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Long Poems
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 Chris D. Aechtner | Details |

23 warning signs that you are severely addicted to poetrysoup dot com

1) Since you have such a crazy drive to post every thought which goes through your mind, you consider posting your grocery lists.

2) You come up with another lame senryu just to post something new(and create a cheap entry for yet another contest).

3) Even though you post everything which comes to mind, post 3+ poems per day, every day, you believe all of your posts to be exemplary pieces.

4) (in relation to #3) You believe all of the "This is a masterpiece!" comments left on your poems, to be completely sincere.

5) You have the tendency to ignore that you are nearing 60 years of age. You put up avatars of yourself, circa 1971, and flirt with nearly every Souper below the supposed age of 30.

6) Instead of having a romantic evening with your significant other, you end up surfing the Soup blogs and drooling over member avatars.

7) After being single for 15 years, a completely compatible person asks you on a date. You decline the offer, end up surfing the Soup blogs and drooling over member avatars.

8) The admin makes an announcement concerning site maintenance, how the site might be down for 24 hrs -- upon reading the announcement, your stomach drops-out, you are filled with a phantasmagoric sense of doom which escalates into a bout of nihilism so strong, you consider methadone treatment to prepare yourself for the upcoming site-shutdown.

9) You begin methadone treatment in preparation for the two hours you will be away from the Soup(and awake)attending your best friend's funeral.

10) Your sleep-time has drastically altered to less than 4 hours of sleep per night. This is for various reasons, one of these being that every week you feel the need to leave a minimum of 1000 comments on poems, so whenever you post something new, the 'return' comments on said post, help push it up the 'Top 100 Recent Poems' list. You consider this to be an accomplishment akin to winning the Nobel Prize in Literature. You are awesome.

11) Instead of watching your favourite soap opera on the booby, you follow the soaps happening between Soupers in the blogs.

12) Every time you get a splinter, you have a strong urge to put up a blog about it to gain support and sympathy during your ordeal.

13) You put up blogs telling members that you are going to be 'gone' for 2 days, and apologize for not "being there for everyone" while away from the site.

14) After not seeing daylight for months on end, you put up a blog about seeing the most amazing thing .... you finally went outside and saw this blazing orb in the .... in the .... in the whatchamacallit, sky?

15) You forget to say "Merry Christmas!" to your family at home, but 'say' it in the Christmas blog that you put up on the Soup.

16) You forget your significant other's Birthday, but remember the Birthday of your favourite 'platonic' Souper.

17) Whenever you see or hear the word "Soup", your palms become itchy and you can barely contain yourself from using a computer/phone to login to

18) You believe that if a poem rhymes, it is automatically a decently written poem.

19) In desperation, your family members and friends create accounts on the Soup, believing this to be the only way left to interact with you. In return, you have your account deleted and open a new one under an assumed pen-name.

20) You make the rounds each new day leaving "Good Morning!" comments on your friend's poems.

21) You go on vacation to an exotic beach location. The weather is gorgeous. The water is wonderfully warm. The sand is splendid. You don't swim in the wonderfully warm water. You don't take in the sights of the beach. You barely even notice the beach. Instead, you log onto the Soup via your laptop/phone.

22) Your children are hungry. You barely even know who your children are anymore. You don't care. *click* *clickety-click*

23) Your significant other finally offers to "do THAT thing"(yes, THAT one!)you've always fantasized him/her doing with you, but until now, he/she has always refused to fulfill for you. Now .... you don't care. *click* *clickety-click* 


Long poem by Vicky Tsiluma | Details |

Why you'd fall in-love with a psychopath

As I sit here waiting for you in our favorite corner of Chai Java
I can’t help but ponder on why the falling occurs.
I see them: the people in-love; the people who think they are in-love and 
the people who are clearly not in-love
The question reformulates in my mind
Why would someone fall for the ‘wrong one’?
I hold my second cup of coffee 
Thoughts turn and turn in my head
And at the bottom of the cup a shadowy reflection occurs
Finally, I conclude this way:

There is no such thing as loving someone else…(cue in the chilling music).

