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Long Murder Poems | Long Murder Poetry

Long Murder Poems. These are the most popular long Murder by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Murder poems by poem length and keyword.

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Long Poems
Long poem by Demetrios Trifiatis | Details |

WE ARE BROTHERS

WE ARE BROTHERS


1.

Don’t look at me as though I am an alien or stranger,
Don’t let the dagger of antipathy fly out of your eyes,
                                                     I am your neighbor! 

Don’t call me foe, antagonist or rival,
Don’t roll up your mistrustful sleeves to have a fight,
                                                             I am your friend!

Don’t hold this murderous weapon in your kind hand,                                                              
Don’t deny me the right to work, to eat, to live,
                                                       I am your BROTHER!
                                         

2.

If destiny willed me to be born on this side of the
                                                      Frontier line,
If my parents wished me these clothes to wear
                           And taught me their own dances,
                                 Do we have to be adversaries?   

If fate desired me to speak this foreign tongue,
And the color of my skin to be different than yours,
                             Do we have to be competitors?

If necessity decided in this country, in the North,
                          or South, or East, or West to live,
                               Do we have to be opponents?

If I believe in Jesus, Jehovah, Krishna, Buddha,
                                                  Brahma or Allah, 
If this is my philosophy, my tradition, my history
                                                      and my culture,
                                    Do we have to be enemies?

                              NO! A million times NO!
                                               

3.

Please, look at me with new eyes and through away
                                         your injurious prejudices,
What do you see but a person like you who wants,
                     Desires and hopes the same things in life:
Happiness, family, well-being, a home, some friends,
                                                                Some love,
Look! I walk, I talk, I eat, I sleep, I dream, I laugh and
                                                              I cry, just like you,
I’m born, I grow up, I learn, I suffer, I bleed and
                                                             I die, just like you,
I’m a father, a mother, a brother, a sister, a son, a daughter,
                                                                          Just like you,
You see, we are alike, we are the same, we are
                                                              BROTHERS!


4.

Listen to me my neighbor, my friend, my ally,                                                                   
I am telling you the truth:
We are victims of schemes well- planned in advance,
By deceitful, evil-hearted men who wished,
Your distraction and mine, 

They: masters of savage forgery, dividers
                                                           Of mankind,
Have tricked us throughout history with
                                                  Well-orchestrated lies,
And with treacherous stories, these intellectually impotent
                                                                       criminals,
Have instilled tons of poison in your heart and
                                                            mine,
Thus, by cultivating hatred, bitterness and
                                                             rage,
Managed to shape us to ruthless foes, to merciless enemies,
                                                                   To cruel animals,
Please, listen to me! It is true! We are
                                                           BROTHERS!


5.

Let us, therefore, with irresistible will cross all frontier
                                                                            lines,
That the past has erected between us, thus making divisions
                                                                             Vanish.

                                                                                 
Let us, with supreme power, break the bonds of history,
Religion and culture and run into each- others arms,

Let us uproot, from our tormented hearts, thorny mistrust
That was planted there thousands of years ago,

Let us seize ammunition from distractive hatred
 And make war capitulate,

Let us sink the cholera of bitterness in the affectionate sea
Of universal brotherhood and finally,

Let us unite and march to higher claims, to incomparable glory,
Where peace can blossom today,

Thus, both of us my brother, AT LAST! Will go to sleep,
Fearless of each other tonight!

                                                                           
  ©    Demetrios Trifiatis
           08 June 2013




                                                                           



Long poem by Rebecca L. | Details |

Snowstorm Raging

I've been hearing news about the tragic shooting in Newtown, Connecticut 
which happened almost a year ago, so I decided to post my poem again as a tribute.
The tragedy was fresh and heavy on my mind when I wrote this...  


~Snowstorm Raging~

The wind howls outside my balcony door
My feet are cold from walking across the floor
As I step outside to look at the snow 
I know for sure I won’t be sleeping anymore 
It’s 5 am … only five hours of sleep 
The house is so quiet, kids aren’t making a peep

I head to the kitchen, down darkened stairs
Coffee doesn’t take very long to prepare
Back in my bed where it’s cozy and nice
I pull the covers up, my body cold as ice
My legs are warming with my notebook on my lap 
I’m thankful for the company of an early morning chat 

The lights begin to flicker, my internet is gone
No one to chat with, I find myself alone 
I light the few candles I have sitting about
Just in time for the power and lights to go out 
Buried under covers, too bad I’m alone
The coffee tastes good, it’s still kind of warm 

