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Long Poem Topics

Check out these short poem topics. Find short poems by topic or form.

abortion absence
abuse addiction
adventure africa
age allah
allegory allusion
america analogy
angel anger
angst animal
anniversary anti bullying
anxiety appreciation
april arabic
art assonance
aubade august
autumn baby
bangla baptism
baseball basketball
beach beautiful
beauty bereavement
best friend betrayal
bible bio
bird birth
birthday black african american
blessing blue
boat body
books boxing day
boy boyfriend
break up bridal shower
brother bullying
business butterfly
cancer candy
car care
career caregiving
cat celebration
celebrity change
chanukah character
cheer up chicago
child child abuse
childhood children
chocolate christian
christmas cinco de mayo
cinderella city
class clothes
color columbus day
community computer
confidence conflict
confusion cool
corruption courage
cousin cowboy
crazy creation
crush cry
culture cute love
dad daffodils
dance dark
daughter day
death death of a friend
december dedication
deep depression
desire destiny
devotion discrimination
divorce dog
dream drink
drug earth
earth day easter
education emo
emotions encouraging
endurance engagement
england environment
epic eulogy
eve evil
fairy faith
family fantasy
farewell farm
fashion father
father daughter father son
fathers day fear
february feelings
film fire
firework first love
fish fishing
flower flying
food football
for children for her
for him for kids
forgiveness freedom
french friend
friendship fruit
fun funeral
funny funny love
future games
garden gender
giggle girl
girlfriend giving
god golf
good friday good morning
good night goodbye
gospel gothic
graduate graduation
grandchild granddaughter
grandfather grandmother
grandparents grandson
grave green
grief growing up
growth guitar
hair halloween
happiness happy
happy birthday hate
health heart
heartbreak heartbroken
heaven hello
hero high school
hilarious hindi
hip hop history
hockey holiday
holocaust home
homework hope
horror horse
house how i feel
howl humanity
humor humorous
hurt husband
hyperbole i am
i love you i miss you
identity image
imagery imagination
immigration independence day
innocence insect
inspiration inspirational
integrity international
internet introspection
ireland irony
islamic january
jealousy jesus
jewish jobs
journey joy
judgement july
june kid
kindergarten kiss
language leadership
leaving life
light little sister
london loneliness
lonely longing
loss lost
lost love love
love hurts lust
lyric magic
malayalam marathi
march marriage
math may
me meaningful
memorial day memory
men mental illness
mentor metaphor
middle school military
miracle mirror
miss you missing
missing you mom
money moon
morning mother
mother daughter mother son
mothers day motivation
mountains moving on
mum murder
muse music
my child my children
mystery myth
mythology name
native american natural disasters
nature new year
new years day new york
nice niece
night nonsense
nostalgia november
nursery rhyme obituary
ocean october
old onomatopoeia
pain paradise
parents paris
parody pashto
passion patriotic
peace people
perspective pets
philosophy places
planet poems
poetess poetry
poets political
pollution poverty
power prayer
prejudice preschool
presidents day pride
princess prison
proposal psychological
purple quinceanera
race racism
rain rainbow
rainforest rap
raven recovery from
red relationship
religion religious
remember remembrance day
repetition retirement
riddle rights
river romance
romantic rose
roses are red rude
sad sad love
satire scary
school science
science fiction sea
seasons self
senses sensual
september sexy
sick silence
silly silver
simile simple
sin sister
sky slam
slavery sleep
smart smile
snow soccer
social society
softball soldier
solitude sometimes
son song
sorrow sorry
soulmate sound
space spanish
spiritual spoken word
sports spring
star stars
storm strength
stress student
success suicide
summer sun
sunset sunshine
surreal sweet
symbolism sympathy
tamil teacher
teachers day technology
teen teenage
thank you thanks
thanksgiving thanksgiving day
tiger time
today together
travel tree
tribute true love
trust truth
universe uplifting
urban urdu
usa vacation
valentines day vanity
veterans day violence
visionary vogon
voice volleyball
voyage war
water weather
wedding wife
wind wine
winter wisdom
woman women
word play words
work world
world war i world war ii
write writing
yellow youth

Long Sleep Poems

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

See also: Famous Long Poems

Long Poems
Long poem by Robert Ronnow | Details |

Change

I am feeling the shock of fast change. How to cope with it is of course the question. Listen to Beethoven through the neighbor's window? Look up from the page? Appreciate doves even though they are so numerous? I seem to have limitless choices although this cannot be true. Could I have become a computer specialist? Sure! How to remain still in the ever-maddening mandala. To remain still on the outer edge of the wheel is to ride laughingly and pluck at the gold key. I force myself down into the craw of the black vortex New York until I feel the strong oscillations gather rhythm and expel me or accept me.

