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Long poem by Brian Johnston | Details |

Growing Up, La - Part 1 - Rev 4

- - - Chapter 1: Early Days - - - 

My father was a rich man, la, *
Though schooled in poverty, (1)  
As such he seldom raised his head, 
Displayed humility.
The center of the ‘Dust Bowl' years, 
Just thirty miles from home.
And children, seniors died from this
(Their lungs were clogged with loam) .

A huge tornado struck Woodward, (2)  
Destroying our downtown, 
It, cut a swath near one mile wide, 
Dad fought back, doubled down.(3)  
When storm had cleared, sky was fire red, 
Dad put me in the car, 
But roads were blocked in just three blocks, 
The world become bizarre! 
Barbed wire that penetrated trees, 
Homes cracked like eggs insides, 
Our home had grass blades drove like nails, 
Into its wooden sides.
The biggest storm in history, 
My dad was gone for days, 
Storm victims sleeping on our floor, 
The whole town in a daze.

Dad's rebuilt store, nicest in town, 
Our home ‘across the track, '(4)  
Attended too the poorest school, 
But did not suffer lack.
Appearance was Dad's calling card, 	
No pretense there to see, 
For ‘living too high on the hog, '(5)  
Caused bankers misery.
The school board melted to Mom's charm, 
(Or to her tongue of fire) , 
For with Dad's stature in the town, 
Few dared to risk her ire! 
Good teachers forced to leave rich schools, 
Complained it wasn't fair, 
Till they encountered Sis and I, 
And found that they could care.
That was my mother's legacy, 
And ‘ART' (6)   the air she breathed, 
Though slight she strongly stood her ground, 
Our future she bequeathed.
We did not know the difference, 
Just sometimes things were tough, 
Our clothing did set us apart, 
We always had enough.
There were some very poor kids there, 
The same clothes thru the week, 
Impoverished not just in clothes, 
But that which all men seek.		

I had a bike to ride around, 
Of course it was a Schwinn, 
And almost always home for lunch, 			
For Mom thought we were thin, 
With two desserts at every meal, 
(And Mom was quite a cook.)  
But if you didn't clean your plate, 
From Dad you got a look, 
The waste of food a mortal sin, 
A thump upon the ‘bean, '(7)  
Made every meal traumatic fare, 
And tears a daily scene.
My guess is Dad got worse than me, 
Depression's (8)   oldest child, 
I mourn the innocence he lost, 
That made his wrath seem mild.

Our parent's roles were well defined, 
My dad brought home the bread, 
My mom the joy of hearth and home, 
Dad's entrance met with dread.
My dad did most the punishments, 
But whippings weren't enough, 
We even weren't allowed to cry, 
To show we had the stuff! 
Small wonder romance frightened me, 
(So sure I'd be like him) , 
To challenge violence I feared, 
Chose music over gym.

Brian Johnston
August 20,2014

Poet's Notes: 
An auto-biographical look at family life impacted by both the American Great 
Depression  and the Dust Bowl years (1930-1950)   in the Mid-West, divided into 
Chapters. 
This is a work of love and homage to the courageous and desperate people who 
survived both. I hope that you enjoy it. New Chapters will be released as I complete 
them.

* When I was in the American Peace Corps in Tanzania, East Africa we had a group of 
7 surveying assistants that were always with us in the first year and that we became 
very close to. Their conversation was always sprinkled with 'la' and I thought it was 
kind of cute. Like they might say to me, 'Why don't we stop in this village for some 
food, la.' They used this word kind of like I use the word ‘OK' in casual conversation. 
'You've got food in your teeth, la.' I really enjoyed this idiosyncratic  affectation.

(1)   ‘poverty' - born in 1911, my father was just 19 years  old when ‘The Great 
Depression' hit the US economy. The Dust Bowl began shortly after.
(2)   Woodward, Oklahoma - the town that I grew up in.
(3)   ‘doubled down' - after Dad's business was destroyed completely by the tornado, 
he  doubled his efforts to be successful in Woodward, borrowing heavily from the 
local banks to do so.
(4)   'across the track' or 'wrong side of the tracks' referred to the part of town where 
poor people lived, frequently, but not always, meaning 'colored people' as well. In some 
towns no 'colored people' were allowed to live in the more prosperous 'white only' 
area. Some towns (like Woodward) had no Negros at all. I take that back. One black 
male did have a job shining shoes in the local 'Baker Hotel' but I think his home was 
in the country somewhere (He did not live in town).
(5)   'living too high on the hog' -  an idiom referring to people who have to have the 
most expensive things in life and buy them frequently on credit even though they 
can't really afford them.
(6)   ‘ART' - My mother was a gifted painter and wood carver, but even meals she 
prepared were done artistically. Art was always spelled with capital letters in her life! 
(7)   ‘thump on the bean' - to hit the offending child hard on the head with the 
knuckles of your closed fist.
(8)   'Depression' - Hard times, not mental issues. (Actually works both ways though 
I guess!)   Born the oldest of 3 brothers and one sister, my dad's father worked him 
hard and used a leather shaving strap to whip his boys when he was upset with them 
about anything. Grand Dad Johnston made my father seem like Florence Nightingale. 
I believe that he beat his wife as well (just a guess) .


