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Long Rain Poems

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

See also: Famous Long Poems

Long Poems
Long poem by Goutam Hazra | Details |

Scent of Paddy Flower

Scent Of Paddy Flower

                                   By Goutam Hazra


My father told me 
first time 
I was just a boy then,
“Follow the scent of paddy flower
move with the wind it carries,
surely you will go to heaven.”

I remember
he would catch 
fistful of wind
bring near to my face
and wonder,
“Isn’t it godly!”

Magically, opened his hand
but I never felt
what scent he meant.
Days of kind rain

“Son, see the misty wind
rushing all over the paddy field
comes every year
to drink the scent of paddy flower.”

Mere as a boy
I could see only
tides of a green plane
touching my little finger
and racing far… too far.
I would ask  
“Where have they gone?”
Smiled my father 
and said
“Did not you listen,
they are going to heaven,
call the goddess then,
‘come goddess dear’
we all are ready with paddy flower.”

Curious was my face,
“Papa, then?”

“Goddess will arrive smiling
her feet will be here
Seeing a pot in her hand
all those paddy flowers
delighted, will open their mouth more wider
and life will be poured…”

“Where these flowers come from?”

Remained my father smiling
speaking all his mind
looking high at sky
asked me to see there
spoke he again.

“Rain, rain, kind monsoon rain
on the first day of its shower
kind rain would ask me to come here
with bagful of paddy seeds,
‘let seeds be spread all over,
let its eternal relation with soil
be the fertilizer’
when all said is done
waiting rain 
starts showering its kind
make visible hiding life in the abyss of seed.
Happy wind changes color
being green all around
waits for the day
when the wind would smell the scent of paddy flower.”

Days passed by,
kind rain was still in waiting
sometimes hidden beyond horizon
or simply making sun blind with its smoky face
and whenever wind said,
‘Dry I’m now’
quenched the thirst.

Someday wind played naughty with sun
asked kind rain to make it misty
and with brushes of sun rays 
painted a rainbow on the face of east sky.

Wait was over
green field blossomed with flowers
and wind said,
“Fill in my heart
with scent of flower
I shall bring life…”

Happy was my father’s voice
“Rain, rain, kind monsoon rain
said so
green wind brining life 
did so
scent of paddy flower
is made so.
Bare footed be here
print your soul
in the dust of this soil
kind rain will come
green wind being there
life will be yours 
with the scent of paddy flower.”
Cruel entropy

How old was I then
nine or ten
my father looked up
up to the sky
again and again
for a month long
only to see 
change of sky’s color
from the color of a summer day to a long humid night.
Dry wind cried at last
over my father’s sweating body
“Rain, rain O kind rain, where have you gone.”

One day sudden
kind rain came again.
Cried to my father
“Why no green wind came this year
from ocean 
to bring me here.
Desert wind why
dry my breath
seeds you have sown
how could I then
enliven with my rain.”

many question
my father had asked the rain.

Short-lived, hurried rain could spell its last breath,
“I am not that rain 
as was your friend,
I am the curse of dying forest
I am the ghost of all pollution
I am born out of acid weather…”

Who knew, it left for where?

My father cried 
As kind rain left him alone
hiding in a dry wind’s bone.

My father was still
going every morning
asking the soil
in vain
if soil could alone
make the paddy flowers to be born.

Year passed by,
came back the time, 
for green wind to bring kind rain.

Rain came one day.

But why
as a cloudburst
roaring always
pouring unwanted
like an unkind monster
flooded misery
in the life of a simple farmer?

Dumb remained my father
for days together
sad was his voice at last,
“Run away, son, run away from here,
sky rain wind
river village land;
thread of this garland
who cuts it
go, stop now there hand.”

Draught and flood,
uncertainty of life 
changed my mind 
as of a farmer’s son.
Books, studies and education
reasons, truth and compassion
might have had fulfilled my father’s mission.

Does not this civilization
converts us 
as the products to do more production.
Run, run and run 
run ahead of time
let be it, at the cost of inhaling killer tension,
stress taking  over your life.
Insomnia, cholesterol or cynicism
is our success’s companion? 
‘A’ is shaped as ‘B’
and ‘B’ is sold as ‘C’.
but I found the basic
what it remain
as life’s supreme conviction 
‘simply a fist full of paddy
and its grain’.

