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Long poem by john fleming | Details |

And still i drive - part one

Stars fall under failing skies...stars fall...stars fall...
And sadly...i start to drive.
Through the unremarkable village with its tall 
Georgian Bay window panes, lightless,
devoid of visages; outwardly staring back at my 
Abject countenance with detached contempt and utter disdains.
Stars fall under failing skies...stars fall...stars fall...
And i start to drive.
But arriving at the brew i am compelled to ease upon
The pressured brake -
For at the slowly closing level-crossing, with its red lantern gate, 
The tolling bell insists i stop and patiently wait.

Stars fall under failing skies...stars fall...stars fall...
As once again i prepare to drive.
At last, in rapid haste, the late commuter train 
Has rattled by -
Within, the snoozing jostled crowds and deceitful 
Drunken brokers that boozily sigh.
Stars fall under failing skies...stars fall...stars fall... 
But stars do not lie.
Away now from Littlehamptons smothering, towered,
Blue-stepping climes,
Where, high upon high, wheeling fat-bellied gulls,
With angry squawks, viciously dispute their scavenged finds.

Stars fall under failing skies...stars fall...stars fall...
But stars do not die.
Motoring downwards to ancient Aruns sheep-strewn 
Meadows and thin grass plains,
Past black flint-knapped walls girdling squat Tudor abodes;
Along the oak and Elm treelined roads and green verged lanes.
Stars fall under failing skies...stars fall...stars fall...
And still i drive.
Past the dimly lit little ramshackle station where you welcomed
him in;
Here, gently retiring Larkin did once alight to muse at a
Noble Dukes tomb and his boastful castle of hewn grey stone might!

Stars fall under failing skies...stars fall...stars fall...
But stars do not cry. 
Travelling alongside these thorny lines of Hawthorn hedge,
Where the cunning Stoat and slinking Weasel reside,
That do so ably divide a long forgotten, once bustling,
Feudal countryside.
Stars fall under failing skies...stars fall...stars fall...
But stars shall not deny.
Each side: Fields of Harvest mouse and blackened Vole
Beneath the hushed brown feathered wing -
So rips the sharp beak - so deathly the talon
That swoops upon the heath where brown Linnets sing.

Stars fall under failing skies...stars fall...stars fall...
And still i drive.
Following the deep sided Rifes where the farmers boy 
In olden days did so joyfully run -
And wade the sharply tinkling shallow Bournes with excitable 
Barking hounds and readied hunting gun.
Stars fall under failing skies...stars fall...stars fall...
But stars do not lie.
Standing upright, like troops aside their barrack beds,
the ranks of stiffly rattling thatching reeds encouraging 
Spearwort and sedge;
Where the chugging long-legged hens slide across slow glides:
Thus cleverly disguise and hide their speckly eggs.

Stars fall under failing skies...stars fall...stars fall...
But stars do not die.
And still i drive. Across the hushed and vigilant lands of
Silvery streams
Where glistening otters slumber, safely holted, 
Within their whistling dreams.
Stars fall under failing skies...stars fall...stars fall...
But stars do not cry.
And still i ride. Past the frozen woods of blasted trees
Sheltering the demure deer shying from night time chill;
And tumbling badgers rolling at ease
Upon dry-cracked carpets of rustling, black spotted, molding leaves.

Stars fall under failing skies...stars fall...stars fall...
But stars shall not deny.
From ancient glade to ancient glade
Where a Gaulic conquerer made an  Anglo-Saxon a slave;
And here this Norman dismounted and stood, 
Domesday within his grasp, his thumb between a parchment page.
Stars fall under failing skies...stars fall...stars fall...
And still i drive.
Exhorting upon my labouring engine to gain the crest 
of yet another leaping hill;
Below: the globular luminosities blobbing within the sleeping hamlets -
Narrow cornered streets dwindling within misted frills so vacantly stilled.