Long poem by J. W. M. Earnings | Details |

Remorse with a Touch of Ripened Radiance xD

I grieve for your safety, sis, and I pray for you almost every day – 
Depression does leave a big impact on us in a negative way
But I think you think I’m crazy…tell me if I am…
My heart’s devouring curiosity, pain and sham 
And still – there’s questions left unanswered…
I feel awkward…I feel unheard like a loner at school, hovering around, yet 
feeling ignored
Staring at a blank screen before me…hurting my eyes a bit to a certain degree
I see that I have a long way to go with my writing process
I see my past unwind – set me free…the time will never leave me be
I’m living in a fairy tale, never truly bowing down to true success
Let me be…let me flutte like a butterfly out of its cocoon 
Let me be who I want to be…let me shine bright like the moon
I’m glistening in the moonlight – I love you more than before
I wish the night away…hoping for some sunshine
I’ll stay with you till the day I pass away 
We’ll fight this depression wars…if only you were mine
We’ll go through remorse and romance
Together…forever…we’ll dance in a serenity-indulged trance
Do you hear the wind, whispering their “goodbyes”? 
Clear skies beam upon me for a little while at last!
Nothin’ but joyous skies feels therapeutic to my eyesight…
Forgetting the dilemmas that I’ve encountered and the horrid past
Clear baby blue skies hang above our heads in polished delight
Can you see right through me? 
Will you ever see me in this reality?
You are bothering me, DEPRESSION!? 

(~!@#$%^&*()_+)

All I see is dismal clouds passing me by, accepting derision as a friend instead 
of a foe
Should I just move on with life? Why do I feel the urge to cry?
 I stab myself with frustration and hurt badly – I feel guilty for your crimes and 
your sympathy will never show…let the wicked wind blow!
 It pierces like an arrow that flies by night, hitting bull’s eye 
Regret shouldn’t get the best of me
Why should I have an unwanted guess by the name of Anxiety? 
I’m alone at last…but the future is left unknown
And, yet I don’t groan and God’s my backbone – 
I accept the truth of it all…
These scars won’t heal at all, 
Can’t help but be in the helpless frame of mind and the shattered state
The stars dim when city lights illuminate the ebony skies, revealing the 
cemented ink painted in the atmosphere, unwavering without a smear of fear
Hold on to the bars before you – hold on to me, my love – I can’t help, but 
hesitate – I keep thinking of my future, fretful fate
Please wait for me till the dawn scorches aflame like the planet Mars, but until 
then – turn the wheel! Turn the wheel! 
Hold on to the rope of hope – it won’t harm us, my dove! I can’t escape my 
ruins, but I can change for the better and pick all the pieces up and sweep 
away the debris  - all we are is dust on the ground, rising like the horizon of 
the sunset…stimulating our eyes with undying appeal
From where the sun now stands, 
I’ve been succumbing to tragedy and preparing for the battle that lies ahead

(~!@#$%^&*()_+)

How I wish upon Tomorrow to see you smile and lock hands
With me…with me…and go ahead of me – put your doubts and worries to bed!
Borrow happiness from me instead! You don’t have to return it back –
If it’s something you lack…come on and open up a crack!
Your hands as cold as ice in Antarctica…it’s frostbitten and I freeze to the bone
You’re concealing this warmhearted soul within you…do you want to be left 
alone?
But, I won’t leave you without a trace, hiking this mountain on your own! 
I know it’s dying to come out without a doubt like the dawn, 
Shyly pushing away nightfall by projecting the sun in the sorrow-whelmed 
skies, 
Giving us sunlit glee…converting into flourishing ecstasy – God has my back!
Put your heart at ease and make Depression your slave – 
Desert it forever and pick a different route to tread on…self-control keeps me 
on track
Oh! Perhaps, you were naturally made for me, but I must behave 
 I’ve had harder days than you – I’ve been through so much worse
Are you a refined, splendid gift or are you just another wretched curse?
You restored peace to my verse, angel of ambitious bliss, spreading about 
good news with glorious grace! 
(I can see your halo, spinning around and round and round your head like 
hovering auras)
Though I was tattered and torn by remorseful spirits, you were my childlike 
mirth – 
You and I dismiss the blues and we figure out the mystery’s many clues, 
placing our feet in other people’s shoes with empathy traced on our face!

