“Do you understand now?”
I nodded my head slowly, and quickly realized what I had seen
“That child in the pictures… who was she?”
I whirled around and found that the woman was gone
“I understand…” 
I slowly awoke and found the sun peeking through the shadows of the dawn
“It was me”



Long poem by Laura Breidenthal | Details | . You can read it on PoetrySoup.com' st_url='http://www.poetrysoup.com/poem/calm___dear_clementine_677124' st_title='Calm - 'Dear Clementine''>

Calm - 'Dear Clementine'

I love the element of surprise which the present offers liberally
I love putting one into uncertainty or making them marvel—
It makes me feel extra special…

For a moment, I will only be a vile monster in their eyes
Then suddenly, they will notice I am not there to destroy them
They might even begin to feel a tug of trust…

Demon or not, it feels good when somebody trusts you
Only a human has the capability of trusting a demon
It is difficult to surprise a demon, as my victim did so easily to me
For humans, every moment of their life can easily become a surprise
What marvels me the most is that gleam in a human’s eye when they are in awe
I simply love it in children in particular…

I have my own world…
It is an interesting world,
Where I harvest human souls and evaluate them accordingly
The souls are not at the least happy there, 
Which is good for me, because I need their pain as a demon
What is fun is that I have made this world in such a way that it can (and will)
Be utterly and gloriously destroyed

This world is special, and one special  human , 
—the very  product of my genius, 
Will be the one who has the privilege of destroying it…
She is a woman, a very modest woman—
Frustratingly modest, and good
I write this account because that future person now lives—
And in a way, she has always lived deep inside of me
How happy and excited I am that she has arrived!
This very moment I possess her and write these very words

Before I avert the light to her, though, 
I want to talk about my first victim:
She is eternally six years old,
A bubbly, cute little blonde girl with messy hair,
With big blue eyes of pure, piercing astonishment
And her name is Clementine
I observed her religiously since the day she was born, 
Soon shunned, abandoned, and put into an orphanage 
Where she was beaten, lied to, abhorred, envied, and spat on 

Clementine was the reason I thought up the world
This little girl was always in her own little dreamland
And it was sad just how everyone put her down for falling into her imagination so much
Her only true friend through her hell was this doll she found,
Whom she wished with all her heart to be real 

This sad, attention-starved little orphan touched my heart greatly
So, as a demon, I formed a world for her…
I began to show myself, and she surprised me with her quick trust
I trapped her in the world with her doll, Lila,
And promised her that someday, Lila would be human and alive…like her
If only she continued to trust me…
This she promised wholeheartedly with much  optimism

As I continued collecting more human souls in this world,
Clementine began to see and realize I had trapped her
And I admitted my deed to her
I trapped her.
But though she has been pained by the fact that I keep her there, 
She still remains hopeful, and this amazes me
I am afraid to tell her I am a demon just yet—
Though I am sure the souls have given her more than one hint—
But the promises I had given to her were going to come to pass…
This I vowed upon my own existence…. 
	
I have finally found the perfect person to destroy what I have created
And I have searched many years to find the perfect Lila, 
To grant and complete this orphan’s ambitious wish
I have finally found Lila—the very spirit and figure of her most beloved doll
Too many years, all I have seen from Clementine are those sad smiles
That only thinly hide such throbbing pain…
I want to see the light of surprise and happiness in her eyes
Finally I will get to see that.
I’ll be complete knowing she is complete
It sounds like a simple desire for a demon, 
But I have never denied that… I am very odd demon.


