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

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Long poem by Robert Candler | Details |

Legend of the Red October Run

Dedicated to the 2000 National College Football Champions, the Oklahoma Sooners 


Over fifty years, boy and man, I’ve been a Sooners fan
Watched and reveled in their glories, every one;
But there’s no more glorious “Sooner Magic” 
Than the Red October Run.

The new millennium's first football season,
Excited Sooners fans’ hopes did soar.
They had tasted victory in Bob Stoops’ first year;
Now, they wanted - no, expected - even more.

There was a glint of promise in Bob’s eyes,
Strength and confidence in his every word.
“Our Team has shown improvement”, is what he said;
“We’ll win!” is what fans heard.

By September’s end, the Sooners were 4 and O,
A “cupcake schedule” some anxious fans would say;
Twenty-two days in October would rule their destiny.
Texas, K-State, Nebraska, the teams they’d have to play.

“OU’s October is a gauntlet”, said ESPN;
“Play #10 and #2 and #1…and win”?
So, on a rainy Saturday morning in Dallas,
The Red October Run would begin.

The Texas State Fair at the Cotton Bowl,
Fans were welcomed by Big Tex.
They screamed, “Go OU!” and “Hook’em Horns!”;
But none could imagine what happened next.

Heupel was a dominating General;
The Sooners Offense, his relentless troops.
Calmus and the Defense assured a total rout,
The Coach of the Day was Bob Stoops.

Sooners fans were wild, delirious with glee;
But Bob seemed focused and sedate.
“We’ll enjoy this victory Sunday;
Then Monday, we’ll prepare for Kansas State”.

No time to revel in the Glory, #2 was tough.
Better than the Huskers?  The possibility was real.
The road to #1 went through Manhattan,
And the Sooners would have to win it on the field.

The sportscasters had a field day.
Last year’s “coaching coup” was news again.
Beasley versus Heupel was “The Match-up”.
Could Heupel evade K-State’s awesome defense 
   and find a way to win? 

Again, Heupel and his troops met the challenge;
And as the Sooners “D” assured a hard fought win,
Every Sooners fan’s heart was stirred.
Could our Sooners be “Big Red” again?

Mighty Nebraska, #1, was coming to Owen Field.
“Biggest OU - Nebraska game in years!” Corso said.
It would be 1 versus 2, a heralded gridiron epic
For the coveted title of…”Big Red”.

It was OU’s biggest home game ever.
The campus was alive with vendors and would-be 
   ticket buyers.
Every Sooners Fan’s heart was pounding.
Could the smell of #1 stoke the Sooners' fires?

The Huskers struck so quickly.
At 14 to nothing, Sooners fans were stunned.
It was shaping up to be a long, long day;
And it wasn’t going to be fun.

Quickly tho’, Heupel rallied his Sooners troops.
They scored and scored and scored again.
The Sooners “D” built a Wall at the 50,
And would not let the Huskers in.

Winners, the Sooners ran and jumped with glee.
Fans flooded Owen Field, milling all around,
Praising and hugging their Sooners Heroes.
They even tore the goal post down.

Now #1, the Sooners had won it on the field.
Their preparation had been well taught.
Bob Stoops, all his great coaches and assistants,
Took pride in how the Sooners fought.

Someone once said, “Everyone loves a winner.”
Everywhere you looked confirmed it’s true.
OU flags fluttered.  Decals, hats, and clothes abound.
Come November, the Sooners and their Fans
    had been renewed,

There’s no slighting the importance of Red October.
The Sooners came together as a Team.
No doubt too, without “The Red October Run”
Their National Championship would still be just a dream.

For the next five games, it was simply unacceptable
For the Sooners to even think that they could fail;
And, tho’ Heupel played injured, they won the Big 12 Championship;
Great Sooners Defense had prevailed.

But no one gave these Big 12 Champs the slightest chance to win
Against the mighty Seminoles of Florida State.
The Heisman Trophy Winner was their quarterback
And their defense was touted to be great.

At the coin toss, Team Captain Torrance Marshall
Said to their quarterback in words most serious and sure,
“You took our boy’s trophy”.  Then he smiled,
“Now we’re gonna take yours”.

The Sooners “D” was everywhere and completely shut them down;
And, when Quentin Griffin’s touchdown closed the door,
Their quarterback knew that Marshall’s words rang true;
The not-so-mighty ‘Noles had not been allowed to score.

