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

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Long poem by john fleming | Details |

And still i drive - Part two

Stars fall under failing skies...stars fall...stars fall...
But stars do not cry.
Into Ochs valley, through the Vale of White Horse...prancing 
besides a Dragons Hill;
It was here that a Roundhead - did a Royalist Cavaliers blood in 
Oxons streets so spill.
Where Great Alfred strove to drive out the Dane and his Law;
And blazing fires were lit to roar in the open grates of Christ churchs 
Great Hall.
Stars fall under failing skies...stars fall...stars fall...
But stars do not deny.
Along the ever stretching A34 littered with the carcasses of its 
Daily score;
Over Royal Berkshires balding heights, where from every bush 
And every turn,
Reflecting back from my glowing headlights
Sharp green piercing eyes - cunning Red fox that so discerns.

Stars fall under failing skies...stars fall...stars fall...
And still i drive.
Between the clearing acres of ten thousand gnarled boughs
That once did so ably fashion for great Windsors mighty beams.
Steering along Newburys pass where Civil war was played out thrice
Against the brow:
Same old crowd - bloody encounters and fisticuffs - same age old
Greed driven schemes!
Stars fall under failing skies...stars fall...stars fall...
And still i drive.
At the approaching roundabout i must begin to slow -
First exit left - M40 - and steadily onwards - i accelerate to go;
For i have the Immortal Bards Warwickshire set within my determined mind -
My own forlorn loves hopes...lost...now far distant...long gone behind.

Stars fall under failing skies...stars fall...stars fall...
And still i drive.
Wide motorways with their imposing overhead gantry signs
Grandly announce the names of "just up ahead" places,
Boldly framed upon blue panels within white trim designs,
Straddling wide lanes - huge and brightly lit,
Prompt and remind the tourist of the "sights" they must surely visit.
Stars fall under failing skies...stars fall...stars fall...
But stars do not lie.
Here the reflective waters of Shakespeares Avon still peacefully flow
That pushed upon the old mills rustic wheels so many forgotten years ago.
Where, carting slowly, the Hathaways would come for flour, or so it was said,
To bring back unto Newlands farm to bake and offer prayers 
For their daily bread.

Stars fall under failing skies...stars fall...stars fall...
But stars do not die.
Pittering hail blows across my glass windscreen - the rhythmatic blades
swing it clean;
And staring, as if caught in a trance, my mind casts back:
To that last meal we ate - you on the settle - i by the exposed and varnished 
Brick stack -
When in your warm, comfy little lounge we had awkwardly sat.
Stars fall under failing skies...stars fall...stars fall...
But stars do not cry.
Unfurling before me the M6 toll that impedes my progress upon this hour 
So late;
And queuing, my whirling thoughts drift again to the moment, where in silence,
I had quietly stood at your little open gate;
Incandescent with cruel stabbing words you did me so violently berate,
Before a loud closing door slammed - tightly shut upon a doomed forgone fate!

Stars fall under failing skies...stars fall...stars fall...
But stars do not deny.
The barrier rises as once again the blizzard contrives...
Whereupon, engaging the gears and steadily revving the engine,
I Resume the drive;
Speeding towards Staffordshires potteries of ceramic plates:
Pattern ware for commoner, landed gentry, Lords and Ladies, 
And lofty estates.
Stars fall under failing skies...stars fall...stars fall...
And still i drive.
The monumental journey of one hundred leagues is nearly all but done,
The resolute chimneys and Bottle kilns i will soon outrun.
For now a sailing Moon begins to shallow and fade -
And gathering together her skirts -
A final encore before daintily stepping from centre stage.

Stars fall under failing skies...stars fall...stars fall...
But i know not why.
Hesitant grey light in the wings steps aside bleak and rugged tors;
Dawns waking orchestral chorus prepares to perform sweet clarion chords;
Beacons that coursed constant along my long troubled way,
Soon to be gradually extinguished at the onset of another slowly waking
Cheshire day.
Stars fall under failing skies...stars fall...stars fall...
But stars should not cry. (For men do not cry! Do they?)
The painted black and white metal railings that secure the pastoral herds
Of the shire
Are adorned with the icicles and hard frost from a fierce biting ire;
And as Moonlights diminished beams disappear behind thick drawing drapes
- Finally drawn -
Back in the land of my fathers fathers to which i am forever inextricably sworn!!


