Long poem by
Laura Breidenthal | Details |
Every child is born into this world crying,
Little did this poor child know, tears would fall for the rest of her life.
Born into a world of abuse, heartache and pain,
With a drug addict, alcoholic abusive father and a heartless mother.
Every day was the same, left alone with only silence and darkness,
Dirty clothes, little to eat with every cry for help resulting in violence.
How could her eyes see any happiness when they had run dry?
How could she smile with cut lips and a bruised body?
At 7, her mother died from a lethal overdose of alcohol and drugs,
However, the abuse got worse as she became her father’s new toy.
Poor little girl, an object of carnal gratification and her innocence stolen,
By a man who was responsible for her protection and well being.
The effects of a dark and destructive childhood destroyed her confidence,
With low self esteem and no social skills, they mocked her in school.
Little did they know about the struggles in her life and the pain she was going through,
Bruised and abused, having to make her own lunch with no help from a pathetic father,
This was her daily routine- even hell would have been a more peaceful place for her.
But, little did the world know the girl had a hidden talent,
The voice of an angel and the mind of a creative poet.
At night when she sang, the stars glowed to her beautiful lullaby,
The ink of her pen was like blood rushing from her veins to create magical lyrics.
Music and poetry was her escape from a life of cruelty and rejection,
Her talent was hidden, so no one could help her reach her potential.
As the girl grew, her abuse never stopped, there seemed no end,
With constant memories of painful yesterdays and a childhood lost.
She used her incessant pains and struggles to enhance her music,
Writing hours upon hours of poetry and songs, self-teaching brilliance…
Deep inside she yearned for someone to understand her, to see her…
If not, but one, she would she be wholly satisfied
Many nights she would find herself crying uncontrollably,
The darkness of the room enveloping her every being
She could see the past in her mind’s eye and be reminded of the sick present
She began to hate her father, and every brat at her school
She cursed death and life alike, and envied her mother’s eternal sleep
Everyone who spit their insult, everyone who remained silent and apathetic,
She hated them with a passion so self-destructive, it burned her raw scars...
Teaching herself to hold it in, so that on paper she could create masterpieces
And prove all of the monsters around her wrong…
In silence, she recalled the worst memories to shame further her reality.
A part of her knew that she was incredibly talented,
Though the darkness often blinded her with guilt
She felt that she did not deserve even a voice,
Her writings were but a sick reminder of demons she could never conquer
Shivering in the cold, her skin dirty and dry,
Ugly…ugly…was the only word she could live by
One night, she contemplated taking her life…
She vowed all of her suffering would meet a greater purpose,
Beyond the grave…beyond fear of hell beneath
She was dirt after all, like the kids always told her
How much worse could it be, facing the flames she was born in?
She threw the kitchen knife down and looked up at the stars above
Even Death would reject her, she knew…
In acceptance, she acknowledged her ugliness and became a stunning underdog
Rebellion sifted through her veins and her strength brought fear to her father
Bullies looked at her as if she was the devil himself
No one could tell her what to do anymore,
And nobody would ever understand her
Though that was okay…
Because that is all she ever knew
Ten years later, the rotten roller coaster continued
Though a fateful night of circumstance had led her right on the stage
Men were mesmerized by her fierceness and apathy
Not being able to grasp each significant line layered in truth
She showed none mercy as she slayed ruthless chords of wonder
Her voice rang angelically, mixed with the fires and tears of her life
Echoing beyond the grave of cold Death… beyond what was wrong or right
It was her silence that stunned the audience the most
Those eyes, having seen so much…felt so much…hid so much…
That cut mouth, with the eternal dry trickle of a bitter tear
The world was not prepared for her intolerable genius,
Just as she was not prepared for their astonished applaud…
-A collaboration by The Silent One and I : )
Long poem by
Olive Eloisa Guillermo | Details |
RAINDROPS OF IMMORTALITY
Smiles were stolen from me long time ago
Days gone gray as storms rush to play: my...
They drain. Fervently, I called to the Heavens
but it seems no one there. No one there!
I lullaby with the whine of gushing winds,
hoping they are kind enough to blow my notes.
Notes carrying cries when am still a child
as 'til this day, I yearn for father's love...
I face every facets of life in color white,
some brushed my lips with grins and laughter,
some stitched the screams of November
yet passed they left footprints to remember.
There in the azure ambiance, love's dare~
I bit the chance but sadly I fell distant,
my sweet red heart weep from bitter thrusts.
Easing emptiness within, I refuse to be a victim.
I prayed, pleading always for a Saviour kiss
just maybe through it, I might die in peace.
(Is death the better surrendering deliverance?