I close my tired eyes to take time to pray
And think about what’s ahead for the day 
My mind won’t cooperate, thoughts starts to wander
So many things that I start to ponder 
Like funerals for those little ones, starting today* 
In a town in Connecticut, so far away
yet so close to home, in a manner of speaking
I think of my children in their rooms still sleeping

My tears feel hot coming down my cold cheeks
As I think of the events of this sorrowful week
And of all the evil which has been unfurled 
And tomorrow, supposedly the end of the world*
Well, maybe the end would be just as well 
We’re already living in a sort of hell 

No! I can’t think like that…I have to stop
I just wish I could have a direct talk with God
And find out what it is that He wants me to think
Find out why such bad things are happening
Why did those children have to die? 
How will those parents say goodbye? 

My heart aches so much as I look at the ceiling 
I can’t imagine what those parents are feeling! 
God, give me some answers!  Show me the way!
What is the point of getting up today?
What is it I’m feeling…?  Is it grief, or fear? 
I hope in time things might become clear

Sitting in the dark as the temperature falls
The candles flicker gently, making shadows on the wall
Those candles smell good, they smell of peace
I close my eyes to try to get some sleep
Quietly there comes a stirring from within me
I could imagine God's words, through a gentle epiphany  
 
The children are ok… they’re in a better place
Their parents have pain that I’ll help them to face
This brings me such sorrow, I am hurting too
But I’ll use this for good, I can promise you 
Things happen in this life that can’t be understood
Let your heart ache for the evil, but search for the good
Remember all those things that make life worth living
Like family and friends… like serving others, and giving…
Do what you can to make the world a little better
Just spread the love… and try to remember 
This world is not the end, and it isn’t your home 
And neither is your body… That’s just skin and bones
There are beautiful things in store for you 
I know you can’t imagine, but believe that it’s true
And tell other people, so they will have hope
It’s the only thing on earth that will help them to cope

I look out the window at the snow flying by 
The sun is coming up, but gray fills the sky 
I may not have the answers to all I want know 
I just have to believe that God is in control 

A peace comes over me like a little gift
I feel that a burden has been lifted
I still feel sad, but hopeful, in a way…
At least I think I'm ready to face another day


12/20/2012  


*Sandy Hook Elementary School shooting
From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
On December 14, 2012, 20-year-old Adam Lanza fatally shot twenty children and six adult staff members in a mass murder at Sandy Hook Elementary School in the village of Sandy Hook in Newtown, Connecticut. Before driving to the school, Lanza shot and killed his mother Nancy at their Newtown home. As first responders arrived, he committed suicide by shooting himself in the head.
It was the second deadliest mass shooting by a single person in American history, after the 2007 Virginia Tech massacre, and the second deadliest mass murder at a U.S. elementary school, after the 1927 Bath School bombings in Michigan. 
The shootings prompted renewed debate about gun control in the United States, and a proposal for new legislation banning the sale and manufacture of certain types of semi-automatic firearms and magazines with more than ten rounds of ammunition. 

* Some people believed the world would end on 12/21/12 all because the Mayan Long Count calendar was thought to be reaching the end of its cycle.




Long poem by gianni pansensoy | Details |

Stitches and Dreams

t was half past five before sunrise, 
when darkness faded into the misty Saturday's dawn, 
just an hour after a bloody confrontation, 
but a brave woman descended into a blood-bathed
street of Lustre, 
with hungry cats and mice on that battleground, 
walking while her purple robe turned pale
with agony, pain and pity, 
completely depressed by the horrible aftermath of war, 
where bullet-ridden houses pounded by an insane belief of
terrorism as a means towards a divine end, 
and victims died as tools for selfish political propaganda, 
while thousands evacuated from the satanic bangsamoro reality
that enriched the few, 
and too many had died under the brutality of corruption, 
some were murdered by extreme poverty, 
where social justice was just an unreachable dream, 
she bled for such an elusive dream.

Yet she strolled in between ruined homes and
broken aspirations, 
through the portal where blood drifted into nothingness
and souls decapitated by a turbulent past, 
while her veil of blue moistened by tears of sorrow, 
with eyes saddened by relentless conflict, 
when the status of civilization was measured 
by the degree of human barbaric atrocities, 
and she knelt down before the walls collapsing, 
torn into pieces by an extreme hate, 
razed to the ground by religious fanaticism, 
When would they realize to co-exist in harmony? 
she asked her thoughts, 
while tears tasted like bitter almonds, 
flowing between her sweet scented cheeks.