Long poem by Christine Phillips | Details | . You can read it on PoetrySoup.com' st_url='http://www.poetrysoup.com/poem/im_back_630084' st_title='I'm Back'>

I'm Back

Last year you beat me up
And poured vinegar in my cup
Last year you humiliate me
And hire criminals to torment me.
Last year you deny my friends and families
The natural right to be happy
My children went to bed 
On Christmas day without food
While you drink and laugh
with your friends and called me a damn fool.
Last year I came to you for help
But you belittled  me instead.
You spread out your sordid legs before me
camouflaging under white sheets
And grinning your tobacco stained teeth.
Last year you brought discord among my race
Thus inciting a worldwide disgrace.
You have dominated my house, infiltrated the churches
Spreading political propaganda from the pulpit
and preaching biblical hate while some 
of your so call missionaries are spitefully
destroying homes and family.
Take your dirty hands off the innocent children
And allow them to grow and live like children
They should be tucked  in their beds at nights
And not among fake mothers and delinquent fathers
who are posing as one big happy family just to
conduct unscrupulous activities.
Stay away from the daycare centers and stop
using warm hearted children as instruments
in your  brutal and villainous  operations.
I sat on the street corner observing you from a distant
parking your car at the front door
And leaving with another from the back door.
I stood right next to you at the New Years Eve party
Watching your glass going up in cheers 
And making deceitful and ruthless  plans for the New Year.
I was even sitting with you at the poker table
Listening to your big chat watching you
puffing cigar and exchanging big dollars
to fabricate and execute  another plot.
I have followed you straight into your mysterious room
Where you convened your secret meetings
and formulate your business deals 
I have taken notes of your evil and treacherous  plans.
Wow! you believe that are so mighty and  powerful
You can have everything taken care of in split seconds
Name the price and the job is done
Oh what a wicked and cruel generation!
I have infiltrated every community
Every estate, business and properties
your social clubs and extravagant dinner parties.
Last year you brought me down so low
You have discredited my office and block my ambitious 
and generous plans just to have your way and dishonor my race.
But now I am back with strength and spiritual power
This year you cannot break me
Even when you out numbered me
I will still stand strong and beat you with a power
that has never been witnessed in decades.
This year I am back and I have no time to chat
The lame duck is dead that you have planted in my back.
I have full grip of the handle now and all the facts are known
There are evidences of accomplices and participants
Who have dipped their hands in blood to move to the top.
You have target honesty, accused innocency and harassed purity 
You have demoted and promoted to conceal the truth 
Used and suffer others to gain your blood stained honor 
Do not take me for granted  I am going to exercise my full authority
Every secret will be exposed and every act of cruelty will be deposed
And the hidden abusive secret power that is responsible for
The global misery and  worldwide atrocities  will be eliminated.
Love and peace will be restored to countries,
friends, homes, families and communities.
Get out of my way!
I am on my way to an emergency meeting
Repent before it is too late!
Because I am back!
                                                                         
                                                                 ©2015 Christine Phillips


Long poem by Robert Candler | Details | . You can read it on PoetrySoup.com' st_url='http://www.poetrysoup.com/poem/twos_magic_nose_538609' st_title='Two's Magic Nose'>

Two's Magic Nose

Such a nose had Ol’ Blue.
Best in south Missouri... everybody knew.
Could smell a pheasant across the plain.
Could point a covey in a hurricane.
That’s the way the legend goes.
Ol’ Blue had a “magic nose.”
 
As Blue got older, his master’s mind would drift away
To a place where he and young Blue used to play. 
In the mornings, sitting over his coffee cup
He found it sad there were no pups.
He thought it would be such a shame
If the only memory was Ol’ Blue’s name.
 
So, Jim was compelled and full of pride;
He made a search, far and wide,
To find Ol’ Blue a suitable mate.
No doubt, his offspring would be great.
It seemed likely, he supposed,
At least one pup would have his “magic nose.”
 
She was a Champion Miss from New Orleans,
A beautiful “red” named Cajun Queen.
But Blue suddenly passed away, before the pups were born.
Jim was broken hearted.  He and “Queenie” mourned.
Then came the litter, but there was only one.
Jim struggled for hope; after all, he was Ol’ Blue’s son.
 
Dappled and lanky, a handsome little cuss,
He looked just like Blue.  Jim made such a fuss.
Naming this pup would require no ado.
It was obvious.  Officially, he would be “Blue Two.”
Oh yes, these were mighty large tracks to fill.
“Can he?”, folks asked.  Jim would say, “Heck yes he will!”