Scent of life

So here, I am again
standing in front of this green plane
searching for the shadow of my father.
Green wind surrounds my existence
I can see the dance of those bunches.
My mind whispers to my ear
echoes those words of my father, 
“Bare footed be here
print your soul
in the dust of this soil
rain will come
green wind being there
life will be yours 
with the scent of paddy flower.”

I never felt so,
what I smell now 
is the scent of paddy flower.

Copyright © Goutam Hazra | Year Posted 2013

Long poem by Amrapali Tendolkar | Details |


The Earth dry and bare; waiting eagerly for the drops of care;

Caught in the hot, steaming summer’s snare;

The flowers and creepers decorating window sills; all look desolate and ill;

As the nature withers away in the sun’s merciless glare.


The men and the wives; the kids and the wild;

All are enduring the summer’s waterless exile;

They are waiting for the rain; to relieve them of the heat pain;

And of that life which has become a sweaty turmoil.


The wind strong and gusty; makes the roads yellow and dusty;

And the air around becomes suffocating and musty;

The birds forget to sing; their lilting, musical thing;

Even as the tree leaves wristle and make noise so husky.


Then come the Monsoon showers; falling first on boughs and flowers;

Making the trees and plants glisten and glower;

So the monsoon comes in grace; driving away summer’s trace;

Lashing at window-panes with its all-reigning power.


As the monsoon drives away the summer heat; with its raining rhythm off-beat;

And the flower buds open up to return it’s greet;

And as the water seeps in soil; a refreshing fragrance arise;

While the rain continuous to cool down hot gardens and streets.


The Earth grows green; and water droplets gleam;

On the smooth, waxy surfaces of the leaves;

Everywhere the flowers grow; in pink, red, white or yellow;

While buds make their way blushingly between tendrils.

 The wet and soft soil; now grows fertile;

And tender green plantlets push through the Earth in style;

Through soil the tiny saplings peep; as their sown seeds begin to reap;

And the plants and crops shake off the Earth’s temporary curse sterile.


As the raindrops go pitter-patter; water in puddles begins to gather;

And the little birds begin to chirp, twitter and chatter;

The insects begin to hum along; their irritating and happy song;

While due to rain and wind the roofs on houses begin to chatter.


As the showers for some moments cease; after giving Earth life’s new lease;

And the pitter-patter of rain is gently appeased;

The sun coyly shines; a cloud it half hides behind;

While the fluffy clouds move along with the cool breeze.


The fields now green and bright; are an artist’s sheer delight;

Pleasing to the senses of smell and sight;

The fresh air so sweet to breathe; that with pleasure the body writhes;

In the newly born rainy sunlight.


But this sunlight so quickly goes; as thunderstorms blow to and fro;

And Earth engulfs in darkness that now grows;

The wind rises and howls; with a voice that trembles all souls;

And day and night this gale roars.


The trees in fear tremble and shake; as leaves, twigs and branches break;

And the life of these trees is put up at stake;

Birds in nests cower with fright; and due to cold shiver with all their might;

And live in fearful anticipation of what else the storm may rake.

The monsoon now shows its ugly face; gone are its days of grace;

Rainy calamities take its place;

Cyclones and floods destruct worldwide; the raging sea throws up its tide;

“Nature reigns supreme”, we are forced to say.


Same is the life of man; may he do what he can;

But destiny will always play a hand;

What all will man control? So he should let destiny play its role;

And enjoy life and act as the situation will demand.


Somedays will shine the sun; those days life will be fun;

And work will be successful how much ever it’s done;

Somedays by the fun you will tire; and will long to get back into the attire;

Of normal life, however boring or glum.


Sometimes hope will come out; like a tiny plant sprouts;

And will remove from your mind every shade of doubt;

It will be a bright, hopeful ray; but for long it may not stay;

So we must make most of it when hope sprouts.


Just as the shower of joy; after summer comes out shy;

So shower of success will come when you have almost given up the try;

It will wash away your helpless sigh; and will give you a new will to try;

Which will help you succeed by-and-by.


Just as the sun goes behind the cloud; when thunder is heard aloud;

And darkness suddenly falls on Earth all around;

So also failure will touch you once; its upto you to prevent its repeated occurrence;

Or due to failure remain depression bound.