The reason behind this violence she could not grasp, 
but to shed tears of blood, 
within her confusion was a lightning, 
where palm leaves fell without solution, 
yet she appeared with an angelic face, 
with eyes shining brighter than diamonds, 
while the moonsoon wind blew her veil, 
floating over the decomposing corpse of a soldier
entangled between electric wires, 
and the dead was brought to life like Lazarus.

He knelt down from death, 
with his camouflage uniform torn by bullets, 
but the wounds recuperated, 
he recognized the blue veiled woman in front of him, 
the divine blessed mother of Jesus, 
he wept like a child, 
and when his eyes opened, 
the  woman went back into
the holy Fort Del Pilar, 
he forgot not the message from her, 

'Son! When humans learn to depart from hatred
then there is no reason to pull a trigger against someone.'
It was half past five before sunrise, 
when darkness faded into the misty Saturday's dawn, 
just an hour after a bloody confrontation, 
but a brave woman descended into a blood-bathed
street of Lustre, 
with hungry cats and mice on that battleground, 
walking while her purple robe turned pale
with agony, pain and pity, 
completely depressed by the horrible aftermath of war, 
where bullet-ridden houses pounded by an insane belief of
terrorism as a means towards a divine end, 
and victims died as tools for selfish political propaganda, 
while thousands evacuated from the satanic bangsamoro reality
that enriched the few, 
and too many had died under the brutality of corruption, 
some were murdered by extreme poverty, 
where social justice was just an unreachable dream, 
she bled for such an elusive dream.

Yet she strolled in between ruined homes and
broken aspirations, 
through the portal where blood drifted into nothingness
and souls decapitated by a turbulent past, 
while her veil of blue moistened by tears of sorrow, 
with eyes saddened by relentless conflict, 
when the status of civilization was measured 
by the degree of human barbaric atrocities, 
and she knelt down before the walls collapsing, 
torn into pieces by an extreme hate, 
razed to the ground by religious fanaticism, 
When would they realize to co-exist in harmony? 
she Asked her thoughts, 
while tears tasted like bitter almonds, 
flowing between her sweet scented cheeks.

The reason behind this violence she could not grasp, 
but to shed tears of blood, 
within her confusion was a lightning, 
where palm leaves fell without solution, 
yet she appeared with an angelic face, 
with eyes shining brighter than diamonds, 
while the moonsoon wind blew her veil, 
floating over the decomposing corpse of a soldier
entangled between electric wires, 
and the dead was brought to life like Lazarus.

He knelt down from death, 
with his camouflage uniform torn by bullets, 
but the wounds recuperated, 
he recognized the blue veiled woman in front of him, 
the divine blessed mother of Jesus, 
he wept like a child, 
and when his eyes opened, 
the miraculous woman went back into
the holy Fort Del Pilar, 
he forgot not the message from her, 

'Son! When humans learn to depart from hatred
then there is no reason to pull a trigger against someone.'


Long poem by Catie Lindsey | Details |

Judgment, Bloody Judgment

When before the throne the Lamb advocated,
For those countless Souls in arbitration,
He reached for the Book without hesitation,
On the altar the Lamb's blood inundated.
God's chosen Lamb being consecrated,
Present at the Earth's foundation,
Then witnessing her mighty cessation,
This Lamb of God now mediated.
For a moment the time seemed to stall,
As blood from the altar spilled to the floor,
Many there were, in search of a door,
But the serpent, on his belly, crawled.
Each Soul stood complacently consigned,
To Hell's fire or Heaven sublime.

To Hell's fire or Heaven sublime,
Every head bowed, every Soul felt speculation,
Be it Heavenly bliss or eternal damnation?
For by righteousness or sins defined,
What was forgotten was in the book to remind.
As time after time, each Soul fell to temptation,
No stone left unturned in this lengthy investigation.
But for the glory of God this moment was designed.
Minions of Souls, of every nationality,
Pale and cold, as dripping sweat insinuates,
The guilt, the shame, the fear that alienates.
Not jot nor tittle removed from prophesy's biblicality.
Sins of darkness were brought to light,
From Hell's fire the demons took flight.