            What do I find within the black electric walls of this unique vortex? I find there is more space between people than I'd ever dared to hope. That my efforts are unnecessary and hopeless. I cancel my subscriptions and stop eating. I embrace wild roots and run through streets with arm around my girl.


                    *                                  *                                  *

What is important.
That question.
I part my lips in the middle
      and blow
eat corn chips, dipsy doodles
make love, eat grapes.
                                In their mere chronology
events have no relation. How was making love
different from eating grapes. Differentiation

is essential to bring order from chaos. The chaos
is the accelerated change created by our own species
whose consummations have a quantum effect
      on the environment.
                                   But the chaos
existed long before, and long after us
in both more serene and violent forms.
Again a duality, but here's why.
                                            For
each duality may then be said to be in a dual
relationship with another duality, forming
cubes.
           These cubes are difficult to join
with other cubes, unless first they are
somewhat melted.
                          We were traveling among
these cubes, maneuvering
through a static array of equidistant points
but finding it impossible to avoid striking them.

So why the difficulty adapting. Because no species
before us had to adapt to its own effects upon
environment? No, every species must

but our adaptations (of the world) are so successful
(such fabrications!) One green, one brown

                      Two dead leaves
                              sleep-touching
                                     Then a breeze!

                                        *                                  *                                   *

                        Loveliness and loneliness
                        these periodic
                        auras
                                 they sleep apart/together

sometimes not always
        using sheets of white nothing madly
                connecting, splicing, parturition
                        continuing to birth life and ideals
                                like ants or any other species.
                                        Tree, each poem, begins
                                                and ends and giving up
                                                        to life's forms
                                                                graciously

surrendering to greater force, power, strength
        whatever it is called, the clog of heels
                upstairs to the door, turning of
                        the key, the taking out of the
                                garbage down below, car
                                        starting, placed in
                                                gear, cat
                                                        meowing

anyway, for myself, personally, speaking only
        for myself, because although the Parks
                Department rakes the leaves as it
                        did last autumn, to keep them
                                from clogging the sewer system,
                                        I am in a heightened
                                                state of vibration
                                                        Quivering

like a long steel pipe banged hard against an
        iron beam. The hard hat feels it in
                his hand (on the gears) but
                        great buildings are built that
                                nature destroys in time
                                        with a little wind
                                                water, fire

air, you glide down through the limpid air
        toward the ninety-seven story abandoned structure
                remnant of an earlier civilization
                        abandoned but not yet entirely
                                swept away in slow waves
                                        of change.