Stars fall under failing skies...stars fall...stars fall...
And still i drive.
Accompanied by the gleeful, ever gurgling sounds
That wend their way down the sloping downs
To unselfishly feed the constant demands of the neat, red-shingled, 
West Sussex towns.
Stars fall under failing skies...stars fall...stars fall...
And still i drive.
Under this vastness of great yawning cosmic sublimes
Ebbing upon the waves of galactic oceans swelling above,
Straddled by eternal Orion with belted sword and terrible club!

Stars fall under failing skies...stars fall...stars fall...
And still i drive.
For as i pass those goodly villages and towers, sneaking a peek,
I look out over the dark outlined shapes and spires:
Wonder i upon that furrowed brow, that crimson cheek -
Did you quietly cry, blaze and rage, or fall you into deep troubled sleep?
Stars fall under failing skies...stars fall...stars fall...
And still i drive.
But sunrises horizons will surely arrive;
And i feel so weak as i readjust myself to the reclined seat.
For i have miles and miles to drive
Before that welcoming bed that i do most earnestly seek...
Lends to me - and sweeps away my exhausted feet!

Stars fall under failing skies...stars fall...stars fall...
But stars do not lie.
My heavy heart embedded like an anchor deep within
Your reef of sighs;
As motoring over Portsbridge creek my engine flies!
Little painted crafts pushing laboriously against the current 
Of a Solents double tide:
A brief glimpse of a lit up bridge, a safe harbour
Snug within a picturesque quayside.
Stars fall under failing skies...stars fall...stars fall...
But stars do not die.
Standing tall and proud, refuting Hampshires Pompey winds,
Beached "Sails of the South" of wide fame renown;
When rushing in, resounding waves of indifferent sounds -
Crashing over Portseas spray-lashed rocks to so remorselessly pound!



















Long poem by Jade Celeste | Details |

Where Gladiators Fought

Part I

Where gladiators fought for life,
we meet to fight for love
The constellations in the Roman night sky,
celestial spectators, bathe the Colosseum
in the white blood of light
The night is throbbing with the heat of our battle,
our cries, more passionate than any that have gone before

Part II

A short while earlier
A well paid bribe found us in the remains of the Ludus Magnus,
the remains of the old Gladiator School in Rome
where lies buried
a hidden entrance to an underground tunnel 
You pull me with you into dark underground world of legend
By light of a flickering torch,
we travel into the entrails of the behemoth,
coming in time upon the holding rooms
My breath catches 
I hear the sounds of man and beast
carrying through the thin layers of time:
Slaves, criminals, debtors, all awaiting their fate…
Animals pawing, grunting, starved for food
Dying to kill to stave the gnawing pain
Waiting….
Waiting to be lifted up into the arena
Waiting to fight 
Waiting to live or die

Part III

We break into the hypogeum
The crispness of the night air stings us
The vastness of it all paralyzes all thought
Rome comes ALIVE
The resurrection of history enflames us,
and as we mount those final stairs up to the arena,
I feel your excitement blazing through me
Your grasp is almost painful in jubilee
“We are here…HERE!” Your voice is laced with the sacred.
Between those famed arches…XIX and XX
We stand 
You and I all and 50,000 ghost spectators
Here at the East Entrance
The Gate of Life Looms above us
True gladiators passed through these very gates 
Here the applause coursed through their veins
And thundered to the captives below…
Here I stand
Quivering with the knowledge of all this night means to me
That thunder reverberates through MY body
I can hardly breathe
Your eyes are looking up at tiered levels
while mine look ahead
There is the walkway connecting the east to west
At the far side is the Libitinarian, the Gate of Death,
through which dead gladiators were dragged,
their bodies dumped in the Spoliarium 
to be stripped of clothes and armor
Life and death
Here, they converged
Here, they fought
On this night
I know
I will strip myself of my clothing and armor
I will let down my defenses
and give in to your onslaught of passion
Here… I will die to all but your eyes