From Hell's fire the demons took flight,
Swooping down low upon the congregation,
As the fire flamed higher in Hell's orchestration,
While Lucifer's laughter offered no respite.
The smoke and the ash suffocated the light,
The sins of the Soul weighed heavy in condemnation,
Then each Soul experienced the evils of segregation.
Isolated, and shamed with immobilizing fright,
Some Souls did faint, their strength grew frail,
When out of the smoke came the Rose of Sharon,
Bound and tied, bloody, whipped, and beaten.
Countless Souls saw plainly where they gained or failed.
Composure denied, though the Soul struggled diligently,
To loose the bonds of sudden accountability.

To loose the bonds of sudden accountability,
Each Soul, a nail in fleshy augmentation,
Slammed into a beam of bloody fermentation.
Throwing stones at a young woman's assailibility,
Convenient doctrines demanding public proclamation,
Heresies and Pharisees in close association.
Each Soul bore the weight of responsibility.
Loud wailing was heard with gnashing of teeth,
While Lucifer's laughter rang out over all these things,
Then more demons took flight, with great and mighty wings,
As a burning sword was loosed from destruction's sheath.
The Lamb opened the Book of Life, judgment to confer,
He called out the first name written, "Lucifer."

He called out the first name written, "Lucifer."
Then an army of Angels appeared in mighty demonstration,
To witness Old Lucifer's final eternal annihilation;
Around the throne sweet incense was implored,
As Lucifer came forth with his minions to proffer,
"Take these," he began, "some of my closest associations,
Take dishonesty, theft, and the greed of the nations."
Then these sins on the altar were offered,
As Lucifer grinned with sheepish beguilement,
The blood of the Lamb arose in hostility,
Covering those sins with absolute capability.
Each Soul experienced honesty and enlightenment.
With the truth now clear for each Soul to discern,
Old Lucifer grew tempered with anger to burn.

Old Lucifer grew tempered with anger to burn.
Displaying murder, lust, and war's devastation,
The blood on the altar covered these evil manifestations.
But within himself, Old Lucifer's patience churned.
As the cosmic wheels of divine justice slowly turned,
Lucifer became enamored with his own amplified palpitations,
Biting the heel of humility, in his moment of greatest tribulation.
"I AM GREATER THAN THOU!" The Lamb, he spurned.
Then an Angel brought forth keys, as the Lamb was inclined,
To protect the Soul from sinful separation,
Due to Old Lucifer's dishonest inclination.
The Lamb held the keys, and to Hell, Lucifer was confined.
Then the Lamb came forward and smashed the Serpent's head.
Now that Old Culprit, Lucifer, was eternally dead.

Now that Old Culprit, Lucifer, was eternally dead,
Received in the end, the Lamb's final summation,
As the Soul was washed clean of sin's sedimentation.
Each sin covered on the altar where the Lamb bled.
Never again would a Soul know sin or experience death,
The Soul felt it's worth as the beloved creation,
Brothers of Christ, in eternal salvation.
Filled with brotherly love, the Soul, felt blessed.
A new Heaven and a new Earth appeared,
Where Eden was restored to it's celestial estate,
Of the Tree of Life each Soul was free to partake,
But having knowledge the law was revered,
Eat not of the Tree in the midst, mandated.
When before the throne the Lamb advocated.


Long poem by Cyndi MacMillan | Details |

TURNING WENDIGO

                        CEO of the Schizophrenia Society of Canada: 
                                    If you ever got out of the Selkirk Mental Health Centre, 
                                     what would you do?
 
                        Li: I hope to leave one day, but I have to make sure it wouldn’t 
                             happen again. That there would be no voices. 

                             I would change my name to be anonymous

________________________________


There is a darkness that we can not see for it lies behind the eyes,
as stark as bone under a harvest moon, masquerading an appetite.

We sit side by side with darkness, oblivious to its plans, its hunger,
and on a July night in o eight, a monster took a long bus ride

across the Trans-Canada Highway. It walked up a tight aisle, then
it sat beside Tim McLean, a young man on his way home, a carnie

with many friends. His mother was waiting for him, eager to see
his eyes, that bright smile. Vince Weiguang Li had bought a ticket

for Thunder Bay. He was once a computer software engineer in 
Beijing, well rewarded, but immigration punished. As an Edmonton

resident the educated man delivered newspapers, served french-fries.
There is an article in the paper he delivered, a story about the legend

of the Wendigo ... and I wonder if the journalist is haunted, I wonder 
if that writer wakes at night in terror, thinking of Li turning pages,

reading of evil, its want of flesh, the taste of blood. Li sat beside Tim,
not one word was spoken, the witnesses reported. Li is big, strong, and

young Tim was listening to his ipod, texting that he’d soon be home. 
He did not see the butcher knife that Vince concealed. The rampage 

was unexpected. Li stabbed the youth over and over; the Greyhound bus
stopped, people ran for the door as arterial spray splattered the old vinyl. 