                                Forgive me, Julia!!



















     



Long poem by Isaiah Zerbst | Details |

Highland Lassie

Inspired by the painting "Highland Lassie" (1871) by Thomas Faed.

(Verse One; In introduction to Cailin)
Walkin' on the highways, searchin' down the byways,
Tromps a lonely figure on the Highland roads;
Peerin' from the Highdown, breezin' through the lake town,
Askin' of a question erry where he goes:
(Chorus; Cailin, followed by some villagefolk)
And it's, "Marry, gather 'round! for she hasna' yet been found;
I come lookin' for the truest lass, as only one can be:
I've a letter do deliver; as you see, it says to give 'er
To the fairest Highland lassie from Loch Leven to the sea."
"Here's a lass," they proudly say, "fair as June and sweet as May,
And it's sure that she's the fairest in the Highland mountains steep:
Through the heather you may go, climb the mountains capped with snow,
But you'll never find a better lass on which your eyes to peep."

(Verse Two; Cailin's thoughts)
Some of them were pouty, others even dowdy;
"These," he thought, "would never do in fifteen years:
Beauty on the outside, nothin' on the inside,
Leaves a girl with nothin' when it fades to tears."
(Chorus; Cailin's continuing journey)
Trav'lin' all around, for she hasna' yet been found;
He's come lookin' for the truest lass, as only one can be:
With a letter do deliver; as you see, it says to give 'er
To the fairest Highland lassie from Loch Leven to the sea." 
"Here's a lass," they proudly say, "fair as June and sweet as May,"
But you canna' tell the fairest one except you see them all:
And the lassies sweetly smile, for this stranger to beguile,
As 'e treads throughout the Highlands from the winter to the fall.

(Verse Three; Cailin's travels and troubles)
From the banks of Lomon', up to Durness roamin',
How's a wight to judge betwixt a thousand score?
Steps were waxing weary, days were growing dreary,
'Till 'e saw a lass 'e hadna' met before.
(Chorus; Cailin, to a lass called Ellsie and her villagefolk)
And it's, "Marry, gather 'round, for the lassie here is found!
I 'ave searched and found the truest lass, as only one can be:
Here the letter I deliver; as you see, it says to give 'er
To the fairest Highland lassie from Loch Leven to the sea. 
"Here's a lass," I proudly say, "fair as June and sweet as May,
And it's sure that she's the fairest in the Highland mountains steep:
Through the heather you may go, climb the mountains capped with snow,
But you'll never find a better lass on which your eyes to peep."

(Verse Four; Ellsie's villagefolk reply in confusion)
Then they said, "Oh, please, Sir, don't you taunt and tease 'er,
Caint you tell she's plainer e'en than Skye down dell?
Caint you tell you've pained 'er? don't do that again, Sir,
Lest you 'ave a reason, and if so, pray tell."
(Chorus; Cailin's reply, followed by Ellsie reading the letter)
"O'er the braes an' through the moor, I 'ave trode my walkers sore,
All to find the truest lassie in the Highlands boggy peat;
And the truest lass is fair, for the true shall never wear,
So I say that here's the truest, fairest lass I've chanced to meet."
Then she opened up the scroll, and she read it to the full,
And for those who chance to wonder, I shall quote you what she read:
"When the fairest lass I find, if our wishes are aligned,
I should wish to know thee better, lass, and then, perhaps, to wed."

(Verse Five; Ellsie's reply to the letter)
Then she said, "Oh, come, Sir; don't be sad or glum, Sir;
Meet my father, mother, and my sisters small:
Soon the bells were ringin', people gladly singin'
"Here's the lad who worked to find the best of all."
(Chorus, which Ellsie's villagefolk sing at the wedding)
"O'er the braes an' through the moor, 'e 'as trode 'is walkers sore,
All to find the truest lassie in the Highlands boggy peat;
And the truest lass is fair, for the true shall never wear,
So I say that here's the truest, fairest lass I've chanced to meet. 
"Here's a lass," we proudly say, "fair as June and sweet as May,
And it's sure that she's the fairest in the Highland mountains steep:
Through the heather you may go, climb the mountains capped with snow,
But you'll never find a better lass on which your eyes to peep."