Part IV

I walk, quietly, with purpose
Here….in this place...
my virgin blood will be spilt
Halfway between life and death, I stop
I turn towards you
My voice reaches you on the night wind
“Come to me!”
I see you move towards me
My mighty gladiator
You who have fought my demons
You who have slain my nightmares
You who have held in check
A savage desire for possession
As you stand before me
I wonder if you know
Tonight is the night
You will plunder and ravage
to your heart's delight
your just reward

Part V

You find a place to keep the torch upright
You see the blanket I’ve spread on the ground
I answer the question in your eyes
With the curve of my lips
I steady my hands as they work to undress me
I feel my body burn in the warmth of your presence
Your eyes undress me faster than my hands can,
and yet... you are....immovable
You stand transfixed
You wait until my only covering
Is my flowing hair
"Make love to me
Here, now...be my gladiator
Come...claim your prize."
I reach out my hand to you
and in a moment
before my next intake of breath
you've come to life and crush me in your arms
Your mouth claims mine
like never before
seeking more
your tongue explores
demanding, commanding
it takes what it will
You pull me in to you 
Your hand in my hair,
my breath is raptured by your sheer strength
Your mouth travels along my neck
Hungry….like a famished animal finally set free to feast
You devour as you reach my cleavage 
I lean back to let you savor my breasts
For the first time
to taste 
You’re down on your knees
your tongue encircling my navel
going round and round and dipping inside
This prophetic dance of what is to come
washes over me
as you lower me to the ground
In a moment, I’m looking at the stars
The two brightest ones being your eyes
You are above me
You are everywhere
Kissing tasting touching feeling pleasing
Finding my voice, I pant...
“Don't...be gentle
not...now!"
I’m gasping with the effort
of all I need to say...
of the weight of feelings...
raging within me
"Don't...hold back anymore
Take me...
Take me...now."

Your hands reach for mine and pin them down
My breasts heave, my body rocks
as I feel you plunging into the moistness 
that your very presence always creates in me
But never...to this luxuriant degree
Pain mixes with pleasure again and again
As I hear your grunt and groan
Your ecstasy comes in manish moan
And I close my eyes to the Roman night sky

I sigh
I die
To the world
I am reborn in you
I hear your victory cry
And feel your jubilant release inside

Part VI

They fought for life
We fought for love
My fingers run through your hair
Your head is pillowed on my breast
My heart beat a reminder
Of what you have won
A gladiator’s reward...

LIFE
found
in the arms
of the woman
you
LOVE


For Justin Bordner’s Contest
Make Love to Me in that Ancient Place
November 16, 2014


Long poem by John Wulf | Details |

Icehouse

Red-hot Rosalita could kneecap a blustering blue norther with a single glance.  Her 
plump poppy-painted lips, scorching stiletto-stenciled eyebrows and hourglass hussy-honed chassis delicately supported a beehive coiffure of rock’n Ronette proportions.

Strutting through the Icehouse door, she promptly executed wimp-whiskered airmen with the same look, showing no mercy for those prisoners of her charms. Nearby, pool hustling Tejanos winked and whistled while grinning pearls of snow.  “Ay, CARAMBA!” they hooted in unison.

Rodriguez, the saucer-eyed bar man muttered, “Uh-oh,” and telegraphed a look
toward the far end of the bar.  Unfortunately, Racy Ramon was much too engaged to receive it.

Rosalita melted a path straight to Ramon’s stool.  Firmly planting herself behind him, she placed one hand on her battleship hip, the other tapping him briskly on the shoulder. Frosty fatal flames flew from her black pearl eyes as she looked past Ramon to the fledgling femme fatale perched on the adjoining stool.

Ramon swiveled, his huge forearm spilling a loaded longneck all over the bar, and, onto the girl, who shrieked and fell off her stool.  Rosalita slapped Ramon fiercely and tried to claw his cheek but his huge paw grabbed her wrist. Her high heels slipped and she fell backward, helplessly clutching the collar of his gray-blue pinstriped coveralls.

Ramon lifted her effortlessly above the floor with one arm, steadying himself on the bar with the other.  Rosalita blistered him with bilingual epithets, angrily unintelligible, yet clearly understood by the crowd.

