Long poem by
Robert Candler | Details |
Fifty years, boy and man, I’ve been a Sooners fan;
And watched thousands of recruits try to make my Sooners Team.
Often, I’ve enviously wondered what it must be like
To be a touted Sooners recruit, living out his dream.
He’d had a great career through high school;
Made good grades, was a football star, played baseball too.
Coach said college recruiters were watching closely;
So, he tried his very best to make his dream come true.
You see, he’d played on the L’il Sooners as a kid;
Started getting serious about the game when he was only eight
Played with older, bigger boys and practiced hard;
Always told his friends, “To be a Sooner, ya gotta play great”.
Oh yes, his parents raised a football player;
And, even more important, a Sooners fan;
But he wanted more, to be a Sooner,
To feel the glory raining down from the stands.
Now, the Sooners’ Head Coach is in his living room.
“Son, you’ve got talent. We think you fit our scheme.
We’re offering you a scholarship, an opportunity
To be an important member of our great Sooners Team”.
His mother smiles her biggest smile.
His father nods proudly and pats him on the knee.
“Lord knows, son, it’s a dream come true.
Go be the very best Sooner you can be”.
He walks into the locker room,
Not quite sure what to expect;
But sure that to play for the Sooners
He will first have to earn respect.
He looks each man straight in the eye -
Other recruits, trainers, assistants, and every coach.
“Be proud, but respectful”, his mother had said;
Your character, more than your performance, must be above reproach”.
His handshake is firm and he smiles.
“Only one chance for a first impression”, his father had said;
"Always put yourself in positive light, on and off the field.
That’s what it will take to play for the mighty Big Red”.
He meets so many other recruits, each one a high school star.
He’s played against a few and knows they share his dream.
And, to a man, each knows before any chance for Glory,
He first must prove worthy to play for this Sooners Team.
He knows a few will fail to meet the coaches’ expectations.
For some, the scout team will be their fate.
Many will suit up, but rarely play.
Only the very best will ever dare to be great.
Coach says, “If every man learns and executes when called on,
Then this team, we Sooners, will win a lot of games;
But, win or lose, if you play hard and give your very best,
You’ll never have to hang your heads in shame”.
“But gentlemen, with or without you, this team will win.
Every season, the Sooners strive to win it All.
So, listen, work hard, and prepare yourselves. Each game is war...
And you must be ready when Victory calls”.
Through grueling practices, he finds himself.
As he walks to class, his closest friends are aches and pains;
But, just the other day, Coach helped him up, smiled, and patted his helmet.
“You’re doin’ fine, son. Keep pushin’. Remember, no pain, no gain”.
He sees his name on the "open scrimmage" roster for the very first time.
It’s a moment he’ll never forget, another milestone in his dream.
He calls his Mom and Dad, knowing they’ll tell his family and his friends.
He hopes they’ll actually see him play, proof he’s made the Team.
As he suits up for the last pre-season open scrimmage,
He wonders if the coaches would really let a freshman play at all;
But Coach puts him in for eight plays against the first team;
He makes two great open-field tackles and intercepts the ball.
He barely hears the roar of the crowd, as the whole defense “gives him five”.
He’s so excited, he forgets to ask if he can keep that ball.
Fans are buzzing, “Did you see that hit”!? “Who is that kid”!?
“Will he red shirt or will Coach let him play this fall”?
He sees his name in the Sunday paper, hears it on local sports.
He’s happy, but he doesn’t let it go to his head.
He keeps his focus and uses it as motivation.
After all, he wants to start one day for the mighty Big Red.
Yes, we’ll hear more of this young recruit.
Perhaps, one day he’ll be the hero of the game.
A seasoned veteran, maybe All Conference or even All American,
Who’s tasted Victory many times and helped glorify the Sooners’ name.
Oh yes, there have been so many who’ve aspired;
But many fewer who’ve actually made our Sooners Team.
They are our heroes, each and every one;
For it’s through their accomplishments, we fans can live the dream.