Copyright © Robert Ronnow | Year Posted 2015

Long poem by HINA NASIR | Details |

MOON n me

As darkness absorbed in my reveries, my usual lapse accommodated itself in height of melancholy but not in this conscience. Then I found myself in my room and my window opened. Everything in upheaval, a white structure, huge, marvelously at apex of my window. I in white robe swayed to it, it was moon at my window side. 
It said: my and your air is full of cry and clamor, I have advanced in blackest abysses but I found your inflictions darker then so, why? I sharply spitted all skulked pains, hypnotically. I being the slave of my doctrines, told every stealthily guarded impulse, not fearing of any undignified disclosure anymore. I stretched my dreary monotony and passionately exaggerated some sentimental wailings of past.  It reposed in meticulous care and said: only contentment and engaged happiness would have been an impracticable theory in this world, every being is balanced, by faults and sanity of soul, there are boundaries defined for every sense, every pleasure and grief, why do you preoccupy yourself in such petty calculations of your life?
 I said: moon, you are just like me.
It asked how, I said, we both take our real selves in the darkness.
Agreed moon said: But we both shine.
I said: yes, you the white light and then my words strangled.
Moon seized the auspicious moment and corresponded: and you in your eyes shedding, 
Agreed me said, there is one more thing, we both embody our abandonments, you got pierced holes in your body, while my dejection gave me an amper self. But my friend, I said to my new attested loyalty; every night you are there, out, visible, ready to receive anticipated attentions, I don’t. I just cannot make it.
Moon said in angular features; don’t appeal your agony by this agile mind.
My voice thwarted, no! It’s a righteous opinion of myself. I confine myself from the very dearest minds, as an adulated stranger, unoriginal, my friend, I execute my every desire by myself, you don’t. My acquired timidity fails me to claim my accessible pleasures. 
While it accused a glance at me I said further, Moon! You do run and disappear and I don’t, I shove my existence in this perilous structure. If you’d be me and I be you, then before this presumed suicide , if you and I beeline, I in space from up there , you in my body , we both shall share some suavity of our jeopardies then. 
It smiled, swiftly swelled: look, every night a star dies nears by me, every night a being twinkles at my foot , I appreciate the beauty and spin, then it dies , I grieve and hollows appears in me by these buried brutalities of my life. These are the significant truths of our lives my friend. Our lives suffer friction but don’t forget that they are prevailed by wiser counsels, and one day I and you, every being would diffuse in nothing but dust. Then there your soul would be your originality, thought it must be unexceptional but welcomed , if you passed every fraction of your life weighing your life in demerits and merits. If the indecent world violates your decency then don’t forget, your fiends would not dissolve you, but the prejudices that you hold against yourself would destroy you. There is one life, to show to act. This is the texture of man’s soul and life. Don’t try to be the victim but the ultimate verdict of tranquility, like a saint, grow on the thorn, be a flower, this is where peace and happiness would spring.
My voice stuttered, swayed my head down, as in a way accepting the just summarized by its loyal visit. A heavy and sullen silence resided, it was sufficient to soliloquy. We both felt cold and found our answers, that there are going to be no answers for our intellectual mazes, in this life, in this existence they are beheld by Him, our accumulated burdens are only to be lifted by valor, from Him. I wanted to raise my face and look at my alien splendor when just then a ray illuminated us, moon had gone and I dropped on the ground after this anomalous experience. Thrust back in the darkness of my room, closed in satiation. Like from every dream I returned in an awkward dilemma. My audible intimations with moon produced an attested loyalty in my heart. As I woke, I descended to my window, same barren view, but my heart had an appreciable relief, my sight blind to beauty was now seeing, dear ones around me, though it was late to claim the ones lost but I was wise now, enough to survive with some left love in my heart. The assembled arguments with moon had arrested my malign thoughts and my head along with the path was light now.

Copyright © HINA NASIR | Year Posted 2015

Long poem by Olivia Wright | Details |

Siren

The man jolts upright, violently shaking from the aftermath of a fever dream. It is dark around him, and the cheap moonlight only allows his ragged beard and manic gray eyes to be seen. He seems to be alone, and hugs his small body for warmth. He is in an queer room shaped like a Pentagon, with a large cylindrical machine in the dead center. The machine resembles a light, and from this the man decided this building took the form of a lighthouse many eras ago. The room's walls are composed or missing and cracked windows, overlooking a dead gray ocean. The air smells of enough age and stale cigarettes to make any functioning human cough, but this man is unfazed. He rocks back and forth slowly, muttering curses at the air. Something falls and hits the floor with a thud. His head jerks to the noise and he rasps "Who's there? I- I was here first."

The moon exposes a frail shape clinging to the corner. The translucent rags adorning every inch of her skin seem sizes too large for her body, and her hair sticks in wisps to her damp cheeks. She does not meet the man' tired eyes, and her gaze stays fixed on the floor. Her voice floats like music, dancing in the air to an indistinguishable tune. She whispers, "I am only a visitor, a wanderer, like you." In reply, and appears saddened by this, the shadows painting elaborate tragedies on her half-hidden face.

He is instantaneously captivated by her. She has an aura of blue, encompassing the marriage of horror and beauty in her demeanor. The man does not blink, in fear she will vanish. He remains silent..

"Are you afraid?"

The man's eyes stay lost on her frame. He is not afraid of her, he is only aware of the knowledge than he must be with her, and that thought is all he knows. He shakes his head slowly, his tired eyes beginning to sting.

"Then come. You've been alone far too long. I know where home exists."

He shakes off the torn sheets and staggers to his unsteady feet. She rises with him, balancing her body on the ledge of an empty windowsill at the intersection of ground and sky. Cracked glass litters her bare feet, sand she leaves droplets of blood in small trails, following her like shadows. Her small hand finally meets his, and some part of him is surprised to find the wispy woman real. She presses a jagged piece glass into his empty hand, pressing his fingers until trickles of blood dance down his knuckles. She hums the words to a song that the man can not recognize, and it feels right. She lifts her eyes to find his, and he finds hers as empty and grey as the wispy sea.

