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absence abuse
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Long Poems
Long poem by Terry O'Leary | Details |

The Stone

The Tale below was carved one night,
Upon the Stone, by candlelight
...most won’t believe, but some just might
.........most won’t believe, but some just might



.                         Preface

Well James made Beth his lovely bride
(And angels smiled, though teary eyed)
...their bodies bound, their spirits tied
.........their bodies bound, their spirits tied

Upon her hand, a shimmer shone,
As bright as blood, a ruby Stone 
...and brighter still, as love had grown
.........and brighter still, as love had grown

Soon James was sent to man a sail
So Beth removed her wedding veil
...her eyes were bright, her face was pale
.........her eyes were bright, her face was pale

“Well, I’ll be here when you return”
Said Beth to James, who kissed in turn
...a kiss that made her body burn
.........a kiss that made her body burn



.                         BETH’S TALE

1.              The Dream
One night, within a dream deformed,
The cawing of a Crow informed
“...a Ship was stripped where winter stormed
.........a Ship was stripped where winter stormed

Midst winds and waves the thunder boomed
The Ship of Death was surely doomed
...the sea engulfed, the sea entombed
.........the sea engulfed, the sea entombed

Your James... denied by Davy Jones!
His spirit gone, his flesh and bones
...are resting now amongst the Stones
.........are resting now amongst the Stones”



2.               The Quest

Awoken by the ebon Wight
And beckoned by the baneful bight
...I left before the morning light
.........I left before the morning light

Throughout the realm I rode a roan
Until, in time, I reached the Stone
...where shades and dreams in darkness groan 
.........where shades and dreams in darkness groan 

While skipping up and down the sky
A missing moonbeam mocked my eye
...enough to make a Swallow cry
.........enough to make a Swallow cry

For someone stole a star or two
And something else that fate withdrew –
...my jewel of joy, my James Bijou   
.........my jewel of joy, my James Bijou

The shadows of the evening swelled
Where demons of the dusk had dwelled
...and in the far, a vesper knelled
.........and in the far, a vesper knelled

The Stone, beneath the sky, stood cold –
Between the runes, a vapour strolled
...a cloak of fleecy fog consoled
.........a cloak of fleecy fog consoled

A Raven on a branch, enthroned,
Her wings waved once, a wail intoned
...beyond the bay, a banshee moaned
.........beyond the bay, a banshee moaned

I lay beside the Stone, his bride
I lay beside the Stone and cried
...but were it I, instead, that died
.........but were it I, instead, that died

The rainbow of the moon fell dim
A midnight Swan soon ceased to swim
...as if to hide all hint of him
.........as if to hide all hint of him

Between the willows in the swale
There sang a Bird, a Nightingale
...which left me faint and feeling frail
.........which left me faint and feeling frail



3.              Contact

I felt him breathe within a breeze
Responding to my anguished pleas
...and leaves blew by abandoned trees
.........and leaves blew by abandoned trees

“I miss you too, my darling Beth”
Re-echoed from the Ship of Death
...the future buried in a breath
.........the future buried in a breath
	
The Stone lit up a ruby sheen
And clouds were kindled crystalline
...with consequences, unforeseen
.........with consequences, unforeseen

Above, the wretched Raven soared
To where the Ship of Death lay moored
...beneath, the icy ocean roared
.........beneath, the icy ocean roared



4.               Release

I’m joined with James beneath the Stone,
Though to the Ship my spirit’s flown,
...for nevermore to be alone
.........for nevermore to be alone



.                         Epilogue

That night the wayward winds were weird 
The Ship of Death had disappeared
...coyotes called and mortals feared
.........coyotes called and mortals feared

At dusk, the craven shadows crawled
At dawn, the winds of mourning called
...upon the Stone two names were scrawled
.........upon the Stone two names were scrawled

The Raven sits, with wings outspread,
Atop the Stone which shades the dead
...it sometimes shimmers ruby red
.........it sometimes shimmers ruby red



.                         Epitaph

Between the sounds, where silence seeps,
Their love lives on and never sleeps
...and yet, the weeping willow weeps
.........and yet, the weeping willow weeps



inspired by ~fc~

DEFINITIONS
Wight (obsolete): a supernatural being, creature
Bight: a bay or gulf
Swale: a moist depression in a tract of land


Long poem by John Posey | Details |

Of Fawn And Fairy

 
Inside this forest
so bright and mild 
a fairy lived
her name, Wonder Child

For all the forest
knew of this girl
to which they knew
she would change the world