Billy Vessels, Steve Owens, Billy Sims, and Jason White,
The Selmons, Little Joe, the Boz, Josh Heupel, and “Q”
They, and so many others, were once touted Sooners recruits;
Who set a higher mark and built the Tradition that is OU.
So, c’mon! c’mon! all you great young football players!
Dedicate your talents to OU’s Team and OU’s Fans.
Make Oklahoma’s Owen Field your Field of Dreams,
And feel the Glory raining down from the stands.
Long poem by
Carol Eastman | Details |
On a cold, cold night with a touch of snow, a cat wished quietly and sadly for a home.
For a year he’d found nowhere with love to call home. Yes, he’d been, so very, very alone.
He lived under a deserted car now, where his family had lived long ago, for a while.
They were now gone to a new home, and he feared, he couldn’t carry on without them, my dear.
So before going to bed he wished on a star, which appeared ever so brightly above, from far.
All he wanted from anyone was some food, and to sleep next to a warm, warm fire, too.
As he fell asleep he also wished for a hand to touch his fur, gently and kindly, again.
Then he awoke to a sound he’d heard once before, as Christmas bells had tolled, long ago… He was sure.
That night an old man in red had come from out of nowhere, to take his family a new home, so fair.
Scared by the sleigh and the reindeer he drove, the cat had run away, that I know to be true.
But not any more would he run away, his legs would no longer take him very far, any way.
He grabbed all his courage and around he snuck, until hiding under a bush nicely tucked.
There before him was a jolly old man with his reindeer and sleigh lined up, yes, again.
The man was dressed in warm, warm clothes, and stopped to lay down a beautiful bowl.
The man then turned away to do business forthright, inside the neighboring house that night.
I swear on my heart that this is ever so true, as the cat crept closer giving curiosity it’s due.
Coming closer he could sense the most wonderful smell, calling him forward, as if under a spell.
The bowl was filled with warm, warm cream, which he licked up fast as if caught in a dream.
Moments later the man came from that house, with a smile and a wink for that dear old cat.
The man in red picked up the bowl with a quiet demand, urging him gently to stroll to his hand.
Now was the dilemma to run, or to stay, but it was the large shining star that decided it all that day.
As he stood before that great big man in red, the star beckoned brightly from behind the man’s head.
The cats’ fears left as the man stayed with a smile and a grin, and a Ho Ho Ho that day, my friend.
He realized here was the home he’d wanted for so long, and had dreamt in his head, where he could belong.
Some how, he knew he’d be safe in that beautiful sled, and warm in that coat the color of red.
He came forward to lick and nuzzle the man, as yes; he was picked up gently, in his hand.
The jolly old man put him snug in his coat, as a red nosed reindeer winked from the front, I must note.
Then the man climbed in and sent forward the sleigh, as the cat curled up to sleep, the rest of the way.
Miracles can happen each day, at the hand of others who are wise and kind, I say.
This jolly old man was right in this deed, and ever so wise to stop and kind to care, you see…
So I’ll let you in on a little secret I know…
They lived happily ever after, at the North Pole.
Long poem by
Shadow Hamilton | Details |
It was on the night of midsummer's eve, there was a pregnant pause. Not even a leaf was moving,
the sky so starry bright and the moon benevolently shining lighting up the moors.
It was the kind of night that anything was possible, up here far from the maddening crowd
Kept company by horses and sheep I climb to the top of the tor to be met by a vision of
utter perfection. Under the full moon it was almost as light as day with no urban lights
just a sky with a meridian of comets and a shooting star canvassing the landscape.
moon so silvery
back lighting all in warm glow
yet keeps it secrets
In the distance down near Timbercombe the harsh cough of a stag softly calling to his
doe's gathering them up to climb to the top of Winscombe Face. There they will browse
until the dawn starts to streak the sky as night turns to day. Hush now, see that? A pair of
hares sparing and chasing each the movements so fast as to be just a blur. But I
transgress, led astray by the magic of this ancient place that in times of old was a beacon
where a large fire would be lit to warn of maundering fleets of Vikings and later the Romans
both coming to plunder and enslave.