Li came undone and beheaded his victim; the legend was reborn for
he consumed Tim’s eyes, swallowed the good soul he saw there, and then

he opened that bloody chest, gnawed a heart full of exuberance. He hacked 
off a nose and fingers, placed them into bags to savor later, he became the

Wendigo ,no, no, he’ll forevermore be Nian. Eventually, the police tazered
him. Not Criminally responsible, was the final verdict, due to mental illness,

hospitalization, not prison, and a mother’s tears savage an unjust stillness. 
Li was granted supervised day passes and walks the streets of Selkirk.

Four years, only four years, for devouring a life without provocation,
and a family struggles to pass Tim’s Law in a system that has gone mad...

There is a darkness that we can not see for it lies behind the eyes,
as stark as bone under a harvest moon, masquerading an appetite.






*Wendigo is an aboriginal evil spirit that is said to possess humans and turn them into cannibals... there have been communities in northern Alberta which have reported that people believed they were "turning wendigo." 

* The Nian is a Chinese mythological demon that hunts people and a part of the Chinese New Year tradition. 

*Tim's Law would ensure that people with mental illness who kill are kept institutionalized for life, without exception.

**The quote on top was taken from an interview with Li this year.

This is a true story. The Greyhound murder/cannabilism took place in July 2008.
May 2012 he was granted daypasses. The clock is ticking... it is only a matter of time before he is fully released... unless Tim's Law is passed.

May reason prevail.



FOR ARTICLES ABOUT THIS STORY

http://www.cbc.ca/fifth/2009-2010/bus_1170/timeline.html


http://www.vancouverobserver.com/city/crime/2008/08/15/tim-mclean%E2%80%99s-terrible-murder-and-its-strange-aftermath

http://cnews.canoe.ca/CNEWS/Features/2008/08/11/6413481-sun.html

http://news.nationalpost.com/2012/05/22/greyhound-bus-beheader-vince-li-i-dont-hear-voices/



Long poem by Cyndi MacMillan | Details |

THE SHINING, STEPHEN KING PLEASE ACCEPT MY SINCERE APOLOGIES

The old Overlook Hotel has a tradition of sin and devilment,
souvenirs of the rich. Lovely, yes, but its vista is farseeing,
its death grip far-reaching, and certain rooms stay secretive.
A caretaker axed his pretty daughters, now two changelings 
prowl the opulent halls, somberly stare. Stale air is redolent
with slaughter. Something malevolent welcomes strangers.

Jack Torance, writer, is hired to loosen winter’s stranglehold 
on the isolated, closed resort. Jack’s gifted son, Danny, reviles
his disturbing visions and he quakes at bloodbath predictions.
Wendy, Jack’s loyal wife, fights for family, for their welfare
Jack hurt Danny but is now sober. Promises were exchanged.
Kind Mr. Halloran, the chef, sits with the boy and secretly

tells him of the shining, how some detect the sorrow-secretions
of those departed, how the dead replay roles in the strangest
ways. Avoid room 237, he warns, what is there won’t change.
Danny pedals his big wheels fast down the halls of the devil
as his father somehow disappears, going faster and farther 
than the river of blood only the boy sees, a flood of deep red.

Jack is cruel, unstable, and he frightens Wendy. With dread,
she reads his meaty manuscript, horrified by a revealed secret,
knowing they are miles from help, Oh, dear God, they are so far
from civilization and Jack has retyped duplicate words, strangely,
page after unhinged page. Jack returns, says things that are so evil
that she strikes him with a bat, shocked by this psychotic change.