Yes, Bob Stoops and his Sooners knew the challenge:
To win Each game ‘til Every game’s been won;
Win for Sooners and their Fans the unchallenged right
To revel in the Glory of being #1.

Yes, my Sooners Team goes on and on,
Different faces, different names;
But these Sooners Champions will be well remembered
For the Season they won Every game.

Undefeated National Champions!
Before October, who would have ever dreamed?
Why, just last year, we didn’t even know the players' names;
And now, they’re College Football’s Greatest Team.

To overcome all adversity and rise to every challenge,
The reward for such a feat is being #1;
Their path to Glory born of a Sooners Legend
Called The Red October Run.


Long poem by William Masonis | Details |

A Hospital Stay - Part V


                                                        The In-Between

     There, in the In-Between,
     No trumpets sound
     No beings clad in gold celestial fire
     Arrive as guides to the heart's desire,
          Only silence falls
     Throughout the velvet deep profound.
     At the In-Between,
          No Savior calls
     For there is naught but nothingness;
     An emptiness entire.

Strangely, I sensed myself suspended
In a nevertime of not-quite-being.

Such was the In-Between, where now I wandered.

As though it had always been,
I felt myself afloat, adrift
Upon some frigid river full of ice
Which had no source and knew no end,
That traveled 'round and 'round and back again upon itself
Rising and falling over distant hills and bearing me with it
- Or rather, what was left of me -
Along in its meaningless, endless circuit.

Nor dark nor light intruded.
Vision compassed only what might be envisioned,
Images forming and fading
Within the little cavern of my skull.

Voices without discernable words.
Murmmerings within the waters.

Something like a sword
Was lodged down my throat.
I gagged upon it, over and over;
Unseen hands would withdraw it, then shove it down again.

The main thought flickering in my head
As I lay in this place
Was of how I seemed to have become some frail remnant
Of whatever I once was.
No longer did I have that sense of flesh
Containing the shape of me,
Nor the feel of muscle, nor the bone beneath.
I felt I had somehow been rendered
Some modern scientific wonder,
A creature flayed alive yet living
In some embryonic form, possessed of such shape as it could claim
By virtue of a remaining mass of nervous tissue;
A minimalist miracle
Preserved in a nutrient bath by the power and will
Of a conclave of white smocked High Priests of medicine.

Strangest of all, perhaps
Was that this perception of my fate
Occasioned in me not horror, 
But rather a regretful sadness.
"What will they tell my wife?" I sighed in my mind.

     Yet, by slow degrees the feel of the outward world
     Stole in upon my little hell of shapelessness.
     The throbbing thing I seemed to have become
     Refleshed itself somehow,
     Though the sword in its throat remained.

Distant voices resolved into speech again,
And as they did I felt myself begin moving again
'Round and 'round as before, still on circuit
But no longer floating on ice.
Now, instead, I seemed lain on some unseen track
Circling through a low-roofed sandstone cavern.

When I passed the band of light 
That marked the faroff entrance of this cave,
I would hear the voice of that Boy Who Would Be Our King
Exhorting the Disunited Nations
To join his crusade to punish his chosen scapegoat
For an evil he had helped loose upon the world.
The long silences that followed his harangues
Revealed the skepticism of his audience.

     I could sense that a long roll call of the dead
     Would soon be scrolling past the world's collective eyes,
     Be his call accepted or no;
     This was for show, decisions had already been made.

I regained perception of how dangerous things were becoming out there,
Out there where I'd lost my way, to stumble into this place,
How long ago I could no longer recall.

I knew this to be its nature, though
And as well that this was where I belonged, Out There
Where the only source of peace or peace of mind
Was the hope we wove between ourselves
With threads of unstoppable possibilities
The human way spins for itself.

I knew where I belonged, and reached out for it.

     I came back to be within
     The folds of all I love
     To seek the mystic shine of life
     Expressed in friends, relations, wife
     Awaiting my return.
     I began to climb Above
     Back to where all hopes begin
     To where desires brightly burn
     Until their ash shines whiter than
     The purer feathers of the dove.

Long poem by Robert Candler | Details | . You can read it on' st_url='' st_title='Went Fishin''>

Went Fishin'

Submitted to the "Gone Fishin" contest

Trollin’ the islands at Texoma,
It was April, 1964.
New rod and reel in hand,
I’d NEVER been fishing before.