harsh cries ringing out
as metal swords strike in rage
blood spilt on the ground
In the distance a moving shadow streaks across the moor rather catlike but too big
for any domesticated cat, was I seeing the beast of Exmoor setting out to hunt
wanting a closer look I set forth on an intersecting course. I managed to come
within 300 yards when it turned and hissed at me warning me to back off. I did not
Argue but stepped back to give it space with a last snarl it vanished from sight
and search as much I could no further sight of it I saw just a couple of paw prints
by the stream bank left in its soft muddy soil.
on the wind swept moor
a large cat stalking its prey
it leaps and then kills
Many are the rumours that abound up here, sheep taken and eaten not dog mauled
but a clean suffocating kill. Do they really exist? these beasts of the moor? This has
the experts in uproar, some saying yes, others no yet if you talk to farmers like
Fred Bell he will tell you of his many sightings as he works his sheep farm a couple
of miles from the face. He will tell you of seeing it stalk and kill with never a sound
uttered and the sheep barely lifting their heads pay it scant attention. Up here with
houses and farms far apart could it really roam freely yet leave so little proof of its
myths and mystery
blend into the moors fabric
whilst the night masks
Long poem by
brian stewart | Details |
Cold morning greets the weary eye clouds drape the horizon in gray
I turn around avoiding the sight I cannot stand with a dreary pale day
And then I feel it on the nape of my neck A hint of warmth kissing my skin
I turn around gazing out my window and see in the gray light the size of a pin
I try not to build on my hopes the thin ray of light might be gone in a tick
And then it happened the clouds parted way amazing ling quick
within a moment I was a washed in light blinding brilliant and glaring so bright
it was like the day had defeated the night leaving the world with breathtaking sight
The orb of energy colored the sky in outrages shadows and countless hues
the godly object painting its art from star to star the cosmos its muse
I moved with a pace to open the door I flung it open with a giddy delight
the clouds burned away by the waking of ra the life giving force of comfort and might
the rays that touched the flesh of my face washed in warmth a faint tingle
Colors above began to dissipate lose there sharpness leave then un mingle
now the sky retains the majestic color of the all welcoming blue
now nothing can stop the suns life and energy from making it through
the moments I spent outside my front door revitalized my heart filled my soul
I dare not stare into the great star the center so bright a positive hole
I stood there soaking up the nectar my skin absorbing the vital beams
Before this day I thought the world could only be this beautiful in our dreams
Iam not sure to this day how long I enjoyed it how long did I stay
I took the time to indulge in the feeling the blinding array
The golden orb that gives life a chance nourishes its children down below
refreshes my outlook changes the day shinning down for the rest to grow
to bathe in its glory heat on my skin sensations burn from my feet to my chin
summer is coming in its time the way it has always done the way its been
Shading my eyes from the fiery glare I take a last glance at the burning sphere
so filled up inside with light and warmth my lets out a rejoice full tear
Once again it will set in the sky but it doesn’t take long for it to appear
to give the life that we all so crave and to make our days a little more clear
a god to revere a star we hold dear every summer once every year it comes again
to greet us here banish the dark conquer our fear once again I will gaze and ill peer on the
that owns the sky the liquid fire mother our sphere
Long poem by
Angel classified | Details |
Looming way up high in the sky, holds a friendly, but shy star; which posses the caring, and strong-willed
determination, which controls the poor star at every waking moment.
The determination to fit in and be recognized is seen through the hesitated young star.
Soaring into a thunderstorm, ice sickles form over the horizon, a chilly whisper thrusts itself to the crowd, the ocean draws near and completes a crisp but smooth wave that is clean, sharp and to perfect to paint a mental picture.
The moon gleams fear with vicious multi-colored red and black eyes, plus flakes of gold that captures the stare of the whole universe accompanied, with an all mighty struck of lightning at its feet.
