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Long Storm Poems | Long Storm Poetry

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Long poem by Elaine George | Details |

Out of the Darkness Part 1of 3

June 27, 1949

Dear Heart,

	What I am about to tell you will surely shock you to the core of your 
being. It is a secret I vowed  to take with me to the grave; a vow I can no 
longer keep, for the time has  come for me to right the wrong I have done.  
	I am so sorry, Dear Heart, it has come to this, but I now realize , 
hopefully not too late, that the truth must be told, for these ghosts from the 
past have come back, crying for justice for what I did those many years ago.  
A deed so unimaginable that in reflection, even to me, it seems unbelievable. 
A deed so horrific it has brought me to this ungodly place where I live buried 
alive, suffocating beneath the weight of a burden that has become too heavy 
for me to carry any longer. 
	Looking back, I see it was desperation that allowed me to convince 
myself that what I was doing was not really wrong. I had prayed to God for 
help, and when the situation, tragic as it was, presented itself, I took it as 
the answer to my prayers. After all, didn’t God sometimes work in mysterious 
ways? How many times had I heard it said ‘God helps them who help 
themselves’?
	 That is how I rationalized what I did that day so long ago, when 
finding myself in dire circumstances beyond my control, I took what was a 
tragic situation and turned it into a blessing. At least  that is what I told 
myself and made myself believe that day when I interfered with the natural 
order of things, altering forever what was to be your destiny. 
	Now Dear Heart, after all these years of guarding my every thought 
and every word to keep that secret safe, I find myself living a nightmare in 
this old rambling mansion, in the dark with these ghosts that haunt me 
relentlessly except when Ada is here.  
	I have thought of telling  her about them, but I am  afraid  she 
might  think I am crazy and have me put in  a nursing home, or worse still, 
have me committed to an insane Asylum. 
                                                ***
	
	The first time I heard that cry was a few months after your fathers 
funeral, after your return to England. I was sitting at the kitchen table going 
through old photo albums, over thirty years of history chronicled and 
labelled according to time, place and event.  Our lives piled in a stack of six 
books of varying sizes, shapes and colours. Was it really that easy to sum up 
our lives?  That phrase ‘A picture is worth a thousand words,’ or is it ‘A 
pictures speaks a thousand words,’ came to mind.  
 	The photograph I was looking at appeared in black and white, but in 
my mind, I recalled that event in vivid colour. You were standing in the 
backyard wearing your new blue dress and a forced smile. I had snapped that 
picture just before I walked you to your first day at school.
		It was while I had been looking at that picture that I heard a 
faint wailing coming up from the floorboards just beneath my feet. 
	“ Maaaa, Maaaa, Maaaa,” it cried.  
	Every hair on my body bristled as I sat there paralyzed as that 
wailing grew louder and louder. 
	Then I saw him. He had jumped up on the outside window ledge and 
was rubbing his long slinky body against the glass. Then standing high on the 
tips of his toes with his back arched and his long skinny tail pointing straight 
in the air, he stopped, turned and stared straight at me with those enormous, 
luminous gold eyes. Then twitching his ears and tail, he jumped down from 
the ledge and skittered over to the mound of grass where the doors to the 
root cellar lie hidden beneath.
	 “Just a cat in heat,” I thought to myself. 
	After I calmed down, I made myself a cup of tea and continued to 
immerse myself in those old photograph albums. Then I heard it again, Maaa, 
Maaa, Maaa. 
	  Suddenly I was covered in Goosebumps.  When I looked out the 
window, that cat was still sitting there on that mound of grass, staring at me 
with utter contempt, his mouth closed tighter than a drum as those cries grew 
louder and louder, echoing  up from the floorboards beneath me.
  		It had been 34 years since I had gone anywhere near that 
root cellar. I remember the exact date because it is your birth date, January 
23rd. There had been a terrible winter storm the days proceeding, and the 
doors that laid over its entrance were covered  in huge snow drifts. By the 
time I had cleared the snow away, I was exhausted, but somehow found the 
strength to go down there and do what I had to do.
	 When I finally came up, I nailed a couple of boards across those 
double doors and covered them with the snow I had removed. In the spring 
when the snow had melted, I waited until the weather was warm enough, then 
I covered them with earth and grass seed. For some reason, the new grass 
grew in a darker shade of green then that around it, never allowing me for a 
moment to forget what  was buried beneath.
	Needless to say, I now began to doubt my sanity and wondered if for 
some reason I had fallen into a state of delusion, when those cries abated just 
as suddenly as they had began and that contemptuous cat vanished.  
	Perhaps it was all too much for me. Regardless of the reason, I 
realized more than ever that I needed to get away from this place for awhile 
to decide what I was to do with the rest of my life; my purpose and reason for 
living all these years having come to an end.  It was then I decided I would 
make arrangements in the morning to book that long awaited journey to see 
the world.


.....Continued in Part Two


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

Differences you say

Differences – you say !

I – me Lass – brave Helios, rides his golden chariot, 
drawn by fiery Steeds, into the vastness of this universe.

These mighty Titans, dispatched – brilliant, glowing -
ruled, controlled the blueness of this planet, the heavens.