Wendy drags him into the pantry, locks it, praying he’ll change
back. She rests, but Danny screams and he has scrawled REDRUM 
on the door. The mirror deciphers the word, MURDER, as evil
arrives withan ax. What awful things the heart can keep secret,
He has sabotaged the Snowcat; they are powerless and stranded.
Wendy helps Danny escape through a small window, run far,

she weeps as Jack makes kindling of brittle wood, a plot farfetched 
yet one she must face. The mouse she has been for years changes
and she stabs his hand. Heaven knows, the soul is omnifarious,
Halloran comes, Jack leaves to plant the ax, a hero’s chest blooms red.
Danny watches what is left of his father die, cries out from his secret
hiding place, a chase ensues in a frozen maze; good outlives evil.


        So beware all wayfarers, avoid that next interchange
        for secrets fly in the dead of night, traveling the red-eye
        and evil can call home the lost, the touched and the very strange. 







*This is the a very contemporary sestina. It follows a free verse format with plenty of enjambment. The six end words are manipulated to such a point that the 'core' word is  often barely recognizable. 

I decided to challenge myself, show a sweet poet here that a sestina is only as dull as a scribe ALLOWS it to be, that we can stretch the limits of a form, retain most of its nerve system, but give it as much muscle as we wish! Another lovely poet here said to me recently, we write outside the box because there is NO box! 

I like to keep the box. The box is useful. It's a base. I cut windows in it. I paint the box and add a door. I put things I like in the box. I can happily sit in the box and dream or leave the box whenever I choose because it is MY box. The box is not a bad thing, but it IS only a thing...

I will be posting a blog about contemporary sestinas and the development of this one.

So, this is not the best poem I've ever written. LOL. It is actually a B MOVIE. But, I do think that I at least have written a sestina that is not boring and overly-repetitive! 

Hugs to you, Andrea... so, you likey? Or not so likey?

:D 



Long poem by stark hunter | Details |

I Am the Final Word and the First Word


I Am The Final Word And The First Word


I’m having another one of those night sweats again. 
I am on my back here as naked as David, 
On this slip-covered sofa of mine, 
Counting the cracks on the ceiling. 
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine… 
Heavy perspiration is gathering upon my palms 
And I can’t seem to get rid of it no matter how hard I try… 
Ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen… 
I’ve even tried using this eye-dropper here, 
But when I apply some suction 
By pinching this black rubber thing here, 
I can’t seem to bring 
All that freaking moisture up into the transparent tube… 
Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty… 
Crazy how one’s hand sweats so freely, 
Sweating, sweating sweating 
Like an hysterical woman 
With dead baby betwixt her ironing board fingers. 
Twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four, 
Twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-seven… 
“Dead baby for sale. Dead baby for sale.” 
There are 28 cracks up there.
Wait a minute. 
“Is that you Norma Jean?” 
“No. I’m not Marilyn.” 
“Yes, I know. You’re Norma Jeane. Remember?” 
“Yes, I am Norma Jeane. My baby was alive, but now…” 
“How did it die sweetheart?” 
“If you could only know 
What it’s like to be the object of a million male eyes 
And a million right hands. 
Look at me and my dead baby that was never born. 
I cannot describe the heartbreak. 
I don’t even want to describe it.” 
“If I had to have a dead baby, 
I wouldn’t want it to ever be born in the first place, I guess.” 
“Fifty million murders to come.” 
“Huh?” 
“Fifty million unborn murders to come, after I’m gone. 
Count them. 
Fifty million dead babies that
Will never see the light of day. 
My soul can’t stand it! 
I want to scream but I can’t because, well, 
I’m not alive anymore, 
Even though you think I am.” 
“Norma Jeane. Norma Jeane 
I desire your lips, your red luscious lips. 
I want to live and stop perspiring like this. 
I need you to live.” 
“Here, take this dead baby first.” 
“*****! How dare you hand your dead baby to me! 
You deserve my hand across your face!” 
“So go ahead. Slap me. 
You’re no man at all if you think it’s okay to slap a film legend,
 Especially a dead one!” 
“And you’ve been spying on me too from across the way, 
Haven’t you? *****!” 
Maybe I came on too strong. Maybe I didn’t. 
But if anyone has the right to correct the blond bombshell, it’s me. 
Me because I am the one. 
I am the final word and the first word. 
I am the first mile traveled and the last mile traveled. 
I am the one who can truly satisfy the Girl of girls. 
The Helen of Helens. 
Jimmy and Joe D couldn’t satisfy her. 
The dead salesman couldn’t either. 
And Rhett, Jack and Bobby, well, what can I say. 
They didn’t give a *****about Norma Jeane. 
They just wanted to light their bics with some Norma butane, 
And say: “See ya later.” 
And they did. 
See ya later poor little blond thing with no past and no future. 
“Hi, it’s me, Marilyn. 
Can you come over for awhile? I’m so lonely tonight. Please. 
I can’t stand the quiet and the boredom. 
The silence here in my room is so loud I think I am going mad.
 Please, I need a man! 
A man who will cuddle with me
And tickle gently my naked arm. 
All I need is some simple tenderness. Please. 
I feel the universe closing in on me, 
And I can’t breathe. Please.”  
This eye- dropper is useless I say! 
Just dripping in sweat, 
And the 28 cracks on my ceiling 
Have increased to 29.