Or just an acrid escape for suicidal goodbyes?)
I chose God for I prefer to love and live
into poetry I began rhyming a letting go
the quill of a poetess, I bravely try:
verses and lyrics my healing balm...
Tossed flowers from the changing seasons
and so the smells of pancakes and cafe
flirt slatternly to my imagination
bursting from me a ballad or a sonnet.
But oh! Poetic finesse is a gold in a mine
hence, I dig, dive to curves and loops
presenting always my jolly descent views...
Others said images I present confuse,
they don't know, they are the nightmares
creeping, shaking my lethargic muse.
Written free, I asked you to read carefully~
I send messages of love, beauty and maladies...
My pen scribbles mom ore unchained melodies
for my heart slowly erects from slumber.
It somersaults upon the breaking swell of sunrise
in this tediously solitary realm of the world.
The horrible webs of yesterday's frustrations
I untangled from life's hullabaloos...
Shattered dreams into my ink, I shall reform
unencompassable inspirations, I want to rouse.
Grace from God refilled, it empowered my life
surging heartbeats pushed me to clamor for change.
I stand to blossom amidst imprisoning trials
yet never forgetting my humble ground.
Coupled with the will to survive all strifes
let my living be mirrored to pages
and when breath of life is cut from me
let my pen be raindrops of immortality.
Sponsor Name: Silent One
Contest Name: Your final poem
++ POEM of the DAY ~ August 30, 2015 ++
© Olive Eloisa Guillermo
10:57 pm. August 28, 2015
Olive Eloisa Guillermo
Long poem by
Dave Collins | Details |
I stopped to stool siphon sip on a cool blue
circumstance in the means between the in
times loath listening to complacent
poetic prostitutional practice of stir my friends
ego echoes doing the same f. u. c. k. e. d.
favor dance for me whenever my I/ego envy enter
exists your contra content littered with
manic moronic mentaloronic maladies
of entrance entrocities. Lining words
pentamhextamater, of rich rhyme, cleaveage crotch
clearance, colic c.u.n.t. coffure
frantic fascist frames, abounding with
wok out at me sillo sounds
composite of cruel crisp compound
cumulo capsules of I, me, mine
mousy miniscules in dreamy drop
lovelorn lostlusts learned
limitations lauded longevity in living
linguistic liquidlovelorn light
leaking lanterns, which bequeath spewing
in bitch broth biscuted breveties catching
lucid laminated word wornwastes
catagorical crass. Leave wail/wall
wallet inadequacies enough alone any analog yet tackless
trash white talent to ergo the less a nominal negress and opt for a
sporadic spittle spindle of annotated attack seeing a new personal
your poor prowess less than dodah duh, Po a tree? Nimnul junk gite.
So, my wordful children of BS, when writing yr so called pitypoetry,
devoid of dream dance diminutives coinciding correctly with wrenching wraps
of prostitutional ponder relentelessingly revealing a rapture
of vast vile emoelements of comprosotory
composites of fecalfroughtfrightfolly of fantasies in
poet emeritus of urineyourns a 3 way stretch non nobel poetlorietsupreme
goodfistingluckwiththatcrap;therefore u either play the game or
risk reside in the zombie aperature camera obsecura word death orbit; therefore
Assimilitate before u ass umulate,
Build before u bridge buldge
Concentrate before u cumulo capsulate
Decide before u dildo dick tate
Engulf before u evo enevelop
Fragment before u fracture fantasize
Grasp before u geno germinate
Hallucinate before u hasty hippocrate
Initialize before u initiate
Jackulate before u Jillulasm
Literate before u laud luminate
Mentor before u mirror menstruate
Nurtuate before u neuro negate
Obliviate before u oogle obligate
Postulate before u priest present
Question before u quotionent quest
Recreate before u radical resonnate
Saturate before u semen sacrlidge
Tintalate before u trick translate
Utilize before u usurp ugly
Victory before u vile vanquish
Want before u willful waste
X-turn right @ W follow the X signs
Yuletides before u yell yeildtides
Zeusotide before u zonk zerozilchotones.
Long poem by
Agatha Jetaime | Details |
As soon as I landed, Radju, I concluded that these people live like Gods –
Fairy tale like empty airports, queer roads and on them driving cars handsome studs.
One-piece glass in windows and Dutch ware toilets in a moderate home,
People living here are as happy, I said, as few in our world’s dome.
Their green parks here, Radju, are so vast,
And their houses, Radju, are solid-cast
But not a soul when sun rises sings
A mantra, kirtan or prayer in spring.
It seems they’re not lazy or idle, life in honey,
Radju, but they don’t make anything except for money.