The star gasps, his conscious sliding and forcing its way inside, all his dreams fading,
he cant escape it, wind howling, a pitch black tornado forms tightly enclosing him.
Nothing can throw him a helping hand, he feels the tornado he names Demon, at the last second crushing and crumbling his hopes and dreams, his bright and intense color of yellow is faint and becoming unsteady.
Finally, feeling no hope, his slick and gifted mind takes a toll, falling from above, gaining speed in despair, he takes a deep, woozy, glance at his life, revealing to himself of no achievements, even temporarily closing its eyes, he cascades his last thoughts and conveys admiration of his chaotic life.
He orates (Until we meet again) moments from, feeling the powerful and bone-chilling
water, caving on his body. Setting adrift underwater, unknown to him, bubbles appear,
developing it seems the bubbles grasp the lone star, and propels him upward, not one second of air fills its lungs, when his eyes are driven open. He glances around to barley notice the bubbles have vanished, and it is not them but only himself, lifting his weight. He fails to realize he has actually taken form of a shooting star, evolving, advancing into a confident, elder star. The moon busts into tears, lighting sparks fire, that veraciously swings brightness into all the land. Thunder rings in the distance, has the star has found his calling, finally claiming his name, as a elder in progress. The now self-proclaimed Shooting star, can glide in a glorious resurrection, as he now considers he life is not over, nor in vain, but being built, and he can now start with this on his record, surviving his guilt, and transforming into something beautiful, something worth living for and being known for: A Star of Art, a Shooting Star.
Long poem by
Ron Flatow | Details |
The view I see so beautiful a new horizon a bright sky
everything’s falling into place.
Vibrations have started paving the way for a new life
Magnificent sights and wonders captured within my mind
Excitement within my heart beating faster
Air I breath I'm feeling good
Born with a gift within my labyrinth
Like the magic of a crystal
Images I see time talks to me
I close my eyes century’s pass me by
Looking in the sky my mind can fly messages I hear
By the water my power grows
By the touch of a hand a deep emotion I feel
I am the messenger from the light
My life force has the everlasting glow
The road that I travel lies deep within a realm of enlightened thought
In this land I am a mystic
Abilities within my heart and mind have no boundaries
My wisdom teaches the children of life
My thoughts can move the megaliths
With the wave of my hand a portal open up
Through this dimension angels guide my inner soul
Listen closely an echoing voice calls out
Now watch as my arms turn into wings
Hold tight prepare for an adventure through fantasy
Higher 'n higher into heaven sky
The many sounds that surround
A breeze that breaths
Look into my eyes watch me turn into a star shooting through the sky.
Tonight something beautiful is about to begin
In a world of wonder everything comes alive.
In the corner of a small bed room,
A sleeping child soon will hear magic.
A picture on the wall. a battered guitar by the window
This picture is filled with visions of harmony and dreams.
That guitar is magical it works for any child that makes wish.
Outside the window a shooting star with
the power and magic to create dreams into reality.
A gentle breeze rushes in; an angel like glow ignites the picture
A symphony of color engulfs the room.
The guitar begins to play. A gentle voice fills the air singing
Dream that dream watch 'n see
What you have always known and wished for soon will become reality
You are the one we’ll come to know and love
I know you’ve been abused it’s in your eyes
It’s alright to cry open up let the emotions soar
You are the star, climb the sky show the truth to the world
Show them what you can do, we have seen you do it and we know
You’ve been hidden from so many, a child so gifted and beautiful.
That little voice you keep hearing is you guiding you along
There are no boundaries for you and I in life.
Dream that dream keep creating
Watch and see what you have always known and wished for soon will be reality
Long poem by
Walter W. Safar | Details |
I have long since lost Hope,
because my paths are so endlessly long and aimless,
as if sculpted out of my restless spirit
in the long nights of reverie.
You know, Lord... I used to have my Hope.
It was so nice to stand next to the Christmas tree
with my mother,
and look at its proud top,
where our silver star shone,
my favorite Hope.