Sometimes through demotivation you will go; sometimes loads of success you'll know;

For we need all types of experience to make us grow;

Like some days it is wet; some days the sun for long doesn’t set;

But then it needs both the rain and the sun to make a RAINBOW…

Copyright © Amrapali Tendolkar | Year Posted 2012

Long poem by Tuisha Sircar | Details |

Demise of the Frail and Assail of the Skies

The bird wanted to fly

But the wind wanted to blow

“Rest now bird”, said the wind

“You now take it down slow,

And let me flow.”


The bird accepted thinking it was a request,

And ignored the proud in his words,

She sat down on the branch to rest,

Keeping down her guards,

Unaware of what is next.


An hour passed,

But still the wind didn’t stop,

Now the pace became fast,

Now the wind gone, in place was the storm.


Unable to stand against it,

The bird felt helpless.

The emergence of automatic persuasion,

Left the bird in stress.


Her home is not the ground,

She lives in the sky,

Feeling gloomy and bound,

She doesn’t even try to fly.


She stays where she was,

And starts envying the wind,

The kind of power he has,

That brought down even the born free.

Flying is what she loves,

And the feeling of spreading the wings,

Something that cannot be expressed in words,

The beauty can only be felt within,

But when the storm persists on blowing,

The persuasion reminded the bird of a cage.

The feeling of being trapped,

Even turned down the sage,

Within the bird and now a panic engulfed,

Because everything was happening against her will,

And the storm and his manic laugh,

Harassing and shrill,

Dominating over the world with his power.


 Now there is water added,

Pouring everywhere from the sky,

So hard that the vision blurry and fade,

The bird now wants to hide.

And so she trusts the woods,

Under the leaves she takes shelter,

Hoping the safe place could,

Understand and help the helpless her.

But today even the trees are of no help,

The rain is too heavy,

No matter where she hides,

Towards her somehow it will glide.


A day passed but still the storm wasn’t satisfied,

He kept on blowing,

Kept dominating the little with pride,

But the bird was now over sorrowing,

So, she decided to challenge the flowing.


And it seemed like years had passed,

Since the bird took a flight,

Into the blue and those effects that lasted,

Of serenity, luxury and rights.


Now the tolerance was coming to an end,

Her loud chirping of frustration speaks,

And so she comes out of the safe place and,

Into the grey she leaps.


It’s like, she dares the storm,

Even though she knows it’s futile,

The proud in him confirms,

That the end could be brutal.

But the little now doesn’t care,

She just wants to fly.


The storm does see the bird’s hindrance,

But would not understand the heart,

He will do what he wants,

That is what he is doing from the start.

He will choose when to come,

His wish no one can predict,

When his fun will become,

A thing getting vapid,

He’ll spare the imploring planet.



The rain can be the reason of someone’s laughter,

It can also make one morose.

The torrent of pouring water,

Is also something he does.

If his will says,

It’ll be a shower of delight.

If he wants it to be the other way,

It can become an element of fright.


Now after going a mile,

The bird is in terror,

Still the storm being hostile,

And the bird being the bearer.


Though she is tired,

But hasn’t lost all hopes,

And so with eyes like angel she desired,

The thoughts of good and optimism.

But when she looked up with faith,

And saw the grey sky,

She fatigue and her pale breath,

But still she flies.


“Stubborn she is no less”,

Thinks the storm, and now he the outrageous,

Losing his charge on the rage,

The sky shines a red that’s vicious.

Then from somewhere a lightning bolt,

Suddenly strikes before the bird,

While she runs from the jolt,

Several others in her surround appeared.

She moves carefully,

But the storm is furious,

And he would not stop,

Until he becomes victorious.


Then a surprising tremor ripples,

Through her and little’s every part stops,

Down the bird with rush tumbles,

With eyes full of teardrops,

And her vision turns grey,

But did she lose the fray?


As the bird, hit the soil,

She remembered a life,

A life that never once gave her the turmoil,

But always love in rife.

Also a light that the bird saw,

When she first opened her eyes,

Now got vacuumed,

Leaving behind the blackness of demise.


The storm witnessed the whole saga,

But still he won’t remorse,

A beautiful little lay dead down,

Sometime else, again a creature would morose,

Because the nefarious never bows.