Love is a reflection.
Every human being, by virtue of their being human being is born
with this capacity/emotion called love.
As one matures, the capacity expands, transforms, or simply dims. 
But as all such things in this universe, anomalies occur –
Cue in the psychopath (the ones born without capacities except the most revolting
capacity – the capacity to imitate capacities).

Now here’s where it gets tricky part– the argument behind the argument:
I can hear the uproar
No! This can’t be!
Love is a chemical reaction! It’s all about pheromones, right?
But ask yourself
Can there be a chemical reaction without all the chemicals present? Doubtful!
But the love experts would tell you, distance makes the heart grow fonder.

If love is a reflection, what does this mean?
It means the love inside of you needs a reflecting surface – that is all love EXCEPT
one kind of love.
Think of the love inside of you an immovable force – 
one that hits a reflector and bounces back onto your heart; 
the breathing organ that makes you feel.
Your love goes out as love in-general; it finds a reflector
(a human surface capable
of throwing the love onto your heart) and reaches your
heart as a certain kind of love.

Alone the cup still stands
But when it finds its saucer – it beams, it basks in beauty
A cup with a saucer that ill fits is not a pretty sight you’ll agree.
The size, the pattern, the make must agree to achieve that perfect synergy.
But of course some people try to force the issue.

Now bring out the critics: a love that gets distorted in the course 
of bouncing onto your heart leads to anomalies (think pedophiles).
(Note to self: more thought is needed on 
what would distort the love reflection)
Because you feel the love reflected back to you – the reflector 
becomes meaningful to you –
You’re drawn to them
Soon you say ‘I love you’ but in essence this should be
‘You reflect my love’.
As can be perceived not all human surfaces can reflect love – hence the 
limitations of the different types of love
(Another note to self: more research is needed on what makes 
some surfaces reflect while others don’t)
But herein comes the psychopath – the one who is able to reflect all 
types of love EXCEPT one –
Agape love – a love that does not depend on reflection;
A love tempered by justice – the doing the right 
thing because it is right kind-of-love.

Think again: why would you fall for the psychopath?
Answer: because the psychopath has the capacity to bounce back your love
Remember: the psychopath cannot reflect agape love – it simply is not
in them to practice justice
In conclusion: lesson learnt: when you’re in the vicinity of someone,
forget about romantic love; forget about 
all other forms of love:
Stop making up excuses for questionable actions:
Delve inside you – reach inwards and stand before them 
with your agape love and see what happens.

There you are bouncing in your self-assured way; late as usual
Walking in like you own the world
Finding an empty cup, two empty seats and a dull ring
Funny thing is: You’ll never understand why I had to say goodbye.

Motif: philosophical
Vicky Tsiluma

Long poem by Spenser Jones | Details |


Sometimes everything seems fake to me, and I am so tired of people acting like they remember what love is. 
Everyone says it. 
“I love you, I love you, I love you.” 
No words are more meaningful to me when sailing from the lips of a true friend or a kindred spirit, but the rest of you have to be careful where you point those syllables 
because that’s like taking the closest thing to

 the Lord’s name that I ever understood
in vain. 
I was walking back from the gas station a few weeks ago and some girl I didn’t even know looked at me and said it. 
Her lip gloss opening and closing like some kind of sea creature fishing for plankton, and I just happened to be the nearest thing drifting past.
“Love you!”, like it was hello. 
Now I have just one question
You have no idea what I am. 
My smile’s like this because my parents had the money. 
My eyes are not the windows to my soul. 
They don’t mean jack except for genetics that I had no control over, and what my mother ate when I was in utero. 
That’s like acting like my poetry is who I am. 
Like how myelinated the neurons in my linguistics center 
I can feel the right to decide that I am more or less, valuable. 
It happened again earlier too.
I was sitting on the greyhound back home, having a conversation with a girl with guys all around her like fire ants with their mating tubes out. All of them with ink, piercings, and sizing me up 
because my six-foot-four stature could not speak for itself.
I’d like to think we talked about something more important than my assets and destination, but as she turned to disappear out of the bus with her escorts, she cast the three words back on me
like throwing a fishing line on the off chance something might bite,
“I love ya.”
….what in the world. 
After this, I think of the only one whose words held their weight. 
I don’t mean no harshness, 
but if I could go back in time and have half the balls my poetry does, I’d take you aside, and tell you something you wouldn’t understand. Something like, “BAM! I am a tulip field on fire at sunset.” 
Something like, “My shirt, is from the Goodwill.” 
Something like, “You’re telling me Christ could have saved the world with His cheekbones?”
“You’re telling me I’m viable and worth a few minutes of your attention?”
“You’re telling me tall, black, and attractive is what’s in this century?” 
But let me tell you.
You don’t have any idea of the size of the planets you’re saying you want to try and swallow when you say those words to me. 
I’ve been waiting to be able to hear, feel, taste, smell, and know those words for too long. You have to mean them to say them. 
But you see, I was a philosopher before I was a poet, so I have to take that back and reflect it on myself. 
The truth is, I’m so confused that sometimes, I don’t know which end my head is at.