I put my daily worries and distrust to sleep… I can see you weep…

The laments hits us too deep…I’m out of luck…all I thought I was was a loving 
creep

But, I was enchanted by the mirror and what it reflected with jubilation that’s 
as shiny as a silver, noble sword – 
A new spirit, radiant with compassionate, elegant elation …my heart beats in 
accord


Long poem by Justin Bordner | Details |

Make Love To Me In That Ancient Place

The Bedouins, bequeathed with the sacred beauty of paradise harsh,
trusted guardians of jealous gorges and gifted groves
lead me from the Wadi Musa to the humble ingress of Petra,
saying with thrill, the Jin of your Jihad awaits you White Lion,
we embrace as Brothers of Light and ancient dust,
their camels wise in soft steps
impart wide eyed, gentle blessing to me,
a shrill whisper of teasing wonderment 
whisks the sand of centuries strewn small
with a cobra's awakening whisp and hungry hiss,
evening enters the terrible terrain
glowing a cool blue dark and daring
along with it a blowing a zephyr unzips the zodiac of my ancestors,
stars of a billion years sympathize with this soul sojourn, 
alone I journey inward like a brave wish wafting
into a heart wanting to disgorge a secret need,
the smell of salt, sandstone and myrrh infiltrate
my mind with a mineral magic animating millenia of sovereign economics,
lamp light revealing the blush and rue of the the Siq's colossal rock hue,
shadows of caravan traffic bespeak exotic trade from distant industry,
narcotics from Kush, Persian rugs, spices and incense of Arabia, 
jewels and hides from India, the medicine and silk of China,
beasts and papyrus of Africa, wine, weapons and art of Rome,
slaves beautiful and strong carried from every known ethnic throng,
a river of precious merchandise replacing the might of carving waters,
at the egress of this artery's eternal enterprise
I behold with burgeoning awe the Nabataean Treasury, 
it's gladsome geometry a harmony of will, wealth and worship,
warm red cream stone become bone of a peoples' politic,
architecture for their angels and sanctuary for culture,
depository for dreams indebted to desert Deities,
I blow a kiss to the niche of Tyche, Goddess of fantastic fortune,
as I tighten my checkered turbin I hear a soft song
of Hellenic, Semitic and Arabic recipe, stringed hums with chime
and it moves me into the open, bleak basin towards the Monastary facade, 
in the black of it's errie entrance a spirit of evanescent education
escalates my enchantment as corners wake to pathways,
murals like waving reflections stream across the walls
I see Moses crack the water stone for salvation
as the Holy Arch spirals an avalanche of absolution from Earth to Heaven,
Solomon and Sheba secure a trade treaty with royal love,
I witness Jesus in the Jordan with John the Baptist
kindly laying him in the steady float of faith,
then the tragedy of John's demise
by the sour ambition of Herodias, the whore of defacto power,
I observe the affection of Joshua Ben Joseph 
with his woman of street sense as they endure trial after trial,
scenes of the Pax Romana and Judaen revolts parade 
by my eyes as terror, torture and triumph
wear masks of glory and glee,
the Essenes embarking for the Dead Sea defense,
Muslims and Crusaders found not the bounty of this land,
here remains the treasure of Pharaonic voyage,
exiting with renewed moral for love
I look to the top of Zibb Atuf
where I see the thunderbolt of Zeus Hadad and cornucopia of Atargatis
burn sweetly in the night, periwinkle smolder signals righteous passion,
I feel you, my Love, paramount in the depth of every sense I have,
turning entranced to the Roman Theater I proceed to the north east rendezvou,
you are lovely and glamorous on the stage of amplified ardor,
starbeams spotlight your coordinated curves and fertile instinct,
you begin to seduce with a dance, breathtaking, impulsive balance,
moving with the smooth heat and poise of a breath blown candle flame,
a crescent of torches beautifies your frame, crimson silk wings from you,
I stand for a moment on the outer upper rim
gazing, with great heat upsurging through every muscle,
knowing you are jubilant for me by the way you move
I descend the stairs undistracted from the language of your invitation,
your cinnamon skin skims my own as you go round and round
and the crave for your ravishing rub forces my pursuit,
I catch your tender waist as you spin into my hunting arms,
your fingertips feel so right in my hands,
we sway like romance on fire in the storm of desire,
your restive back nestled inbetween my shoulders
my obsessed lips move up your neck in search for innocent sensitivity
overtaking your naked earlobe with a hot mouth and firm pull,
your body, begging to be breeched brutely calms slowly
as I release spontaneous poetry into your ear saying...

When the moon was young
unbattered by stone and age
glowing bold upon Earth newly spun
the first man and sacred Woman
made love of flesh warmly woven
from they're erupting hearts came wild knowledge...

J.A.B.


Long poem by Chris D. Aechtner | Details |

Frankenstorm 2012: A Haunting of Shelleys

A Cardinal darts past, and I cannot quite discern if it chirps out of nervousness
towards the impending storm.
If so, the twittering of cell phones sound far more nerve-wracking -- 
portable typewriters encased in the soul-less facade of laissez faire; 
of keeping track, of minding the flocks. 