Note: the verses are written using trochaic feet, meaning that they begin with a stressed syllable, followed by an unstressed, and so on repeatedly. The fifth foot (syllables nine and ten) in the second and fourth lines of the verses is a spondee, meaning two stressed syllables in one foot. I mention this for ease in correct reading. An example of this same device is "Since the Savior Found Me" by Edgar J. Haskins, (in last line of verses and refrain).


Long poem by Scribbler Of Verses | Details |

A Story My Mother Told Me

someone always told me this with tears in her eyes...


(for Lata Sethi's late-mother, who was my mother’s ‘sister’ and who took us all into her heart, and for Lata and Ravi Sethi of Defence Colony, New Delhi)


a wife left South Africa in the 1960’s to join her husband 
who was in exile at the time...

in 1970 the husband was sent by the African National Congress to India to be its representative there...

the husband and wife spent two years in Bombay...

one afternoon the husband fell and broke his leg...

the wife knocked on their neighbour’s door, in an apartment complex in Bombay

the neighbour was an old Punjabi lady...

the wife asked the neighbour for a doctor to see to the injured husband...

a Parsi ‘Bone-Setter’ was promptly summoned...

the husband still recalls his anxiety of seeing ‘Bone-Setter’ written on the Parsi gentleman’s bag...

by the way, the ‘Bone-Setter’ worked his ancient craft and surprisingly for the husband, his broken leg healed quite soon...

but still on that day, while the ‘Bone-Setter’ was seeing to the husband...

the wife and the old Punjabi lady from next door got to talking about this and that and where these new Indian-looking wife and husband were from as their accents were clearly not local...

the wife told the elderly Punjabi lady that the husband worked for the African National Congress of South Africa and had left to serve the ANC from exile...

and that they had left their two children behind in South Africa and that they were now essentially political refugees...

the Punjabi lady broke down and wept uncontrollably...

she told the foreign woman that she too had had to leave her home in Lahore in 1947 and flee to India with only the clothes on her back when the partition of the subcontinent took place and Pakistan was formed and at a time when Hindus from Pakistan fled to India and vice versa...

the Punjabi lady then asked the foreign woman her name...

‘Zubeida’, but you can call me ‘Zubie’...

the Punjabi woman hugged Zubie some more, and the two women, seperated by age and geography, wept, sharing a shared pain...

the Punjabi woman told Zubie that she was her ‘sister’ from that day on, and that she felt that pain of exile and forced migration and what being a refugee felt like...

Zubie and her husband Mosie became the closest of friends with the Hindu Punjabi neighbours who were kicked out of Pakistan by Muslims...

then came the time for Mosie and Zubie to leave for Delhi where the African National Congress office was based...

the elderly Punjabi lady and Mosie and Zubie said their goodbyes...

a year or two later, the elderly Punjabi lady’s daughter Lata married Ravi Sethi and the couple moved to Delhi...

the elderly Punjabi lady called Zubie and told her that her daughter was coming to Delhi to live and that she had told Lata, her daughter that she had a ‘sister’ in Delhi...

Lata and Ravi Sethi then moved to Delhi...

This was in the mid-1970’s...

Lata and Zubie became the closest of friends and that bond stayed true, and stays true till today, though Zubie is no more, and the elderly Punjabi lady is no more...

the son and the husband still have a bond with Lata and Ravi Sethi...

a bond that was forged between Hindu and Muslim and between two continents across the barriers of creed and time...

a bond strong and resilient, forged by the pain and trauma of a shared experience...

and that is why, and I shall never stop believing this, that hope shines still, for with all the talk of this and of that, and of that and of this, there will always be a simple woman, somewhere, anywhere, who would take the ‘other’ in as a sister, a fellow human...

and that is why there will always be hope...
hope in the midst of this and of that and of that and of this...

hope...


(for Lata Sethi's late-mother, who was my mother’s ‘sister’ and who took us all into her heart, and for Lata and Ravi Sethi of Defence Colony, New Delhi)


Long poem by Timothy Hicks | Details |

While Waiting For My Return Flight Home

"You in the military?"