Poetry flies in my eyeballs that should never make it past my lips, but I’m getting tired of trying to impress people. 
In this past month, I’ve been day dreaming about the girl smiling at me and it meaning more than
“You look like you got good genetics”
“Could I please date your self esteem?”
I’ve been day dreaming of the girl who reminded me of what those three words are supposed to mean. 
Like when my acne came back, and you told me not to scratch at a handsome face.
“I love you.”
Like when my poetry departs, and all I can do is ramble things too big for my head. 
“I love you.” 
Like when I didn’t feel like just a romantic stereo type anymore. 
“I love you.” 
What those words meant to me, before I made the world make them less.

Long poem by SIMON M MATLOU | Details |



Justice Romantic Romeo : Stand up in court!       
                                                 Case No 345/03/2012
                                                Accused: Ms Provocative Dishonest
                                                Address: 197 Mpopotwane Street
                                                                Sun Valley, Mamelodi West
                                             (1)   PARTICULARS OF CHARGES

                                              (1)      Charge 1: Sweeping my heart away.
                                              (1)(a) Alternative charge to charge 1: Stealing away my soul.
                                              (2)     Charge 2: Provocatively hijacking my feelings.
                                              (2)(a) Alternative charge to charge 2: Playing         continuously in my dreams.
In terms of the Constitution’s Bill of Rights and Ubuntu  Regulations  14(3) that reads with Batho-Pele Principles and Corporate Governance Regulations 18(3),
You performed an act that constituted an offence and you therefore stand accused           

of :

Unlawfully and intentionally sweeping my heart away on 2012/03/16 at 16:00,  On my birthday, on Sunday at 197 Mpopotwane Street, Sun Valley in  Mamelodi West, and alternatively stealing my soul on that day, time and   place.
                                              AND FURTHER….
  You unlawfully and intentionally, provocatively hijacked my feelings in broad    daylight, in full view of the people, and alternatively played continuously in
                         my dreams every 12:00 midnight from that day until present!

                                               (2) PLEADING:

Justice Romantic Romeo: How do you plead Ms Provocative Dishonest?
                                              Guilty or not guilty?

Ms Provocative Dishonest : , my Worship !

                                                   (3) FINDINGS:

Justice Romantic Romeo  :    Guilty as charged! Guilty on all the charges!


Justice Romantic Romeo  :  Since you pleaded guilty to all the charges,
                                                 I will slap you with this light sentence:

                                               (1) Be the apple of my eye and my lover for life!
(2) With NO PAROLE and NO LEAVE TO APPEAL for this sentence, be the keeper of my dreams!
                                               (5) COURT ADJOURNS:

Justice Romantic Romeo  : All stand up in court !The court is adjourned, 
                                                And we will live  happily ever after.