A trim, coal-haired off-duty airman appeared and said firmly to Ramon, “PUT HER DOWN!”

Picture urban cowboy.  Picture fresh virgin-blue denims fitted tighter than a bull rope tucked into brand new alligator boots. Picture a belt buckle the size of Rhode Island. Picture snap-down-pocket shirt, kerchief-round-the-neck movie actor.  Top it all off with a second-looey, America-love-it-or-leave-it, peach-fuzz face.  

Damn gringo could have been an Air Force recruiter’s poster child.

Ramon gently placed Rosalita on an empty bar stool, stretched himself to his full six feet-three inches and smiled broadly at the “cowboy.”  A few grease globs balanced precariously on Ramon’s rolling belly, remnants of his morning work on Armando Gonzales’ low rider.

Ramon had come to the Icehouse for a mid-day Cerveza, but somehow it got to be three o’clock. His Senorita, Rosalita, had stopped by the shop to see him. Martin, his boss, told her he was probably at the Icehouse.

Putting his huge hands into the front pockets of his Dickies, Ramon nodded toward the back door.  The Airman glanced quickly in the direction indicated and headed for the exit. Ramon followed. 

Hell, EVERYONE followed.

Once outside, the East-coast, wanna-be-cowboy, fighter-jock-in-training butterbar pulled a shank from the alligator’s jaw and menaced Ramon in a stance right out of West Side Story.

Ramon just laughed, pulled a twelve-inch crescent wrench out of his deep work pocket, deftly knocked a knife out of a baby’s hand, grabbed the kid by the waist, hauled him into the bar, sat him on a stool and said, “Let’s have a beer, amigo!”

The crowd shuffled off, some hanging around hoping for a free drink. The winged wonder could hardly peel greenbacks fast enough to cover brews for all his new friends. But…he managed — with mucho entusiasmo.

Rosalita and Maria stood off a bit, side by side, pecking at the shellack on their nails. 

Rosalita really loved a man knew how to use his tool.



Long poem by Shadow Hamilton | Details |

Memoirs

Although born in Scotland I have no memories of there as we left when I was two.
My first recollections are of Las Palmos in the Canaries.
I recall the donkey passing daily and being told he  bites.
I was given a caterpillar and tended it, oh so carefully.
My mother when it was a cocoon persauded me to put it outside.

Well you can imagine my intense disappointment to find
that it had hatched and flown without me getting a single glimpse!!
This is the first disappoint in life that I faced. Our house had a flat roof 
with a lovely garden on top and in the distance an enormous tall chimney.

I remember our boxer Susie she was real crazy especially on the beach
and while breaking open sugur cane it slipped and cut me wide open
right between the right thumb and first finger. I was taken to the doctor
who would you believe? poured iodine into it, he wanted to stitch it too, but no way
was I letting that sadist anywhere near me again. I still bear the scar today.

I recall seeing a woman dressed in black perched atop of a towering cliff
when we were out in the car my sister saw her too. We had to turn back due to
landslides and she was gone, she also had a pointy hat did we see a witch?
I had a wonderful dolls house into which I could walk, yet I took all my dolls
apart to see how they worked I was such an inquisitive child.

At five we returned to England living very near Hampstead Heath and Parliament
Hill fields. One day when my mother walked me to school I entered to find not
a single soul present so I walked up to my Aunts as she lived very close.
Needless to say I got into a real heap of trouble from both school and mum.

I recollect an outing to Hampstead Heath there was a cafe surrounded by a
large hedge from which I could never find the way out. I ran ahead and
entered through the hedge only to find my parents nowhere to be seen.
Of course I could not find the way out back to the car. This couple found 
me and insisted on taking me to the police station four miles away I kept 
trying to tell them I only lived two streets down from the Heath, Grown ups!!!

