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absence abuse
addiction adventure
africa age
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anger angst
animal anniversary
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child childhood
children chocolate
christian christmas
cinderella city
class clothes
color community
computer conflict
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cousin cowboy
crazy creation
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dark daughter
day death
death of a friend december
dedication deep
depression desire
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dog dream
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grave green
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growth guitar
hair halloween
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health heart
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heaven hello
hero high school
hilarious hindi
hip hop history
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homework hope
horror horse
house how i feel
howl humanity
humor humorous
hurt husband
hyperbole i love you
i miss you identity
image imagery
imagination immigration
innocence insect
inspiration inspirational
international internet
introspection ireland
irony islamic
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loneliness lonely
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magic malayalam
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may me
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men mentor
metaphor middle school
military miracle
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mother mother daughter
mothers day mountains
moving on murder
muse music
my child my children
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new york nice
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yellow youth

Long Places Poems | Long Places Poetry

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

See also: Famous Long Poems

Long Poems
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 winding 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 grey, hewn-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!
Swooping 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, safely holted,
Whistle within their slumbering 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: Globular luminosities, distant blobs, sleeping hamlets,
Dwindling narrow cornered streets, 
Misted frills so vacant and still.

Stars fall under failing skies...stars fall...stars fall...
And still i drive.
Accompanied by the gleeful, ever gurgling sounds
That wind 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 craft pushing laboriously against the current 
Of a Solents double tide.
A brief glimpse of a lit up bridge, a safe harbour:
The beautiful river Hamble
Where the millionaires yachets reside
Secured and snugly moored
Against 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 remorselessly pound!


















Copyright © john fleming


Long poem by Cyndi MacMillan | Details |

JOURNEY COMPANIONS: THE FRIEND SONNETS PART II

HEROES

Near somber guards, units of children heap 
dead leaves, naive to any else fallen.
Friend, you chuckle, but your posture speaks
of duty on this day of contradictions.

Firefighters bow heads in silent paean, 
while polished trucks stand at attention.
Families have again answered the call
to attend this festival, so uncommon.

Here, laughter rings around the memorial
for exuberance must never be doused,
Gloriously wrought, a sculpture of angels
commiserates with each mourning house.

You say, I see valor in lives that inspire.
 I see heroes and their lines of fire.


*For Craig

NEW DALI

Surreal, the way a contortionist knots
himself as the escape artist breaks free.  
Uptown, buskers beckon with what-naughts,
drawing thousands. Candyland, sighs New-Dali

at its epicenter, his true element,
and he takes it in: the sword swallower,
blindfolds, jugglers, clowns miming laments,
fire-fed gals, stilted-men and tots taller 

on shoulders. This carnival can endear,
turn heads, but only one with a seer-heart
studies the music box dancer, then swears
that she spins perfect webs with street-smarts.

Mirroring that swivel, awed by his entourage,
He becomes centrum to his own collage.


*For Chan, fully alive in Heaven.


SNIPPETS

Your brows are up. The Princess Cinema
is not your choice. C'mon, I don't fit here,
you snort. You, with all your charisma 
and kindness, stand in a short line, fearing

boredom or worse ... pretense. Promise me,
that we aren't about to wallow through
subtitles, you sigh.  Give me clarity,
a story, something that I can relate to.

But the charm catches you by surprise,
a star-struck atmosphere, the seats are new
and the popcorn is still warm. Friendly eyes
laugh, then amusement streams from you

for these Global TV spots simply delight
like each snippet that you joyfully write.


*For Andrea




TARTANS

There be Scots as farrrrrr as the eye can see.
Brawn calves and bright kilts delight lasses 
while pipers swagger out of the pub, tipsy.
Your smile broadens as a caber is tossed

end over end. Then, across the glen, highland                      
dancers in ghillies beckon with hearty flings.
Auch, it’s hot yet heather dare no’ wilt. Clans
gather, roguishly rib each other, as wool spins

in wheels. Aye, the romance can fair overwhelm
e’en the sensible. Worse for we, the fanciful. 
Come, here’s the tea tent. Let soft fiddles calm
as we nibble oatcakes. Tartans and tunes pull

heartstrings. We sit raptly, lost in Brigadoon,
put pen to napkin to let wee thistles bloom. 


* For Francine

TESTIMONIALS

Rustling maples break vows of silence,
naturally. As pleased, spears of hyacinth  
worship breezes with such soft reverence
that we give pause in this living labyrinth. 

Nothing here is still; wood thrush reverb
good news and cicadas buzz testimonials.
Nearby, a creek mumbles, Word-Word
while squirrels glorify their bounty. All

is abuzz with joy, save for the shade
under a weathered cross; it’s emptiness
resurrects veneration. A butterfly wades
the sudden hush, lands on your hand, nests.

