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Long Morning Poems | Long Morning Poetry

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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 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 JW Fellers | Details |

The PRAIRIE DIALED 9-ELEVEN

By day you work the fence, you’re out stretching the wire. By night you read of Grace and stare into the fire. Come morning you fix a breakfast to last you all day. Come evening your supper is a better reward than pay. Come morning you eat a breakfast fit for a king. Come evening you’re so hungry you’ll eat ‘bout anything. Coffee warns of eggs and biscuits and such. Supper comes along usually ‘bout dusk. Tending a herd on the wide open plains. Gives a body time to think of all sorta thangs. Thangs like how great a country we live in today. Here in America, the good ‘ole U. S. of A. A country so vast, with big cities on each side. But here in the wide-open middle is where I reside. A country founded on God, they sat sail for where ever the wind leads. Strange how we all seek the same God, how some get off in the weeds. No one knows freedom better than the American Cowboy. Freedom’s nothing to sneeze at and it certainly ain’t no toy. Some folks don’t like our freedom and man, with out a clue. Stole some planes and right into our life they flew. Last week these guys tried to take our freedom away. Hurt some folks in the most barbaric way. On the prairie they’re snakes and all kinds of varmints. But nothing as mean as these guys that came here to harm us. If critters are out and pose some kind of threat. Yank a hog-leg, fire a round, you’re good to go I’ll bet. Hear me Lord as I stare into the fire and say. Rid their minds of this evil thinkin’ is what I pray. We can’t reason why things like that happen. You’re the only one that knows Lord, I reacon. Our leaders have shown Your Spirit as their witness. Our countrymen have followed suit, just as You’ve convicted us. I’m thankful all I do is stretch fence and rope in an occasional stray. Than to have to do what Bush has had to do the past few days. Lord; be with us, guide our leaders with what they “Have” to do. Thanks for uniting our country, You’re faith we must prove. By the fire I read where we’re here today and gone tomorrow. Life’s short, live it to the fullest, ain’t no time for sorrow. Come morning breakfast has been better here of late. Come evening supper has been especially great. Seems we have an awful lot to appreciate. Since the time of the attack, to date. Lord; guide the boys, give them wisdom with what they do and say. This ‘ole cowboy is fightin’ the war on my knees as I pray. By Jim "Ish" Fellers Copyright ©: September 18, 2001 ~ Tuesday


Long poem by Andi Johnson | Details |

Because she still clung to his promises

The girl was legend

All empty eyes & purple painted smiles. Every sweet white inch of her. And everyone knew 
her name

She danced in satin skirts that only moved when she took them off. She was everything 
delicate, everything demure. She was beautiful even when she wasnt

She watched the world with terror filled saucer eyes & the world looked right back with eyes 
that were unmistakably green

It was clear glass, they envied her & she wondered why

She knew they hung up her picture, plastered her to walls&books&frames that made her 
their prisoner. They stared at her when they were alone & forged a kind of intimacy she 
could thrive on

But it was temporary & in the morning she was left to sing her own self to sleep since no one 
cared enough to do it for her

The people that loved her, that glimpsed the real her when she uncovered it, all those people 
left her at the end & she saw what they'd done

They'd led her down the wrong track but they peppered it with glitter & held her just right so 
she was blind to every bit of it

She was the diamond dying in the night, she was the candied rose melting in the morning 
dew. They lured her with promises of love & took her innocence before she even knew it was 
there

She hated them but started to love them almost obsessively. The love hate became another 
prison & she thought she was free because she always got nine seconds of pleasure before 
the sun rose

Back bars catered to her kind & she walked in just to stand there & let their hands go places 
she'd never gone herself. It felt like the past & she convinced herself it was right

One night she walked in, skirt past the legal limit & eyes bright like they used to be. It was a 
shock-making moment, she hadnt looked so sweet in oh so many years & they were afraid 
to touch her

She'd been their girl forever, passed around & used like an old movie that cant be rewound. 
They knew every mark on her body, every scar where they signed her, a kind of "I was 
here" of the human body. They couldnt recognize her. It was the first time she walked out 
alone. Faintly she hoped to be pressed against a wall & killed but it didnt happen

She kept turning around haunted by phantom-feels & ghost-touches. Her body just wanted to 
suffer. It was instinct & who was she to fight it?

Every step was agony. She walked so carefully as though she was afraid of falling in a river 
of her own dark thoughts

But it was hopeless, darkness followed her wherever she went


Long Poems