Long poem by
Robert Candler | Details |
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
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
frank halliwell | Details |
Just grab a seat on that stump lad, and I'll take centre stage,
With a yarn about a small brown donk, and a lad about your age.
And thanks much for the offer, but I'll give the beer a miss,
I've got half a cup of coffee here, and I'll be drinking this.
One afternoon, just as the sun was starting to go down,
Dad chased him on an errand, to the little shop in town.
Now this young fella blazed along, the old ute fairly flew,
About as close to the speed o' light as the four wheel drive would do.
And as he roared up a small hill, just standing past the top,
Was a jenny donk with a half grown foal, and the young lad couldn't stop.
The jenny was the closest and she took the deadly blow,
But her body saved her little one, although she'd never know.
The young lad checked the jenny out, but she'd begun the flow,
To that great green meadow in the sky, where all the donkeys go.
The foal was badly bashed up, with her hide all torn and slashed,
But her eyes were bright and she might be right...stitched up where she was gashed.
So he huffed and puffed and heaved and swore, and he got her in the back,
And he set out for the vet that lived a bit further down the track.
And the vet, he laboured mightily to save that battered foal,
And by dawn's first light after that long night, he finally reached his goal.
So young lad took the small donk home, and in the course of time,
They left the territory, for Queensland's sunny clime.
He finished up in barracks, for the company took him in,
And gave him work, down in the mine, scratchin' round for tin.
He'd seen the poincianas bloom, their crimson flowers aflame,
And so he called her 'Blossom', and that became her name.
Now the Isa's not the most thrilling place there is along the track,
So he taught young Blossom a trick or two, to help take up the slack.
To stand with forelegs on his shoulders, (gawd, that lad was game!)
And to stretch out on an empty bunk, a trick that brought her fame.
For the common ass is pretty smart, her funny looks aside,
And she soon preferred the soft-sprung bed to the cold hard dirt outside.
And though the blokes would chase her out when time had come for rest.
She'd soon sneak back through the open door to the bed she liked the best
And most of the guys didn't really mind, and felt a little quiet pride,
In this funny donk who made them laugh, but left her souvenirs outside.
Ah yes, and she had one more quirk, that I'll add to this log,
On a hot day, she'd walk up to you, and lick you, like a dog.
I guess it was a need for salt, that's found in many forms
To fill her need she found a source on miners sweaty arms.
Now the office took a new man on, and assigned him to his shift,
To start on monday morning, at the number seven lift.
And this was friday, fairly late, so with the weekend free,
He took his wad and went to town, to celebrate, you see.
So several hours later, and much the worse for wear.
This fella staggered back again, without a single care.
He managed to remove his clothes, with a lot of crashing sound,
Then held on tight with knuckles white, as the room went round and round
Eventually he fell asleep as the booze turned out his light,
And Blossom, at the same time, gave up grazing for the night.
She came on tiptoe down the room, as only donkeys can.
And gazed in silent disbelief at this new, intruding man.
Who'd taken without sanction, her comfy little bed.
And left our donk with no good place to rest her weary head.
She put her head down close to his and snuffled in his ear
Well then, perhaps a slurp or two, might bring him past the beer.
At last in desperation, she put her lips up to his ear
And loosed a mighty donkey's bray, that those in town could hear,
And followed with a lot of slurps to help her win the toss,
And ensure that he would stay alert 'till she got her point across.
Yes lad, I woke in terror, and much dismay at those
Two big brown eyes like dinner plates, and enormous roman nose.
And ears like radar dishes and a voice like a cannon's roar.
So I up, and out, and down the road, and I run for a mile or more.
So that was when I took the pledge and swore right off the grog.
And vowed that I'd spend no more nights in alcoholic fog.
And when I feel that stirring urge, I'll go out and get some grub,
And never, never, ever, chat up sheilas in a pub.
I've spent lots of nights, out on the grog, when we had got our pay,
And woke beside some dreadful dogs, come the cold gray light of day.
But let me tell you matey, no one's ever seen a sight,
Like her that woke me with a kiss, that awful friday night.