To me, a child who never decorated his own tree,
it was the biggest Christmas tree in the world,
and the brightest star beyond the heavenly dome.
Each night before Christmas we would return to the same place
with the same desire and faith,
until our terrible companions, the long, cold nights
have invoked death
and stolen my mother.
I am motionlessly standing and staring into this dark, cold night,
like an avenger yearning for revenge,
and a thin woman in rags is passing me by,
whispering warm words into a child's frozen ear.
The child is looking up with the same gaze
like I did when my mother used to show me the silver star,
whispering into my frozen ear
that someday I shall touch that silver star too,
silvering all the orphanages of this dark world.
Her warm words are still crossing my mind:
„Son, always stand on your toes and look up...
and you shall touch your star!“
My eyes have long since stopped sparkling
and they don't look up.
They used to be the big, bright eyes of a child,
that shone in the dark,
like two young embers that were just set afire,
but now... oh, now my eyes are but burnt out embers
in the squeezing fist of the cold world.
You know, Lord, how much I wanted to stand on my toes
and look up,
but life always threw me back to my knees.
I admit that I haven't been standing on my toes for a long time,
but I am not kneeling, either,
I am only looking down
into the dark reflections of people's characters,
and my Hope is once again so far away,
as if it's afraid of my faithful squire,
which is standing at the bottom of the silky net,
not like a flym
but like a master of many a fly big and small,
because Death has that justified purpose
to come for its flies regardless of their size.
I am not looking at death like a fugitive,
but a penitent man,
who wants just another chance.
How strange it is, Lord,
that even a man abandoned by Hope wants his chance.
Yes, Lord, I admit
that I would like to stand on my toes once more,
below the biggest Christmas tree in the world,
and touch our silver star.
©Walter William Safar
Long poem by
Sean Cannon | Details |
Taking suggestions especially on this poem. This is a first draft and I like it, but I don't have time to edit at the moment. Thank you!
The two ghosts dance through the barren forrest,
leaving footsteps to be pondered about
by the man who owns the land in the morning.
Howls and Screams and Laughter and Love
fill the dewy dark sky.
The two, lovers in death,
never knowing of the truth,
that their lives were taken
being murdered in these woods,
their throat slits and their bodies mutilated,
No one knew who they were.
But here they are again,
running through the spindly trees,
taking in the scenes of their
He takes her hand,
leading her to an opening in the trees,
a perfect circle, no light insight
but the stars above,
Theres not a place in this town
better than this
to see the future amongst the stars.
They came here that day,
tent in one hand,
telescope in the other;
their thoughts in the air.
They were seventeen,
Seniors awaiting the approval
of a diploma,
They should be studying,
mid-terms next week.
They took a fatal break,
spent the night together,
only belonging to each other.
who's sight doesn't recognize
the spot of their demise.
They sit on top of a large smooth stone,
Left their by the world in it's hurry.
They gaze upon the stars,
waiting for the world to reveal itself.
The screams and wails and love still permeate the air.
They fell asleep in each others arms,
and so they never heard the footsteps,
the drunken laughs of men full of sin,
ready for some action.
They found the tent,
they killed the innocent souls,
but instead of leaving they bodies,
they left the ghosts,
taking the bodies and
depositing them in the freezing lake.
They then sat upon the rock,
laughing about the deed done,
passing out in the deadfall of snow.
The transparent lovers jump to the snow,
throwing themselves down to sleep the night away.
protecting each other from the snow,
and with one last scream,
merging with the snow,
Part of the world,
and this spot full of false truths.
No longer do lively bodies wander about the woods,
and the owner hardly visits.
But a few times each winter,
when the snow has fallen so deep,
You can hear the screams,
and the love
of two ghosts
dancing in the snow.