My friend, you lift it to wood, sympathizing 
on bent knee, speechlessly evangelizing. 

*For Brian

ON THE FRINGE

Your eyes drink the hues of the Shisha Lounge:
art on walls, art brewing over charcoal.
This coffee ceremony is on the fringe,
far from the pallid and staid. I’ve marveled

at these dear blends, how culture can transcend 
barriers and ignorance. We order too much.
Tibsy, zignie, timtimo.. injera bends 
to each spiced delicacy as our plates touch. 

Gone is this haven where pleasure was shared.
Still, I’ll bring you there. Scribe, man of integrity,
sit with me. Exhale poetry. Imbibe tribal air. 
Mine, this moment and mine, this memory

but that mystifying brew, that receptive floor,
the smoke refined by deep respect… each are yours.  

*For my cuz, Scribe


SUMMERLAND

A warbling vireo hops from oak to elm.
Your gaze wanders, too. This amphitheater
hosts the lyrical, almost overwhelms,
for beyond the mill ruins, the Grand River

is deep in thought, reflecting. It’s as though myth
lives; Summerland has come to the hillside 
where weathered fieldstones beguile the impish
to dance. They do or else tin flutes will chide.

Though cozy the spot,  the world's at our feet.
Tanned toes can not help but tap. Strong is the lure
of pipes and those songs that dulcimers keep.
When night softly falls, one group brings rapture. 

They sing until stars tire and all are hoarse
like poets rousing words to supplicate verse.

*For Carrie


WORD ON THE STREET, 2009


Pure pageantry, how publishers' banners
wave over tents. Flocks of readers graze
on glossy trades, leaflets, hardcovers,
chapbooks. My friend, a true gent, stays
his ground. Maybe, it is the press of page;
Its forthright weave petitions for slants,
favors unique fonts, yet gilds no edge,
sees no need for illustration, just verdant
language. I did not intend to read
over his shoulder. He grins good-naturedly,
tweed makes an allowance. Each line, poetry,
he praises and I still my chatter. We feed
on gems, unrushed, but their brilliance spurs
a verbose woman and a man of his word.


*For David

Copyright © Cyndi MacMillan


Long poem by Eileen Manassian | 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

Copyright © Eileen Manassian


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.


Copyright © John Wulf


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. 

Copyright © Shadow Hamilton


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.

Copyright © James Fraser


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.

Copyright © Travis Lone Hill


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!

Copyright © Amy Rose


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

Copyright © pat dring


Long poem by Shanity Rain | Details |

young American days


              
                   To be in a young America ~
           visions of a ship upcoming statue of Liberty
               the young lad holding tightly to his Mothers leg
             in all excitement of a new Land to call their own
      celebrations of apple pie and fireworks on the 4th of July 
          
             thoughts of the old Hollywood on screen 
                films without 3-D costing less then a dollar
        Greta , Monroe , Betty Davis eyes tantalizing blue glare
       The Wizard of Oz or books written by Steinbach, Capote, Mark Twain

             exciting new visions of creating new concepts 
                 before Capitalism bought all little ones to bigger
           songs came from the hills of Virginia to the black Mountains
               surfacing in Tennessee for all to hear and wish to see  

          The day when one travelled by car on the road travelled
             every town a story told , learning history we once shed blood 
         American Indian tears to the British man whom choose freedom of taxes
            Boston held a tea party , now wishing they threw out marmite instead
 
         The day when we knew our neighbors and bought homes with a paystub
             Everyone had a chance to make their own with pride , even through wars
        When Martin Luther King stood proudly as did President Lincoln for Freedom 
             How many streets have been named after the man whom had a dream ?

             When milk was delivered on doorsteps in Glass bottles 
                 Babies wanting the very first of the top being cream 
             leaving doors open , watching news with your family at 6pm
                cartoons were shut down and it was now grown up time 

                      Cereal being a cheap snack for after school 
                         school supplies costing twenty dollars 
                      Grandma school clothes shopping for fifty 
                   before the internet , cell phones , and text for hello ~

                         2 week Vacations not afraid to put up Camp 
                Christmas sold in December with the sentiment of Love not money
        a day when if one were sick , you could actually get penicillin without question 
         The Doctor treated everything calling it General Practice no fear of Malpractice 

               Never forgetting our Motor city  
                 Old Ford Trucks Chevrolets and Dodge
                  The city that brought Ottis Reding and Marvin Gaye 
               

                     What happened to us ?  Where did America Go ? 

                   

         
  

Copyright © Shanity Rain


Long Poems