A fawn she crept 
upon one day
it sensed no danger
no need to escape

Her acquired ability
to speak with those
on four legs with fur
scurrying would go

She was as a spirit
in the woods she did walk
she would talk to the animals
to her they would flock

She'd gentle reach down
and with the smallest of hands
much like the grains of sand
beside them she'd stand

Together as one
the fairy and fawn
if you close your eyes tight
you may see them at dawn

Donna G Fowler
8/7/06


by Donna G Fowler

Review:
"I have seen the fawn wake up at dawn...
and then she did not tarry.
This tiny deer so full of cheer
set out to find the fairy.

She knew that the winged one
would help her through the day
and with the sun at end of day
would quietly slip away.

But fawns grow into beautiful deer
and time just passes on.
Now the mother deer, it is so clear,
seeks the fairy to teach her own."

Donna, I hope you don't think I am presumptuous to think this would improve on your beautiful poem... No, It is just an example of how perfection can trigger creativity in the least of us...
You have my honest admiration and respect for this and many other fine works in your portfolio... Love Ya! Jake  

Reviewed by jakepayne  

Your review received: 
 
Very helpful

and the following comments about your review:
TY Jake. I admire your wit. What I'd like to see you do is write a continuation of this like you have started. Name it whatever you want, and post me back a message



Mother Doe and Fairy
Inspired by Donna G. Fowler’s
‘Of Fawn and Fairy’

I saw the fawn wake up at dawn...
and then she did not tarry.
This tiny deer so full of cheer
set out to find the fairy.

She knew that the winged one
would teach her the right ways
and with the sun at end of day
would quietly slip away.


 Fawns grow into beautiful deer
as time just passes on.
Now the mother deer, it is so clear,
seeks the fairy to teach her own.

The fairy knew her language
and all the others too.
She had tutored many youngsters
in the proper things to do.

The forest had been good to her
and the years had been kind too.
When the Doe felt life within her
she knew just what to do.

She knew just where the fairy should be
each and every day.
She wanted her to teach her fawn
to live the forest’s way.

The mother doe was nearing
the birth of her first fawn.
She arrived there at the clearing
just at break of dawn.

She sensed the fairy knew --
for she felt her presence there.
The comfort she had sought to find
Could be felt in the morning air.

She lay down in the comfort
of a nearby grove of trees
And quietly awaited there
in the cooling morning breeze.

Then she heard the quiet flutter
Of tiny little wings
She saw the fairy coming
as the birds began to sing.

She now relaxed and soon she knew
the peace the forest sends
And she found herself surrounded
by scores of tiny friends.

They all had heard the news
and all had been invited
To come and see the miracle
of  two friends reunited.



The fairy knew why she’d been called
to this very special place
She was here to help the deer
receive God’s special grace.

It was not long – it had begun
And quickly, it was over.
There lay the mother doe and fawn
in the comfort of the clover.

The fairy then took stardust
and sprinkled it in their eyes.
Now when they exchange gazes
their love is not disguised.

The fairy and the doe and fawn
then went their separate way
knowing this would not be the last
of many special days.

© Jacob Payne
October 20, 2006

Review:
Jake, I knew you could continue this after what you placed in my review. First I am honored that you were inspired by something I started. Secondly, this is an amazing continuation of my poem. You are so visual in this and I could see the field of clover and the new baby fawn. I felt as if I were there watching. Fantastic job my friend.. I'm so excited!!!!  

Reviewed by Donna G Fowler


Long poem by harry horsman | Details |

Remnants of a Saturday night

Sunday morning early, five a.m to be
precise, my mind awakes, then gently succours
the body to arise from one’s mundane sleep. I
then transfer to Britain via 1ZB, listening
to the English football commentary, it’s worth
the lack of sleep. Six a.m when finished,
my jogging gear I engage, then to the streets
of Manurewa and beyond, I go to record this page.