Our bright Sun, sprinkles life giving particles, waves,
out in all directions – into the endless firmament.

Then there is the cold souled, silver shield that traverses 
that moth eaten, dark cloth, that hangs like lead 
in that dead laden space, blackness the place 
you choose to ride – your life to hide.

Oh !, if only we would climb down from the edge of fences.
Oh !, if only we would leave behind, walk away from defences.
Oh !, for us to, but if we only could, reach our dreams
Oh !, for us to, not have all those things, it seems,

that get in the way – life’s experiences, what it means, 
from time to time, - that should be left behind – long ago, 
that hang on so tightly, from fears that you won’t let go.
Oh !, for us two, to find the door, to see, understand, to know.

Oh !, for us to, for us to realize, that after the end, the winds will blow
it all away, into waves of rainbow colours that will show 
it all to have been a necessary, but unnecessary way to go.
No matter what is said and done, it all is the universes flow.

A straight line, towards your destination, is the obvious choice. 
Unfortunately, a jumble of thoughts, experiences, become the voice.

A trip – full of baggage – and around the world we go.
A carrousel ride, on each and every horse, the story doth show

A very dizzying ride it is, the point, to get to know 
is a journey, of many directions, on winds that blow  

Live and let live the life one so chooses.
Seldom is it necessary if one wins or one loses, 
not much concerned for – or where or why.
For in the end, it is all in the beholders eye.
 
Much too much involved !, much to obsessive, 
with others and the lives they made a mess – ive.
I can only wonder ?, make an educated guess, live
with my analysis and know, from the heart you give.

I cannot carry the weight of your life into today, 
for all that was, all that is, need not words to say, 
for nothing will change, not before, nor after, it’s your way, 
no matter what one chooses, or not, to express, it’s the game you play.

All has come into, become a part of, is constantly shared 
with, and no matter how it affects, it’s no longer cared 
for, for it all distracts, disrupts, disturbs the air 
that we are inhabiting - and not – it is unfair

I know that it is part and parcel of the lady fair. 
If only to the point, but you never seem to get there.
Hours and hours go by, I cannot help but cry 
as I listen and listen, understand, I do try.

Actions, activities, motion, play are the order of the day, 
board games to win, games to lose, but they cannot be had, 
for it is not in the cards – alone – one can have a say, 
only but for two, does it come though, to share and that’s not bad.

Vocalizing, expressing, gossiping, complaining are your way. 
Hours to exercise the body, the soul, the mind, it is so sad, 
for it leaves so little to share, so little time for making hay.
Not such a bad way to connect, what a great fad !

Just some of the differences that have come to be 
what is between you and me, yet there is much more to see 
that could come into you and me as we ride this rough sea 
of life, that at times you find joy in this old boy, so free.

Happy am I when you come near, when you are here.
A little hollow, a little empty, in the end, harbour fear 
that the sunshine will fade, be covered, will disappear.
Which way ?, - our ships passing in the night - will we steer.

A Mole

Will the Mole, leave her underground, black hole ?, 
to – with eagles fly – reach out and touch the sky ?
will this night hawk, this owl, venture into day light,
play in sight of shadows, created by a sun so bright 
and warm, where day creatures know the storm 
that rages throughout and within, who shout 
with voices searing, with knowledge clearing, 
with understanding of choices made by rending, 
choices made for, and by them, behind a closed door.
Living a life that has been over flowing with strife.
There is much to know, about what was laid upon her soul. 
Some can, some cannot let go, why ?, I do not know.

Can the bound, the nocturnal, the frightened ?, 
find freedom, find in the diurnal, find in fearlessness, 
a soul mate to travel with, upon day light roads, opened.
A soul mate to take into the darkness, the coldness. 
Can they be blended, one into the other, if the story be told.

Differences – are they few or are there so many ?
Are we able to live with them ?, or without any ?
There we are – two old birds on the wing, 
with different voices, different songs to sing
of any or all, to the table, want to bring.
Shed light, and let show, what is our thing 
which at times has put us into the ring.
Sparing in defence of our particular notions, 
beliefs, as we express – in animated motions, 
a light, who we truly are in the heat of the moment.
Yet the hurt, the pain created by wards, was not meant.
Yet they have lent a truth, some truth was sent 
out from the heart, the soul, life ancient 
that dictates - in the moment – what’s fates sentiment.

PS

And what are the differences you see ?
What are they ?, what is between you and me ?

B. J. “A ” 2
March 15th   2003 


Long poem by Terry O'Leary | Details |

I've Got To Go

I’m on my way, I’ve got to go,
the reasons why you’ll never know,
a’ whisked away in winter’s winds, your sleeping sighs remind me.
And I’ll ramble where I please,
sometimes slipping to my knees,
phantom memories a’ chasing close behind me

Well, I’ve often made my way
within the dark before the day,
but it’s never that I’ve ever felt so lonely.
So I leave this parting note,
the first farewell I ever wrote,
though these lines embody more than farewell only

I’m on my way, I’ve got to go,
’n what I’ll find you’ll never know,
concealed in clouds of untamed clover, tussled hair reminds me.
And I’ll ramble where I please,
sometimes slipping to my knees,
phantom memories a’ chasing close behind me