Long poem by Andrea Dietrich | Details |

A Love Letter to My Friends of India

When I think of India, I think of dark eyed beauties, their foreheads painted with decorative red dots, and I see them moving deliciously in beautiful bright costumes as bangles dangle from their slender wrists. When I think of India, I think of a culture steeped in history and tradition: folkloric music, myths, and dance, and the influence of the Hindu religion. I visualize the rich and poor alike bathing themselves in a river called Ganges. I see an olden time when mighty elephants, colorfully decorated, carried men atop their backs on elegant elephant seats, and I recall pictures in my geography studies of the white sacred cows freely roaming the narrow streets of Delhi. I recall a novel I read: Rudyard Kipling’s engrossing tale of a jungle boy and also other novels depicting a clash of cultures as the British imposed their rules on Indian society. I think of current movies showing the seedy side of India such as one named Slumdog Millionaire and a movie to contrast it, the romantic Bollywood delight named JabTak Hai Jaan. Furthermore, I recall the grace and good nature of the Indian people depicted in a film called The Best Ever Exotic Marigold Hotel. When I think of India, I think of the Taj Mahal, Kama Sutra, and curry, and also I recall horrible stories of Bride burnings now banned and by contrast, the good works of Mother Teresa, who labored there among the poor, and I think of the man who is probably the most recognized by Americans as a good and strong example of leadership: Mahatma Ghandi. All these things are the sum of what I have learned about India in my lifetime. But what do I really know of India? What I have learned recently relates to poets I have come to know at this website and who have shown me through their poetry and their communication with me, a more personal side of the Indian people that I never used to know. Through the poetry of Ravindra I have learned the love of an Indian for his heritage and how he emulates his father‘s work through beautiful translations. From poets like BL and Jag, I’ve learned more about the deep and philosophical nature of the Indian poet! Through great friendships with people like Kashinath, Yesha and Yasmin, and Guatami I have come to learn about the actual personalities of dear Indian people whose life experiences, struggles and desires are not so different from my own, and also I am able to enjoy their eloquent words as they describe their own emotions, passions, and love of nature through their poetry. Perhaps their culture adds a flavoring to their words and phrases that is a bit different from my own, but in the end, we are all alike beneath the skin. Whether from India or any other country, we are, all of us, becoming a part of a global community in which our differing backgrounds can be accepted and even better - celebrated! Thank you I say to all my poet friends whose words enrich my life, but in particular, today I thank my friends from India, for helping me to really see how beautiful you are and to understand your country better through knowing YOU.

Long poem by SILENCE ZVARAYA | Details |

90 years younger

As my old eyes search for the setting sun,
My mind is at work,
Mending the million fragmented memories.
The long arm of my mind,
Retrieves the first dusty diary,
from the tallest of shelves.
Now ninety years have passed,
My  weary  body  struggling  to  stand  on  its  own.
But the strength of the heart is always unfading.
Now it is stronger than it was before,
It stands on its own,
as it searches everywhere for your voice.
My treasure chest is full,
of  the  dozens  of  letters  you  wrote  for  me .
Every time  I  read  them  my  memories  grow  young,
My heart was ever well living in the velvet of this love.
Then came our first night together.
Lonely in love, I could not wait for you,
to rest your head on my chest,
 under the full sight of the moon,
You  reading  from  the  book  of  your  future  and  dreams.
I feel now the night we first made love,
It all started with a quiet conversation in a candlelit room,
I didn`t want to let go,
The glow of your beauty,
Eclipsed the light of the candle,
The flame of our desire flying.
Now  I  watch  the  candle  come  to  life  in  the  night,
Its flame gives the reflection of your beauty,
I carry the immortal faint smile,
Watch it until it dies out.
In my salad days,
I saw a lot of beautiful girls, but none compared to you,
It really made me dig deep in the mine of my emotions,
For that something I only found in you.
Sometimes I play some old love songs,
And let my mind quietly wonder,
In the forest of the lost memories.
I  try  to  bring  together  the  million  pieces  every  afternoon .
But as the sun sets,
the almost complete mirror falls to the ground,
to a million pieces again.
Because this is the most precious of the times,
we spent together,
Gazing with relief and sympathetic eyes,
at the tired setting sun,
It was romantic like a poem,
A tuneful song.
I see the young generation of   today,
They try serenading.
But  their  songs  are  not  as  deep  as  ours .
Not everlasting as the ones we sang.
They also talk and walk,
The Romeo and Juliet way,
But it is not as old and untamed,
As the original by Shakespeare. 
The way you talked, smiled,
and sometimes remained quiet gazing, defined art.
In your own way you were a magician,
Everything you touched turned gold,
You touched my heart,
Now care more about your grandchildren. 
You etched something,
On the deepest part of my heart,
Every day I fall in love with you.
It is as if I am sad now.
It  is  just  that  I  want  you  to  know ;
I am the luckiest man on this world.
May be  I  just  want  to  get  hold  of  something ,
Something more than memories.
Even though you are now gone,
As I promised;
I will jealously hold on to these memories.
To this love, old and deep.
I hope there is place up there,
Where we can hold each other again.
I am not grieved.
No hard feelings for Mother Nature.
She gave us more than she can take from us.
It seems I am now waiting for death.
I hope you carried those cherry moments with you,
Because soon somewhere we shall meet,
And fall in love again.