Mahia road, with scattered glass set out
like a sculptor mad kaleidoscope, sometimes
giving the impression of an artistic master piece.
Yet!  always pointing upwards, in the parks, on the
pavement, along the roadway, abundance of glass,
complemented occasionally with odd smithereens
of windscreen, to add a more neutral effect to
the greens and browns, laying in profusion there.  Moving

on towards the hallow Gallagher Park, one espy two
young girls sniffing glue, like it was an art, then
pacing up and down the hedgerow as in some
hallucinogenic dilemma. Alfriston road where a
dilapidated Morris Oxford stripped of its bare
essentials, sits naked, the unscrupulous thief not
in any hurry to close the door, after his implicit
plunder. Redoubt road where two youngsters

returning from a night on the town, decide to
hit a speed limit sign, this on the easiest stretch of
the road, they had to hit it, there was nothing else
to hit. “An idea flashing through my mind, tells
me ‘These lads would be useful in a desert looking
for water’” Hollyford road where poetic scenes one
does greet, the fresh ice blue morning sky, beginning
to fashion a hint of cloud rouged in cosmetic

splendor, metropolitan Auckland spread evenly ahead,
Rangitoto Island, majestic, yet languid in a shroud of
northern mist, as one contemplates, ancient sirens beckoning
one forth, into their watery grave, for the scene is one of
conceivable beauty. But as one ventures towards the sleeping
establishment, an odious smell begins to develop, an odour
of the masses, akin to the morning after a piss up,
booze, farts, belches and spew the sudorific populous

at its worst, one could feel the stench lavishly within the breeze,
my senses begin to absorb the stimuli, my lungs the slithery ooze,
as the unseen prehensile seeps through the walls, the open widows
and chimney flues, trapped in a massive air pocket, no escape for it,
waiting for nature to absorb, as with all others that man has seen fit
to produce. Boundary road, vehicles rushing by “Thank God”
for the exhaust fumes, I hypocritically say, knowing now I was back
into civilization. Wind assisted spinning bicycle wheel, laying

where it’s unaccustomed rider had left it, no doubt glad of
the ride and probably thinking “Stuff the owner, stuff the
world,” Stuff! me if it had been any darker, I would have
fallen over the bloody thing. Soaking farm beast glaring
at me as though I’m bloody stupid, and probably right,
theirs a force situation, mine entirely voluntary. Pokekoes silently
stalking the grass verge, one of them on the roadway
never to stalk again (not in this world anyway.) But worst

aspect of all, is the transmogrified hulk that drags itself
out of the shop doorway, awakening from a stoned
related sleep, one red eye just managing
to open, trying to look into the other,
to see why it is not. Then a sudden impulse
of shame as I approach
quickly disguised, into a couldn’t care less attitude
of the hard guy he wishes he was,

one cannot be in awe or disgust,
but feel a great sorrow, surely someone loves this thing!
Someone somewhere cares. One tries to imagine
the innocence of a child babbling in it’s
cot, not a care, no poison as yet entering
it’s feeble brain.  This!   this transition of matter,
with the sun, rising
to serve a brand new day!!!

 © Harry J Horsman


Long poem by Katee Surface | Details |

My Little Boy Lost

My Little Boy Lost
by Katherine Huffman
Hello? My son, are you here?
I can't see you, I can't find you, why aren't you near?

As I walk the streets in search of you, 
I feel a pull, a tug, not sure what to do.
I passed the park as I looked for my boy, 
Even passed our play spot, but in my sight, not even a toy.
After everywhere I thought that I could go, 
There was one place, but it can't be right, this is all I know.

Hello? My son, are you here?
I can't see you, can't find you,
Why can't I feel you near?

This evening begins as I lay to rest my head, 
There are some things I'm unsure of, 
Like making your tiny bed.
Oh God, whats happening, haven't I counted your toes?
What about cradling your head or kissing your little nose?
What are these things I am unsure of, have I even done? 
Where are you, where are you my precious son?

Mommy lays here, in tears, her face on something cold.
Where are you my son, it's you I need to hold.
I've searched all day, it's turning into night,
I'm tired, I'm lost, but I still won't give up this fight.
My eyes start to close, slumber is far too near 
If I fall asleep, I may miss seeing you my dear.

Next thing I know, as I wake to the sun.
Wondering what it is, what has been done?
As I sit, my eyes focus, I start to look around.
Then, for some reason, they are drawn to the ground.
As I look, I see what has become,
This can't be, what's happening, where am I my son?

That cold my face last night laid upon, 
Was a marker, with your name, 
Of your body my little one.
Those things I wasn't sure if I'd ever done, 
Were but the memories, I'd hoped to make with you my son.

You were here, I know you were here 
My beautiful, precious son.
You were in mommies arms, such a little one.
As though it were as simple as reading a book,
I start to realize
These tangled webs have become unhooked.