Alas, my love has grown too strong
for I’ve lain with you too long
with your every need perceived, though never spoken.
’n as I try to disengage,
I’m like a tiger in a cage,
hesitating ’fore a padlock hanging broken

I’m on my way, I’ve got to go,
across a bridge you’ll never know,
behind abandoned burning hills, your yearning lips remind me.
And I’ll ramble where I please,
sometimes slipping to my knees,
phantom memories a’ chasing close behind me

Should you wake and shed a tear
finding me no longer here,
save your weeping for another, not so ghostly.
’n if you span the spangled sky,
as you ache when asking why,
realize ’twas really you I wanted mostly

I’m on my way, I’ve got to go,
reshuffling cards you’ll never know,
defying fate beneath the stars, your diamond eyes remind me.
And I’ll ramble where I please,
sometimes slipping to my knees,
phantom memories a’ chasing close behind me

Shun the shadows in the late,
disappearing through your gate,
aghast and groping through their early morning sorrows –
like the echoes of my thought,
flitting, fleeting, overwrought,
as reflected in the realms of vague tomorrows

I’m on my way, I’ve got to go,
’n what I’ll see you’ll never know,
pursuing pebbles on a beach, your freckled nose reminds me.
And I’ll ramble where I please,
sometimes slipping to my knees,
phantom memories a’ chasing close behind me

Should you glimpse a troubled form
within a restless ruby storm,
turn your collar to the wind and never try to follow.
For by then it’s much too late,
and the distance far too great
and you’d only find the feathers of a swallow

I’m on my way, I’ve got to go,
along a road you’ll never know,
adrift on half-forbidden paths, your slender back reminds me.
And I’ll ramble where I please,
sometimes slipping to my knees,
phantom memories a’ chasing close behind me

Should you yearn once more to tease,
release your breath upon the breeze
’n let the whispered winds of yesterday caress me – 
and perchance recall the time
(when our love was in its prime),
I relied upon your laughter to possess me

I’m on my way, I’ve got to go,
’n it’s so hard you’ll never know,
entwined in twirls of fortune’s wheel, embracing arms remind me. 
And I’ll ramble where I please,
sometimes slipping to my knees,
phantom memories a’ chasing close behind me

Sipping pearls of purple wine
when I was yours and you were mine,
except these haunting hints, there’ll be no spectres chasing.
’n if the flashbacks run acute
I’ll strum the strings upon my lute
’n lull away the ancient ghosts, still standing, facing.

I’m on my way, I’ve got to go,
’n what I’ll hear you’ll never know,
though echoed in a thousand drums, your throbbing breasts remind me.
And I’ll ramble where I please,
sometimes slipping to my knees,
phantom memories a’ chasing close behind me

Well, the candles at my side
now have melted down and died,
though their fire blazes on within the mirror.
And the clock behind the door
is pulsing, pounding with a roar,
as the moment to depart approaches nearer

I’m on my way, I’ve got to go,
along a shore you’ll never know,
engulfed in deep and distant tides, your restless thighs remind me.
And I’ll ramble where I please,
sometimes slipping to my knees,
phantom memories a’ chasing close behind me

But I’ll take along the ring,
the one you carved for me in spring,
though it journeyed as an orphan on my finger. 
And I’ll hang it from my neck
while I tramp a lonesome trek,
as a keepsake of your passion, while it lingers

I’m on my way, I’ve got to go,
’n what I’ll see you’ll never know,
immersed in fields of flowers wild, your amber eyes remind me.
And I’ll ramble where I please,
sometimes slipping to my knees,
phantom memories a’ chasing close behind me

Now I’ll kiss your sleeping eyes
as I mount the blushing skies
and I bid farewell, adieu, in morning’s splendour.
Then I’ll fade within the haze,
immured in miles of my own maze
as I wander, breaking chains of love’s surrender

I’m on my way, I’ve got to go,
’n when I ache you’ll never know,
erasing passions of the past and shadows that remind me.
And I’ll ramble where I please,
sometimes slipping to my knees,
till the phantoms start a’ fading far behind me


Long poem by David William Breidenthal | Details |

In the Arms of Peace-abiding Angels

I don’t know what I know
I fly like an eagle – just go with the flow!
I don’t know what I know
I don’t know what you’re thinking about 
But I can tell you’re puzzled in your own mind
Maybe I can find x2 
Peace in mind 
For you and I to cherish forever
Stop being so introverted!
Be converted
To bravery and put your doubts to bed

It’s strange really
I don’t know what I know seriously 
Storms are brewing in you as clouds lift you higher than where I am
The waves are crash beneath us
But, you’ll be safe and sound
In His hands, you’ll find relief and happiness
It’s quite hard to adjust to change
I don’t know your mind – 
I wish I can read your mind sometimes
It’s about time we rearrange
And fall into the arms of peace-abiding angels