Copyright © Tuisha Sircar | Year Posted 2013

Long poem by Claudia Conaway | Details |

I Could Never Be the Rain

My life started with rain,
the steady stream of drops,
hitting the trees gently
and ending its descent to our world
on the wet pavement.
I am on the sidewalk, 
sheltered by a makeshift roof and 
a border of trees.
The cars beyond me toss the tears of the sky
off themselves, the wheels swerve and then steady.

Then a bell chimes,
crisp and song-like,
first slow and steady rhythms,
then a playful tune to celebrate the rain’s arrival.
The rain, the bells-
one does not cancel the other out, but rather coincide with the other.
A perfect harmony that the human heart will never experience but only watch.

Sweet, sweet cinnamon in a soy satin river,
frothy and smooth- it warms my lips before finding solace
in my esophagus.
The rain is cold, the coffee is hot, my breath belongs to the rain.

Am I an alien, unwelcome to the rain’s domain? 
The rain is a cool drink to the plants, to the trees
but it is a nuisance to us,
it is a plaything for us-
we hide from it and splash in it, pretend it falls just for us,
and ignore the cries of it's true child - nature.
We laugh at nature with booming, passionate voices
and we trample its peace.
rain is nature’s drink of life.
we cannot stop the rain, but the rain will always stop us.

I sit here and write these words and hear those bells and taste the cinnamon dew
and I am human.
My insatiable human lips will never feel the peace of grass drinking its morning brew,
but I do find myself here, feeling all the shades of blue the sky has ever been,
and I am falling in love with the rain.
We humans always do that. Love is our prize choice of dagger.
So we are in love with the rain and we ask:
When will the rain love me back?
When will it fall just for me?
So the rain falls 
and the grass grows
and our bellies grow crude
but we still ask for more more more
and the rain asks for nothing.
It sends its blossoms and petals down to us,
it pumps the blood into our veins,
onto our vines,
and then, it is silent.
It asks for nothing, but I wonder
does It want me to look
or to look away?
Does the rain want me to notice it and to love it in the unrequited way I always do
or does the rain want me to let it be?
Does it think me a monster, an alien
like I think of my skin to me?

I believe that the rain wants not,
asks not,
begs not,

and in that, I could never be the rain.

now I am inside, hidden from the rain
like a child in the womb, momentarily blind
and deaf to the pain that makes the world real.
That trickle of raindrops is now a 
heavy, consistent, foreboding heat of voices-
human voices that sound like mine and that don’t sound like mine,
all invading the stream of consciousness that the rain gave birth to.
In here, I cannot breathe, I cannot think-
I am being coerced into the suffocating fire of voices, all playing with emotions but devoid of them.
The rain is the eye 
and the shelter is the mouth,
always talking but never seeing.
The hell of human condition does not end like the rain,
we ask for more and more and more, 
more than God himself thinks is best for us.

This is the human condition- a fire that desperately wants to touch the rain-
we are put out by our own choice.

But oh! The pleasure of that human voice!
The longing moans of our anguish,
the desperation in our cries of please please love me!
Every single word and every single wall we build
to keep the rain out
is saying please please break in,
love me like I love the rain,
love me like I’m scared to,
because I am terrified of love and 
I am void of you.
I have always been alone,
and I let the rain wash you away,
and now I am a rock-
like the songwriters say.
But the rock never speaks to the rain
it never says please please love me

and in that, I can never be the rock

because I love the rain and I love the touch of human distraction,
like veins bursting out from the skin
I am human and always will be,  
I wish the rain was desperate like me
and I wish the rock would beg for me.

Copyright © Claudia Conaway | Year Posted 2015

Long poem by Robert Ronnow | Details |

All the Worlds There Are

Just watching raindrops slapping leaves
is better than anything requiring electricity
including fame and posterity. Monday
morning I walk over to the art museum
stand before Homer. I'm imagining
life in ancient Greece, the land largely
deforested to build a navy, white as bone,
a tourist attraction. The sea too being
denuded of its fish, super-efficient fishery
fleets, and every human wanting a healthy
dose of omega 3. O my God, omega!

the 24th and last letter of his alphabet,
which means great and has a value of 800,
often used to denote the last, the end, the
ultimate limit of a set, as in I am the alpha
and the omega (which was omitted
from the oldest manuscripts). In physics,
ohm is a unit of electrical resistance,
in chemistry, oxygen-18, a stable isotope,
in statistical mechanics, it represents multiplicity
(the number of microstates) in a system.
In astronomy, the density of the universe
(density parameter) and the longitude
of the ascending node of an orbit.