Yes, everyone is a poet these days, tapping away on miniature, plastic typewriters,
typing away the next narrative filled with prose pretending to be free verse.

Whether the majority is truly poetic or not, Frankenstorm surely is poetic;
named after Mary Shelley's, Frankenstein. 
The poetic justice of it all amongst a tragedy of broken necks and drownings, 
for the Shelleys were the epitome of Romanticism -- 
not of ritualistic bouquets bought from the florist who sells porn on the sly, 
or of waxy chocolate made by children in clandestine factories built from the bricks 
of Mao's dreams of anthills and selling short the power stemming from another poet 
turned arms dealer.

No, the romance for life itself; to become poetry as poetry turns into us. 
To find mystery in everyday moments; to distil this mystery, offer it to the reader, 
so that the reader becomes drunken, swooning in a stupor towards worlds 
that are 1,000,000 light years away.

Frankenstorm, the Haunting of Shelleys, lashes out at the dead poetry of today; 
at the empty, listlessly inane, lazy poetry of today. 
The brightest stars are falling into a void, turning away from the very essence 
they so wish to express....only because they want to be unique, to be original, 
to carve their own niche into the Jack O' Lanterns of a Hallowe'en quickly turning into cheap, dollar store decorations. 
They still have hope. They still have hope, even if many further detach themselves 
from their emotions with another dose of prescription pills meant to pacify; 
meant to reign in the emotional beasts of imagination, until only zombies preserved in formaldehyde, remain.

I can literally feel the Haunting of Shelleys ask wot has become of us.
It used to be about work ethic and soul - one had to kick, tear, bite, simply to publish 
a pamphlet that might be read by 10 people. 
Nowadays, everyone is a supposed poet. A few clicks, 'submit', and people from all 
over the world can read cotton-candy couplets, or a free verse rendition of another grocery list.
But we must embolster this with: 
"They are only beginning; they need to express themselves; 
they just don't care."

I don't want to be told about the pain, the tragedy, the beauty, the love. 
I want to be shown.
I want to feel it.
I want to feel it squeeze my gray matter into a bitter-sweet drink; 
I want to feel it go down.
I want to feel it warm up my heart, grip my stomach until the bottom falls out 
and I am left careening down a shaft in an elevator with a broken pulley and rusted-through brakes, and just when I think the end has come, the elevator bursts through 
a bottom which is actually the ceiling of a world now turned upside-down -- 
and by the time I right myself, have read the last line, there is still a remaining mysterious periphery of the cats that reside in the corner of my eyes; 
purring, waiting until I come back to re-read that particular poem, 
for it is so tantalizing, I want to come back to it over and over again 
for the remainder of my years.

Storms will always come and go, 
but I sensed the metaphorical message of the Frankenstorm very strongly. 
Yet this doesn't mean that I will turn the message into fruition. 
But I will certainly attempt to do so.
Within my delirium, I will continue to try distilling the intangible 
into a drunken tangibility; even for the sake of simply trying.

And as I ponder, as I witness the present decay of humanity, 
witness the state of today's poetry, I can only wonder how many more 
Hauntings of Shelleys are possibly already brewing.


                                                                                        October 31st, 2012
___________________________________________________________________




My thoughts go out to those caught in the path of Frankenstorm 2012.
Such events move me very deeply.

*I have already posted this prose in a blog, because at the time,
the character-count exceeded the limit of poem posts.











.


Long poem by Richard D Seal | Details |

Recollections of a Reckless Youth

Warning: Mature themes, though at the time.             

             Recollections of a Reckless Youth
                     
                        Walking On Air.


I was young, I was fair, I was walking on air
For tonight was the night of the dance
To the girls I would chat about this about that
In the hope of a one night romance

As I walked through the door  I surveyed all before
And saw, what words can’t express
She was there, she was fair, she was walking on air
As I ogled her little black dress

Then to my surprise, she fluttered her eyes
And I took this to be a good sign
If I played my cards right and she did not take flight
Maybe in an hour she’d be mine

We were getting on fine as I spun out my line
Thought, with drink or two I would ply
She went on about maths and explained all the graphs
As I mumbled dumb yeahs bye and bye

But I soon found the path to making her laugh
And she had, the sweetest of giggles
Which I did not mind cause my eyes they did find
She had the most wonderful jiggles

Took her hand with a tug, on the floor cut a rug
How her hips, she swayed so in time
As we rocked Mony Mony she proved was no phoney
Her moves, I thought were divine

How I longed to hold her, to kiss her pale shoulder
To have her if just for one night
To my will reduce her, to be her seducer 
And love her till cold mornings light

Could it be right it was love at first sight
That drew me to this little Miss
Cause I could not part from the strains in my heart
That were giving my senses such bliss