I remember always wanting to speak Spanish and people refusing to answer me
telling me I had to speak in English Bah! I used to ride my tricycle up and
down five stairs mum always telling me I would fall. Well one day my sister
called me and I tumbled down breaking my right wrist I used to stuff vegetables
up inside the plaster to avoid eating them. I hate most vegetables to this very day.

When I was seven we got Kim our German shepherd who we took to Africa with us.
I recollect the excitement of visiting Gibraltar and seeing the monkeys,
the mystery of sailing through the Suez canal the banks so close as to seem
touchable. A giant ray getting caught on the ships bows oh boy did it stink.

It stayed with us from the equator to Zanibar yuck! I looked on all goggle
eyes at the first dark people I had ever seen cowering by my mum as they banished
machetes in the air some with only one eye. I was trembling in my shoes.
Kim took a dislike to them as they teased her by poking her with sticks through
her cage. This dislike stayed with her for life. We arrived in Dar-es-Salaam
on my eight birthday. From here another tale begins, later to be told. 


Long poem by James Fraser | Details | . You can read it on PoetrySoup.com' st_url='http://www.poetrysoup.com/poem/rwandas_why_606588' st_title='Rwanda's Why'>

Rwanda's Why

I'm driving through such beauty, this lush rural countryside. I find it hard to believe that my 
career has taken me to here. Being where I am is so much different to the Highlands from where I reside from.

Thankfully my 4 x 4 takes the endless rutting roads with aplomb. Mind you, sometimes they remind me of back home, councils never repairing.

As I drive, visually I see scattered belongings. Has the wind carried them to there, as I stare, whilst driving, mm!

The long and winding road takes me to where I've come from. The Coffee Plantation that allured me here initially, empowers me to think back to it's early days. The wanting of the locals, hungered for work, steady monies, quaint prosperity from their already empty existence. 

The next day, I hear on the news, that Habyarimana and the Burundian President, Cyprien Ntaryamira were on a plane, shot down, all were lost.
Having met Juvénal Habyarimana before, it saddened me totally.

The next day on the local radio, I hear there's been disturbances. Like many places in Africa, it was the norm. Onward I went about readying for work. Off I go, before I reach the entrance, a crowd rushes towards me. Angry to say is an understatement, vociferous they, wielding anything they can lay their hands on. Branches, planks, irons, machete’s to name. I'm now needing to veer, to not hit workers that I recognise.

I stop a few miles from home, sweated, shaking, as to why?

To get to my Coffee Plantation, I have to travel through the local village, town, call it what you may. As I near, like yesterday, strayed clothes abound, but different, and so much more. This time they're reddened, stained, adorning ripped bodies.

Now frightened, I travel on foot, walking through blooded carnage, my stomach churning.

Children clutching their mothers, fathers and sons I assume holding hands. Young girls taken, forsaken, their life seeping into their lands from where they lived.

As I near the village, town, there's shouting, chanting, the stench of burning flesh. Upon view, machetes wield down on many, amidst cries I've unheard of. Limbs now release, torso's tired, fired, my eyes streaming tears for fears. 

In frightened stare, I'm spotted, sadly by my neighbour. He points at me, my heart surges, scared, disturbed by what I've seen. Instinct tells me, run, and I run, Lord do I run.

Upon reaching, fumbling I am for the keys, this image I'd only thought was in the movies. Now where I ask, knowing where I am. For once amidst this, I think, border, which border, as I decide to head East to Tanzania, knowing we have a sister company there.

It's later that day, my eyes now in tears. 

On the news, knowing people I see. Their hacking children, pregnant mothers, fathers and sons.
What's taken this for the Tribes to have undone. I worked with both sides, for many a year. 

I now look back as I'm summoned, to give evidence at the '100 Days of Slaughter'
Caught up I am, to declaring Rwanda's loss, of my Tutsi wife, and our daughters



. 11th Oct 2014.