Also the solid angle or rate of precession
in a gyroscope. In particle physics,
omega baryons. In complex analysis,
the Omega constant, a solution to Lambert's
W function. In calculus, a variable
for a 2-dimensional region, usually
corresponding to the domain of a double
integral. In topos theory, the codomain
of the subobject classifier of an elementary
space. In combinatory logic,
the looping combinator. In group theory,
the omega and agemo subgroups of a p-group.
In Big O notation, the asymptotic
behavior of functions. Chaitin's uncomputable constant.

Omega watches, badge of the Supreme Court,
last mission of the Space Shuttle program,
God of War, Heroes of Olympus,
Pokemon's Omega Ruby, Sonic the Hedgehog's E-123.
Symbol of resistance to the Vietnam War draft.
Year of date of death. Lowest-ranked wolf.
The end of everything.
In molecular biology, a two-point crossover.

The lower case omega denotes the carbon atom
furthest from the carboxyl group of a fatty acid.
One of the RNA polymerase subunits.
The dihedral angle associated with the peptide group.
A measure of evolution at the protein level.
In physics, angular velocity or angular frequency.
In computational fluid dynamics, the specific
turbulence dissipation rate. In meteorology,
the change of pressure in time of a parcel
of air. Natural frequency
in circuit analysis and signal processing.
A ranking of a star's brightness in a constellation.
A designation of the argument of periapsis
of an orbit. The omega meson.
In Big O notation
the asymptotically dominant nature of functions.
NULL, a missing or inappropriate value.

The first transfinite ordinal number.
The first uncountable ordinal number.
The complex cube roots of 1.
The Wright Omega function. A general differential form.
The number of distinct prime divisors of n.
An arithmetic function. The self-application combinator.
The elasticity of financial options.
The tracking error of an investment manager.
In linguistics, the phonological word.
The archetype of a manuscript tradition.
In eschatology, the symbol for the end of everything.

The beginning of my first week without tv.
No more movies. If I have nothing to do
or I'm too bored to do anything, I'll just sit still
see what happens. Be like weather.
Be under the weather, with the weather,
in weather. Watch weather from the window.
Wait for change, in me and the weather.
How will I change? This is life and not life.
In 15 years or so I'll be gone from the earth,
bones whitening on some mountain (if I'm lucky)
or rotting in the lowlands river or estuary I lived near (more likely)
flesh to sweat flesh with the population, dead.
This death consciousness of which should give this life's activities
      perspective, except for the red sunset which remains untouched
      by atomic IQ;
and dead, laying open to the blue sky and dry leaves one autumn like
      last autumn, or the autumn I realized my insignificance.