Submitted: Sunday, September 28, 2008
Long poem by
Chris D. Aechtner | Details |
The tide surges
over binary laugh-lines.
Seattle, oh Seattle,
unless you are able
to find oxygen in conch shells
and survive in an underwater cottage,
it's high-time to teach your soul to swim.
The tide ebbs in and out,
allowing us to re-energize in-between takes.
But don't forget to practice your part.
Take 3, this is the scene:
a moonlight-key opened a treasure chest
filled with digital photos of submerged guilt and shame.
These waves are here to stay,
unable to douse the underworld burning in his beard.
Wolverhampton, do you remember
when he came as he was,
ready to entertain us
with a belly full of liquid-bogeymen?
Do they remember how the seahorses kissed
to the sound, to the sound?
The kiss lasted for 230 seconds, times three --
and again and again and again!
Seattle, oh Seattle,
your Evergreens sparkle with rubied feathers,
your road-signs are a bit cleaner now.
Hey, there's always going to be the contradiction
of mud and bleach in Aberdeen,
so there's no longer a reason
to feel aqua seafoam shame.
There's no longer a reason
to feel aqua seafoam shame*
March 16th, 2014
Author's notes: For this poem I used the cut-up technique,
cutting-apart and re-mixing specific stanzas of my poems:
"ADDWDDMD"(written, September 2010), and, "Currents"(written, July 2010).
I use my own polished technique:
Instead of leaving the initial raw result of the 'cut'/scramble,
I switch words, and add words here and there to offer extra cohesion.
This is most evident in the switching-around of place names(Seattle, Wolverhampton,
Aberdeen). Had I left the place names as they initially 'fell', the poem would have
made even less sense to some of the readers.
I also add punctuation and breaks; formulate stanzas.
I also allow repetition of certain words and some of the newly formed lines.
With my polished cut-up technique, I cut-up/scramble more words than I want
used in total for the end result.
I create an 'over-flow pool' of words to inject into the overall shifting of words.
For example, with this scrambled chunk of words:
with / chest / photos / filled / treasure / guilt / submerged,
I switch around the words, while pulling "of" and "and" from the over-flow pool,
and take "submerged" and "digital" from a chunk of scrambled words that 'fell' in
an entirely different area of the mix.
I end-up with: "filled with digital photos of submerged guilt and shame."
That line triggered the idea to use three words which have been swimming around
inside of my head for years; to use the words in the closing lines of this poem.
These three words are not from the original stanzas that I cut-up,
so this piece isn't technically 100%, a cut-up poem.
I was inspired by the cut-up technique contest which is currently running,
to attempt another one of these types of polished cut-up poems,
but since I incorporated three 'outside' words and polished the piece quite a lot,
I will not be entering this poem into the contest, because I wasn't willing to
compromise my intent in order for the poem to fit the specifications of being a
cut-up poem(100%) in its purest sense as defined by several sources.
* "aqua seafoam shame" was inspired by the lyrics: "All Apologies".
"All Apologies" -- Writer(s): Kurt Cobain, Dave Grohl, Prince Rogers Nelson.
Copyright © 1990 Controversy Music, Primary Wave Tunes, Mj Twelve Music.
All Rights Reserved.
Long poem by
Evonne Van Gundy | Details |
On a dim September morn,
My passion for you was reborn.
Like the lotus from the depths,
I felt like I had bloomed.
For the first time, in forever, I
Knew I had a soulmate! Love
True bliss...hope, promise.
Wishes do come true.
Silent, no jinx, no rushing
Forbidden union. Secret wings.
Born to both, passive lust.
You loved me, or so you said,
Until you had me in your bed.
Typical, or so you'd think,
The master of deceit.
You were embarrassed! You
Unless you were in control of
Happy to have me by your side,
As long as it was on your
Promise, promise, fairytale.
Spinning your seductive tale.
Breathing lies and fantasy.
Making me your pawn.
Lure me into your gilded web,
Notes and gestures and things
Ease me into the storyline,
Just a faceless character in
Love and trust and infatuation!
Never doubting your
Except that little voice inside...