Let’s go…let it go…
Let’s go…let it go…
Let’s embrace
The arms of peace-abiding angels tonight
Tonight, we’ll seek divine flight
We will make it in no time
Let yourself dance 
To the rhythm of my heart
Let’s go with the flow of the midnight breeze
Promise me you won’t tear this heart apart
You’re not alone, the sunrays will melt away the freezing anxiety 
And put your mind and heart at ease
The peace-abiding angels created the playful sunrays 
With God’s helping hand
You’re the butterflies that admire my presence
I know I might sound corny or dense!
I throw my hands sky-high
Happy-go-lucky parrots pass us by 
I wish I were them right now

I scream gallantly: 
“TAKE AWAY THE PAIN,
DRIPPING LIKE ACID RAIN!”
Lightning flashes and a storm tries to suck us in
But, we’re safe and sound
 In the arms of the peace-abiding angels
We’re above the ground
Overflowing with heavenly miracles
Grant us peace in mind…
Before we become blind
Just like the rest of the inhabitants in the World of Woe
I don’t know my selfish deeds
No more doubting or sinning, plant seeds
Of faith and erase your uncertainty
Fall into the arms of the peace-abiding angels
Spread your wings and trace ecstasy 

I don’t know you anymore! 
How come you’re the only one that I adore? 
Let the angels take us to cloud seven
Don’t you know that being with you is like rejoicing in heaven?

It’s funny that I noticed you in the near future
You’re caught in the whirling fantasies
I can see you, far off in the distance…is there any hope to nurture? 
You’re as puny as an ant 
It’s weird to admit, but I kissed the wicked lips of the abyss
Who said I can’t?

I don’t know my selfish deeds
No more doubting or sinning, plant seeds
Of faith and erase your uncertainty
Fall into the arms of the peace-abiding angels
Spread your wings and trace ecstasy 

I don’t know what I know
But, I know for certain that you’re walking on your own in victory
I don’t know what I know…
I don’t understand what I see…
Do I witness peace? Confusion? Catastrophe? 

I don’t know my selfish deeds
No more doubting or sinning, plant seeds
Of faith and erase your uncertainty
Fall into the arms of the peace-abiding angels
Spread your wings and trace ecstasy 

I don’t know your motives or intentions, but your purpose is shown, you see
In my eyes, they’re wicked and free
Stop being so insecure!
Be careful! Make sure
To say your little prayers tonight – it would act as a cure
To this dirty heart of mine, basking in sinful lust – it’s so impure

Dance freely…let go gaily
Dance freely… be filled with glee 
Let’s embrace
The arms of peace-abiding angels tonight
Tonight, we’ll seek divine flight
We are caught up in a trance
Do me a favor and depart
From the morbid nightfall, 
Hunting down our delightful light and innocence 
To the rhythm of my heart
Let’s go with the flow and ride on the back of a happy Hippogriff 
Promise me you won’t look down or behind you!
You’re not alone, the sunrays will melt away the freezing anxiety 
And put your mind and heart at ease
Accept your gifts and talents and 
Jump with joy!
You and I will jump into the arms of the peace-abiding angels
The peace-abiding angels created the playful sunrays 
With God’s helping hand
I throw my hands sky-high
Happy-go-lucky parrots pass us by 
Wave goodbye to our past and let’s fulfill our future as it gives us a natural high
It’ll boost us high and we’ll cry
Happy tears and we won’t know why!

I don’t know if we’re meant for each other
No more doubting or wasting time, plant seeds
Of faith and gain assurance
Fall into the arms of the peace-abiding angels
Go to them for any problem and they’ll help us in an instance!
Spread your wings in confidence and embrace ecstasy with me!

Kiss the doubt and darkness farewell
You’ll find another companion…oh well x2
Be converted
To bravery and put your doubts to bed
Soon enough, you’ll find your true love this splendid night
I know 100% that you’ll survive this dangerous plight
With the peace-abiding angels and I by your side
For the meantime, don’t cower away and hide – 
Fight the Good Fight!  


Long poem by Michael Ainsley | Details |

My Mind A Ship In Darkness

My mind a ship in darkness                                                                                                             How shall you carry me                                                                                                                   My heart cut off from loving                                                                                                                         Is longing to be free                                                                                                                                    To sail out in the morning                                                                                                                                             Upon the early tide                                                                                                                              And live with in the elements                                                                                                             Where truth and strength abide                                                                                                       My thoughts are done with islands                                                                                                  Where the golden memories play                                                                                                  For that vision seen was but a dream                                                                                                          Like fog that burns away                                                                                                                         And if the rocks should catch me up                                                                                                  How shall I greet the day                                                                                                                                            So many thoughts are anchored there                                                                                         From ships that passed this way                                                                                                             So many swells have come and gone                                                                                               And beaten on the shore                                                                                                                  You'd think the isle would brake away                                                                                               Be gone and be no more                                                                                                                But still the ancient cliffs are hung                                                                                               Like shadows in the sky                                                                                                             And still the Sirens songs are sung                                                                                              A lovers lullaby                                                                                                                               My soul my only compass now                                                                                                     What lessons shall you teach                                                                                                       As passion sets my course for me                                                                                                                                                Once more into the breach                                                                                                                               Yet calmly to and steady on                                                                                                         Though gale and storm draw near                                                                                                  My soul is this immortal thing                                                                                                           That strides beyond my fear                                                                                                            And gives my life an openness                                                                                                                        That does not measure cost                                                                                                                  For much I learned of beauty                                                                                                                         By what I loved and lost


Long poem by Amrapali Tendolkar | Details |

RAIN SHOWERS

The Earth dry and bare; waiting eagerly for the drops of care;
 


Caught in the hot, steaming summer’s snare;
 


The flowers and creepers decorating window sills; all look desolate and ill;
 


As the nature withers away in the sun’s merciless glare.
 