So his nickname became “Two” and he seemed to be smart.
Soon it was time for his training to start.
The basics went well, but Jim’s outlook grew very dim
When, instead of pointing, Two would wag and jump and bark at him.
Oh, Two seemed to be trying; but try as he might,
He just could not seem to ever get it right.

“Blue’s son or not, he’s got to go!”
Jim found Two a “pet home” far away, in Tupelo.
On his way back, he stopped in Texarkana.
Been too long a time since he’d seen his sister Hannah.
Six days and six pounds later, he was back on his way.
Work at the farm was callin’ and he’d be drivin’ all day.
 
He thought about Ol’ Blue and wondered if and when
He’d ever have a birddog as good as Blue again.
Oh, he knew another “magic nose” was just a far off dream;
After all, it wasn’t something any man could scheme.
A “magic nose” was a gift from God, only given to a few;
And he was proud and very lucky just to have known Ol’ Blue.
 
As he turned into his drive, he broke into a smile.
“Why… I can’t believe it!  It…It must be 300 miles!”
Two was on the porch, thin and dirty; but he struck a handsome pose.
Jim ran and hugged Two hard.  “How’d you get back?  Lord only knows!”
Suddenly Jim realized; and struck with awe, he slowly rose.
A tear trickled to his smile.  “Why Two… you have a “magic nose!”
 
Two and Jim are best of friends, together everywhere.
From milkin’ cows to bedtime, Two is always there.
Jim doesn’t hunt much anymore, now Two’s a rescue dog.
Just last month, he saved a little girl lost in Cooley’s Bog.
Jim struts and tells proud, heroic stories;
While Two wags and jumps and barks, and shares his glory.
 
Jim boasts, “Like father, like son!”, then speaks fondly of Blue;
But all know the largest tracks to fill are those of Two.
His deeds are known far and wide,
And fill Jim’s heart with love and pride.
For with every rescue, the legend grows;
About a dog named Two, and his “magic nose.”


Long poem by Eileen Manassian | Details |

He Touched Me

Do you know what it is like to be an untouchable?
To be so filthy and disgusting
That people shrink away from you
Do you know how it corrodes your soul
To see how the stench that follows your rotting flesh
Contorts people’s faces in disgust
Even from miles away?
I tell you, you die a thousand deaths
Each time you see them cover their faces
To protect themselves from the putrid air
That surrounds you
And they scurry away
Revolted by your very shadow

It doesn’t help that you have to scream
“Unclean, Unclean” everywhere you go
It doesn’t help that daily you have to find your food
Left behind an agreed upon boulder 
It doesn’t help when you taste the bread
Your wife has baked with loving hands
Knowing that the salt of her tears is mixed in the dough
That nourishes your rotting body
It doesn’t help when visions of her beauty and healthy body
Ravage your mind…for she has become untouchable to you
It doesn’t help when all you remember are the last words 
Your crying son sobs into her apron….
“Why does daddy have to leave?” 
And you quietly slink away…unable even to hold him
One last time

Being a leper
Is the nightmare you can’t easily shed
How unlike your body that easily sheds
Your fingers…one by one

And then you hear of a Healer
A Nazarene
A carpenter turned preacher
Who mingles with prostitutes
With tax collectors 
Society’s untouchables
Outcasts like you and you think…
Maybe…just maybe

I tell you this….
All my yesterdays and all my tomorrows
Were bound in the moment I stood before him
His disciples stepped back
I saw a woman get sick
At the sight of me
And before I knew it, the words tumbled out
“Lord, if you are willing…..you can make me clean.”

I was a crumpled ball on the ground
A discarded piece of human waste
Not daring to look up
My half eaten face covered
Thoughts of my wife, my boy swimming in my head
And pouring out of my eyes in the form of tears
And then for the first time since I was banished to the outskirts of the city
For the first time in what seemed like a lifetime
I felt the touch of another human hand 
His hand was on my shoulder
His hand was on MY shoulder
The refuse of humanity
On ME!
Ah…I had forgotten how good it felt to be touched