Long poem by Travis Lone Hill | Details |

One Among Many part 2

I live in a place striving for sobriety surrounded in alcohol looking for happiness trapped among our very own sadness. I hear my people’s laughs and I hear my people’s cries, but most of all I see their dreams because their dreams are my dreams because we remain not against each other today as enemies but hidden friends united through culture, language and blood. I laugh with my people and of course I cry with my people and I fight with my people but most of all I continue to dream with my people. I know who I am and where I am from to know where I been to still hope to where I am going to go. I feel darkness engulf not only myself but also almost my entire reservation’s race, no matter mixed or not because soon our culture and language will have no face without any more light to shine upon it. I know where I lived and still live to know if I will truly go where I truly want to go in life before I have my one walk with death. I know by a long shot that I am not the best but by a close hit on the reservation’s target I could be better. 
I take a stand against self to stand against others to better a worsening crowd of many young lost indigenous souls waiting to be unknowingly found and waiting for something similar to what I’m about to write. I take a stand for self so that others know that we aren’t all lost and we can and will be found with the true hope of no one’s but your own. I take a stand because my brothers and sisters wont, I take a stand because now days most the people around me or within me can’t or don’t know how, I take a stand for the children who don’t have a father and mother as I once had, I take a stand for my unborn child almost here, I take a stand for courage because within me is filled with fear, I take a stand against because the alcohol and drugs within me now I just can’t stand, I take a stand for those around me who cannot stand, I take a stand for a culture dying on its knee’s trying to get back up, I take a stand for the forsaken yet to be forgiven self-stand.
 I patiently wait, lying away in the darkness searching for light even though I can see the light I just don’t know how to get on thy path to the light. I am not alone, I know for a fact that I am not alone in my thoughts and feelings about life on earth here. I can see our pain, I can hear the hollers and screams, I can feel your anguish and I can smell our destruction. I walk through the reservation valley of darkness as if I am but a blind witness to our own destruction upon where many of us go unknown truly forever in depths of time, in the depths of death.
 I know that I cannot give in or give up on a dream of a people’s dream where the buffalo in our young hearts and minds may roam around free and where the wolf warrior chief may rise above all odds and become thy greatest modern day warrior, the people seek him, the people crave him, the people need him, the people need someone to rise if not geographically the worldwide mentally.


Long poem by Amy Rose | Details |

Life On The Street

Dried up like a reservoir
In the mid summer heat
The cracks in the ground
Are like
The life lines, upon my face
I have weathered many a storm
As if
I have lived a 100 lifetimes,
Instead of one! 

Bare, rough, dirty feet
Shoes are hard to come by,
These days
Unless, I steal them!
But, then I will become a target
Having something new
It will get stolen from me
By some other gang
Or by some cruel and nasty person!

“Bare feet it is!”
“Less problems, this way!”
Feet are made for walking
I will use them
For what
They are made for!
“Now let’s get something to eat, I am starving!”

Loitering around Hungry Jacks and Macca's
Asking people 
As they walk out
With their hot, delicious, fresh food
For a gold coin or two
Dumpsters and bins
Look nice, today!
Only half eaten, stuff
A lot of wastage!
“Not the freshest stuff, but hey!”
Make do, with what we have!

The sun is shining today
Not sure where to wash though...
Water is scarce, thank god for public toilets
They sure come in handy!
They say it is fun
And you are lucky to have freedom!
But, 
It is a lie we tell ourselves
To remain ignorant
To pretend, we don’t give a damn
But, inside, 
We really do!

For you see ,
There are sacrifices
To the choices you make
When you have to live them, out
“Don’t be a fool!”
Life is no fairytale, on the dirty streets of hell!

During the day, 
The city lights up
It glitters 
As if
It were made out of gold!
It comes alive with people
Rushing here, rushing there, rushing everywhere
Not really knowing, what 
They are presently, doing 
People reminding me of robots, sheep and zombies
Acting as if they are in control of everything
When in fact, they are not!

"Who knows what is around the corner?"
"What is coming, your way!"
Life is unpredictable,
"Beware!"

“Don’t be mislead by the fakes, around here”
“There is plenty of them!”
Eyes are on you,
Down every alley way
Standing on every corner
Watching you
"You, are in ‘our territory’ now!"