Long poem by Nsamu Moonga | Details |

In My Language

In My Language

This you might not know is a conversation,
It’s a conversation not of persons.
This is a conversation of multiple languages.
If you could observe the functions of my mind,
You would marvel at the thought processes
Criss-crossing ideas in various languages

I am not sorry for not thinking in one language only.
I am happy that the multiplicity of languages
Offers me just as multiple images;
Here you are thinking I am writing this in English,

Yes. But know this that what you see in this language 
Is thought through ciTonga, through, siLozi and even
Through ichiBemba and chiChewa
How more purer can an idea be created!?

You sure do not know that a dog in siLozi is nja…
To know the word ‘dog’ I need to imagine ‘nja’
How else would I know its meaning?
To write a sentence, I must have thought about it 
Three times more than you reading this…

‘Wait a minute’ in my language does not mean sixty ticking bits
That’s what it means to you…
In my language your minute could last a year…
You wonder why ninety days is more than ten years!
Wait a minute darling…welcome to my world.

In my language things are winding.
Don’t ever make the mistake of thinking that a ‘chimbwi’ 
Refers only to the animal ‘hyena’
It should; but does it?
In my language, you are safe if you do not translate anything.
Say ‘chikala’ and you will be cheered on 
Translate that to some uncivilized language…
It’d be too civil for the hearing.

We do not name, we image in my language…
Love imaged as someone’s property
Think of a car that one really cares for…
That’d not sound real romantic in your ears…
In my language a mate would dance hearing 
Being referred to as a well-tended car…
In my language, unlike yours, ‘fat’ is a compliment
Sex is communicated through naughty dances.
No one is exempted from these dances.
Even people in public offices show desire…
What you see…that’d not what you get.

The smiles carry within them deep felt grief.
They hope their loved one would come back.
He has prayed his goodbyes without facing them.
They wait for a minute; they still wait.
They sing dirges as the sun sets
There you are thinking they are morning a loss
In truth, they are rehearsing for a soon to occur demise
The disease without a name has come to visit yet again.

In my language stories are a norm
Alcoholic drinks accompany the tales
We have long known how to play our ‘ngoma’
The sound of ngoma does not mean anything to you; maybe
We know the differences in pulses;
Which announces a birth and which a death
There are fewer birth sounds…not birth to this side
Many births to the other side…

In my language Christmas is not the birth of some strange child.
It is for eating and drinking rare food and beverages.
The free range chickens know where to hide…
The greens wave with joy; they celebrate…
The not so nimble white hens pray in surrender…
The young and the old flirt…what a sight…
All adorned in new regalia…

In my language…

Nsamu Moonga

© Copyright.2012. All Rights Reserved. Nsamu Moonga 

Long poem by Merv Webster | Details |

Why Dot Won't LeAve the Farm

Dot Blogs she was a buxom lass and hefty heifer too
who married Bobby Eugene Blows when she was twenty- two.
They lived upon a dairy farm alongside Boggy Creek
and milked  a hundred fresian cows … yes seven days a week.

Now Dotty took to motherhood and had some eighteen kids
and Bobby too was very fond of all his billy lids.
Though life was using hand me downs from hats to underwear,
it taught them old world values; like the gift of how to share.

Dot seldom ventured from the place and trips to town were rare
as she’d become content with life and simple country fare.
But Bob, in a romantic mood, applied his boyish charm
and thought he’d hit the city and get Dotty off the farm.

Their anniversary was due and Bob now thought it time
to hit the big smoke for a change were they could wine and dine.
Well Dot had dressed up to the nines and looked a proper treat,
but how to fit her in the ute had poor Rob kind of beat.

Poor Dot was three axe handles when one measured ’cross her rump
and putting things politely she was rather flamin’ plump.
But Dot she was a country girl and just jumped in the back
and soon both her and husband Rob were heading down the track.