Then out of the dark, he came like a shark
His blonde hair, fluffy and bright
He moved with such grace, had a pretty face
His teeth, all gleaming and white

Was her that he blamed as the woman he claimed
And was clear, she was going to sack me
Was it me dancing, me Fred Astaire prancing ?
P--lease, don’t say it’s me acne

I stood on his shoe and the air it turned blue
With words here I cannot repeat
The bouncers he knew and out me they threw
With a bumperty bump down the street

Kicked out on my ass, I was walking on glass
And the road home was lonely and cold
There’d be no sweet nuffins or hedgerow stuffing’s
And no warm bosom to hold

So I’d walked half a mile, still found no smile
Realising I had lost my cred
I lit ‘nother smoke, swore at some bloke
When thoughts, they entered my head

Could justice be sweeter, if one day I meet her
Discover, to he who waits
That she had slumped him, finally dumped him
As he told her he was Master Bates

Be something she’s fond, something like James Bond
And I doubt I would see her to thank her
Come to think of it, he’s also a twit
That Bond, he’s just ’nother w****r 

Now hang on a tick and stop being a p***k
Don’t wallow in your own despair
You know she’s not thick and you’ll need a new trick
If this woman your going to snare

Now the cogs they did whirl how to capture this girl
For she was all over my mind
Of this sweet conundrum, the answer would come
Of that, I was sure I would find

As my key hit door I was happy once more
With words, I cannot express
I’d made a good start, into her heart
Now to get her, out of that dress

I was young, I was fair, I was walking on air
For next week was the night of the dance
To the girls I would chat about this about that
And who knows, might have ’nother chance.

As I walked through the door, it was her that I saw
And our eyes, they met with a knowing
Though she was unaware and I could not declare
The plan I was carefully sowing

Just as I’d contrived the bozo arrived
And he started to push me around
With a thump and a whack and an almighty crack
I found myself flat on the ground

Kicked out on my ass, I was sitting in glass
When a figure was stood by my side
It was my piece of skirt and she asked was I hurt
Oh, the joy, I hardly could hide

I swiped off the mud while she wiped off the blood
And decided to home I’d escort her
My plan had worked out and I now had no doubt
That I, had finally caught her

We cut through the park but there would be no lark
Not with, my new lady fair
And all the folk swore we defied Newton’s law
As sailed along, walking on air. 
                  
YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY


Long poem by Roy Jerden | Details |

La Bejarena

La Béjareña

Oh sweet Angel of Jesus, wherefore lies your grave?
Your blood that is of Navarro, that Corsican so brave
She was a proud Tejana, such a beauty once they say
That enchanted Santa Anna, so far back in the day

On fairy feet she floated in Béjar’s promenade
Like radiating moonbeams her beauty was conveyed
Mantilla and peineta in the latest Spanish style
Caballeros peacocked near her, each hoping for a smile

But for noble Béjar maidens, any glancing was taboo
Except for caballeros that her family nodded to
A curtsey and a flourished bow were the courtly ways
Of greeting one another back in those golden days

Such a fine tradition was the Béjar promenade 
To the Veramendi Palace, perhaps a masquerade
Or to dance a light fandango by the river’s perfumed air
All seemed much more beautiful when close to one so fair

Those were the days of wonder, when Béjar was so sweet
Before the revolution, and the Alamo’s defeat
Before some Anglos came to take with gun and Negro slave
The land that brave Tejanos had bled and died to save

Béjar was filled with drunkards, and rogues of every kind
No promenade was possible in streets so unrefined
And over near the Alamo, where freedom’s price was dear
The price was now determined by the slavery auctioneer

And yet one Anglo gentleman, a major in the war
Touched with noble chivalry, and the ways of a señor
The captured despot’s life did save, upon that victory day
From those who would have hanged the knave, down San Jacinto way

The moment that she met him, in the formal Spanish style
And looked into his honest eyes without a trace of guile
And read his soul so brave and pure, it seemed that time stood still
As nature linked their hearts as one, according to its will

A thousand days of happiness, a thousand days of bliss
Were all that God would grant them both before their final kiss
She laid her hero in his grave, and took their son in hand
And thought of how to speak to him and make him understand

Her gentle eyes had lost their shine; her hair was touched with gray
They wed her to the Dunker man, who took her far away
He never knew her sorrow, he never knew her soul
Inside her lonely citadel of iron self-control

He left her for another wife, and cast them all aside
But a mother’s duty to her sons would never be denied
And at the age of fifty-six, the time at last arrived
When she could welcome willingly the deadly reaper’s scythe

Oh sweet Angel of Jesus, wherefore lies your grave?
Your blood that is of Navarro, that Corsican so brave
By the village of Las Moras, down Rio Bravo way?
No one seems to know for sure, unto this very day

Oh, sons of Navarro!  Let not that Béjar rose
Lie with the dust of strangers, where no one ever goes
Join her with her heart's true love, on acres gently blessed
With shady hills below pecans, where heroes go to rest

Notes:
This historical poem is about one of my HS classmate's Tejano (in the original 
sense) ancestors from the time of the Texas Revolution and the story is told 
from that perspective.