I was confused at first and didn't know why the man would ask me such a question. But then I remembered my recent haircut.

"No... is it because I shaved my head, that you think that?"

He laughed, in confirmation. At the time he seemed good-natured and so I decided to try and spark some kind of conversation. After all why not? I had two hours worth of sitting ahead of me, and I was bored of the silence.

"Do you think it's weird that I shave my head?". Admittedly I'm not the most graceful conversationalist. "Not at all... so why are you headed to Boise?". I told him I live there and that I just got back from Europe. For some reason where I came from didn't interest him much.

"You study at BSU?". I told him no, and he started to sway back and forth. He had a weird habit of not being able to stand completely straight. "What do you do?". And I said I was just a pizza-maker, and thought the description was ample. He paused for five minutes and then said in a low condescending voice "I'm gonna pretend you didn't just say that. Now what do you DO?".

I was exhausted from almost twenty hours of drawn out sitting, and plus I was never good at clever responses, so I said dumbly "I don't know". He said "What about CWI? You know, coll-ege-of-west-ern-i-da-ho", pronouncing each syllable precisely. Did he think I had mental problems or something? "I don't know, I haven't looked very deep into it".

He seemed irritated with me and continued that annoying sway of his. My shallow side got the best of me and I couldn't help but form conclusions of what he thought of me. Like for instance; this kid probably spends most of his time playing video-games... that is when he's not smoking pot. Hell, maybe he even does both at the same time. Those were the thoughts that came to me and I was helpless to stop them.

He showed me his military ID, saying proudly "See here, I'm in the military." Placing his finger right on his portrait. I said "Cool!". But I really just wanted some peace and quiet. He put his card back in his wallet. But he had this look about him, that showed deep disappointment. He looked as though he was waiting for some profound response from my end. Did he expect me to bow down, kiss his feet, and shout out "Oh you brave man! I'm simply not worthy of your presence!" But no, all I said was cool and continued to look at the giant digital clock on the wall. Will this plane ever get here!?

"C'mon man, you gotta know what you wanna do in life!". His badgering just wouldn't stop, but I was in no mood to breathe any comebacks beside mechanical responses. I could have told him I had a passion for composing songs on my piano, and that I was self-taught; or that I had enough material on my Kindle Fire to start at least a couple books. I could've even quoted Plato, stating "College polishes pebbles, but dims diamonds". But I don't think that would have jived well with him and would have simply caused me more stress. Why should I bother defending myself to someone who knew absolutely NOTHING about me? I just wanted to get home after a month of being away. Not get lectured by this complete stranger who refused to get the hint.

"My son is seventeen years old and has no idea what he wants to do". Was he talking to himself or me? "I'd like to show him brochures of Michigan or Hawaii," he snickered, "Heck, maybe that would get him out of the house!". I mentally rolled my eyes at him - I was simply too beat to do it physically. I've never been so grateful to have a dad like mine. That poor, poor kid! When the plane, at last arrived, I rejoiced that I didn't have sit next to that meddlesome man. I say this in complete seriousness, that he was quite possibly the most irritating person I've ever met.


Long poem by Eve Roper | Details |

My First Steam Engine Train Ride


                               Sunny, hot, humid, summer morning, 
                 Taking my first train ride, I’m so excited and it’s thrilling 
    Can’t wait to go north where it’s cool to stay with my grandpa and grandma 
                Ma and pa say I’m old enough to go by myself, I’m in awe
                                Dressed in my Sunday outfit, crinoline,
                                                   And my fine
               Bonnet decorated with ribbon and blooms I watch with my pack
Passenger’s restlessly anxious waiting with me at the depot for the train to come up the track 
                     Buck boards and horses with their riders running by 
                    Dust clouds form, covering everything with dust, I sigh 
                   Making us use our handkerchiefs as we cough, and pace
           Beads of perspiration causing tiny streams down my brow and face
                              Leaving thin streaks in the brown dust  