The cities razzle dazzle blew both Dot and Rob away
and headed for the classy place where they were gonna stay.
But when Dot hit the doorway well she then ran out of luck,
as she was jammed there tightly and evidently stuck. 

The chaps behind the service desk and three bell boys as well
they tried to push poor Dotty free but Robby knew darn well
that Dottie’s hefty hips were simply wedged in there too tight
and going out to wine and dine was now in doubt that night.

Just then a bell boy cried out loud, “I have a plan for sure.
I’ll grab the local rugby team that’s dining right next door.”
The forwards packed behind poor Dot and gave it all they had,
but all they did was stir her up and she was getting mad.

Then Rob remembered once back home how Bert the bull was jammed
real tight inside the race they had and how they fin’lly planned
to rub his hips with lots of grease and on the count of three
they’d hit him with a jigger and you’re right … he busted free.

The Motel staff then whipped around and searched each patron’s bag
and grabbed all sorts of greasy stuff their little hands could snag.
Rob rubbed old Dottie’s hips all down and laid it on real thick,
then grabbed the night guards stun gun;  it was sure to do the trick.

Poor Dot she kicked and bellowed when the voltage hit her hide
and man she cut some capers and she went all goggle eyed.
She snorted and she struggled like some poor wild frightened beast,
but just like Bert, Rob did admit, she busted free at least.

Now Dot is back at Boggy Creek and though poor Rob tries hard
she won’t budge from the Dairy farm; she just won’t budge a yard.
Poor Rob now does the shopping and the thing he finds bizarre
Is rubbing Dot down  ev’ry night where two prongs left a scar.

©Bush Poet and Balladeer -  Merv Webster	

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

A perilous flight

A perilous flight

I do so want to take wing and fly so high with you.
At every attempt, you took the opportunity, clipped my wings
until not a feather – nothing but flesh on pinions that do 
not give flight to dreams, – no feathers – on air, sings 
not the pulchritudinous songs of eternal, blissful love
nor are able to carry the hopeless romantic above 
the grounding that your world of indifference makes 
nor give life to the heart, spirit, soul that it takes.

Your reality – my Dear, - has been a very harsh sight 
for this one – loving you as I do, has been quite a fight
 in order to maintain some semblance of dignity,
knowing that nothing would bring you closer to me,
 in any meaningful, deep, relevant, passionate, loving way 
and so here I stand – irrelevant – on the outside, every day,
watching, feeling you step backwards, ever further away
 from where I wanted to take you – to always be 
your other half, everything in my dreams – I’d see
visions dancing across inner screens, - lids of my eyes, - 
visions of your naked beauty, floating in heaven’s skies
 far above the mask, the veneer, the façade, the lies
 I know are but the truths of who you are, of your soul 
that believes that every thing I will ever know 
comes at me from the heart of belief in a truth
that at this man, believed to be so uncouth, 
who has lost out !, because decades ago – lost his youth.

I have walked within your shadow for so long – 
becoming an intricate part of it – it’s become my song 
“ it is you, it is me, it is what could have made a we ”, 
in your heart, in your world, would never be !
I have also walked in the light, casting my own shadow,
but none of this, do you ever care to know.
I know !, we share much in the way of thought,
much in the way of tastes, beliefs, experiences - you not !,
for you believe, with me, nothing in common doth show  nothing with me do you want to touch, or places to go.
For me, with you, nothing much, 
I do believe – these my thoughts, as such !

Walking beneath your shadow – sometime – was a trying experience, sometimes it left me in tears – crying !
Walking with your shadow, at times, was a beautiful experience, I will cherish for all eternity, my life was full. 
Walking in the light of the sun – together- side by side, shadows entwined, dancing, sharing – nothing to hide
would be most illuminating, a most satisfying a ride.

These days, the light hides, as do we and our shadows. Time seems to have unraveled the dance of our shadows, aa for me, there seems to be – only empty spaces, 
not an image greets these eyes – of your many faces and it seems to me, we will not be going places, 
any place together that is – journeys, adventures, walks
and now – I do believe – there will be no more talks.

What ever it was that has brought us to this place,
 me Dear, remember this, I will never forget your face !

B. J. “A” 2
February 2nd 2009

Long Poems