Nothing except for money as if they eat it or it yields –
Only money stacks are advertised on advertisement shields.
Imagine, Radju, no dirt, no slums, but if there’s a long highway to exile
Then all along the road there would be shields with money and even raw meat piled.
Nothing except for money, Radju, as if they can wear it –
They hire people to raise their children. Just imagine it!
Nothing except for money, Radju, if they see a beggar or a cripple
They look as if the poor is not worthy of a man’s name and my back dimpled!
Nothing except for money, but not so that they can buy their wives
Expensive jewelry or embroidered sari – beautiful life.
Instead they put money in a bank and set example for neighbors,
Wear only grey and wife is to wear grey and only labor, labor.
Their women are well-groomed, among old there are no wobbly or lame, hmm
But none of their men sing for them
Nor do they play tablas for them.
Their kids don’t die of poor quality water, infection in rain season, black dust
But I never saw them showing God their gratitude, their admiration and trust!
Their elderly live all alone, when their souls leave body – well,
Often there’s no soul around wanting to say final farewell.
The funniest thing, Radju – they pity you and me, how’s that?
That we can hardly make ends meet to buy our dear children bread.
That we have never been to theater and sleep on mats in dirt –
Those who wish their loved ones death over the phone – they value concerts!
I lived five days among them, ran away on the sixth day in deception –
I bewared that I would finally and irreversibly lose perception.
My Sangita raised her hands up to the skies, Radju mate,
As soon as she saw me, she brought me hot roti and daal plate.
What happened to you, she said, you look scarier than any of Rakshasa, even paler than
A European, I even burst into tears, Radju, that I underwent such horror. Now – zen.
Long poem by
Brooke Avery | Details |
The sirens are gone now
Decaying with the city swirl-
Its rectangle of light can’t catch the infinite tan of your skin
As the pulp has fallen flat over searing bone;
because outside is the eye of the scorn, of loathing, like the root of
fire on your chest’s arc,
Like the song of Seraphim--
who exhales chains that shackle you in your own bedroom,
the shroud of blankets you lay under-
Named skinny by the gods,
they gave you a scale to meditate on
or a meal strewing a heavy odor only to be heaved back up again--
What faith locks its gate until
slivers of dark seep in like murk in an alley
as you realize that darkness was only simmering hunger,
something sepulchral gaping with sooty lips;
Last night you spent drifting in sedation from pills
you thought could only make an oath of credulous dreams
or a shawl of skin that wrongs, wrongs, wrongs bags of saggy flesh
to be weightless from feminine ills.
Skinny: the loveliest of Eve's children;
she lured men to chase her, offering their lechery and love
like crushed cranberries in a rust pail-
her heartstrings were painted gold with scars erased
And she, like you broke the laws of the earth:
a killer who did not know what could kill.
Now as your heartbeat turns to the sigh of a riverbed,
brass air against your belly, you decide that oxygen will replace a heaping plate-
a gnarled fog beneath your palms which kept time silent;
pressed against the cold dampness of your chest.
Speckles of mud on the mind’s dew: it is here that after
joy's mate dazes you with its mill there is only blood left
stilled from its own tide, as you have drowned a singing girl
And gave birth to a void-- no candle can move the salmon of your flesh
That withers in the fugitive night.
Long poem by
Joshua Torres | Details |
What is poetry, if not a form of artistry, looking for beauty, through the calamity?
Why do we waste rhymes and peoples time just for us to shine in the spotlight of our own iniquity?
We stand up here to rant to open ears hoping that out tears were not shed in vain.
Speaking of stolen dreams, evil things, times of struggle and strain.
Have we become nothing but moans and groans; whining, begging joy be shown,
Becoming the clowns of our towns speaking foolishly trying to sound profound?
Giving loud barks out of the dark hoping to spark a light for ourselves,
Encapsulated in a prison with no vision past our imaginary box and it's shelves.
Our pens bleed the the story of failure and glory but seems to always fall short of the truth.
It's been buried to deep for us to query, for the shovel of falsehood has thrown the dirt having the lie take root.
Growing, stealing and masquerading with masks of what was long forgotten in the elegant dialect of our rant.
Leaving no way to be freed, no revolution to lead, left with only one word to proceed, can't.
A poet could be and should be a constant escapee from the prison of catastrophe,
Emerging through the strife enjoying life, it's beauty and all its quirky abnormality.
Our lexicon is a gift to build on expressing the bond between our mind and reality,
Not only it's tragedy or gravity of pain, but, also the silent whisper, of the muted majority.
So let what we say be a ray of hope, not torment, for poetry is not for us,
It's to help rebuild, and shield our readers, so they have something to trust.