 
 


The men and the wives; the kids and the wild;
 


All are enduring the summer’s waterless exile;
 


They are waiting for the rain; to relieve them of the heat pain;
 


And of that life which has become a sweaty turmoil.
 


 
 


The wind strong and gusty; makes the roads yellow and dusty;
 


And the air around becomes suffocating and musty;
 


The birds forget to sing; their lilting, musical thing;
 


Even as the tree leaves wristle and make noise so husky.
 


 
 


Then come the Monsoon showers; falling first on boughs and flowers;
 


Making the trees and plants glisten and glower;
 


So the monsoon comes in grace; driving away summer’s trace;
 


Lashing at window-panes with its all-reigning power.
 


 
 


As the monsoon drives away the summer heat; with its raining rhythm off-beat;
 


And the flower buds open up to return it’s greet;
 


And as the water seeps in soil; a refreshing fragrance arise;
 


While the rain continuous to cool down hot gardens and streets.
 


 
 


The Earth grows green; and water droplets gleam;
 


On the smooth, waxy surfaces of the leaves;
 


Everywhere the flowers grow; in pink, red, white or yellow;
 


While buds make their way blushingly between tendrils.
 


 
 
 The wet and soft soil; now grows fertile;
 


And tender green plantlets push through the Earth in style;
 


Through soil the tiny saplings peep; as their sown seeds begin to reap;
 


And the plants and crops shake off the Earth’s temporary curse sterile.
 


 
 


As the raindrops go pitter-patter; water in puddles begins to gather;
 


And the little birds begin to chirp, twitter and chatter;
 


The insects begin to hum along; their irritating and happy song;
 


While due to rain and wind the roofs on houses begin to chatter.
 


 
 


As the showers for some moments cease; after giving Earth life’s new lease;
 


And the pitter-patter of rain is gently appeased;
 


The sun coyly shines; a cloud it half hides behind;
 


While the fluffy clouds move along with the cool breeze.
 


 
 


The fields now green and bright; are an artist’s sheer delight;
 


Pleasing to the senses of smell and sight;
 


The fresh air so sweet to breathe; that with pleasure the body writhes;
 


In the newly born rainy sunlight.
 


 
 


But this sunlight so quickly goes; as thunderstorms blow to and fro;
 


And Earth engulfs in darkness that now grows;
 


The wind rises and howls; with a voice that trembles all souls;
 


And day and night this gale roars.
 


 
 


The trees in fear tremble and shake; as leaves, twigs and branches break;
 


And the life of these trees is put up at stake;
 


Birds in nests cower with fright; and due to cold shiver with all their might;
 


And live in fearful anticipation of what else the storm may rake.
 


 
 
The monsoon now shows its ugly face; gone are its days of grace;
 


Rainy calamities take its place;
 


Cyclones and floods destruct worldwide; the raging sea throws up its tide;
 


“Nature reigns supreme”, we are forced to say.
 


 
 


Same is the life of man; may he do what he can;
 


But destiny will always play a hand;
 


What all will man control? So he should let destiny play its role;
 


And enjoy life and act as the situation will demand.
 


 
 


Somedays will shine the sun; those days life will be fun;
 


And work will be successful how much ever it’s done;
 


Somedays by the fun you will tire; and will long to get back into the attire;
 


Of normal life, however boring or glum.
 


 
 


Sometimes hope will come out; like a tiny plant sprouts;
 


And will remove from your mind every shade of doubt;
 


It will be a bright, hopeful ray; but for long it may not stay;
 


So we must make most of it when hope sprouts.
 


 
 


Just as the shower of joy; after summer comes out shy;
 


So shower of success will come when you have almost given up the try;
 


It will wash away your helpless sigh; and will give you a new will to try;
 


Which will help you succeed by-and-by.
 


 
 


Just as the sun goes behind the cloud; when thunder is heard aloud;
 


And darkness suddenly falls on Earth all around;
 


So also failure will touch you once; its upto you to prevent its repeated occurrence;
 


Or due to failure remain depression bound.
 