Whispering, "too good to be
Break me, bruise me, beat me
At the hands of your precious
Once again, she was worth
more than me.
Sorry you had to loose.
By my side, or so I thought,
Laughing as I failed...and
You watched me struggle!
Watched me fall.
Convenient means to an end.
I made it. I stood. I persevered
Not exactly the same, but I
Never blamed. Never pointed.
Stuck to your plan.
At least one of us can be true.
Older, wiser, better off...
You'd think...but my heart went
Thinking you actually loved
Even a fraction of how much I
Laughs, and fights...years
Ghosts and wine and delusional
Mistaking guilt and reputation,
For a notch or two on our
Ignore me. Blame me. Twist
Taking it. Isn't that what
I'll cope. I'll apologize.
Been through this before.
How I wish your eyes weren't
And your smile...alone, what it
Making me wonder if somehow,
You'll be my first...regret.
And, that amazing night! With
the sunset and the view!
When I leaned, exactly what
naïveté can do.
My heart broke in ways that
can never mend.
Swallowing shards of gift.
Why do you insist on this
Shrapnel, from an edgeless
There's the door. Show yourself
I refuse to be less than first.
What the fuck is wrong with
I scream! I yell! But, what do I
Swoon and sway and forgive.
Ask me tomorrow.
Rise. Set. Nights go by.
Still choking down your
lie...about a lie.
I'm not stupid. Not young. Not
I can give you up - I just need
to know why?
Torn. Sick. Saddened. Afraid.
If you want her...go. What
would it change if you stayed?
I was a risk from the very start.
You're a sadist at the very core.
I can tell you, from the bottom
of my heart,
You don't always get everything
Life works in mysterious ways.
And, karma...she's a bitch.
Just remember... You left her.
There was a reason for that.
And know, I'm where your
loyalty should be at.
If that's not enough, I'll
apologize once more...
Five years you'l never get back.
Long poem by
John Posey | Details |
Glen Campbell – A Special Person
It was September 4th, 1968 and I threw an empty suitcase into the trunk of my car, telling Joan, my daughter, that I might not be home to celebrate her birthday. She would turn 13 the following day and Wanda, my wife, had planned something special. As I dropped her off at school she had no clue as to what was in store.
Joan had become an ardent fan of a young Glen Campbell and he was due to be in town that very night for a concert. We led Joan to believe we had given up all hopes of taking her to see him since my travel plans would probably keep me out of town that night. Joan reconciled herself to the distinct possibility she would not be in attendance at his concert. She was a very understanding young lady.
When I returned home that evening, Joan was advised we would celebrate her upcoming birthday with a simple dinner out and maybe a movie. As we drove, Joan was very animated and proceeded to tell us of all the activity of the day. She didn’t pay much attention to where we were headed. Her chatter told us she wasn’t on to our plan.
Well, when we approached the Music Hall in Houston, TX Joan realized where we were and became so excited I thought she was going to faint. She shrieked with joy and showed the textbook signs of one about to see their idol. I don’t believe we had ever seen her so excited.
Wanda had managed to reserve some wonderful seats, center stage 3 rows back. We took our seats and soon were enjoying watching our daughter watch this young performer transform the audience, mostly young people, into an almost hypnotic state. We had joined Joan as fans of this young man from Arkansas. He was really putting on a great show. But something special was about to happen.
He finished the first half of his show and we sat there and listened to Joan excitedly chatter about what was taking place.
About halfway through the 2nd half Glenn pulled up a stool, sat down and asked, “Is there a Miss Joan Posey in the audience?” Joan was literally dumbfounded. We acknowledged to Glen that indeed she was here. Glen looked at here and said, “Well, tomorrow you’ll become a teenybopper. This one is for you.” He proceeded to sing “Hey, Little One” and there were probably as many tears in Dad’s eyes as in Joan’s. Her insistent question was, “How did he know?” repeated time after time.