A Garcia 2510T casting rod.
The reel, a Mitchell 301,
Plus hand-selected worms and lures…
I was ready to have some fun.

My teacher, a master fisherman,
Had fished all over the earth...
From trout in Austrian mountain streams
To sea bass just west of Perth.

He showed me all the basics,
Including how to tie a lure.
“No snaps. They’re no good.
Tie’em on…just to be sure.”

He made me practice casting.
“Take aim with your rod’s tip 
Take her back - ten, eleven, twelve, one;
Smoothly return to ten… with just a little flip.”

While I practiced the casting motion,
He said, “Large Mouths will be jumpin’ bugs.
Water’s bubblin’ with Sand Bass spawnin’.
You’ll know the difference if one gives you a tug.”

As we drifted around the islands,
He said, “I think you’re ready.”
So, I picked a lure, a pretty Heddon;
And tied her on.  My hands were steady.

Yellow with black dots and a weed guard. 
A streamer tail and double treble hooks.
Who knew if she would do the job,
But I liked the way she looked.

As I tied her on, I looked around
For a likely place for my first cast.
Magazine pictures always showed weeds
In the background of a striking Bass.

So, I picked a reed bed in the shallows;
Threw my first cast, watched her fly.
What happened next was the stuff of dreams.
We couldn’t believe our eyes. 

About eighteen inches before she lit,
A monstrous Large Mouth erupted from the water.
My teacher screamed, “Holy Mary, Mother of God!  
Kiss O’Reilly’s Ugly Daughter!”

When the Bass broke water, it scared me. 
My whole body jerked and shook.
So sudden, so silent, it seemed like slow motion.
Until I heard him screaming, “Set the hook!  Set the hook!”

When the big Bass scared me,
I must have set the hook.
The tussle was on, long and hard.
This fish didn’t want to be cooked.

My lack of skills prevailed, however,
As I finally reeled him in;
I grabbed him by the lower lip,
Like I’d seen Don Wallace do, time and time again.

“Oh, my God”, he murmured as he weighed the Bass;
“Jeez.  Over thirteen pounds....Thirteen pounds, two.”
He took out his Polaroid and laughed, 
“I’ll take a picture of this fish... holdin' you.”

He snapped the picture of me holding the Bass;
On the back wrote the date, the length and weight.
As he turned to put the camera away……
Get ready.  This is the part that’s great.

I’d watched Don Wallace ‘catch and release’.
He always did that on his show.
“This fish put up a good fight.” he’d say;
“Now it’s time to let him go.”

Yes, as my teacher put away the camera,
I held the big Bass by the lower lip and tail
And ‘swished’ him in the water,
Making sure his gills would not fail.

My teacher turned and saw what I was doing
Just as I let the big Bass go.
This, too, was like slow motion
As I heard him screaming, “NOOOOOOO!”

“Why would you do that, Lad?
Do ya know nothin’ at all?
A fish like that... on your very first cast?
Well...Lad, that fish goes on the wall.”

“Well…he’ll be here next year.” I said with a smile,
“And even bigger, I’ll bet.”
He said, ”You’ll make a fisherman, Lad.
It’s not for the fish that we fish…

but for the great stories we get.” 

I still have that lure…and the rod and reel.
Still in their bags and boxes, just like new.
I thought about selling them on eBay,
But 50 years later, they have sentimental value.

You see…I’ve been invited to go fishin’ several times
By golfin’ buddies and other friends;
But for some reason…I really don’t know why…
I’ve never gone fishin’ again.

They say, “Truth is stranger than fiction.”
And I believe that is a fact.
I hope you enjoyed this bit of truth and,
In the meantime…..”Ya’ll come back!”

Long poem by John Posey | Details |

The Way Home - 1st Part

When we think of traveling we most often think of going from one location to another. That’s good but I sometimes like to return in reverie to times in my past. Places where I spent my childhood are precious to me. 

We seem to race through childhood never slowing down to enjoy the moments we may seek to recover in years to come. I remember the place of my early years. Cameron, Texas was the only world I knew until I was eight years old.  Names and landmarks still cross my mind in moments of remembrance. 