 
 


Sometimes through demotivation you will go; sometimes loads of success you'll know;
 


For we need all types of experience to make us grow;
 


Like some days it is wet; some days the sun for long doesn’t set;
 


But then it needs both the rain and the sun to make a RAINBOW…


Long poem by Carrie Richards | Details |

MOCKINGBIRD - crown of sonnets

#1 "It is a sin to kill a Mockingbird. When playing games with rocks or guns, defray, them, please, ...shoot old tin cans!" "Whispered words of Mockingbirds, only heal wounds of the day" Virtues are cultivated, children are weeds, exploring a small southern town. Seeds, so rare, spread moral ivy, filling knotholes, threading trees, lining streets, during mad-dog summers. Scout, one sprout with solid roots, sifts wrong from right in spite of bull-headed pride. Stirring up dust, where resistance incites, although, brother, Jem, gently, grows more reserved. Scout, Jem, ...best bud, "Dill", are bronzed by summer's sky Moral's compass guides them home, as night returns #2 Moral's compass guides them home, as night returns yet challenged, the precocious child making assumptions. Folks would confound her! Some people were an oddity and quite beguiling Summer would sigh with ceiling fans, softly purring, people napping, long afternoons. Wilted yawns of a lethargic town, might seem undisturbed, with complacency, behind pruned shrubs, tall grass, mowed. Yet stilted air, would suffocate, with racial slurs and secret hate. Some hid by day, and spending their nights in masquerade, while crosses burned. We'd see a face, pretentious smile, falsely blend Integrity, at bitter cost, split wide the seams in 1930. Civil rights were just a dream #3 In 1930, civil rights were just a dream, and motherless children were coming of age. Bare feet were swift. Bandaged knees and hands unclean, would slam old screen doors, to seek lemonade. A ghost, they feared, in the raw sided house, watched close. A tree in his yard, hid treasures he stashed. The three Musketeers, upon discovering, shout! Armed by bravado, they are ready to dash. Putting yourself into another man's shoes, is a lesson, soon learned by Scout and Jem. They've faced their fear, and will make a friend. "Boo", the 'phantom', a new best friend left trinkets and gems. Kindness learned, role model intact, was Atticus Finch. A measure of integrity, inch by inch. #4 A measure of integrity, inch by inch, advocate for those who won't stand a chance. Folks down on their luck, where dollars won't stretch in a depression full blown. Money is scant. Fighting for the underdog, who have no paycheck. What's right is right. What's wrong, is wrong. Someone must stand at the end of the day, where flies fill a courtroom and tempers grow stronger. Regardless of skin, be it black, be it white Unfit, by standards of talcum shaved chins, if injustice is war, he'll give his lot. The falsely accused, he'll defend, to the end Those who wallow in mud, eventually sling lies when honor goes to hell, and folks sit idle #5 When honor goes to hell, and folks sit idle, false accusations can simmer, slowly inciting bigoted people, into mobs, spewing cries of hate. Screaming "rape" into the night. Ignorance and prejudice, are all of one stuff with corn-likker sauce and gravy mentality, amphibian worms, as if from a trough, gorging on mania. They covet brutality. Led by Bob Ewell, with arrogance oozing. Clan- fed, tantrums squirming out of control. Small minded men, choosing squalor, alluding the truth. Some would sell their mother's soul. They have lied on the stand, where justice treaded thin. Where white man's word, over a black, always wins. #6 Where a white man's word, over black, always wins, was a rule of the thumb, during those years... The innocent man, Tom, shackled, condemned, taken away and waits to die, and endure With Indian summer, waxing and waning, Atticus chooses the simplest words. His children need, wisdom, and calm understanding, in trying to explain, that most men are good. He tells them, gently, how someone so crude, even Bob Ewell, no matter how evil perhaps in his life, was misunderstood. The hellish of summers begins to unravel. But another ill wind, would brew up a storm, to bring more than a flurry, into their home. #7 To bring more than a flurry into their home, burnt embers of color, drift down, red and yellow. Carved pumpkins, and a grieving autumn, looms in the night. Roaches encroach, deep in the shadows As Scout rushes homeward, behind her on the trail, a whiskey-breath nightmare, with evil intentions Then, someone appears! Halts this devil,...,Ewell is not immortal! .....as we come to conclusion. A guardian presence, waiting to rally has kept a vigil, guarding children who run, swiftly through thickets. Lonely Boo Radley, appeared like an angel, a bird seeking the sun So pure of heart, and a thing so rare It is a sin to kill a mockingbird
2/17/14


Long poem by ephraim crud | Details |

a conflict of words

i miss the affect and effect
my father's experiences
of mindless mass destruction
and madness
that had me pinned to every word
as moonlight on each
shone down on their dugout

'johnny, got a light'

dad lit his zippo

turned

and eric was gone

he didn't hear a thing
no bullet whirr
not even the 'tink' of his helmet

and i think how good it is
to smell life
to sniff an ambush of the heart
under heavy fire as he
forced to headlong a ditch
landed tete-a-tete
on the bloated green remains
of the enemy
and promptly puked over its putrid face
and shat himself
terrified
he'd not hear the next 'tink'

six hour he laid there
six ****ing hours
****less

and i '****' and carp
as my oh-so convenient
worldwide walkie-talkie bill
dollops the coconut footwipe
and curse the dog crapped patio

can you imagine

i can feel the ****

the blink last glance in the mirror

reflecting how lucky i am
to breathe this chink of words
for your pleasure
tear or revulsion
your notions of a small constellation

and how good it is to eye
those chinks in the dark
that effeminate uncle john
may have faced
but for happenstance

his brother donald being short-fused
had stuck his cornea with scissors
which saw him stage
his most memorable performance
tending the testosterone of gold braid
for the duration
down the salt-watered south

others committed harakiri
for such failing the flag
for humility's sake

or the drip drip drip 
of a tortuous rising sun

or the footrot thunder of a flemish field
or sodden wood where
on a sudden an adolescent fritz
no more summers than fifteen
crossed hairs in his eye