Wanda, in her fantastic way of pulling off the impossible, had written to Glen Campbell, in care of the Music Hall, and told him of Joan’s upcoming birthday. It would mean a lot to her if he could only wish her a happy birthday. It was a long shot and he only received the letter some 2 hours before show time. Someone on his staff picked up on it and took it from there. He finished and instantly became a very special person to two proud parents. Joan became an instant VIP since almost half her class had been in attendance. It was a most memorable time and Glen Campbell will always have a special spot in our hearts…. Jake
Long poem by
gianni pansensoy | Details |
Semi - collage dreams suddenly collapsed,
While the chill of September's dawn crept into my veins,
And the scent of the wind outside smelled with horror,
Gunshots from ak-47 disturbed the airs' silence instead
Of the sweet melodies from cock's crows,
Blood tainted streets of bombs and tanks turned the beauty
Of misty sunshine into a perpetual nightmare,
This blood soaked Monday witnessed the gruesome strangulation
Of PEACE in the land of Zamboanga Hermosa.
From the small opening of our rusty gate,
Astonished eyes stared helplessly,
Streams of naked children running away,
But deep into the wilderness where they do not know
What lies ahead of their horizons,
And they were just floating adrift on another river of bloodshed.
All around me were so many faces,
Too many unfamiliar faces,
Paled by the brutal yet senseless intrusion
Of the MNLF bandits,
Hundreds of thoughts blown away,
While the roaming savages seized women as hostages,
And prized items for ransom,
hands tied men beheaded in cold blood,
Bodies hacked into pieces by the moros' kris of greed,
Raped young girls' dignities hidden under the shadow
Of the looters' flag of death,
And the petals of the blue roses along the street of Sta. Catalina withered
Beneath the drops of blood from the innocent victims.
Crying mothers rushing everywhere,
Clueless kids over their left shoulders,
While packed clothes hanging under their right arms,
An exhausted woman with eyes filled with bitter tears,
A child on her lap asked intelligently,
Is this the war for liberation?
This war is all about a struggle for self glorification,
A conflict armed with deceptions,
An ideologically bankcrupt upheaval,
Most certainly is a self interested business.
When darkness fell,
With the full moon,
Heavy exchanges of gunfires murdered the deafening silence,
Trembling explosions tore every fiber of social justice on this broken land,
Fires everywhere razed thousand of homes into ashes,
Just like death that could steal everything from you, even your soul,
And the night sky turned into hell,
Illuminating the ugliest picture of war.
Underneath the hell of blood,
A father's eyes kept on shedding tears,
Kneeling before his burning house,
While in his arms is the dead body of his son caught in a crossfire,
Too helpless and numb,
But to curse this moronic war.
Between the burning houses across the street,
A child came out with her little teddy bear doll,
Her face lined with anxieties,
Constanly looking for her dead mother and father,
She looked inside the burning window,
Screaming the name of her sister burned alive,
But a brave army soldier took her away from the war zone,
While in his arms,
Would this war be over tomorrow?
He answered not a single word but tears,
Because he certainly knows,
As long as human greed exist,
Then war would always be the chronic disease of mankind.
Long poem by
Scribbler Of Verses | Details |
(april the 27th 1994)
far too many brave compatriots died
flooding rivers of tears were cried
far too many families ripped apart
daggers cutting into their heart
the pain is felt still deep today
on this glorious sun-splashed South African Freedom Day
as we pause and remember those who do not remain with us anymore
as we appreciate the fruits that their sacrifice and struggle bore
far too many to count and to name
but we honour them all while we keep burning that eternal flame
...Oliver Reginald Tambo
just a few, but so many still nameless
who were brutally cut down
by a racist system that was merciless, and cruelly shameless
we honour you, today
but we remember you each and every day
when we breathe in the air of the freedom that you craved
as we walk the roads of a wounded but healing country that you saved
from itself, for the hate and racism and hushed prejudice of race and gender and religion and sexual persuasion and caste and creed
that you so valiantly fought against, is still with us, as it on fear and ignorance does feed
the odour of racism and hate
of white and black and jew and muslim and hindu and catholic and yellow and brown
is a living parasite that lives and thrives all across this beautiful world, from cities and villages and hamlets, to the smallest rural town
it may become a mark of shame upon us all
so we have to, today, struggle against and boldly fight
for the sacrifices of the many can never be cheapened, by the polite dinner-table murmurs of hate, try as hard as they might
for if we as a nation,
are to truly step out of the lashing cold painful rain
we have to continue your struggle
so that your supreme sacrifices may not have been in vain...