Long poem by
kathryn davis | Details |
Still, on a bench, watching eyes inquired
To the heights of Brakeman’s Hill
That on its rounded peak
Poised a bright copper house
And held the company
Of a strong oak tree
It bore a twisted truck
And roots of valiant display
The fallen leaves made swollen stumps
As squirrels used them to play
An old man of grey
And a young man tall
Stood looking keen in front
Of the east copper wall
They stood in their suits
Passing a will between
They took haste down the hill
Through rotten wood and brush
Over flower patches that lay dead
Passing whispers that bid hush
By a days cycle crop
Matthew and I
Remained on the bench,
Watching the sky
And then, in a dark hour before dawn
The spance released a beam of light
As if an impending star spoke
Of a purple shekel so bright
That shimmered in blue
As the tail of a kite
We dashed to see
Upon what land it fell
And sure enough
On Brakeman’s hill
So with a glance of agreement
We journeyed up that way
In hopes to discover
What mystery portray
Half in a trail, we halt, and bow
For a silhouette shown forth
Approaching the place of abode
It appeared to be a lady
Around her thirtieth year
Her hair of almond ash, tied back in a bun
Her cloth of linen and laces undone
She carried a basket and a suitcase of paisley
While an ivory sheep dog in collar, carried two a daisy
They entered the copper gate
And rested in the yard
Until a rumbling of earth put them on guard
Then before our very eyes
We saw that impending star brew
And up from the ground
The copper house, split in two
The women and the dog
Seemed to be collect
Even drawing from her suitcase
She strewn them about- blankets of braid
To every line providing shade
For now the morning was warming
No time to lose- so we decided to meet her
On a whim and fuse
At the top she met us
And lead us through
The rooms of copper
Which vineyards rapidly grew
We tasted fruits
We had not known
Then from afar
Other children shown
Though the suns gleam
all with little smiles
Some sat and giggled
Others climbed the twisted oak tree
The place becoming, a home to the free
At the end of the day,
We took haste down the hill
Over flower patch blossoms
Through moss and wooded lush
Passing laughter so hearty
Yielding, many cheeks a blush
Matthew and I
Filled to the brim
Agreed for tomorrow
To meet again
Long poem by
mark lee | Details |
Through the piercing silence of the night
Echoes the soul grasping sound
Of the ethereal howling of a pack of wolves
Their song is carried across the air
Over the tree tops to a place of forever
The full moon glows an aura of wonderment
Wolves wail to this celestial body in honor of it
Metaphorically, they are attempting to connect
With ideas that lie dormant in the subconscious
Just below the surface
Like undisturbed stones that nestle comfortably
In the sand upon the apex of a smooth flowing river
Always there but obstructed from view
What secrets reside within us
Waiting to be discovered?
For it is in sleep the unconscious whispers to us,
Shall we lie quietly and listen?
If you don’t cross the bridge
You will never know what’s on the other side
So, if we were not meant to eat
There would be no hunger
Therefore the subconscious must serve a purpose
Who says that logic is the only reality?
I have awakened, to feast my eyes
Upon a gigantic sphinx
Silently it observes me and smirks
A sly, cunning smile masking
Its many mysteries and knowledge
What secrets will be revealed
To me on this night if I listen?
A vast bonfire blazes, and as it cackles
The flames reach above to the star filled sky
Surrounded by spectators, I see a fox, and a coyote
As a glimmering golden hawk accompanied by
A mystical red phoenix encircle the sight, uttering
Words of wisdom, which spread over the ocean of
Canyons creating an echo in which the mountains
Respond in unison, surely there is a message here
Each brilliant star suddenly transposes itself into lines
Of letters, I gaze in awe at the wondrous words
Glittering like silver beads stretching the expanse of
The universe, all unfamiliar, yet tantalizing, languages
From ages ago, no longer spoken, however readily co-existing
Along side modern speech and thought, what may I learn
If I were to study these ancient gems of communication?
I am ready to fly with the essence of the night
Begin a quest into another realm
Of human awareness
Seeking out words and ideas
To bring back
For it is here that thoughts originate
A journey into the other side of myself
Where logic has no relevance
And imagination has no limitations
As the pirate who prepares to unearth
A buried treasure
Okay kill the lights
Close your eyes
Prepare for take-off