I still remember the path that led me home hundreds of times from Ada Henderson Elementary School. It passed through a park about two city blocks in size. In this park were the normal things such as those galvanized metal slides polished by literally thousands of khaki or denim clad rear ends. Two slides stood side by side. One was a simple one-hump slide. The other was over twice as high using two humps on the journey to the ground from what seemed to be such a lofty height. The kid sized slide was seldom used after one had experienced the thrill of the ‘big’ slide. There were seesaws that weathered years of teeter tottering by excited boys and girls. There were simple gymnastic pipes that were just the right height to sit on and do back flips, nearly slamming your head into the ground beneath. All these things were so much fun to a kid and his friends as they made their way home from another day at school.

But one fun piece of equipment always furnished the thrills that last a lifetime and are remembered in the fondest reverie.  About halfway through the park was a merry-go-round made of the strongest and seemingly indestructible pipe. It, too, was polished by years of holding on by squealing children, lest they be thrown off by the magic of centrifugal force. It was about 12 feet in diameter and the center pipe was about 8 inches in diameter and must have been anchored somewhere in China since all the many years of use it yielded not a fraction. There were some 8 or 10 pipes on the outer portion of the merry-go-round that allowed you to grab and step onto the running board and hold on for dear life. Kids would grab these posts as they came around and spin them as hard as possible. The speed they built up was surprisingly fast and it took some agility to master the art of stepping on and grabbing the handle.  I have no recollection of grievous mishaps, just an occasional scrape or bruise. This contraption has served at least 4 generations of school kids and has not changed the last time I saw it some 20 years ago.

Farther down the path home was a giant gazebo with a stage and seats around the outside. It was equipped with public restrooms beneath the gazebo. It has been there for many years and sometimes I can close my eyes and see that gazebo and hear the faint strains of Sousa marches from the brass bands that played summer concerts there. I remember many happy times there on family picnics and occasional reunions. 

God watched over the kids and me whose paths home took them through the park. Just past the gazebo was a huge drainpipe, which during heavy rains drained water from the park into a ravine running through the park.  It was some 50 to 60 feet in length and about 6 feet in diameter.  It was always on a dare that we would walk through that dark, dank and scary tunnel. We were sure there was all manner of creepy crawly creatures lurking in the shadows waiting for unsuspecting kids to slowly make their way through this scary conduit. I remember going through it once and that was enough. I’d rather walk through the cemetery alone …. But that’s another story.

Long poem by Kelly Deschler | Details |

The Poets I Hope to Meet in Heaven - A Tribute to Chan Hurst 1979-2014

A few poems written by Chan Hurst, (Just That Archaic Poet)

I hope that we can find some comfort in them at this sad time.

"A Rational Explanation"

What must I do to see this through-
Unlock the world I never knew?
For all I've seen hath been untrue,
As all I've felt hath plagued me, too!
I am no more, past Deaths before
I've reached the end of Living War-
(to see through eyes both blind and closed)
A life to touch, but never know...

"Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep"

Every day, to God I pray
For answers to Life's enigmas
Patience lays in wait to stay-
To cleanse our Social Stigmas
We pass the time in our idle Dreams:
Like fallen stars in singing streams

"A Happy Ending"

Remorse and regret, I mustn't forget
Remind me that Life is a process of Learning
Indeed for I sorrow'd; 'twas always upset
As the Truth was met with painful discerning

But now my eyes are open-wide,
Grew to love what I once despised
I am no longer sick inside-
I just feel happy to be alive

"A Master's Approval"

No happier could I ever be,
(Or feel a joy's enormity!)
Than to know a Soul as Poe-
Would say he likes my poetry!

"The Poets I Hope to Meet in Heaven"

I pray that in my Eternity,
I'll meet Shelley, Poe and Emily
That we'll all sit down at a table round,
And at length discuss our Poetry!

And Longfellow, lest we forget
Lord Byron, Shakespeare, and beloved Keats!
If I prove their favorite Poet,
I could accomplish no greater feat!

For all my many silly musings,
This one I covet above the rest
For my Soul's toil- finally proving
That the Masters love me best!

"Heaven For A Poet"  by Kelly Deschler

My own piece of heaven, a quiet little nook,
With only the finest parchment in a leather book,
A feather quill pen and an ocean of ink,
My thoughts would never stop to think,
Every single line I write would rhyme,
My poetry would be beautiful and sublime,
I'd be entertained daily, by Dr. Seuss,
And, put to bed nightly, by Mother Goose,
Lessons from Byron, Shelley, Coleridge and Poe,
Teaching me every single thing that they know.