The main characters are not named in the poem intentionally, and place names 
are the old Spanish ones, but I will share with you the names of the 
protagonist and her true love, in case you are interested in reading about 
them. Her name was Angela de Jesus Maria Blasa Navarro. She was the niece of 
Juan Antonio Navarro, one of the signers of the Texas Declaration of 
Independence and a member of the important Navarro family of Bejar, present 
day San Antonio. She married William Gordon Cooke, one of the heroes of the 
Texas revolution, who is buried on Republic Hill at the Texas State cemetery 
along with other notables. Angela was buried near Brackettville, originally called 
Las Moras.


The Dunker man was Angela's 2nd husband, Abraham Geiger Martin. He was a 
member of the German Baptist Brethren church, nicknamed Dunkers because 
they practiced full body baptism, but required three full immersions before you 
were properly baptized. Apparently the marriage was a total failure and he 
divorced her, leaving her to raise his son and William Cooke's son alone.


Long poem by William J. Jr. Atfield | Details |

What I wanted What I got

What I wanted !- What I got !

I wanted so much from you Moneca, my Dear,
your heart, passion, soul, your love without fear.
I always knew- for me – it wasn’t in you to give,
to accept me, consider me - with this I have to live.
I also knew, that for you, I am just above nothing, 
nothing in the way of a man you’d be desiring
and in your heart, your soul – for me there is no fire 
no flames to ignite – except for my funeral pyre.

I know, that somehow, I will have to let you go.
How to do so ?, I have to tell you, I do not know 
for you are burned so deeply into this old heart.
To set free, get you out of me, I know not were to start.

You set fires, and lights flashing under me.
You opened my eyes once more, to let me see 
and grow – now it feels, you have set me free
and with me, no longer want to be.

I remember the very first time I took you to dance,
A spontaneous act I thought might lead to romance.
That moment, experience clearly stated “ not a chance ”.
From the first, many moments that could have been, lost 
for me, it has been of heartbreaking, horrendous cost.
For it has all come to not, nothing has come to fruition
as my beliefs, my desires – all lived without intuition.

I though I knew and had an understanding of you.
I wanted so much for my love to be, so you too
could get passed all that life, fate, karma never gave 
and to know Moneca, that with me to the grave,
 you will be special, all ways and always in my mind.
A lady like you – I am not likely to ever again find.

I live with all my failures and with your indifference.
I live with the regret that I was unable to fill all 
the empty spaces in your life with what you needed.
I am sorry that I had no frame or reference,
no mentor, no higher power upon which to call.
I am sorry that I had not seen, had not heeded
your messages, lived up to be the man you looked for
and truly sorry, I am now on the outside of your door.

I truly wish Moneca, that I had made you feel special,
that I would have been able to have brought you through 
and past all that has been the forces that closed you up.
I am truly sorry that you never would see in me
the capacity for being the man you wanted me to be. 

I can not extricate you from my thoughts, my mind.
It seems you have been in my heart for all of time, 
having permeated my life today and all my lives gone,
by the way, seems to be the lyrics of my melancholy song.
I was totally locked into you from the first time we met, 
the day your beauty’s graced these eyes and yet
five years slipped by, with but a few words, and now
I feel, my time has run out, my life’s clock has stopped
ticking, you have let it run down and I do not know how to rejuvenate, rewind, bring back time that was dropped.

I am sorry that I did not give to you, all that I wanted 
to share with you, all that this life of mine could offer.
I know Moneca, as long as I hang on to the memories,
the experiences I have enjoyed with you, my soul will die,
a little with the passing of each and every day,
until there is nothing left, as you and I fade away,
being nothing more then names in my books of history,
and the waning light, in the emptiness of that great night
that becomes loss, the eraser of this life and consciousness

You know Moneca, I will love you until end days,
be your friend, carry you within my heart always,
toughing my soul until we step from this plane
and onto others, and as pure light, us twain
shall travel as great waves, as sonic vibrations
through, to all unknown dimensions 
that surround us, you being a part of me.
This I tell you Monica, for it will be - for all eternity !
These scraps, these specks, these flakes of my thought, 
my feelings Moneca, are at an end, this is all I’ve got !
I apologize for anything written that may not 
represent all the facts or some truth. 
I realize that you may perceive me as uncouth. 
Know my Dear, that I will no longer bore or trouble you.