It was a gentle touch
A touch of love 
A touch of healing
“I am willing, be clean.”
I heard whispered in my ear
The warmth of the touch
The nearness of the voice
Were enough to heal my soul
What more could I ask for?
And yet….I felt something else
New life coursed through my veins
A wave of energy
Started from the souls of my feet
Revitalizing every cell as it rushed up to my dazed head
Bursting into a clarity of vision I had not known
I looked at my hands
Yes, these were MY hands
The hands that she had loved to hold against her face
The hands that my son had clung to when he was afraid
The hands of a workman
Young, strong capable hands

There was silence
As they all witness my rebirth
Finally, I looked up to see
The most compassionate face
That I had ever seen in my life
I saw tears running down His face
And yet, His smile rivaled the sun
And the next thing I knew
I was in His embrace
Whole…body and soul
Whole
All because
He touched me.

Eileen Manassian Ghali


Long poem by Robert Candler | Details |

The Last Laugh

One of Life’s indisputable facts:
Government reserves the right to tax;
And tho’ they waste far more than they should,
It’s supposedly done “for the common good.”

Economists use the word “propensity,”
Just a fancy word for “odds”, you see:
The odds you’ll save, the odds you’ll spend,
And how many Tax Dollars those odds will rend.

The basis for U.S. government budgets is “Total Tax Dollars Collected”;
And any overtures to reduce those collections are summarily rejected;
And should a source of taxes have declined or dissipated,
Other taxes are increased and/or new taxes are created.

Many, if not most, of these taxes are “regressive”.
That means their actual impact on income is “progressive”...
But “progressive” in a very negative way.
Relatively speaking, the Less you make, the More you pay.

Whether you make it or sell it, need it or want it, Congress will tax it;
And, once a tax is on the books, Congress has zero “propensity” to relax it.
Congresses, Federal and State, love to tax Luxury and Sin;
Smoking Sinners have had their taxes raised again and again and again.

Cigarette taxes are frequently raised, the “claim” is to drive users to quit;
But Truth is measured in Billions in taxes, so we know supporters are “full of it.”
Meantime, Non-smokers reap many benefits, while Smokers foot the bill;
And if that should change, Non-smokers would taste a financially “bitter pill.”

Taxed and taxed and taxed some more, but not yet into submission,
Smokers could shift their tax burden to Non-smokers…without their permission.
Yes, what if one Fateful day, those Smoking Sinners, Each and Every one,
Just put them down and said, “I quit.”; said en masse, “We’re done!”

Congresses would be clamoring to derive Billions in Taxes elsewhere,
At first, Non-smokers may not realize the impact they’re about to bear.
When an industry dies, businesses and people’s jobs are lost…it’s true;
But all those Tax Dollars must come from somewhere...the likes of me and you.

So righteous, whining Non-smokers maintained their hue and cry.
Ever pushing Congresses to tax those Smoking Sinners… tax them ‘til they die;
But after quitting, Ex-Smokers would pay less, while Non-Smokers would pay more.
Guess Non-smokers didn’t think far enough ahead, didn’t really know the score.

All those dreary anti-smoking ads, many of which falsified the cause,
Would disappear.  And what about all the useless anti-smoking laws?
Instead of Non-smokers not liking Smokers, Ex-Smokers would serve instead.
"The bastards are costing me money. I wish they had smoked 'til they were dead."

So, Ex-smokers would be getting healthier and spending far less;
And may be cause for some Non-smokers’ financial distress.
While they ruefully pay more, Ex-smokers' pocket books will attest
By reminding Non-smokers daily......the Last Laugh is Best.


Long poem by J. W. M. Earnings | Details |

Fantastic Flight - Chapter 4 - In the Long Run

*chorus*

The mountain winds are howling its stormy resentment
The snow glitters on the triumphant mountains…
I’ve tried to conceal these feelings of discontent
My eyes are spraying with tears of sorrow – weep no more, sad fountains
Don’t push me to the limits – I breathe in and out
I let go of my anxiety and trade it with prosperity– 
I’m one with the passionate, frozen desires in my heart 
I’m strong like Sampson in the bible – 
Let the light of day unfreeze my heart’s agony and avarice
I don’t want to believe in those silly allegories…
Am I your living sacrifice?
My heart is as cold as ice…I need to take His advice!
I have faced reality alone before
Is this real or is this a myth? There’s more land to explore!