Copyright © Robert Ronnow | Year Posted 2015

Long poem by randall graves | Details |

Seed of Birth

Moments to Reflect
Seed of Birth
After a summer shower I watch the wonders unfold Gods truth is being shown. His love for all shall be known to all who have eyes that can see. The miracle of life that is a delight to behold can be seen in a drop of rain on the end of a leaf. Sparkling like a diamond in the light, more precious than gold, a secret is told. The water of life, without it we cannot go on the earth would be has dry has a bone. A desert: a waste land as hot as Hades and not fit to be called home. The water of life He is known. 
The air so sweet and clean the breath of life He has been called. A blessing from the father it is a Gift given to us all. When the air can been seen it is unclean and in this state I call it satans breathe, oh so foul and within it only death can be found. 
Flower and trees, grass that is so green that there is not any artist in the world that could paint a more beautiful scene. Concrete streets and black top parking lots; progress is what it is called…maybe not. An eyesore, mans’ master piece his legacy, beauty it’s not. 
Like a spring rain or after a summer shower; new life does salvation brings. Like the morning dew shining like tiny jewels, in the sunshine they do glow.  Flowers blooming and life a renewing, with Jesus this is how salvation goes.
Rain can be seen as the world being baptized and cleansed, purifying it of mankind sins. This is a fresh beginning but it not at its end it only truth starts when you ask Jesus to come in.  
After a gentle rain shower our God reminds humanity of His power and His promise: rainbow in the sky a wonderful, magical miracle, truly a delightful sight. His signature written in the sky, proof that He tells no lies; never again with water will He end the world that has bought to Him so much pain. His tears of sadness, never again will the world end with rain. 
The evil one try his best with his temptation and his tests to cause us to die and never to rise; humanity he do hate want to take all with him into that fiery lake. These are the tools of his trade war and strife adding in a touch of worldly lust doing his best to kill our trust in the Lord who has given us so much. The spiritual war is what we are in do not fall for satan schemes. Heaven or hell which one will it be? Like the sun gives life to flower, the Son gives life to all who follows. He who is free is free in deed.
Christ the savior God did send, it shows us that satan cannot win. Like a summer day after a spring rain new life will begin. He will pardon us of all our sins but you must ask him to come in His forgiveness know no end. Open your heart and let Him in then and only then can you win. In Him salvation is guarantee and a new life can begin; so you must choose Heaven or hell where will you spend eternity in? 
God our Father gave His Son to the world so that we would have a path to the truth a light to shine in the darkest of time. Allow His attributes to shine forth you do not would to lose your soul. Before time ever begin He love us, will you not trust in Him sight unseen, the One who gives all life meaning?
All it takes is faith to bypass that fiery lake, because tomorrow is not promise and another sunshine you may not see. Time is on no one side, so do not go chasing rainbows you cannot fly. Keep what real in your mind the reality is sin must die. God give His Son to pay a price that He did not owe, the cost was high, but gift that is given for those who believe; is to be by His side, salvation is free are you ready to receive?
Summer shower and gentle breeze,
Golden flower and dew drops of leaves.
Soft green grass beneath your feet.
                    The only thing sweeter is than life is living with Jesus for all eternity.

Copyright © randall graves | Year Posted 2013

Long poem by Gerald Dillenbeck | Details |

Foggy May

This foggy sky
darkly and relentlessly rains
especially for an early May morning.

He is not prepared for darkness
seeping in from new-born leaves,
not yet full grown into this year's tree-lacing dress,
soaking in from saturated soil,
slurping into his complexly leaking co-empathic soul.

Perhaps this open quality
endears him to those few who could ever know him
enough to watch him,
hoping for less rain inside today,
each day,
all Earth's Days.

Wet liturgical Mays 
dissolve his Taurean ways.

Yet, for him, right now,
such dark openness yawns too large
for even one dreary lonely hour
of self-isolation.

His two medically complex clients have gone,
as usual,
Monday morning until late afternoon.
As he contemplates his decadent ways
he misses their distracting charms.
Each so different.
YinYin so loudly Trumpian,
post-millennial triumphalist Yang DoubleBangian,
but also with some significant undiagnosed bipolar control issues.
Meanwhile Yang,
unable to speak or sign,
so hidden,
yin-shy shadow of rich warm love,
immersed in life's right-now ripe composting time,
each ElderBrain moment,
graciously emerging from his co-arising neural past
to spin toward future yang-yin equipoised memories
of time's polypathic karmic grace.

But, right now he must sustain thru dark raining dreams of suicide
without them.
He suffers withdrawal from feeling needed,
unworthy of becoming truly wanted.

a PermaCultural Family EcoTherapist,
actually achieving good muticultural outcomes
with his fractured clients,
sitting on his sagging butt in full-blowing Spring,
the one highly de-specialized professional wheelhouse
most needed to accelerate global networking
cooperative outcomes,
challenging each family and all climatic systems
with Yang-encultured dominance,
right here and now in this post-millennial generation
of ecologically balancing great and small,
daily transitions,
yet he feels hopeless,
not knowing where he could ever begin again
so late in this biological incarnation
already showing concerns that "Black Lives Matter"
but maybe not so much old black,
or white,
or even green lives matter
beyond their retiring biofunctional usefulness.

We all help make great compost when we die.
It's getting in there,
completing the job,
embracing the vocation,
once and for all,
that continues to challenge life as EgoDeath love.

How does one retiring PermaCultural Therapist
best contribute to this time,
this ecosystem,
this community,
this family,
this primal relationship with ecopolitical Earth
and all Her tribal dialects
and languages
and species
and multicultural diversities of life and death cycles
and recycles,
and repurposes
and transubstantiating regenerations?