“Hold onto your bags tight!”
For, 
I may be lurking behind you
One minute there,
Next minute gone!
It is the nature of the game
As
I snatch and grab your bag
When I see you off guard
Taking your money
Claiming it, as my own
You see,
I need it to survive on!
I'm banking on you, being rich!
I told you
This place is a hell hole
And, 
I meant it!

This dark place
Full of shadows and conscious deceit
Will swallow you up 
Eating, you alive!
You will lose your way
In its pit of endless darkness
There is no Prince Charming’s, out here!
There is no one to save you
There are only damsels in distress
Like me!

No one
Comes to your aid
When you need it the most
You could diminish and disappear one day
Within a blink of an eye!
Without a hint 
Nor trace of you, left behind
No one will see it happen
Because
No one
Opens their mouth up, around here!
So,
Love and appreciate, one another!
Care for yourself and care for others!
Tell your loved ones 
'you love them' often
And,
‘Enjoy' 
The home, you live in!


Long poem by Gerald Dillenbeck | Details |

Being It

It was there

right there

on woodland's playground

when I first knew

something stirs very wrong.



I was blind to balls

hurled at me,

being It is not why I grow my mind and body,

or is it?



I am "It!"

or at least half It.



It and I play best alone.

He slows down

to notice ocean surf

waving back and forth

an ocean sighing Hi, then low,

creeping in and sucking out.

It both hugs and climbs trees

to the very top

on windy ways

to wave back.



Why is It so shy?

Or, am I hiding her-him,

I'm not sure,

some of both

but too androgynous Him

fears no one else notices

surf rolls in and reverses out.



It knows bi-natured law

prehensile full-bodied grasp

of organic life's humorous ambiguity

creative ambivalence

righteous equivalent functions and flows

of yang with yin within,

as without,

below,

as above,

before,

as to come,

long,

as to belong now,

together.



It's so hard to not love

not share

bare

expose cooperatively unbalancing It.

S/he is soo... much fun!

laughs with everyone

generous enough to return this fine favor.

It's polypathic polyculturing

binomial binary buddha brain

saturates flowering rain

dissects words to heal disharmonic logos

through permacultured alchemy linguistics,

a language It fears to ultimately find

merely eisegetical,



It chooses Red Rover

over soccer,

plays teacher with girls

over driving trucks and trains,

thinks compulsively about this problem of evil

while watching Leave it to Beaver,

where Father Knows Best,

over pitching stones and driving tractor.



It feels older and wiser than Him

but they are born twins

or so it seems

but It mysteriously explores incarnating cycles,

abhors stability,

but adores regenerating solidarity.



It mentors ecotherapy with trees and me,

shows me boundary issues and branch

functions and frequencies

between August's Yangish fire

and winter's quenching white snow and ice,

between autumn's wind falling regenetic harvest

and spring's diastolic succulent soil

decomposing nutrients

growing new perennial rings in this life's tree,

new leaves of grass-fed hope

new polyculture basic, simple-rich compost

new incarnating multisystemic

ecotherapeutic grace,

responsive

resolving

resonant within evil's missing

non-polynomial dislogical pace,

new flowers and fruit

for Eden's farm.



Did I just call It a fruit

out loud?

Shit happens inside our playground,

while planning more polyculturally redemptive lives.


Long poem by pat dring | Details |

Our House

                                                   ‘Our House

We bought our house in 1968, for eighteen hundred pounds.

A little terrace in a row, anything bigger was out of our bounds.

It had a loo in the garden, a bath downstairs, three bedrooms.

After a couple of years, we had a bedroom turned into a bathroom. All pale blue,

Although we still kept the outside loo.

The kitchen was extended, to incorporate the old bathroom.

For us that couldn’t be to soon.

This lasted us for many years.

Although the kitchen still drove me to tears.

Then a few years ago we had the kitchen, flattened to the ground.

It cost several times more, than the original, eighteen hundred pounds.

But up sprung, brand new kitchen fittings and all.