My own piece of heaven, will have to wait,
Until one day, when I must meet my fate,
So, for now I will have to be content,
With my own words that may be heaven sent,
Inspiration from my idols is all I need,
Writing poetry in a notebook from Mead,
With this cheap, plastic Bic pen,
And a dream to be, just like them.

This poem was one of mine that Chan had faved, so I thought it would be appropriate to share this now and dedicate it to him.

I will always miss you, BP, my brother in poetry, but I sense that you are smiling down on us now.

I know that Chan idolized Edgar Allan Poe. I remember him telling me that someday,
he wanted to share a table in heaven with that "good ol' E.A. Poe".

So, Chan, if that is what you're doing now, I envy you, my friend! 

And, you said that you would personally invite me to that little gathering, remember? :)

Long poem by Robert Candler | Details |

Circle of Life - A Pet Story

It seems like just the other day
Our pup, Shadrack, did pass away;
And altho’ they never seemed like friends,
My old cat, Jorg, knew Shad had met
   his untimely end.

He mourned his loss every day
And looked for Shadrack everywhere.
He’d mew and moan as if to say,
“We were friends.  I do care.”

Then one night, an eerie howl
Awoke me from my sleep.
He’d found Shad’s toys and left no doubt
That his feelings did run deep.

So our tedious search began
To find another likely pup;
But while my poor wife still grieved,
Could another measure up?

We went to Second Chance and Free to Live.
She just could not make up her mind.
She loved them all; but, if she picked just one,
The rest would have to stay behind.

Then, quite by chance, there was a “pound pup”
Who’d been picked up from the streets.
He was a mutt, a “schnauza-pug”;
But he was awfully sweet.

He jumped up and kissed her frantically.
He seemed aware of his “iffy” situation.
He made the best of his opportunity.
Tears of joy told her elation.

“This is the one”, she smiled through tears,
As she held him oh, so tight.
“I’m sure that Jorg will like him too.
Everything will be alright”.

And so it was, until one day
When old Jorg did pass away…

There was no hesitation on this sad occasion;
Come Saturday morning, we went straight 
   to the pound,
Open minded and hoping to be “saviors”,
Surely a nice cat was to be found.

“Sadly”, the lady said,” three kitties have only today.
There’s Andre and Panda and another one too”.
My wife smiled and said, “Jorg was your boy.  You pick.
They’re both beautiful cats.  It’s up to you”.

As I pondered this commitment
Another cat, a young one, caught my eye.
Like Jorg, he was a common gray tabby.
Fond memories were stirred.  I almost cried.

On closer look, his name was Boris;
And, strangely, he was number three.
There was a small sign on his crate,
“I don’t like other cats and other cats don’t like me”.

But there was character in his eyes and he was cute.
He was rolling and purring and stretching.
He seemed to look deep into my heart
And did his best to be quite fetching.

But because he was just a common gray tabby,
And because of the little sign,
His chances were slim, his future quite dim
And one day is precious little time.

For a moment I was lost in his eyes
And I heard his desperate plea, 
“I’m a swell cat and litter box trained.
Take me.  Please, take me”.

“Well”, my wife urged, “is it Andre or Panda”?
“One of us will take the other kitty.”, two older ladies chimed.
“You can each have one ladies”, I said with a smile.
I want Boris and he wants to be mine”.

In just hours he was romping and rolling with Pepper,
Who had happily welcomed his new friend.
Boris was a perfect fit, an affirmation;
The Circle of Life never ends.

Much more Joy than Sadness in this Circle,
And there should never be regrets.
Honor their memories and all the love they share,
Never break the Circle, never be without a Pet.

Long poem by John Posey | Details |

The Way Home - 2nd part

As I neared home I went by the water works that stood for years behind the ice plant. That’s where the water for the city was processed and I remember how clean and clear the water looked.  It was an in ground reservoir just like a swimming pool.  There were two houses on the street next to the water works and Mom and Dad lived in one of them after his retirement. 