"Do you want to fly with me?" She finally sings, and the last thing the man remembers is his own nod.

…

Blaringly yellow tape decorates the scene as if for a party of sorts, and the voices behind it mutter soft words between heavy breaths and dark stares. A man lays face down, his body splayed on the sharp rocks outlining the ocean. Water kisses his fingers, and he seems peaceful. Oddly, his right hand still grasps a piece of sharp, translucent glass.

The men in black vests board up the old lighthouse, and clean rivets stale of blood from a ledge.

"Odd. Third one since last year. Do you believe that stupid legend, anyways?" The squat man mutters, scrubbing stale blood with a white rag, seemingly desensitized from the violence.

"If I say yes, is the Siren gonna drown me?' The taller man says, through fits of rasping laughter. They exist lik this for some time, and finally when the windowstill looks clean again, the man on the rocks is swallowed by a sheet and the lighthouse is alone like before.

And so it goes.

Copyright © Olivia Wright | Year Posted 2016

Long poem by T Wignesan | Details |

Unquotable quotes: Addictions: Smokes, Drugs, Sex, Films and Sleep - XL, Part One

Unquotable quotes: Addictions: Smokes, Drugs, Sex, Films and Sleep – XL

Where the hand leads, the eyes close.
When the eyes shut, imagination is on fire.
What you don’t really see is what you feel.
When you feel at ease you fool yourself.
No joy is real until the pain is turned on.
If the pain digs in, illusion becomes reality.
What’s real never fails to be distasteful.
Pray on your knees, the head’ll rejoin them.
Habit makes all things equally legitimate.
All one asks for is a little bit of nothing:
A chance to loop the loop on the tangent.
When you fall asleep, you forget yourself.
When you wake up, you re-mind yourself.
Sleep forever in dreams, never to wake 
         O! Happy Happy the Day!

Tobacco consumes itself when lit up emitting hot air, smoke and stench, leading to cough, consumption and cancer ; so does sex with the difference the more you do it, the more the gum comes unstuck.

If you suck on a cigarette, cigar or pipe and fail to puff on it again and again, it will go out on you, so will your partner, however much he or she says…

The film industry before the sixties thrived on making its actors chainsmoke at every appearance ; since then it has added violent, bestial, sadistic sexual acts to its répertoire. What’s left ? Paedophilia or Incest or copulating with animals?

Who made sexual preoccupation a figment of the imagination ? Should women not entice once in a season and men knock themselves out for the privilege of siring the harem ? 

How does the other guy or gal know what size fits – until they have tried them all at least just once ? And have tried and tested them on tarmac, tree-trunk, bitumen, gravel, lofty stool, back-seat, bumpy bus, ferris wheel, crashing train, stair-case, kitchen-sink and toilet to boot ?

If the week had 6 days and the weak-end 9, the population of the world will return to the wild old filthy cave-dwelling days.

Beat the carpet over and over again if you don’t want to have to bite the dust by putting your wo/men in the lurch.

The purity of the Brahmin caste and its spiritual aims can be gauged by the caste of the author of the Kama-Sutra.

For decades since the post-WWII Independence spree, Western powers prised secrets by waving the white-young-chick muleta at African and Asian Brahma bulls : now that the muleta is torn to shreds by immigration and toros roam the arena at will, their horns bloodied-full with mini-skirts, what’s the new secret weapon of the secret services ? 

The harder the rock, the louder the battery drums and gongs : no wonder the baby bawls when born !

Wilhelm Reich’s designation of the sexual act as a method by which to free oneself of neurotic behaviour acquired through « sexual abuse » makes of it an art form that might spare the embryo dread and damnation !

Non-mothers of course may happily envoyer en l’air by getting their Fallopian tubes bound up !

© T. Wignesan, Paris, 2016

Copyright © T Wignesan | Year Posted 2016

Long poem by rene Chabriere | Details |

the book is too heavy

If the book is too heavy,
and low light,
Then I close my eyes
on the show pages.

What happens in it?
I do not know yet
that reserve
detours of history.

It takes place without me.
These are secret stories
which other
can access.

Meanwhile here I go again
sleep behind the rampart,
with the soul that invents
quite a journey.