                                    A great swell of the blackest   
                   Charcoal smoke billowing smokestack, whistle blowing
       Steel wheels against the rail cause a braking, screeching, vibrating sound 
          Locomotive coming up the rails into view, like a charging black rhino
                   A massive moving machine, a fantastic sight to take in
                           To carry me off to places I have never been

                Conductor howlers, “All aboard! “As we stand at the depot
                     I hurry to sit in the hard wooden seat by the window 
                       The conductor in a black uniform and hat, usher 
    And walks up the aisle of seats to check everyone’s ticket to see if it’s in order

                      We finally start with a jerking move, whistle blows, 
               Smokestacks start billowing with the circling gray, black smoke 
 Staring out the window for hours at the scenery of the outside world as it passes by
        Prairies, telegraph poles look like pick fence, buffalos grazing on the way 
       Smoke starts coming in through the windows, settling all over, and pollute
                                 Getting my Sunday dress black with soot 
                       Conductor routinely came around checking for sparks   
                    That flew in among the passenger and started small fires
                                      It’s an uncomfortable experience
                   Every bone in my body aches from the hard wooden seats,
                                      Every bump and sway of the train 

                                   Beds are a little more accommodating 
                               Wooden shelves stack one atop of another
                                 The swaying of the train lulls me to sleep 
                                  Dreaming of the things I will see and do 

                               Cannot wait for this journey to come to an end  
                       So I can get off this miserable, filthy, harsh riding, train
  To a warm bath, and grandma’s cooking, with a comfortable chair, and feather bed

                                            By: Eve Roper
                                                  1/12/2015
                                    Contest: Railway Journeys
                                   Sponsor: Shadow Hamilton


Long poem by Terry Reeves | Details |

Trains and Memories

The only train from Cincinnati to New York is scheduled to leave Cincy at 3:27 a.m. Yes, a.m.  It is my habit to take the Cardinal, as it is called, whenever I go to the Apple. I really do enjoy the train experience even though it is an 18 hour journey. Of course, I could travel by air if it wasn’t such a hassle. I expect any day now to learn that a strip-search is required to board a plane and even should you get to JFK or Newark airports there is always the problem of getting into the heart of the city where I like to stay. Pennsylvania Station is at 33rd Street.  I’ll take the train, thanks. I always get a sleeper compartment for privacy and comfort when I travel. The name of the compartment is a euphemism. Sleep is hard to come by on this milk-route which passes through the mountains of West Virginia and up the Eastern Seaboard.

As I waited to board the Cardinal, which, typically, was almost an hour late, out of the corner of my eye I noticed a semi-young man in the line. Something about him seemed so familiar I wondered if, perhaps, I knew him. Decidedly, I didn’t. The square cut of his jaw and the timber of his voice as he spoke to the porter gave me pause. I realized, with a jolt, that he reminded me of my first love, Chris, who had died tragically in his sleep so many years ago. I was mesmerized by the similarities between the two. It was uncanny.

During the time period when lunch was being served in the dining car I watched, like some lurking stalker, to see when this man might take his meal. I so longed to hear him speak and to look into his eyes, to watch how he carried himself. I entered the dining car and seated myself at a table where I could look directly into his face. I was enthralled. He was SO like Chris. What a treat it was for me to once again feast on the traits of a man I expected to spend my life with. His eyes, especially, held that light that always touched my heart whenever I gazed into Chris’s face. Was I imagining all of this? Oh, I suppose a case could be made for my WANTING him to remind me of my happiest time but certainly it was not all wishful thinking. I tried to be as objective as I could as I studied this stranger. Yes, Chris was in there. Most assuredly.

At the dinner service that evening, just before we entered New York, I decided to have my meal in my compartment. I could imagine myself entering the dining car, rushing over to this bewildered man and snatching him up in an embrace, making a compete fool of myself, resulting in a police escort off the train in Penn Station. I could see the headlines in the Times…well…probably The Daily News:  DERANGED WOMAN ATTACKS AMTRAK PASSENGER…Film at 11.  Eating dinner in my compartment was not a bad idea, I think. Then, too, there is a fine line between nostalgia and pain.