                      Love
                                     Bill,

 B. J. “A” 2
January 18th 2009


Long poem by James Kelley | Details |

As the Castle Fell

For every step I take toward the sun,
the spark that lit the fire inside me dwindles.
History slated on unforgiving stone erodes;
A weakly chiseled dream.
But I will remember it all,
and tongues shall breed these words
and hold them with intent.
Oh, how we have fallen!
Mighty and meek alike.
We were once just, and strong.
But greatness has cast down it's
poisoned banquet and corrupted hearts
that once bled for glory.
It is with a bitter tongue I speak these words!
Remember the reason we set foot outside
of our city gates.
Remember the certainty in your hearts;
that we men would give people hope!
Hope for life without malice.
Hope for a life of freedom!
A chance for prosperity!
                   ...but what prosperity have we given?
Short of the bountiful throng of arrows that have captured
the eyes of this land and left it's people in fear?
Does a just King rule with the might of fear?!
Or does a King rule with compassion?
I ask you men,
you loyal few.
What would you have me do?
Would you have me slaughter this woman;
this beautiful princess of her people and take her
home as a prize for conquest merely because her
husband was the one that stood in the way?
Is her beauty the cost of her life?
She has wronged not one of us,
and yet you Brakkdus scoff at the thought of
her surviving her King. Why?
Here I thought men of honor followed me,
I thought men of courage swung my blades!
And, yet you fear this woman who could no
sooner do you harm than your own from the
bed that you left her in!
No, Princess Xavia shall survive her King
and remain here with her people.
I refuse to conquer the land of a tyrant,
only to settle for it's fallen ruler's morality!
If that does not befit you, then surely I am not your King.
-James Kelley 2013, All rights reserved
 
 
Princess Xavia's Response
 
 
I stand with humility before such valor
My people have borne
the burden of swords and arrows,
they are silent with fear and trembling before you
Which would be yours
to burden them with once again
yet you offer them freedom
and me my life...when you could shame not only me
but those who are entrusted to me
I would prefer to fall upon the blades of your men
than to become flesh passed amongst them
the destiny of a woman
who has became the chattel of a lost victory
My blood be shed before such shame
be cast upon me
Yet you.... you have offered me back my Kingdom
and restored my name
 
Gallant your soul in the shadow of such a night
beneath the dark stars
where only the flames of a burnt, ashen city
provide any warmth for my grieving people
You have offered them hope
through a frail vessel such as myself,
such honor is seldom written upon the hearts of men
in days such as these
Your compassion is a light in this darkness
these times inscribed with blood
such is this age,
when the voice of stones speak more gently
than the hearts of men
 
Dark are these days and black is the moon
of these nights,
in these lost reveries we journey through
dreams that have become nightmares
Yet strength has arisen in one man,
a leader who throws light back
at the fallen stars
granting the nights a moment of solace
for your honor has returned hope
a light stronger than blaze of the midday sun
 
And as I take back my broken people
we shall take refuge in your kindness and in that light of lights
shall we rebuild this Kingdom,
our sanguine ties shall bind us
and we will rise.
 
 
I gratefully accept my life
returned to me through your kind hands
And secretly, within a whisper
it is my prayer
that when I look upon your countenance
and the time comes
that I shall gaze into your eyes again
it shall be as the queen you have restored
to her throne and to her people
and who keeps quietly within the space between her heartbeats
gratitude...
and the hope that she will share her throne
beside yous
should you find her efforts and her heart
worthy.
 
 
 
(c)  Katherine Wyatt 2013


Long poem by William J. Jr. Atfield | Details |

Memories and Melaine My youngest Daughter In the meantime

Memories And Melanie .
My youngest  Daughter

Taking a stroll, this day, through the pages of time.
Time that has passed into history, a history that is yours and mine.
That history, my Dear, are the memories, and the thoughts of a time
when a little of you, your life, your excitement was mine
to live in, to delight in, to give to, to participate in, 
in that great adventure of a developing little Girl.
A little Girl, who needed so much more in her world,
much more than this poor excuse for a dad, gave.
Sadness to the grave, will I be, for all that I let slip by,
slip out of sight, never touched by the hands of this old man.
So much that never became a gleam in my eye.

Now, what never was, will never be !,
lost forever !, never to feel, never to see !
As I sit here, empty and alone, with me
and my memories, speaking in fleeting whispers,
in words, in word pictures that project
the history of my family, as I tried to protect,
with my life, as I see it before me, in ten thousand 
three hundred photo stories that lay upon two thousand,
seven hundred pages of words and pictures that explain,
project, enlighten and give life to the thoughts and pain,
of those memories, those experiences, these photos,
to anyone who will, one day, get to see, in painful sight,
that compares not, to the pain felt, as you took flight, 
a flight that is never to soar from this little soul, this beautiful Being,
this Girl Child of mine who’s name sings out in Melanie,
to tunes that I my never hear the sweet sounds of her melody.
Melanie, bound up, unable to be set free of the chains
that weigh her down, keep her from turning around, claims
her fragile soul, keeps it in a place, on a plane where her wings
are unable to spread, to soar, carry her spirit above experience and sings.