It's like an insect
prisoner in a box
including the elytra
face edges.

It seeks the release,
and dream, and
would push the walls,
depart the limits

to live his adventurous life,
detached from the body,
and interior heavens
to jump on the outside

out of consciousness,
with many things
unknown here:
music, smells

and a color of the rainbow sky
he would have to invent,
because we can not grasp:
she escapes as time

she is still at large,
through the dark
with his own images
that is found in disorder

when by some chance
we find traces,
scattered haphazardly
when the alarm rings.

The book is closed,
very near
and one would think
that ideas have filtered

in the nocturnal space,
like a silent game,
sarabande where the stars
are fighting

rusent and the spirit:
the logic is abolished,
all is possible,
and just a few bits

find themselves in the morning.
Be careful
because these fragile traces
disappear quickly

- And ephemeral bubbles,
when light
begins to filter
through the shutters.

-
RC

-translated  from french  as originally (1st part )



Si le livre est trop pesant,
et la lumière faible, 
alors, je ferme les yeux
sur le défilé des pages.

Ce qui se passe dedans ?
j'ignore encore
ce que réservent
les détours de l'histoire.

Elle se déroule sans moi.
Ce sont des récits secrets
auxquels d'autres
pourront accéder.

En attendant me voila reparti
derrière le rempart du sommeil,
avec l'âme qui s'invente
tout un parcours.

C'est comme un insecte
prisonnier dans une  boîte
dont les elytres
heurtent les bords.

Il en cherche la sortie,
et le rêve, de même
voudrait repousser les remparts,
en écarter les limites

pour vivre sa vie aventureuse,
détachée du corps,
et des cieux intérieurs
pour s'élancer au-dehors

hors de la conscience,
avec beaucoup de choses
encore inconnues ici :
de la musique, des odeurs

et une couleur  de l'arc-en-ciel
qu'il faudrait inventer,
car on ne peut pas la saisir :
elle  s'échappe  comme le temps

elle  est toujours en fuite,
traversant le noir
avec ses propres images
que l'on retrouve en désordre

quand par quelque hasard
on en trouve des traces,
éparpillées au petit bonheur
lorsque le réveil sonne.

Copyright © rene Chabriere | Year Posted 2016

Long poem by Eve Roper | Details |

Rock Me Around the Clock


                                                  Tick, Toc, Tick, Toc
                                                       I rest in bed
                                             Listening to that constant  
                                            Rhythm of the clock’s beat
                                             Patiently waiting to sleep 
 
                                                  Tick, Toc, Tick, Toc
                                                      BBOOOOMMM
                                                 Burst of lightning bolts, 
                              Illuminating the black dark cloudy night sky 
                                   Thunders with a deafening Sonic Boom 
                                                      Ground jarring,
                                          Broke the silence of the night  

                                                  Tick, Toc, Tick Toc
                                                     BBOOOOMMM
                                       Oh, please let the slumber come
                                Frightening, startling, cracking of thunder
                                            Rain pounding on the roof
                                           Is someone angry, keeping
                                                Me from my sleeping

                                                  Tick, Toc, Tick Toc
                                                     BBOOOOMMM 
                                                Roar of the thunder,
                                             Light flashing, descending 
                                 Rain drumming on my bedroom window
                                The sunrise has a way of sneaking up and
                                  Glancing through my bedroom window 
                                       I wonder if the gods are enjoying
                                                Their game of bowling 
                                            Where’s the morning dawn 


                                                  Tick, Toc, Tick Toc
                                     Ten till six, it’s almost time to get up
                                            The rain has finally stopped

                                                  Tick, Toc, Tick Toc
                                          ZZZzzzzzzzzzzzzZZZzzzzzzzzzz
                                                           Snores

1/3/2015
Contest: Rock Me Around the Clock
Sponsor: Sheri Fresonke Harper

Copyright © Eve Roper | Year Posted 2015

Long poem by Ravindra K Kapoor | Details |

Patradoot The Messenger 43

Patradoot The Messenger 43/50

English version by Ravindra K Kapoor 
Originally written in Hindi by my 
Late father Dr. Amar Nath Kapoor



She would ask you dear,                     in  most humble and  lovely words,
To tell her,                             the true condition of her  beloved husband, 
Removing the anxieties,                which would be mounting in her  mind, 
By telling her the entire story,  for which she would spend the whole night.