Probably reading F Scott Fitzgerald's issues
about cultural decay
and ethical integrity of bodies and minds
ingesting and regurgitating Earth's generous beauty
is rather like sitting under a rain-drenched tarp,
writing stories of suicidal dissipation,
while Earth calls for Revolutionary EcoTherapists
to heal Her as she cries,
this early May morning,
under foggy dripping skies.

Copyright © Gerald Dillenbeck | Year Posted 2016

Long poem by sangam verma | Details |

merry x'mas

I love Spectacled
I love Spectacled
And Merry Christmas
And Merry Christmas
December is the month
You have eyes Nagina
one for the sake of your appearance
Winter is the heart of discomfort everyday Titurta
That's why you see Para- Begahe
Inexplicably the right ,
Tongue is silent
Within the cry arises in the heart
I love Spectacled
I love Spectacled
And Merry Christmas
And Merry Christmas

Sigh fills takes breathe
The heart is the heart , the heart is big plain
Simplicity on the dies
If you do not find anywhere else
That did nothing but rehearse like parrots lives
I love Spectacled
I love Spectacled
And Merry Christmas
And Merry Christmas

Not around,
How would stir
Then pass
At the heart of the ocean
Tlatum of feelings
Become arises
Does noise
Will hear hear ....
I love Spectacled
I love Spectacled
And Merry Christmas
And Merry Christmas

The heart is big artisan
The workmanship is veneer of relationships
Smiling be made
Smiles of the palaces is Nkhshkari
Love of syringe
The spray comes in fun singing
I love Spectacled
I love Spectacled
And Merry Christmas
And Merry Christmas
The heart is the greatest wizard
Strange is Jadugriya
Has lived in me
Beats on you is to
Dhak Dhak throbbing
That tune is Dhdkata
I love Spectacled
I love Spectacled
And Merry Christmas
And Merry Christmas

The heart is big artisan
The workmanship is veneer of relationships
Smiling be made
Smiles of the palaces is Nkhshkari
Love of syringe
The spray comes in fun singing
I love Spectacled
I love Spectacled
And Merry Christmas
And Merry Christmas
The heart is the greatest wizard
Strange is Jadugriya
Has lived in me
Beats on you is to
Dhak Dhak throbbing
That tune is Ddkata
I love Spectacled
I love Spectacled
And Merry Christmas
And Merry Christmas

The heart is big illusionist
Does Bajigriya
Day and night, day and night calls
Ever tells you the moon
Ever tells you the sun
Moment to moment of feelings
Makes many pictures of dreams.Yeah
Worships you
And ritual sings
I love Spectacled
I love Spectacled
And Merry Christmas
And Merry Christmas

The heart is big weak
Do not endure separation
Bekhyali stars Counts
To write on a blank paper cuts
Which is descends tide soar
Rundhi c voice call comes in
I love Spectacled
I love Spectacled
And Merry Christmas
And Merry Christmas
The big colorful heart
Does Rngiliya
Does disport
Adorned on the face Chaubare
Your eyes
In the courtyard of the heart when Jhakti
Corner of the heart
Happily erupts
Say something
Something does
Makes things Puzzles
You only pay Dies
You only have the S?vrta
Smelling like perfume arises

Have you got heart
And love the color Buckle
Then lap in the air
Anklet feet Nigodi
Dancing up and say,
O  that  tambourine playing tambourine
.My punishment quickly stretcher
Then I heart by playing tambourine
To sing the same melody say .....
I love Spectacled
I love Spectacled
And Merry Christmas
And Merry Christma

Copyright © sangam verma | Year Posted 2016

Long poem by Michael Smith | Details |

Does the War Ever Really End

A moment stauls...
Somewhere in between
What shall always be... 
Known as my lost and forever hour

Where I wake to sounds of thrashing rains
A clock sits staring, ticking and tocking
My own darkness illuminating lightning
Distant thunder following her in shame

Although, throes of raven blackness
Slumber holds on to the pitch
But, I pass through limbo hallways of surreal
Stumbling forth in directions by my blinded feel itch

Walls of lucid memories like dripping paint 
Begin to lapse deep into the younger years 
And creaking footfalls shatter their echo
Of certian remembered fears 

"Ah" deja vu sounds the alarm even further
Cracks from father’s room, is the ceiling leaking?
Into my little ears I'm more awake
As I hear the faint famaliar tears of weeping

My curiosity ever stronger than before
And innocent eyes through doorways peer
It’s the war again; Mom said he tried...
To leave it all behind, but still it's always there

And the storm's outside, but in a booming violence
Rushes back surreal into the unforgotten killing
The death, its experiences still locked up
Within his mind never free or escaping

A heroes love is his strength
Protecting me from a world with terrible pains
But, somehow I’ve learned to understand
That he needs his son, to calm his troubled angst

And silently I step
Inching slowly towards him
And nestle up within his trembling hands
Tugging upon one sleeve whispering "Dad, oh dad?"