Long poem by Scott Bronner | Details |

Creation, Curse and Promise

Since eternity past God the Father Son & Holy Spirit dwelled in unity and sweet fellowship.
Then Three-In-One decided to make a marvelous universe with an earth for life to dwell.
Creating an amazing array of creatures was the easy part – the risk was on the last made.
For unlike other creatures, man & woman were made in God's likeness with a Spirit.

That Spirit communicated with God, and harmony reigned as earth was well cared for.
Freedom to do was great – limited by but one tree that the humans were not to ear from.
At that tree, Satan disguised himself as an innocent snake and asked the woman questions.
Did God really say don't eat from this tree?  Well, that's to keep you from becoming like Him.

Look its fruit is beautiful and one bite and you'll know what God does and be Jehovah's equal.
Eve was confused, for this didn't sound like what Adam said God told her, but wouldn't it be grand.
If God is so good, why would he keep this secret from us of being able to be like Him – is He jealous?
The firm, juicy fruit was indeed delicious, and she quickly called Adam to taste, which soon he did.

A small act? Every war, family problem, anger, hatred, lie, killing, stealing, rape, abuse came herefrom.
The beauty of God's creation was now marred with sin that affected every part with death and decay.
God graciously gave Adam & Eve animal skins for no longer would they live in Eden's perfect climate.
From now on there would be sweat for the food they ate and exceedingly great pain during childbirth.
Even their firstborn would murder their second, starting the cycle of revenge and killing that's ongoing.

Yet God also made a promise that one would come who would crush Satan's head while being bruised.
"In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God and the Word was God" clues us in to who.
For God's Son Himself would come to teach, heal and offer His life on a Cross to destroy our death curse.
Our sins He would bear and in rising He's seal the promise of eternal life, so great we Jesus' love for us.

For Jesus the cost was unbelievably high, and for us the reward is incredibly great – if we but accept.
Accept that I am a sinner, I've done wrong and need God's forgiveness to live with His perfection.
Accept that Jesus can do what I cannot – change my heart, make my Spirit alive to forever live with God.
This being GOD, the promise of heaven and new earth is sure, though pain lies in between.  Choose now.

For GOD and all creation cry out – this is what life is meant for – to know and love One's Maker.
As humans we live eternally with or apart from God, and His great desire is that we choose with.
But just as an earthly Father cannot force true love, nor does our Heavenly Father – He waits.
Though He made all and knows beginning from end, he waits and yearns that we receive His love.

Then love and be loved by Jesus in life's harshness & delight, sharing that love with other lost children
To work in harmony with the One who made us, makes life new again as our spirit is filled with new life.
There can be dry days when we don't feel His presence, and others so full that we want to shout for joy.
The fact is Our Father GOD, our Savior Jesus, the Holy Spirit, are always with us and never will leave us. Amen.


Long poem by Jennifer Cahill | Details |

Prose

Shane walked to the back of the bar and found the door opened to an alley littered with the garbage of the bar and the restaurant beside it, the one whose neon sign had two lights blown out.


“Sally, we should leave through this door if the man I told you about comes in.”


“We can’t”.

“Why?” He seemed agitated, and unused to disagreement.


“The alley has no exit, except for a locked chained linked fence, and besides, we have nothing to be afraid of.” She says, rubbing his shoulders soothingly.
The bar was crowded, and despite smokers hanging outside, the air seemed thick, or viscous, with something that felt like dewdrops suspended: they almost could not breathe. Yet they felt warm within the crowd, and the frigid air outside was an incentive to stay put, at least for awhile.


Sally and Shane ordered two beers, and nursed them for twenty minutes before they started to discuss the real reason they were meeting tonight, on such a cold night in a seedy part of town.