and so we say
'hamba kahle, comrades'
to you who laid your young lives down and slipped away
so that we who remain may in the sunlight and out of the rain live and breathe and stay
in a country, and in a world
where religion and gender and sexual-persuasion and all colourful hues
may mingle and love and laugh and cry together on the sun-filled avenues
so thank you, comrades, for showing us a better path that we must embark on as we shuffle onwards into a brighter tomorrow
away from the hurt of the past, and away from the tears and away from all the sorrow
for the true freedom that we seek now, is the freedom from our own racism, our own prejudices, our own sexism, our own petty hates and bottled-up anger
for therein, lies the fight ahead
for therein, lies the real and growing danger.
The Struggle Continues...
Long poem by
Christine Phillips | Details |
She maneuvers gracefully without fins or flippers
creating no ripples in deep blue waters
sneaking calmly upon jittery preys
and disguise herself in the middle of the day
A sudden thrust from beneath the fog
she buries herself under a leafless log
with open jaws and gigantic teeth
aiming directly at a block of meat
Drifting towards his muddy feet
abruptly a bird landed on her choppy back
scaring away her most prized prey
shouts and screams echoes from dreams
and she waits patiently the entire day
Many lessons to be learnt
many concepts to understand
but this deadly creature continues to expand
laying eggs in every corner
and breeding in every type of temperature
Silent river swells beyond the challengers might
spanning more than ten thousand meters deep
rocky mountains or dry land
no one can understand this poisonous creature's plan
Swollen lymph nodes crawl silently a shore
while thousands of optimistic hunters
drift mystically to the center
pursuing the bloodthirsty alligator
She breath venomous substance in the air
threatening countless life far and near
smiling and waiting patiently
to capture her stalwart preys
who have missed the track
and have gone astray
On the shore you are powerful and strong
but in the water you appear less than a man
maybe a sardine or a paedocypris progenetica fish
but you are on the menu for the evening dish
You have been running around seeking for answers
but turn to God your only friend and honest partner
spend time with him for a day
listen carefully to what he has to say
and he will show you the way
Exuberant vegetation in or near the water's
This is where she enjoys privacy and peace
In the early morning and daylight hours
she lies flat on her stomach
waiting for you to cross
do not intrude or surprise her
less she rip your pride apart
She lies in an open space with gigantic jaws agape
You could never tell that she is waiting for a significant prey
She camouflage and blend with the environment
drink French wine, eat ice-cream, lasagna and Kebab
enjoys family fun parks and modern entertainment
She is aggressive from March throughout September
and fires up energy from the heat of the sun
if you approach her during this time
you are bound to loose your mind
Why should she hunt for food all night?
When she can just open her mouth without a fight
she will sit there for several hours and wait for you
And without warning capture you in her sticky throat
Father gator has taught her one thing
the best way to catch her prey
is to be friend with him
you can use a bait-hook or a trip-snare trap
but she will never fall into that useless wrap
She doesn’t have to hunt all night
she can swallow you in broad daylight
raw fish and beef lungs If she gets you
You'll be done
©2013 Christine Phillips
Long poem by
Brady Perkins | Details |
A few months ago I went by the
cemetery where you lay
I have been meaning to stop in
but you know how life gets.
It was late September
chilly and overcast
the clouds were thick and
hung heavy above the sad oaks
like a gray sagging sheet.
The grounds were unkept
brown oak leaves collected
at the base of the headstones
that had caught them as they
flew restless on the breeze.