That tug, that pull that led your mommy here, 
It was your spirit, it was your soul, 
It was your heart my little dear.

Here you were, here you were, 
Right with me, so very near.
My little boy, my son, 
Mommies little one was here.
You see? You led me where I needed to go.
For it was well past the time,
To accept this I know.

I feel a tug, I feel a pull.
I feel like I need to hurry, 
Like I have to go.
There is someone I remember,
I need to get to I know.
He's a small one, a little boy. 
He's your brother, my son, 
He's pulling, he's tugging, 
Needing mommy my little one.
I have to leave, I have to go, 
To find my baby, my son.

Oh Thank You my boy,
For bringing me here.
For letting my mind begin to see clear.
You showed me the way, 
I now see the light.
I am so close, so near in this dark night.

So here you are, here you are, 
With mommy, my baby is so very near.
You are in my heart, my mind, 
And this little brother of yours, my dear.

My little boy lost, my little boy lost, 
it's you I have found.
You were there with me,
as I slept on that ground.

Hello? My son, are you here?
I can see you, mommy found you, 
In my arms I hold you so near.
I've bathed you, I've clothed you, 
And cradled your head.
I counted your toes,
I bent in and kissed that little nose.
As you fell asleep in your bed.

Without him, 
Would these be memories
we are making my dear?
Without him would mommy, 
Be able to hold you so near?

We have a little angel to watch over us for all nights.
In spirit, with us, his soul,
Our endless guiding light.
He's your big brother, my son, my precious little one. 
He's right here, a part of you, 
Never again to be gone.

My little boy lost, my little boy lost,
It's you, I can see.
I have to Thank You 
For guiding me!


Long poem by Robert Ronnow | Details |

The Invention of Zero

Zero.
By which nothing is divided.
No zero
no negative
no opposite
no hope
no Adam, no apple, no marriage, no morning.
No mirror
no knowledge
no God, no soul, no ear lobe, no Iliad, no Odyssey.
No universe
no black hole
no zodiac
no hero
no mission, no omission, no fission, no fusion.
No beanstalk
no tractor
no yellow
no 7:30, no wind, no window, no owl, no one.

In 773, at Al-Mansur's behest, translations were made of the Siddhantas, Indian astronomical treatises dating as far back as 425 B.C.; these versions may have been the vehicles through which the "Arabic" numerals and the zero were brought from India into China and then to the Islamic countries. In 813 the Persian mathematician Khwarizmi used the Hindu numerals in his astronomical tables; about 825 he issued a treatise known in its Latin form as Algoritmi de numero Indorum, Khwarizmi on Numerals of the Indians. After him, in 976, Muhammed ibn Ahmad in his "Keys to the Sciences," remarked that if in a calculation no number appears in the place of tens, a little circle should be used "to keep the rows." This circle the Arabs called sifr. That was the earliest mention of the name sifr that eventually became zero. Italian zefiro already meant "west wind" from Latin and Greek zephyrus. This may have influenced the spelling when transcribing Arabic sifr. The Italian mathematician Fibonacci (c. 1170-1250), who grew up in North Africa and is credited with introducing the decimal system in Europe, used the term zephyrum. This became zefiro in Italian, which was contracted to zero in Venetian.   - Wikipedia

After my father's appointment by his homeland as a state official in the customs house of Bugia for the Pisan merchants who thronged to it, he took charge; and in view of its future usefulness and convenience, had me in my boyhood come to him and there wanted me to devote myself to and be instructed in the study of calculation for some days. There, following my introduction, as a consequence of marvelous instruction in the art, to the nine digits of the Hindus, the knowledge of the art very much appealed to me before all others, and for it I realized that all its aspects were studied in Egypt, Syria, Greece, Sicily, and Provence, with their varying methods; and at these places thereafter, while on business, I pursued my study in depth and learned the give-and-take of disputation. But all this even, and the algorism, as well as the art of Pythagoras, I considered as almost a mistake in respect to the method of the Hindus (Modus Indorum). Therefore, embracing more stringently that method of the Hindus, and taking stricter pains in its study, while adding certain things from my own understanding and inserting also certain things from the niceties of Euclidxs geometric art, I have striven to compose this book in its entirety as understandably as I could, dividing it into fifteen chapters. Almost everything which I have introduced I have displayed with exact proof, in order that those further seeking this knowledge, with it pre-eminent method, might be instructed, and further, in order that the Latin people might not be discovered to be without it, as they have been up to now. If I have perchance omitted anything more or less proper or necessary, I beg indulgence, since there is no one who is blameless and utterly provident in all things. The nine Indian figures are: 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1. With these nine figures, and with the sign 0 . . . any number may be written.   - Fibonacci, Leonardo of Pisa