Up the street from the water works was the ice plant. My Dad worked there for a few years just before we moved to Houston.  Some of the fondest memories include the time I spent riding with Dad as he delivered ice to the surrounding rural area. I saw my Dad work as hard as any man should chipping away at large blocks of ice and picking up the 25, 50 or 100 pound blocks that was the standing order of the customers. Ice tongs were wicked but necessary tools of the trade.  Using them was as much an art as anything. I was mesmerized by the agility Dad used in handling the slippery cold blocks of crystal clear ice.  

On hot days when kids would pass by the ice plant we went up to the scoring saw to get something cool.  Huge blocks of ice were made ready for delivery by sending them through this machine that scored them with saws. This allowed the blocks then to be broken into manageable sizes of up to 100 pounds through the use of ice picks.  During this process the ‘ice-dust’ would collect on the inside of the metal cover.  We could reach inside and scoop out deliciously cooling handfuls of snow like ice. It was so refreshing on those hot days on the way home or just anytime we were in the area. 

Just down the street from the ice plant was the railroad crossing.  I would walk about a block along the railroad to the next street on which we lived.  Just about the time I’d get to that point it seemed a train would come by... Heavy steam locomotives were still in use and I was always amazed at how flattened a penny coin could become when placed on a railroad track and subsequently passed over by the wheels of a heavy steam engine. 

Down the hill from the railroad tracks was home.  Mom was always there always busy with the chores of everyday life.  Washing on Mondays, and ironing on Tuesdays along with a myriad of other things that included canning of our vegetables using pressure cookers and making jellies and preserves from local fruit. 

Finally being home was nice.  It meant I could run down the street and play with my friend, Alton. I’d always hear and yield to the call from my mom telling me to come home to supper.

Yes, the way home never changed, but was always unique. And the next time in Texas I hope to travel once more that path from school to home. Some things may have changed, but the things that stick in my memory will always be there on the way home.

© Copyright 2007
Jacob Payne
All Rights Reserved

Long poem by Asghar Nazeer | Details |

Watermarks of the time and tide - Third part

Watermarks of the time and tide! (Third and last part to abide by the word count)


With aches and pains felt everywhere in the body called arthralgia and myalgia!

We start thinking if only we could go back to our good times in a fit of nostalgia!

The best would be to become a baby pampered by parents just as we began!

So that we can take a fresh start and do better to improve all our life if we can!

But if that wouldn't be granted, I am also fine with becoming a worry free child!

Having to go to school to learn all that's so new and coming home to play wild!

May be I am asking too much so I will be fairly happy to return to golden teens!

Because life is the most beautiful and carefree between thirteens and nineteens!

I know it would be hard for nature to give me so much good time of my life again!

I don't mind becoming a responsible adult if that poised mind and power I regain!

I guess I might be asking too much from time to give back the best days of mine!

Okay then return me to my middle age in good health and I would surely feel fine!

I can see the calendar and the clock are jeering at me for asking my lost time back!

They are telling me quietly that time passes as it does, you can't even make it slack!

So let me not make them laugh by fondly looking out from the rear window's pane!

And be content with trying to make the best of the my older years that still remain!

I keep hearing some day it would be possible for us to travel back or forth in time!

That wouldn't happen no matter how much I desire it to be possible in my lifetime!

Let me then forget my past and do my best for now while planning well for future!

I can't go back in the time tunnel but I have learnt lessons with time as a teacher!

Seeing in the mirror I see the watermarks etched on me by the irreversible time and 

A divine voice consoles what matters isn't how I look outside but beauty of my soul 

"It doesn’t matter what you look like on the outside, it’s what on the inside that 

One can feel young again at any age, if the pleasant memories of the past one 


Poetry by Dr. Asghar Nazeer (LinkedIn profile

Kindly read this poem with a matching photo on LinkedIn at
mirror-i-see-the-watermarks-etched-on-me-by-the-irreversible-time-and-tide and my 
28 poems with captivating pics at my LinkedIn page

Long poem by Frederick Moore | Details |

Love Beneath the Dashboard Lights

In a midland Drive-In, ‘neath an August moon. 
The feature was “The Creature from the Black Lagoon”.
Sat two young kids, with young passions hewn.
Young at love, just neophytes,
Just being alone was their pure delight.
She was my brand new Queen of the dashboard lights.