and dad sighted
his mutter at home
worried for the safe return of her joy
and her heart broken
by the black edged letter
as he triggered his brain
to a million specks of red

and wept uncontrollably
for an age
the futility and long awaited remembrance
of all those poor bastards whose heroics
led them insane
and blindfolded by their own waste

but it's dog eat dog

someone has to helm the hounds
be the master of bloodshed
suicide dead or alive
when demons rise

and i think of the insomnia
souls nightmared by hazard
horror lost hope
and the monsters that hatched
and slithered rope tricks
to mangoes pineapples
and hog plums

yet how good
to bite the sinful fruit
to feel the thunder of a storm

the cosiness of chintzy-chintzy
chinwags and muffled naughtiness
secreted beneath blankets
underground
amid the cramped inconveniences
of smells and belly rumbles

and the weather speaks gales
blowing from the north

as on the day he reached
a small homestead
somewhere in belgium
a one room
one door where a woman hung
from a knife through the throat
her mammaries and genitalia
ripped from her red
and her daughter
of a few million breaths
swung in the chilled air
from a meathook in a beam
while a sepia'd loved one
stood by and smiled

and i think of the propaganda
the espionage and intrigue
the red herrings meticulously cast
for the irony of a pretend war
enduring the stark misery

but lies can be a bonus
in extreme circumstances
to assuage the inevitable hurricane
of atrocities
infidelities
in the apple of its eye
and how good it is
to feel the skin and wetness
of love
of gooseflesh giggling

to laugh a moment's relief
as father's platoon
in a lull from fear and sunshine
as they smoked and dusted their boots
through the ardenne forest
five abreast
hundreds of them 
when a whistle shellshocked the blood
pumping from the neck of
'jockey whips'
a glaswegian from peckham
who loved his potatoes greasy
and collapsed
after several headless footfalls

they never found his looks

and dad hungered how good
another chance of roast pork
and a handshake would be

and i think of the logistics
that beggars belief
and how much better equipped
to manage death than life
we are
with all the fields that have harvested
bones of memories
blood rusted metal
medals hung from heroes
and arseholes alike

and i think of the what ifs

had little maria schicklgruber
drowned in a viennese lake

had hitler a bullet with his name
in world war one

the lives that would have had
their due iceblink of this gift
this diamond moment
to experience sunups
moonlight serenades
of love as i've been blessed
because an austrian megalomaniac 
choreographed my parents footsteps 
to me
affecting and effecting your life
with my words


Long poem by Carol Eastman | Details |

A Spark of Hope

A little girl lost her home this year, for her, Christmas wouldn't be there.
Her family was angry from all the troubles, they simply couldn't repair.
Don’t bother us about presents her parents said, they were depressed by their fate.
With bitterness they said, you’d be lucky to have dinner tonight, or even a plate.
Life was harsh, nowhere to go, anger and fear had put their souls, in a terrible place.
The little girl had found no hope or joy, lurking near their old car, of late.
The car was their home, gas money was scarce, and with few places they could park.
Yes, their troubles had slowly extinguished, that precious hopeful spark.
Without that spark, they’d never find their way, from this terrible place of cold and dark.
And life’s darkness grew deeper nightly, as hope vanished under a reality so stark.
Even the very fiber of her family, seemed to be shattering slowly, slowly, apart.
The child felt alone here in this dark car, as sadness tried to engulf her little girls heart.
The future seemed filled with hopelessness, as shame and dread, were leaving their mark.
Embarrassment to be seen and turned away, made it hard for them to reach out, to restart.
But life goes on, and we can’t fear to rebuild, or the future will be hard to impart.
The girl suddenly declared there’s more to life, and she wouldn't let it conquer her heart.
She decided triumphs will come, and all will get better, if she held to that hopeful spark.
Seeing the desolation and anger here, she couldn't stay around, she had to get away…
So she climbed out of the car, and she walked into town, not so very far to stray.
She went and looked at the store windows, where Christmas was being displayed.
The music and people filled her heart, lifting her spirits, deep inside, that day.
She noticed a store, way down at the end of the row, on the next block, where it lay.
No one was there, it seemed lonely, and the darkness was again, spreading it’s decay.
She ran there in time to see an old man closing up, with sadness on his face betrayed.
What use were his goods, if no one would shop, or come down along his way?
The super store down the block, was daily making him lose more and more in the fray.
He could no longer afford to hire people, and the season had very little time, to stay.
As they talked the girl saw that she couldn't let the darkness take another, so she prayed.
Then she told the old man, if he’d open the shop, she’d bring customers down his way.
She added, she’d find reasonable workers, if her family could live upstairs, she portrayed.
First bring the customers, he said, and the rest will be yours little friend, he conveyed.
She had him put his best toys, as a contest prize, and to add lots of lights on the display.
He set a contest, “Winners-the best collectors for families in need” on Christmas Eve.
He put out a bright contest sign, but still nobody came to his end of the block, to survey.
So she had him call the Salvation Army, for a kettle, Bell ringer, and Carolers, who came 
Lickety split, their way.
Then she had him call a dear old friend, and farmer, to bring a tractor full of bails of hay.
Another volunteered his horse and sleigh, both, to see the city lights thru New Years Day.
This was a great idea, since the older drivers, could use the help, for their bills to pay.
The girl ran all over spreading the excitement, and to come see the prizes, his way.
The families suddenly started heading toward his door, and to those wondrous rides.
At that moment her parents came, and she explained what her hope, had improvised.
Her father talked a contractor into building a disabled family a home, to help advertise.
He could get a tax break; come to this store for supplies, and hire unemployed workers, he devised, so wise.
In the end, each night grew brighter, because of a girls hope, and heart-warming delight.
And the old man began smiling for the first time, in a long, long, time, starting that night.
All was saved, a home was found, and another built, as a sad little girl taught grownups to smile along the way… 
You might say, A Spark of Hope lit a candle, then a raging fire, which was burning bright by Christmas day.