I parked my car and walked
up and down the silent rows
headed toward yours
and allowed memories of you
to come into the focus of my minds eye
I remember waking up one morn long ago
and my eyes wouldn't open
So I screamed and cried
I felt the tears on my checks and still my
eye would not open
then I heard your voice
then I felt you take me in your arms
then there was the warmth of your hands
as they wiped the gunk
that had collected on them
from pink eye
in the night
I tired to imagine your smile
when my eyes did open
but the only thing I could see
in my minds eye was a featureless face
Addiction only takes
leaving nothing at all
A breeze come over the cemetery then
bringing with it a chill
and I tried again to picture
you and your smile
along with it's warmth
and assurance of unending love
but I couldn't it was instead replaced
with the feeling of anger in your voice
when you called to ask me for money
one Christmas Eve a lifetime ago
I told you I didn't couldn't do it
that I didn't have it
but really I didn't believe your story
and knew what the money was for
Addiction only takes
leaving nothing at all
I was coming up to your grave
then and I thought about how you use to
make me and my friends snacks
and brought them into my room while
we played video games
So I imagined you with a small platter of odds and ends
but in my minds eye
I saw only a manikin
wearing your clothes
holding a platter
with a sad smile
on it's plastic face
Addiction only takes
leaving nothing at all
A few steps from your stone
I thought about the call
when I learned that your liver
had finally failed
not long after I got home
to find someone that looked like
yet nothing like
the woman I had known
your body failed with it.
I could clearly recall your
but when I rounded the stone
and stood in front of your plot
I was surprised by what I saw
Not long after
the day we laid you down
your stone was placed
it had read:
Debra Lynn Krage
Loving mother, Daughter, Sister. Wonderful Wife
Who will be forever missed in this life.
But that day
as I stood there
beneath that over cast sky
the words were indistinguishable
from the stone
like tears shed in rain
the last vestiges
I don't know why this surprised me
in hindsight I know well enough
that Addiction only takes
leaving in it's wake nothing
nothing at all.
Long poem by
Chris D. Aechtner | Details |
Those of you with a unique voice,
with a vision painted outside the lines of over-regulated cadence and rhyme,
I implore you to continue exploring a core
that is fearless in writing against the grain of convention --
for this very friction is a sandpaper helping to perpetually re-invent
yourself by smoothing your raw, unfiltered passion
into a timeless chair in which people of the future will sit in
while reading your poetry ....
.... and their brows will crease, their eyebrows will arch into gates
where sighs of enlightenment will pass through,
for they are reading poetry that has not lost its novelty,
nor is it mimicry: a despondent, washed-out version
of 20 million other identically tired poems already written and read.
If you feel yourself being sucked down by the undertow
of homogenization, fight against the current, drag yourself onto shore,
let sunlight percolate pure word-intentions from the nucleus
of your ancient psalm-writing ancestry.
Your ancestors left behind DNA building blocks,
disciplinary examples and practices
with which to construct mitochondrial drift
that bridges together the past and future
into a runway for you to take-off from
after the training wheels have been removed,
and gain a bird's eye view of what was,
what will always be sacred but not yours to build a mynah nest in
once truth's marrow is tasted from its winged divine inspiration --
a bird's eye view lifting above carbon-copy complacency.
To always be the freedom that manifests your luminous originality.
September 18th, 2013
*Author's Note: This piece isn't about writing in form or not writing in form.
To ass.u.me such, is being short-sighted.
Having been a member here for years now, I have noticed a recurring phenomenon
on this site. Many times, new members join who showcase a freshness, a sharp distinction in their style and poetic voice. They are a breath of fresh air for this site
to breathe in. Over time, one can literally watch some of these members begin to homogenize themselves into a more general, stale style of writing. I am not sure
wot all the variables are for this phenomenon, and it likely differs according to each experience. Depending on circumstance, I can only speculate the reasons why some people are willing to compromise their distinctness on this site. Maybe sometimes it happens because of entering too many contests? Of wanting to fit in with the flock?
When I do see it happen, I want to yell: "No, no, no! Stop! Please don't do it! Turn
back while you still have the chance! Please don't compromise your distinctness for some inane contest .jpegs and congratulations, or insincere, back-patting comments. One sincerely inspired comment, is worth more than 10,000 petty comments -- worth
so much more."