Long poem by Cyndi MacMillan | Details |

SUNDAY SOJOURN

                                                                                                    July 2000



It’s early morning, Sunday, midsummer. I have the kitchen to myself, and I decide to make an omelet from the brown eggs and farmer's cheese that I bought at the market, yesterday. The house is still, save for the sound of the fans and the occasional squeak of a floor board. I consider turning on the radio, but change my mind. How often do I allow myself silence? 

Tea is steeping, a blend called Nile Pearls, and the aroma of pineapple fails to overshadow the black currant. I’m still in my nightshirt. Day can wait. The view from my window makes me smile for my herb garden has gone quite riotous.  I decide to make my simple dish more flavorful. 

Pushing open the screen door, I pause, stretch and lift my face to the sun. The thermometer is sure to climb over 30 today but, right now, it is comfortable. Stepping off the deck, my toes are grateful for the coolness of the grass, the absence of tight shoes, those self-imposed feminine trappings.

my clean feet wet with dew – warm breeze
There is a feeling of sanctity, here. My garden is raised, built into a small hill that provides privacy, yet swallows yard space. I pause to sniff the lavender, let the week dissolve into soft, purple splendor. Pointless, really, to even try to ignore the rhubarb. It is a tyrant, defying borders, refusing to compromise its position. Enormous leaves rustle and I grin as a chipmunk streaks for the cedar hedge. I close in on the herbs, consider my options and snap off several long, verdant spikes. Close to fields, we have had our share of visitors, small frogs, grass snakes, rabbits, red tailed hawks, the occasional raccoon. Nature is taking back the encroachment of suburbia. I rip off a mint leaf, finger its fur and a movement catches my eye.
through thyme a snail inches towards my sundial
There is no artifice in dawdling. Often, I think that my small plot of land is enough for me. No adventure to the far East, no sabbitical on a windswept isle off the coast of Wales. Pleasure, riches, surround me. Perhaps, I will never see the Louvre, but then, in small ways, the Louvre visits my plain home.
a spider's web and my clothesline tangled
The neighbours tolerate my brown thumb, our patchy lawn and my horrid bird calls. They have witnessed the earth under my fingernails, encrusted knees , those afternoons I spent coddling seedlings. One keeps gifting me surgical gloves, a nurse who fights weeds with an antiseptic resolve. The gloves pile in a drawer, unused. I gaze at my roses, notice the gnawed growth, wonder who thinks them delicious. Smart wee beastie. The street is stirring, and my sojourn will end, soon.
the widow next door refills her new bird bath - empty nest
I search for a cloud, find one so far away that it appears otherworldly. Peat and black soil perfume the air. Inhaling, I accept a gentle invasion, a piercing that brings a deep sense of purpose and peace. For just one moment, I feel that I am not walking the earth at all, but that somehow, as impossible as it seems, the Earth just began to move within me. *written May 2013. I miss my herb garden!


Long poem by T Wignesan | Details |

Am I the Assassin or the Undertaker

Am I the Assassin 
        or the Undertaker

                   For Palani 

                                I

He stopped coming our way again
He was no where in sight at school
Then, after a long absence
In the pit of the Chan Ah Tong padang
He came and stood at one corner of the field

He looked resigned grave
A stoic smile hovering over his lips
Over his virgin gossamer moustache

His voice a calm breeze
Of vowels constrained by crisp consonants
We saw less of his teeth
He was dressed in silk shirts
Well-ironed without creases
Trouser pleats showing strictness
Shoes shiny and sleek
The sheen of his hair obedient under cream 
His gait measured strained
As though grim hands clawed at him
Through gaps in the ground

At first, we didn’t know
What to make of him
His new tutored appearance
And detached forbearing looks

He watched us play
Close on hours
Aloof far away
He never so much as waved
We turned to look
He was gone
Leaving the dusk to fall behind him


I called to see anyway at his place
His father frowned at me
Gruff undertones accompanied him inside
I saw a curtain ever so slightly tremble
After a while his mother
Came out to say
He had gone for good

I wasn’t sure what she meant
I stood there looking dazed
Then tears licked her cheeks
Her drained and stricken face