For a poet with no order is like a country with no borders, unstable and unable to grow,
Easily uprooted with happiness looted, left for no hope to grasp at or show.
Let us sharpen our tongues and strengthen our lungs, for all we have is our breath,
To influence the world giving imaginations a whirl with creative writes, not only of death.
For what we speak comes to life, whether it be of strife or delight, for our pens depict our destiny,
For what we say paves the way we react on the days of struggle and joy for eternity.
Remember each time your pen blots a line, that it is a crime to write only of despair,
For our readers deserve to read something undisturbed, for our words can impale like a spear.
Any person can write, but to be a delight, that is a thing only a poet can do.
So let's return to the past and our passion cast the enchanting words that we all once knew.
Long poem by
Mariam M. | Details |
Poem: Will You Travel With Me To Heaven?
When you wake up in the morning
From a dream you think is okay
You see your spouse and family
Get ready for another day
The dream you saw, the things you see
The bed on which you soundly sleep
Your kids all grown up, your husband
And old memories that you keep
Who do you think created them?
Were they created from nothing?
If there is no god who made these
All, then what's the point of living?
D'you think we were made from nothing
Then from nothing we live for fun
To eat and drink, to love and hate
Then when we die, what comes is none?
The eyes with which your body sees
Those sockets that keep your eyeballs
The mouth you use for food and speech
The way you answer random calls
The languages you use to speak
And another –your mother tongue-
The way you carry yourself, and
How you breathe through your heart and lungs
The muscles that stretch when you smile
Your friends who often make you laugh
The words you try to understand
And how you sign your name so fast
Your kids who once stayed in your womb
The months you carried them in you
Your feelings when you saw their first
Walk and when they smile back at you
The food you eat and cook each day
The rainfalls that fall from above
The earth you walk on each night and
Day, and the things you've learned to love
The blood that flows 'neath your skin each
Hour, the foods you eat, sweet and sour
The clouds you see above your head
The scent of various plants and flowers
The many colors of people
You see, and many sounds you hear
All things in this universe make
You think that a God must be near
A God who is not in this world
But because of Lordship –Above-
Above the skies and on His Throne
Above anything you can think of
A God who is the Most Powerful
A God who does not eat or sleep
A God who is Above all things
A God who does not sweep the streets
A God who sees us all the time
A God who knows our hidden thoughts
A God who hears us all the time
A God who gives us lots and lots
A God who made this universe
A God who is the King of all
A God who knows the good and bad
A God who causes rain to fall
A God who made all kinds of colors
A God who rotates day and night
A God who knows all languages
A God who gave the moon its light
A God who knows the past and present
A God who sees the future of all
A God who gave all kinds of sounds
A God who gave all forms –short and tall
Long poem by
Chris Boskovski | Details |
Dedicated to my darling Mystic Rose...
For my everlasting rose,
for my darling Mystic Rose,
Charished deep in my heart,
for generations to last lifetimes,
on this Beautiful gift,
we all call Mother Earth.
Oh now my dear
come now and do not fear,
I shall take you by your sweet and loving hand,
as we set out in a band,
of two lonely hearts
that both need to be loved.
At first when I came
to this desolate Wasteland;
I was a lonely heart
with poetry that was my art.
You were the first to come to me,
with a smile and a hug.
You read my work,
I won your heart
and you praised me,
looked at me in anew
and treated me diffrently than any other.
My darling Mystic,
Oh how you make me feel;
so grand, so new, so happy.
As I lay my head to rest
I reminisce on your loving words,
that spoke such truth to my soul.
As you praised me through my heights,
and weaped with me through my sorrow,
as I uplifted your soul with the arrangement of words
I wrote from deep down in my weak and weary soul;
You were there always to touch my heart
and cure me of sorrowed tears.
It is impossible to express my love for you,
but see me, to feel my love,
for you my darling Mystic
it tears me apart to not
see your face, to hear your voice,
only to read your loving words
comments on a poem
that was written on a page;
It tears me apart.
Oh, my sweet and everlasting rose,
Blooming in every season,
at every hour,
a beautiful poetess at her midst of an evening twilight
as the nightingales sing outside your window,
I come and show you love and compassion.
Let us go, you and I,
I take you by your hand
and we sail off,
two poets writing of beauty
both in ink upon a blank piece of paper.
To write of love,
My compassion for you
my beautiful rose,
my darlin Mystic.
We shall part seas,
bloom in gardens of beauty,
roses and violets grow tall
reminding us of our everlasting friendship.
Lilacs and tulups stray long away,
to show my love to a stranger,
but you are no stranger to me.