The songs I would love to hear before I go,
These sights I would love to see, a world to know
is that my Daughter’s wings spread to show
that my analysis, my understandings will flow
out of my thoughts and to believe that one day, it will be so !

In the meantime 
   
You slip in and out of my sight
like a wisp of wind, caught by the light,
like smoke waves, particles of dust floating by,
like ghosts in the sky brushing past the corner of my eye,
lightly touching my lips with a Daughterly, kiss 
– oh, how this, I will surly will miss –
then off again like a whirlwind, to escape,
- my heart, my soul, my spirit, this doth rape –
to the life of a teenage Girl, blown by the wind
 – for this Mr. Mom, it seems a sin –
to the four corners of this world, life’s experience, 
and I wonder what will be your dance ?, 
and if you will ever know the essence of true romance ? 
My expectations !, expeditions and adventures into
your thoughts, desires, dreams and in a direction you 
may guide yourself into a future I am unable to see, 
nor one in which you will confide in me.

I am truly sorry Melanie, that any of what might be 
good in me, I did not give, to make live within you 
all that is within you, that sometimes I do 
not see in my state of blindness. 
This, to you I must confess !!! 
These things, my Dear, I look for, hope will be,
- but cannot seem to see – may never set you free.

These, the thoughts of  You, even if the sight
is brief, the numbers few and far between 
– in your hasty retreat, flight
from any close encounter – 
brings a warm glow of light 
to the long, empty days I’ve seen 
and helps makes my life a little sounder, 
bringing to an otherwise gloomy life, rife 
with so much unnecessary, pointless strife, 
thoughts and feelings that carry me through my days 
and long, long nights of wonder, what will be your ways ?

Shine on my Beauty !!! 

Love Dad

B. J. “A ” 2 
November 6th 2001`


Long poem by Richard Lamoureux | Details |

A Man and the Moon Prose Version

Sebastian looked at the moon, the source of his inspiration. When the Moon appeared in its silvery glory, he was profoundly moved to write. Sadly he could only write during a full moon. This was a problem which perplexed him. He had waited many days for the full Moon to appear so that he could put his plan into action.

When Sebastian would write a poem during the full Moon his readers would be moved to tears. His prose had wooed many a young heart, his songs had been sung to princesses. Countless women had named their children in honor of him. His words were distilled romance with power beyond the comprehension of ordinary men. The problem however was that Sebastian was unable to meet the demand. Strong men would beg for but a few lines to capture their true loves heart. Without the Moon, when Sebastian would try to write it felt like his tongue was wrapped around his hand. Nothing flowed little made sense, he was like an inexperienced teen unfamiliar with the ways of love. How Sebastian longed for the Moon during those long nights.

So here he was with his enchanted pen in hand, at the end of the pen was a golden strand. Sebastian went out to capture the Moon. He swung the pen in large loops over his head releasing it with tremendous force. The pen hurtled towards its target the tip of the fountain pen struck the centre of the Moon sinking deep into its surface. Sebastian pulled with all his might each movement of his hand brought his prize closer and closer. As the moon came closer there was no evidence it was increasing in size. Once the moon was in hand it fit perfectly in his pocket. Sebastian felt gleeful as he carried the Moon into his home, everything was going according to his plan.

Once inside he removed the Moon from his pocket and bathed in it's other worldly light. As Sebastian dislodged his pen from the surface it began to drip with the Moon's tears. Magnificent lines beyond anything he had ever hoped. Songs, poems, prose, the mysteries of the ages flowing onto his pages day after day year after year. His home overflowed with his treasures, the realization of his poetic dreams.

Still he had no joy, no one knocked on his door. Lovers could not walk in the Moonlight, wolves couldn't bay at the Moon. Romance was no longer in the air. The night was a thing to be feared. Sailors could not find their ways home, if they did their lovers no longer waited for their return. Some refer to this as the Dark Ages. Art creativity had all but dissapeared. The Oceans stood still with no Moon to guide the tides. Meanwhile Sebastian continued to write.

The Moon asked to see the Ocean so Sebastian took it for a walk. As they walked along a lonely secluded beach the Moon began to increase in size. The Moon summoned the Ocean to it's rescue. A huge wave came up on shore plucking the moon from Sebastian's hand. As the Moon was floating out to Sea Sebastian swam out to reclaim his treasure. Sebastian jumped on the Moon as a gigantic hand like wave tossed the Moon back into space. As the moon traveled back to its home it became larger and larger brightening the nights sky. Lovers came out to kiss captivated by the silvery glow.  If they look close they can see a man with a fountain pen held in his hand. Wolves cry for him as they bay at the moon.

On the Moon Sebastian sits all alone with his fountain pen in hand, he fills the pen with his tears. He longs to write the words trapped in his heart yet there is not a page in site. Even if there was there is no one to read his words or to sing his songs. The Moon was once his Muse and then his greatest prize. Now it is his prison for the rest of time.


Long Poems