She went in dabbing her eyes
With the loose end of her sari

I never called on them again
I just couldn’t understand
The father’s anger and pain
At this world on which we stand

I was just a playing pal of his son’s
He was older than I was then
Yet he came just once
Out of who knows what inner command 
Just to talk or stroll around

Now I am older and his elder

But is it I who laid him low

                       II

A date with fate
He came one morning to my place
All decked in his glad rags
Fingering a shiny white billiard ball
Twirling it between bony fingers
Like the natural leg-spinner he was
Just for fun he would let it lick the dust
And it swished near ninety-degree turns

I said: What about some quick nets
The day aged in labour and with forceps
He hesitated but on the spur 
Said: Yes, why not

The rest of the morning I batted
Saw the wickets tumble uprooted

His spirits surged 
Sweat sweet and sour 
Sprinkled his shirt
And ran down his collar and spine

We laughed at every googly 
Which missed the wickets by inches
We were back in olden Ali Baba times
Truants lost in a cave of our own
Diamonds refracted from his eyes

He said: We should do this more often

His heart must have caved in that very night
Or was it when he barely made it home
 

© T. Wignesan – Paris,   February 3-4, 2013


Long poem by cayetano young | Details |

Brewed Morning

screwed.bumped.bruised.fingers caressing a flossy silhouette which happens to be a cup of
brewed coffee.savoring its stunning richness while helplessly  drowned in sincere fondness
from its hypnotic scent.better than hell.better than a new-mown hay.better than anything
else that i have sniffed. it's captivating whiff has a distinct likeness from a baby's
breath.sweet.innocent.unknowing.it somehow appeases the wrath trapped in yearning that
once shook  my bone and cracked my shoulders.better than a morning mist.better than a
perfume on my wrist.a way better than my alcohol breath. it soothes the voice of grievance
that once remained unheard,spoiled,wormed caused by some ungodly reasons that transcend
such human beliefs.'twas like holding a huge sneeze frightened to blurt it out for people
are destined to say ewww!

then i stutter, the wind that passes through my windowpane,gently fondling my skin as if
into my soul, tends to be humid.

bound.broken.half death.nothing left moving but a heart that pounds its own flesh and a
mouth that pushes a dying breath.dried lips have been refueled by an extinct satisfaction
brought by a tea-like pungency of such heaven scent.better than chocolates.better than a
chilled whiskey. better than a guilty pleasure in my bed.tangled in drastic devotion on
how it bathes a craving tongue down to a thirst throat as it replenishes a  brittle heart.
tied into its bizarre bitterness that hinders a body from aching as it pulls a grown-up
litany from its own wreckage.its caffeine d tartness sympathizes upon a burning
discernment. like a flickering ember playing on its flares. burning hot burning
slow.burning until its own gleam stops from its own glow.

ironic as it seems, the wind that passes through my windowpane continuously swishing
humidity as it was.

torn. numb. trembled. clock tick-tacking as it performs its obliged morning ritual that
leads my ear to its bleeding. both hands still slithering the polished receptacle of now
consumed must-have to death gladness while battling to gasp for air to at least ease a
particular suffer.forgetting all I'm missing. completely incomplete.still can't exude a
certain degree of contentment from its intimate delight. desperate to bring back that
bitter sweet remedy that once pulled my puzzles from bits and pieces. a passionate
obsession . a one in a million.the sweetest fun.

tonight it will be intensely bitter than the last cup.
always could then be bitter.until the wind that will pass through my windowpane wont be
humid no more-as it supposed to be.


Long poem by anne p. murray | Details | . You can read it on PoetrySoup.com' st_url='http://www.poetrysoup.com/poem/part_3__the_lourde_and_the_ladee_and_the_magikal_forest_of_ode_435108' st_title='Part 3- THE LOURDE AND THE LADEE AND THE MAGIKAL FOREST OF ODE''>

Part 3- THE LOURDE AND THE LADEE AND THE MAGIKAL FOREST OF ODE'

I know ye’ believe in faeries and elves 
Ye' must believe like ye’ believe in ye’ self 
Ye' must believe in magik, for it truly does exist 
Search thru forests and trees and the mysterious mist  
Once upon a time in the Enchanted Forest of Ode’ 
Many mysterious magikal Seeds were sown 
Seeds of enchantment, mystik' charms and magik' stones 
Steeped in the mystikal' magik' of love and lore 
Ye’ muste’ keep ye’ eyes open... 
                  There will be more! 
  