The moral to my story is:
Never give up on Hope; it’s your best friend, as life brings its troubles your way…
Know that with time, a good heart, good will, and friendly ways… 
You can find God’s gifts again, if you don’t let the dark take you away…


Long poem by Tuisha Sircar | Details |

Demise of the Frail and Assail of the Skies

The bird wanted to fly

But the wind wanted to blow

“Rest now bird”, said the wind

“You now take it down slow,

And let me flow.”

 

The bird accepted thinking it was a request,

And ignored the proud in his words,

She sat down on the branch to rest,

Keeping down her guards,

Unaware of what is next.

 

An hour passed,

But still the wind didn’t stop,

Now the pace became fast,

Now the wind gone, in place was the storm.

 

Unable to stand against it,

The bird felt helpless.

The emergence of automatic persuasion,

Left the bird in stress.

 

Her home is not the ground,

She lives in the sky,

Feeling gloomy and bound,

She doesn’t even try to fly.

 

She stays where she was,

And starts envying the wind,

The kind of power he has,

That brought down even the born free.

Flying is what she loves,

And the feeling of spreading the wings,

Something that cannot be expressed in words,

The beauty can only be felt within,

But when the storm persists on blowing,

The persuasion reminded the bird of a cage.

The feeling of being trapped,

Even turned down the sage,

Within the bird and now a panic engulfed,

Because everything was happening against her will,

And the storm and his manic laugh,

Harassing and shrill,

Dominating over the world with his power.

 

 Now there is water added,

Pouring everywhere from the sky,

So hard that the vision blurry and fade,

The bird now wants to hide.

And so she trusts the woods,

Under the leaves she takes shelter,

Hoping the safe place could,

Understand and help the helpless her.

But today even the trees are of no help,

The rain is too heavy,

No matter where she hides,

Towards her somehow it will glide.

 

A day passed but still the storm wasn’t satisfied,

He kept on blowing,

Kept dominating the little with pride,

But the bird was now over sorrowing,

So, she decided to challenge the flowing.

 

And it seemed like years had passed,

Since the bird took a flight,

Into the blue and those effects that lasted,

Of serenity, luxury and rights.

 

Now the tolerance was coming to an end,

Her loud chirping of frustration speaks,

And so she comes out of the safe place and,

Into the grey she leaps.

 

It’s like, she dares the storm,

Even though she knows it’s futile,

The proud in him confirms,

That the end could be brutal.

But the little now doesn’t care,

She just wants to fly.

 

The storm does see the bird’s hindrance,

But would not understand the heart,

He will do what he wants,

That is what he is doing from the start.

He will choose when to come,

His wish no one can predict,

When his fun will become,

A thing getting vapid,

He’ll spare the imploring planet.

 

 

The rain can be the reason of someone’s laughter,

It can also make one morose.

The torrent of pouring water,

Is also something he does.

If his will says,

It’ll be a shower of delight.

If he wants it to be the other way,

It can become an element of fright.

 

Now after going a mile,

The bird is in terror,

Still the storm being hostile,

And the bird being the bearer.

 

Though she is tired,

But hasn’t lost all hopes,

And so with eyes like angel she desired,

The thoughts of good and optimism.

But when she looked up with faith,

And saw the grey sky,

She fatigue and her pale breath,

But still she flies.

 

“Stubborn she is no less”,

Thinks the storm, and now he the outrageous,

Losing his charge on the rage,

The sky shines a red that’s vicious.

Then from somewhere a lightning bolt,

Suddenly strikes before the bird,

While she runs from the jolt,

Several others in her surround appeared.

She moves carefully,

But the storm is furious,

And he would not stop,

Until he becomes victorious.

 

Then a surprising tremor ripples,

Through her and little’s every part stops,

Down the bird with rush tumbles,

With eyes full of teardrops,

And her vision turns grey,

But did she lose the fray?

 

As the bird, hit the soil,

She remembered a life,

A life that never once gave her the turmoil,

But always love in rife.

Also a light that the bird saw,

When she first opened her eyes,

Now got vacuumed,

Leaving behind the blackness of demise.

 

The storm witnessed the whole saga,

But still he won’t remorse,

A beautiful little lay dead down,

Sometime else, again a creature would morose,

Because the nefarious never bows.


Long Poems