You are an everlasting rose,
which blooms evertime at the stroke of nine,
and there you stay,
growing in a large and beautiful garden,
that is located deep in my heart.
Now take me, my darling Mystic
and charish this beautiful write
Charish it at all times,
every hour of the days!
In honour of your beauty and inspiration
I am a fool in love,
intoxicated with your beauty at heart.
Long poem by
Aiyah de Torres | Details |
I met them once I landed in a place,
they called it haven, a soiree place.
Where people are nice,kind and cool.
Some are young, some are....never mind.
They're awesome people!
I first met this blonde lady,thought she's only twenty.
She did refused, said she's almost a mother to me.
I beg to disagree,'cos she's more than just a mom.
She's a bestfriend, she's wonderwoman.
She lives in Norway,Anne Lise Andresen was her name.
There goes a new avatar,who came to visit on my land.
She's wearring sunglasses,but can't hide the beauty from behind.
Then I found out lately, she doesn't just own a pretty face.
She is the sexiest and hottest momsie,rockin' up poetry.
She's a real poet master,SkAT A.,that's her name!
One day I sat down and read some poetries,
So delightful,inspiring, and awesome pieces.
I got struck to what I've found.
A Filipina who's writing with charms,
Her poems are incredibly great,
She's Nette Onclaud, the goddess poet!
I came to land another page, thought at first that's a cage.
Of a tigress with full of angst and strength.
I must admit, though I was afraid, I admire all the pieces she had made.
She left the table and threw the soup,and think tha'ts the last time I'll see her poem.
But with revenge she went back home, and send me greetings that I treasured.
With friendly comment I came to know, this tigress is tame and a sweet person.
Who is she?...the everbody's love and favorite, Poet Destroyer!
As time goes by, and my journey went long.
I had to passed in different stations.
I came to know so many beautiful people,
So kind and thoughtful, their arts are treasures.
There came to visit my poem one day,
Though full of greiving,they cheered me so well.
They are Mary Jo ,Eileen, F.J. ,Vie and Shadow.
The women who are pride of this site.
The pretty ladies who always been there to lift you high.
Above all these awesome experience,
Is to know the people from my own motherland.
My country fellas, so sweet,cool and nice.
They are the crystal flowers glisten brightly like a star.
They are Leonora, Maria Paz, Nikko and Carole...
My day became brighter, you light the path I walk.
Everytime your greetings knock on my door.
Allow me to do the honor to thank you guys.
And let you all know how thankful I am.
My dream has came true, because of this site.
Aiyah de Torres
Long poem by
Agatha Jetaime | Details |
Let it be that - we are simply disconnected
And all of it that was before is now neglected.
Just as in an international call
And I'll stop knowing what you whisper all
Over her right ear,
Petting her mere
Hair. Listening to the cheerful imps
Of your disturbing thoughts. A glimpse.
And recognizing every rustle
Around you. A twitching muscle.
Here's the sound of keys jingling,
Here are her fingers mingling
With your fringe, here's the wind strangled in the curtains,
The load of memories it burdens...
Sms beep, the block is off,
The parquetry squeaks yet the steps are easy,
Flick of a lighter and that's it - the tone. How cheesy...
And I'll stay a bit in the telephone booth
Reciting poems of my youth.
Awaiting for the firing of invisible squadrons in my temples to cease.
Oh would I ever feel the ease?
Of simple being, I'm happy as old colonel Frehley
Who died with a reciever in his hand.
Let it be that as if it's five years past.
And we are all steady here at last.
We're not as booming with the decibels,
But we're worth a 1000 for a ticket.
There might as well be time for cricket.
We are working like real men,
Making money as easy as trimming a bush. We stem.
We're not giving our minds any downtime.
What's mine is mine.
And I am aware of what I am worth.
It doesn't matter that nobody is willing to pay the price.
We run in circles just like mice.
We meet and knock back three
Glasses of Chilean semi dry and you look at me.
And then you say "I am pround of you, Polozkova!"
But no - nothing breaks inside me.
That August we were still drinking outside
And you were wearing
My jacket - we are joking, singing and smoking...
Probably you never knew that from that night on you
Become the protagonist of my hysterics and mimes. All anew.
One day we'll recall this -
And wouldn't be able to believe it ourselves...
Let it be that my vim and naughtiness
Are back; My slouch and flabbiness
Are gone; And nothing's beating me inside
No pain within me would reside.
And there's no need to write
My poems. How can I ignite?
Let it be that I don't sob hoarsely with every chorus
Just like a dyed-haired singer with little morals.
How nice that you're sitting
In front of the screen and thinking
That you're reading
Of somebody else.