~Last Verse~ 
Accidents happen – I keep saying that in my mind like a broken record
But, it ruefully discards it – I’m lost instead of found
I can’t afford losing you – you were my heart’s melodic tune and you made me taste accord!
I’m homeward bound…my mind’s spinnin’ round and round
Fantastic flight – be my target tonight and let me take wing and overcome this plight!
Let me take wing and let me unveil God’s light! Everything’s gonna be alright!
The past is behind me – bury it…don’t dig it up! Let it go for the time being and I want to your eyes, bliss-sprinkled behind those spectacular spectacles!
The past will not bring me down to ruins or in poverty – let me get down on my knees and pray – let me be for a while and I’ll be a believer of your wonder-filled miracles! 
Fantastic flight – you make me high like a child’s beloved kite 
Fantastic flight of dazzling delight – don’t let me drift away from the light of His truth…I’m reaching a divine height…I’m flying with all of my remaining might!
You’re hidden from the surface overhead…you’re way above me!
I’m not the sparkling sea as you can possibly see…you’re as elegant as can be! 

*BRIDGE* Take away the grief…trade me with everlasting relief
The sin course inside of me – it becomes serpentine…
Take me away to your dwelling place…you are beyond belief!
You’re as bittersweet and blissful as the finest of wine
I’m driving on another lane...
It’s the abyss that I have tried to avoid before
Don’t let me be driven insane…
You’re the one I’ve always wanted – let’s not wage war 
Let’s not wage war anymore!
The sin weighs me down like cruel gravity…
I feel the sense that I’m captivity-bound….I’m grounded for life…Help me!
Help me, please? I can’t handle feeling this pity!
I have a feeling things will eventually work out in the long run – I want you to be brave & free!


Long poem by Spenser Jones | Details |

We Expand

When I was a kid, i believed that I would never stop growing. I measured myself, and knew that everything taller was a glimpse of the future. 
We would all be giants eventually. The tallest man that ever lived was named Robert Wadlow. He couldn't stop growing. On his first day of school, 
he was taller than his father. They say, that when he tripped on the playground his knees made twin craters from falling so far. By the time he was 10, the dirt in his home town was pot-marked like a second moon. 
Size always seems to matter most when we are falling. An ant dropped from an airplane will survive with no injuries, if an elephant slips 3 feet, 
it's legs will snap beneath it, and or us, it is those dreams that we remember most. The ones where the harness breaks. 
Where you step from the roof of a building without knowing why. When a plane rushes back toward the earth like a lost lover. We always wait just before impact, unsure of shattering or survival, 
and unable to accept our own size. 
Maybe this is why we hunt the large animals to extinction; To make ourselves seem greater. In the end, the victory of the atom bomb was not in the arms raised, but it's ability to topple all of the smallest creatures. We dream of surviving as mountains; of never having to look up again. 
We long for longer conquests. 
The ship vaster than the ocean. 
The fire dwarfing the fuel. We expand. We expand,. 
Weapons add more than just inches to your arm span. When you fire a gun, you can touch someone a thousand of feet away just think of all the giants our wars have already created. Cemeteries are like an infinity of white cross hairs. Mass graves that are just twisting of what we have always wanted; A mountain built from our bodies. We expand, we expand,. 
Our empires, stretching like red lips opening into the widest sssmile, and then swallowing the face whole. We build our largest statues for our war heroes, greater your conquest, the taller we will make you. We are taller than our fathers now. We cannot stop growing. Robert Wadlow did not want to be a legend. He wanted to train as a lawyer, but his hands were to large to 
write and type with. He died at age 22, half an inch short of 9 feet from an infection he never felt, because his nerves could not transmit signals that far. So stop trying to be statues. 
Walk. 
Feel the signals your feet send back to you and say "It is good to feel this close". It is good to live in our own bodies. Our bodies are whispers. Are bodies are matchsticks in the dark that light the small parts of us; The parts of us that can accomplish impossible things.


Long Poems