Also a new washroom and loo, but guess what has happened to the walls.

I started writing, a little, bit by bit, now there are no walls to be seen.

They are all covered in cuttings, of stories, poems, articles, etc, photos,
or of places Ive been.

When people go to our loo, they disappear for ages,

Stuck in there reading pages after pages.

Our kitchen cupboard fronts are all covered as well.

There certainly has been a story to tell.

Life has certainly changed, beyond my wildest dreams.

Life is reflected, upon the walls, reams by reams.

                                                    ‘Our House

We bought our house in 1968, for eighteen hundred pounds.

A little terrace in a row, anything bigger was out of our bounds.

It had a loo in the garden, a bath downstairs, three bedrooms.

After a couple of years, we had a bedroom turned into a bathroom. All pale blue,

Although we still kept the outside loo.

The kitchen was extended, to incorporate the old bathroom.

For us that couldn’t be to soon.

This lasted us for many years.

Although the kitchen still drove me to tears.

Then a few years ago we had the kitchen, flattened to the ground.

It cost several times more, than the original, eighteen hundred pounds.

But up sprung, brand new kitchen fittings and all.

Also a new washroom and loo, but guess what has happened to the walls.

I started writing, a little, bit by bit, now there are no walls to be seen.

They are all covered in cuttings, of stories, poems, articles, etc, photos,
or of places Ive been.

When people go to our loo, they disappear for ages,

Stuck in there reading pages after pages.

Our kitchen cupboard fronts are all covered as well.

There certainly has been a story to tell.

Life has certainly changed, beyond my wildest dreams.

Life is reflected, upon the walls, reams by reams.

v


Long poem by Christine Phillips | Details |

Unpaved Road

Winter has blemished my skin 
leaving deep wounds inside 
there is still no sign of spring
but joy was overflowing within.

I took an afternoon stroll along a quite path 
searching desperately for a new start
the sun was shining, hope was riding
but it didn't feel like spring. 

I looked closely at the trees 
but the buds had not yet appeared
dried branches hang sadly in despair
murmuring that winter is still in the air.

Brown saggy grass lie wretchedly in the soaked ground 
while naked trees stare with a miserable frown 
the winter birds were not flying restlessly around 
they must have migrated to another town. 

I kept walking, hoping to breath fresh air
but the atmosphere was saturated with an awful smell 
there wasn't anything to up lift my parched spirit 
so I knelt behind a dry tree stump
and whisper a tearful prayer to the omnipotent one. 

When I got up I felt energy and peace flowing inside
so I went on an afternoon adventure on the other side. 

I kept walking as if I was searching for something
It’s as if something was happening somewhere 
I ended up on an unpaved road that leads 
to another community in the bushes next to the rich town. 

Nothing exciting was flowing through the air
except the awful stench of burnt chicken feather
mingled with burnt fire wood pelting smoke in the air. 

I followed the smell and entered through a farm gate 
hoping to find fresh fruits and vegetables
but instead I pounced upon hens, ducks and goose 
in a make shift coop and a big iron pot
sitting upon a blazing fire, men and women 
were slaughtering the chicken orders.

I wasn't sure if I was in America
I didn't take a plane, 
I just walked through a gate
and here I was in a total different place. 

The people looked strange 
they couldn't speak my Language 
so I hurried away from that terrifying place.

I continued walking along the unpaved road 
moving up and down the winding path 
with dried bushes and shrubs separated the track 
and on every corner there was a sign posted on trees 
private property, beware of bad dogs and no trespassing. 

There were many cluttered trails
and there was no way to get beyond the woody gates
bushes, stagnant water and dumped rubbish
paved the ground next to a rich neighborhood in town. 

I felt perplexed and sad but kept walking along 
suddenly the sun appeared from behind the bushes
with its beaming light flashing all around 
the intensity was so strong I could hardly look at it with my naked eyes.
And so the sunlit sky hanged courageously
over the unpaved road next to a neighborhood in the rich town. 






Long Poems