Some night the Sandman may whisk ye’ away 
To our mysterious lands of mythikal' magik'
 Guess what? ... 
Ye' just might want to stay!   

In the quiet still dusks of morn’... ye’ can hear the whole world whispering. The shy, green grasses making love with the early, morning moisture of the dew.
                         Shhhh.... 
                          listen... 
Everything there is to hear is in the heart of magikal' hidden things  
*¸.•'´¯)*¸.•'´¯)*¸.•'´¯)*¸.•'´¯)*¸.•'´¯)                           

 I know ye’ believe in faeries' and elves 
Ye' must believe like ye’ believe in ye’ self 
Ye' must believe in magik, for it truly does exist 
Search thru forests and trees and mysterious mist  
Once upon a time in the Enchanted Forest of  Ode’ 
Many mysterious magikal Seeds were sown 
Seeds of enchantment, mystik' charms and magik' stones 
Steeped in the mystikal' magik' of love and lore 
Ye’ muste’ keep ye’ eyes open... 
                  There will be more! 
  
Some night the Sandman may whisk ye’ away 
To our mysterious lands of mythikal' magik'
 Guess what? ... 
Ye' just might want to stay!      
    
In the quiet still dusks of morn’... ye’ can hear the whole world whispering. The shy, greene' grasses making love with the early, morning moisture of the dew. 
                         Shhhh.... 
                          listen... 
Everything there is to hear is in the heart of  hidden things  
 
*'´¯) Must do's for the magikal' kingdom of faeries' and elves*¸.'´¯) 

Ye’ must always look for four leaf clovers                
Ye’ must always say “Bless ye” after someone sneezes        
Ye’ must always sing “Mr. Sandman Bring Me a Dream”, before ye’ lay thee head down to sleep 
Ye muste’ always, always put your pulled teeth under ye’ pillow, so our Tooth Faerie will leave thee some coins
P.S That way ye’ shall never be without gold

**Robert Louis Stevenson said..."every child can remember laying his head in the grass, staring into the infinitesimal forest and seeing it grow populous with fairy armies ..."


Blessings and Peace to all.
*¸.•'´¯) Luv' N' Hugs... Anne P Murray
 

 
 


Long poem by ROGER SATNARINE | Details |

THE SUN

At dawn you give subtle hints 
of wanting to bring me joy
just like a child eagerly at play 
with a special brand new toy
And just like watching 
that happy child at play
seeing me rise with you
is what brightens your day
As you look at me it may appear 
that my eyes are shut
Although my lids are closed
I know you are there
because I feel it in my gut
And though I may lay in the darkness
of this thing we call sleep
I feel from which window
at me you lovingly peep
It is your right I am only a temporary guest 
in your eternal home
No one wanders aimlessly
your light gives direction as they roam
With my eyes still closed 
I can see your shadows dance across my face
Beauty is created from this magical contrast
it truly does span all of time and space
It amazes me 
how our only real Light
will use its exact opposite 
in a daily fight
It is a struggle man has fought
since his very first morn 
for he knows that he must 
always be up at the crack of dawn
Your words are harsh
and can leave a bruise
as it does with this saying
If you snooze you truly lose
As gentle as the warmth can be
from your early morning touch
if I am still not with you by noon
it angers you so very much
You then literally and figuratively 
turn up the heat, and make me sweat
I perspire in my bed this is your payback
for missing the time we should have met
You allow us a certain amount
of time to work and play
before it seems that like always
you will leave and go away
But it is me my planet Earth
whose back will turn
we revolve around you
something we all needed to learn
And yet this is another one of your lessons 
designed to keep us on track
Because you know we need you
it is your duty to never turn your back
You prove this all too well
at a place where you shine 24 hours a day
like at the Alaskan wilderness
where one can always see their way
Oh how you can truly make
living this life such fun
for example by allowing me to picnic
in the land of your Midnight Sun
Your time is precious
I am taught to respect myself the same way
because you are easily vexed
if I do not make the most of your day
We speak your words
from one to another
it is passed on
by both father and mother
Where did all the time go
For the question begs to differ
Was I too fast or was I too slow
So as I look to the west
and I see you slowly fade
I am ready for the evening’s song
as I gently pull down my shade
The day’s sounds are quieted
silenced by dusk's lullaby
and every time it happens
I know to never question why?


Long Poems