Please tell me dear letter, how my most beloved husband spends his time,
With in the dark,   tough  and high boundaries  of  the prison house,    and
How he bears the tortures,          the British rulers  would be giving to him,
As he is fighting,      for the freedom of our motherland     from the British, 

Sleeping,                     in the burning hot and dark cells of the prison house, 
Where mosquitos would be biting,                    during night and  in day also,  
And facing the taunting,                    on the freedom fighters by jail officers,
While bearing the agonies of distance from me and the hard stories of others. 

Please tell me dear letter,       how he bears the hard and fearsome  pains  and 
The sufferings of the jail life,                 which we perhaps cannot imagine here,
Who would console him,         when his is in distress and beaten by the jail staff,
While bearing hard and tough tortures,     they give as a gift to freedom fighters.

When he used to come late in the night,         tired and exhausted,
After passing the whole day, for the cause of the freedom struggle,
I used to bring sleep for him,                   by talking to him sweetly,
And singing melodies to him and consoling him always, dear letter

During extreme  hot summers,                    he would be living without air,
When even the sleep gets stubborn and arrogant, due to heat and humidity,
I used to create air on him,  by moving the hand fan     made of straw grass,
So that my beloved husband,           can get some rest and sleep, dear letter.



Ravindra
Kanpur India   29th November 2010                           continue in 44

Based on the true freedom struggle story of Dr. Amar Nath Kapoor

Protected as per Poetry Soup’s copy write protections 

Note:
If any reader who is not a member of Poetry soup
Has any question or queries, they can 
Send me an email on kapoor_skk@yahoo.com

Patradoot in Hindi was originally written by my late father 
Dr. Amar Nath Kapoor around 1932, who was a freedom fighter.




Copyright © Ravindra K Kapoor | Year Posted 2010

Long poem by Allison Kinzy | Details |

one more night, one less day

i stare at the screen
and hope my thoughts make sense in words
there's always some coherence in these poems
if only i could find it.

something seems to be missing from my picture
there's a smile
and eyes with laughter
and life in it
but i don't think
no, i'm sure
i'm not there.
and in this apartment
there are pets
there are clothes
there are belongings
and living bodies who spend their nights here
there is even love
but i don't think
no, i'm sure
i'm not here.

there's got to be
something that i can photoshop in
or buy at ikea
to make me suddenly appear
and the books that i read instead
of appearing
fill my head with magic
while i try desperately
to avoid reality.

and i don't sleep until
it's not night anymore
but i wake up
with things undone
and though 12 beings surround me
filled with love of different degrees
i stay undone

and nothing makes sense anymore
i don't know why i continue to write
only that i do
and hope that something that comes spilling
through this net
will accurately capture
what i cannot seem to express
in words that do not have the
poetic-air
to them

if i could do something right
something with no consequences
that might destroy me
but something right
i might feel real happiness again
but now
all there is is an echoing emptiness
through which bounces the fake smiles
and plastic laughs
that are what they see

and i wish i didn't sleep at all
or never woke up
but as it is
this is one more night
that will end in my tears
and it is one less day
where the sunlight can blind me
to the truth
of who i am

"i forget
how much i can hurt"
i said to him as he held me
as i shook with sobs
"is it okay to hold you?"
he asked before
"yeah,"
i responded in between gasps,
"when you hold me i don't have to be strong
i have to be strong when i cry alone"

so shall i spin you a tale
of a life wasted
or is it wasting away?
or shall i just imbue my tears
with words
and hope when they fall
they will mix in the right combination
to say more than i can ever say here?

i stare at the screen
and hope my thoughts make sense in words
there's always some coherence in these poems
if only i could find it

but i can't find it
and so this goes out
sans spell check
because i know there are no
spelling errors
just errors in sense

this is me
in the moment
raw
no trying to be pretty
just out here
hoping someone will hear
me and know what i'm trying to say

do you?
know?
what i'm trying?
to say?

'cause i don't.