“God has sent me here”
I say directly in his ear
Quieter now “To love you”
My tone gentle to his needs

Wiping away his tears
He whispers back...
“I know”
And picks me up, relieved

And in turn we face the scene
Of a passing storm into silence
As the rain seems alive to notice
Stopping to watch our mends in evanescence

We are somewhat aware we are within God's presence 
Looking to each other with a shrug
And then my dad holds me up
Giving this boy the biggest hug

Beneath the returning quiet 
And the ambience of moonray light
He carries me back to my room
And places me into bed amid the last flash of white

Pulls the blankets up
Knowing this will comfort me
And I’ll never forget the words
He said so effortlessly 

“One day...
You will have a son
Always let him know you love him
And your bond will never end”

Again I wake, this time
To the sounds of an apologetic rain
The lightening has ceased its battle
And the thunder it no longer blames

I unwind the blanket
And uncover and sit
Rubbing the sleep out of my eyes
Awake, on the edge of bed

Was this a dream?
Or a twist of fate reality?
I ponder, running fingers through my hair
And, merely reflect upon it

Then I realize…
I was not alone
Dad is watching, not far away
And I know one day, I'll see him soon, after heaven's gates

Copyright © Michael Smith | Year Posted 2013

Long poem by Tee Monique | Details |


He takes me on vacation to a resort 
just off the coast of Aruba. The hotel 
room is amazing...everything in it is 
white red and pink. From the 
couches, rugs and comforter on the 
bed... Im in aw as we walk through 
the door. No one has ever cared or 
loved me enough to do this 
before..it's raining outside which 
makes it even better for me. 
Something about the rain that's just 
enlightening..i open up the patio 
door so that i can hear the rain more 
clearly...he tells me to sit down and 
relax we've had a long flight, while he 
orders room service..I'm going to 
take a bath..he already knows what i 
like...i walk in the bathroom...my 
bath water has already been 
ran...with candles lit and rose pedals 
adorning each spot that my eyes 
land...my heart melts...wow..he 
comes in behind me and opens the 
window so there's a nice cool breeze 
flowing in...he asks if i want him to 
join me...i tell him of course i do 
baby feel free...we enjoy one 
another's company...how it's so 
relaxing...i can't get over how good 
this man is to me...all my guards are 
let down...he bathes me from head 
to toe...as i embrace the moment...i 
wash him clean...he steps out grabs 
a huge towel and wraps it around my 
small frame...he carries me to the 
bedroom...that's fully decorated with 
all of my favorite things..from candle 
scent to my favorite Vicky apparel 
and footie socks all in my favorite 
color ..i look him in his eyes and tell 
him i Love him...your something 
else...i changed into my lingerie he 
picked out for me..he has great 
taste...i ask him if he can hold me 
while i enjoy that instant...he 
obliges..but says but 1st he needs to 
know one thing...i look at him and 
asks and what's that? He pulls out a 
5 carat ring!!...i gasp for air...i can't 
breath..this is the moment i dreamt 
about so many times...he looks me 
in my eyes while getting down on 
one knee...he says he's been 
searching for me all his life...he 
never thought he'd find someone to 
complete the missing pieces in his 
life...his life would mean nothing 
without me and my girls in It...he 
says would i give him the honor of 
being his queen forever and become 
his wife...my tears are flowing 
endlessly..i cannot believe this is 
actually happening to me...I've 
always felt so unworthy and so 
unwanted...this man is amazing, God 
fearing, handsome, sexy, strong, 
gives unselfishly and has waves for 
days(lol). He has every attribute I've 
prayed for, from his head to his 
shoes... I'd be crazy not to say i 

Copyright © Tee Monique | Year Posted 2013

Long Poems