“The money is with my cousin, actually distant cousin; he will bring it to my apartment tomorrow night, just as the sun sets.” Shane wiped the moisture that had left a mark on the counter. Sally swallowed the last drops of her beer. She ordered another; Shane was still taking shallow sips of his.


“Okay, then. Put the money in a laundry sack surrounded by linen and bring it to the laundry mat across the street from my apartment. I will meet you there at nine. It will still be quiet at that hour. We won’t be seen.”


“Okay.”
“

I will pay the woman who has helped others with this money, and the problems we have been having will go away. She never speaks of such matters to others, and her word is good.” Sally was finished with her second beer, and tying her scarf tightly around her pale neck and tucking the woolen red and blue scarf into her brown jacket. She took a deep breath and declared the matter settled. She did not see the man with the knit black cap, pulled so low over his face one could not see his eyes, a scarf wrapped around his mouth, come in and approach the bar.


“One vodka and tonic, please”.


Shane immediately recognized the voice and became afraid. He whispered to Sally about this man, and she frowned deeply, only to smile abruptly when she saw Shane’s fear.


“The woman who we are paying knows of him. He cannot harm us.”
Shane walked quickly to the exit, Sally behind him, noticing the streetlights outside flickering as he stepped outside, and, pulling his dark coat tightly around him, bid goodnight and walked quickly down the street, his footsteps echoing like the voices of long lost friends. Sally waited for her ride, and as the car pulled up, Shane turned and saw the driver was his wife and the passenger his brother. Shocked, he almost ran to the car, now leaving the curbside, and called out “Sharon! Bill!”


A blackness enveloped his senses after unbearable pain and he was unaware of falling.
The next morning, at a corner newsstand near where Shane used to commute by train to work, the newspapers sold had as a bottom headline, in small bold printing, the news of the murder of a man: the commuters ruffled through the articles, and then set the papers aside after reading of such events in a small brightly lit city.


Long poem by Christine Phillips | Details |

Reveal Your Face

Crawl out of your peeping hole 
and face me like a man
You have been hiding for years
and paying people to do your sordid scam
For years you have taunted me
without showing any mercy
invading my privacy
monitoring my computer
tracing my movements
and intimidating me with coward gangster
You have sabotaged my employment
Shows up at my job interviews
instructed my employer to banish me
just to see the other side of me
Touch not God’s anointed 
Or your sorrows shall be multiplied
You have punished everyone who contacted me
and fabricates false stories and treacherous lies 
You have broadcasted it on the news
And have caused many people to become confused
It’s time to stop your filthy scam
and close that chapter before you are dammed
If you do not stop hurting me
there will be another worldwide disgrace 
staring in your beguiling face
You have punished the innocent ones
who have decided not to do wrong
I have kept out of your way
but you crawl back the other way
I am ready for a real fight
I will beat you without guns or knives
I have cried seven days on my ancestor’s grave
And seven powerful sprits will come after you
in seven different ways
they will strip you of your abusive power
daub you in your own mud
and drench you with flood
I have also prayed a strong prayer
hoping for your forgiveness
but he promised that you will bear
your own shame disgrace and drunken laughter
I have wept day and night stayed up late
yet you kept following me looking for a fight
creating false stories for your meaningless glory 
Take a look at your shaking hands
you are no match for my iron man
If you are so strong and heinous
Why don’t you come out of your peeping hole 
confront me and fight me like a real man
Come with your bullet less guns
your entourage and wimpy bodyguards
Real warriors go to war 
they do not stage events or create false alarm
If you are so big and mighty 
why  are so many people in your house dying of poverty
Look around you and you will see
you spend all the money running after me
And your people are hungry homeless and dirty
your house is about to tumble 
Your buildings are old and shabby
And I can barely drive on your cracked road
Look I just damage my windshield 
from a pebble on your broken roads
Your children cannot read or write
Your classrooms are old and crummy
Yet every day you are running after my innocent soul
the people you have running after me
are actually working for me?
They are slaves in my land
while the bad boys are reaping gold in your land
You set up fake mad men at the junction
and little children to guard the centers
You send fake alcoholic teachers in classrooms 
to suppress innocent students brain
Yet with all of that you still cannot get to the top
I have travelled thousands of miles to be at peace
but you track me down and
sold me to heartless murderers 
Look my ferocious bull is about to get you
he is my bodyguard and fearless warrior
if you don't leave me alone
He will rip your sordid gut apart
before the fiery battle starts

  
©2013 Christine Phillips



Long Poems