Copyright © Allison Kinzy | Year Posted 2007

Long poem by louzana nubani | Details |

a love not to be forgotten

A love not to be forgotten
After the disaster, after the misery
Little sister of mine begged my dad for chicks
He tried to convince her what a bad idea it is
How a hard caring takes to keep them alive
How a rise in temperature or decrease in temperature
May cause their death.
She didn’t get convinced, she is so stubborn
So dad said louzana so do you want one?
I my voice was weak, my sorrow increased, and I said no...
I went to the room, tried to study, and then fell in tears
I couldn’t imagine how life is without him
I couldn’t let go of him, I couldn’t believe he was gone
Dad, sisters came, six chicks they brought
Dad the room entered; told me the news:-
I two chicks have brought you 
I smiled untruthfully at him and went to take a glimpse
Six chicks sticking together seeking warmth; their sight softened my heart
Gave a feather to my stone -frozen soul 
I looked at them, carried them out of their box resistance
They started to poo, the other drinking the pee of another 
They seemed stupid and small 
The room called I went back to it 
2nd day,    somehow better, selected two of then and marked them red and blue
3rd day   , took one-hundred and something pics of them.
Day 4   ,   someone died.
Day 5,    someone died   .
Day 6,    someone died   .
Day 7:-     blue disappeared and was gone.
Day 8:- three were left: red, green and green
My love grew wider to red, he started to love me 
He started to sleep in my palm, and run after I go 
I love you red, forever, and eternity
I gave them all the love I can afford
My sister made a woolen jacket for him 
He wore it and slept in it a thousand times
The days past and his strength became sightless and the day became darker,
I looked at his little- small yellow face 
And see him trying to sleep on his fellow friend green 
Three days past, and he continued his suffering in them day by day, hour by hour, second by 
second, breath skipping breath
The days in their youngness and the chick in his last age…
My tears fell from the breath-taking scene and heart rending moment
I prayed and cried and begged and lied, what shall I do?
The 3rd day first morning woke up, the maid threw him away; found him all over ants,
All without breath.
I knew this day would come but I never thought it’d be too close
I never wanted his death to be too slow
But this is life, some people die, others are meant to stay 
Don’t know what is comin, feelin some guilt, never know who’d be the one 
Who would stay and share a partnership of a lifetime 

Copyright © louzana nubani | Year Posted 2010

Long poem by catherine Reinke | Details |

Blue Pearl

Blue Pearl



Stories are told
Of lost enchanted kingdoms treasures
Of jewels beyond all measure-

Diamonds, rubies, silver and gold

Yet blue pearl fairest 
Wisdom story told.

A gentle love tale
For you to hold.

On the Island
In sea foam ocean
God created
This tale of motion

Loves commotion, strong emotion.

From deep within Neptune’s caves
Mermaid sirens 
Songs they gave.

To spin their magic
Enchanting swirling
Beauty delight-

A women’s eyes
Blue pearls
In his sight.

For he alone wise warrior bold
Made they she 
For he it’s told

Now long below the sea she rested
While search in vain he was tested.

Given to fatigue his journey
Believed ended
Settled he on land
His garden tended.



Years did pass
All seemed well but how his pearl
Sunk toward hell
If he knew
It’s sure he’d tell.

“search again I,
for where you fell.”

But know he not 
Her plight now covered 
Until that day
His love discovered.

For hidden right 
Beneath his eye 
Buried treasure
When he heard her sigh.

And beyond his garden gate
Slept his princess fair 
Soul-mate

Gleaming brightly 
Under the sun 
Wisdom warrior
Knew-
She’s the one

Like a feather
Up he picked
His pearl of grace,
Stoked her hair
Tender embrace.

To search no more 
His soul did sigh
His sigh
Her breath of life
And together their souls did fly.

A love that’s 
Pure and white and round
A hunger- desire
Both they found.

Drink they did 
And fulfill loves thirst
While to fate- to- destiny
Sang their first

For heavens songs 
Were heard above 
When toge6ther 
War to pearl
In love.

Yet to our tale
A sorry end
To brief indeed
A tear to send.

For warrior not 
So wise believe 
When dropped he did 
His love to sea.

Now tears have filled
Her eyes of blue
With sleep ness nights
Pearl cries of you.

Pleadings blue
Cry to god above
“leave me not
so lost in love.”

“Again to sleep me 
my warrior leaves
sinking deep beneath the seas.”

“Wait I will
if I must
100 years me-
find I trust.”

For he alone 
Her love heart discover
In princess pearl
He find no other.


So next time 
To sea you wade
Remember this tale
To you I gave

Of warrior wise
His search in vain
A princess blue pearl
His salvation Kingdoms gain

To find loves
Beauty buried
Within deep
And to drop]
Her down
And back to sleep.

It’s a folly best avoid.

For love is given to far and few
Watchful if it happens to you..

Copyright © catherine Reinke | Year Posted 2009

Long Poems