She was a delicate creature of a different type;
Just turned eighteen, long legged and ripe.
Six months before, who’d recognized
This once guawky girl, now feminized.
She grew so quick, right in my sight,
As I saw her beauty come to light.
I was destined, as was Cervantes’s Don
Quixote was to Dulcinea drawn.
Not just to love her from afar,
But by the dashboard lights of my old first car.

A mini skirt high up her thighs,
Her perfume that makes you agonize,
Caused bulging stress in your Levi’s.
Your mind and body’s full inflamed,
Like a Centaur’s lust, wild, untamed.
Fiery kisses, hot foreplay,
Young lust and passion lead the way
Silky skin, clothes disarrayed,
Torn Trojan packs, tossed lingerie;
Bodies locked in swing and sway;
The smell of love’s divine bouquet.
Soft sounds and gasps drown out the night
With our coupling ‘neath those dashboard lights.

Now, long in tooth, the end invites,
Yet you still rethink that starry night.
Just on the edge of your memory’s site
Like a candle, burning warm and bright.
Its glow distracts you time on time,
With thoughts of you and her entwined.
Like a moth flies to that lovely flame,
As your lips once more murmur her name.
Old memories clear, and your heart ignites,
As you relive those erotic youthful rites,
When two young kids climbed passioned heights.
In the glow of an old car’s dashboard lights.

You awake alone, in an empty bed,
With sweet youthful memories still in your head,
So real, but only dreams instead.
Your brain’s awhirl from her mystique
Yet your hands can’t find her, when they seek.
You feel warm tears run down your cheeks.
Missed lips that dripped of honeydew,
That fired your passions up, anew.
Tucked in so warm and close to you.
Curly hair, and eyes so bright,
And velvet laughter, pure delight
That soothed your demons in the night.
Now lies my Queen, an empty shell,
This grey haired vixen, I loved so well.
For fifty years she wove her spell
With eyes and smiles, she tantalized
And kept my heart pure magnetized.
Her memories now immortalized.
Today, her casket drops from sight,
Thus ends what began on that August night.
Two kids in love couldn’t have been more right,
Farewell, my Queen of the dashboard lights

Long poem by John lawless | Details |

Where The Railroad Track Meet

Where the Railroad Track Meet 

Grasping, lunging as does a donkey for the
dangling apple leading it forward, I reached
for the ever elusive spot.  That place where
the railroad track meet.  Almost had it in
Idaho before it slipped over an ever so near
horizon.  Came close in Nebraska’s corn country
as it dipped beneath the tops of the late
September corn, again in New Jersey, only
to lose sight of it in the low coastal fog.

They say they never meet, the railroad track,
but I know different.  I hear the murmuring
of the hobos, old stories told around lukewarm 
fires by passionless men.  Sad retellings of
the fateful end of the line - the last ride.
Some claim that when the track meet,
they create a funnel-like vortex devouring
the train and the contents thereof.  The
more mystically inclined simply believe that
there is an end to the line, an ultimate destination,
a resting place for hobos and their scant

A hobo hell, no hum of the steel wheels, no
clickity-clack of the slow freight train, no
shriek of the whistle, no hiss of the steam
engines whoosh-chuuu, whoosh-chuuuu,
as it strains on the upgrades.  Only the
fading sound of the bell and the dimming light
of the lantern waving from the rear
of the caboose as it melts into the spot
where the track meet.

I have pursued the spot in all directions,
North, South, East, West only to realize that
it is the track that decide where they will
meet and with whom.  The track that create
the mystery of their meeting and the implications
of its meaning.  Solitary lifelines of a nation,
weary commuter guides, steel ribbons
suturing an injured economy, glistening
vibratory vagabonds traipsing the terrain
of dusty dreams.

And yet they still entice us to follow them,
to walk on countless ties, to listen to the
hum of history, feel the hot wind of an
old friend rolling past.  There is a music to
the rails, a difference to the tone of each
passing wheel.  Each season has its own
repertoire of tunes.  Cold steel, hard ground,
iced ties teased by friction warmed wheels.
Hot, softened, rails emanating scalding
heat, compressed into the creaking ties and
soft dusty bed, percussion played at sunset
in the cooling shiver, the echo of old rails
final contractions.

I see them through the mist of distance,
hear the muffled sounds of purpose,
wheels slowly rolling to that spot
where the railroad track meet.

submitted to Railway Journeys – Poetry Contest

Long Poems