My stalkee was met at the station by an attractive woman with whom he was so obviously in love. I couldn’t help but be a little jealous. In another time and place, it could have been Chris and me. I’m grateful to this man for filling my heart and mind with precious memories and setting me up for a glorious visit to my favorite city. Because of this encounter my stay in New York was enhanced, all of my memories sharpened, for it was here that Chris and I were together. Thank you, dear stranger. I only hope that you are loved as much as Chris is.   


Long poem by manek kohli | Details |

Moon

	
Moon 
---- 
 
 
Once night Gretta Foster sat in the backyard, 
building a rocket ship that ought to take her a-far, 
she had been working day and night - tirelessly, 
hammering, programming, all so dexterously. 
 
Then when the sun arose and sparkled in the sky, 
Gretta was still working, that too without a sigh, 
the ship was finally built, Gretta was on cloud nine, 
but going a bit farther up than that seemed rather fine. 
 
She sat inside the cockpit, tightened her seat belt, 
pushed a few buttons, with such admirable stealth, 
algorithms aplenty - all perfectly aligned, 
as the engine started roaring, boisterously alight. 
 
The rocket ascended at last, it set sail yonder, 
to the farthest frontier that this universe could conjure, 
and after it finally left the vivid atmosphere, 
Gretta was so happy, she let out a smiling tear. 
 
Days passed and she was put in catatonic sleep, 
immobile and still, immersed in lovely dreams, 
suddenly with a thud, the ship had landed still, 
She woke up instantly, with a newfound thrill. 
 
She wore the lunar suit, which she had stitched herself, 
opened up the bolted door and descended the metal steps, 
the moment she touched ground, she turned around, 
and got pleasantly surprised by what she found! 
 
A red-hatted impish elf, sat crossed leg, 
a large nosed fairy stood, munching on nutmeg, 
two rabbits bowed down to the rabbit goddess, 
and two more pressed her feet, in a soft caress. 
 
Gretta walked a step and heard the elf shout, 
"oh silly person, take that suit out!, 
we've got oxygen, plenty of em to breathe, 
that suits a waste o' time and energy!" 
 
Gretta obeyed, and unzipped the heavy suit, 
underneath she wore a dress - flowery and cute, 
"good going, young child, now lemme show you, 
this lovely wonderland which you dub the moon!" 
 
And the elf was right, they met unicorns, 
box-laden garden paths and joyous little fauns, 
walking and talking scarecrows, nursing little crows, 
small blue doll houses with chuckling gnomes. 
 
within a crater lived a colony of werewolves, 
but they were nice and fair - specially one named Ulf, 
he'd give her milk and tea with chocolate biscuits, 
and in order to keep her warm, red spotted mitts. 
 
The goddess too was nice, a wise and lovely soul, 
"be imaginative and create, but don't forget your goal", 
she'd also give her nutmeg of such abundant variety, 
her best friend was a Faun, so strong and mighty. 
 
and the Minotaurs build Gretta a lovely home, 
with a mushroom roof and walls build of foam, 
"stay here with us, Gretta, you'd have a great time", 
said the red-hatted elf while singing a rhyme. 
 
Gretta thought and thought, she came to a decision, 
she decided to stay for sure, she looked forward for her admission, 
and from thereon, life for her was perfected, 
all her dying wishes had suddenly been resurrected.
 


Long poem by Dennis East | Details | . You can read it on PoetrySoup.com' st_url='http://www.poetrysoup.com/poem/were_really_hotel_people_599555' st_title='We're Really Hotel People'>

We're Really Hotel People

We're living in the Highlands, where we run a B&B,
And folk come here from round the world, the monster for to see.
We get on great with everyone from Eskimos to Mounties,
But the hardest folk to get to know are from the dear ‘Home Counties’.
They seem to have a game plan, and they really make it tough,
They’re the ‘first time up here’ English who expect to find it rough.
They have a preconceived idea; they think that all Scots hate them,
So must quickly grab the upper hand, and then see what fate awaits them.

They book their rooms up months before, and check arrival times,
Then get here as the hour strikes and proceed along these lines.
As even though they’ve driven hours, and invariably it's wet,
Here’s the first words that they utter when they’re stood on our front step:
"You see, we're really ‘Hotel People’, and we never B&B.
And I'm so surprised we're standing here; you see it wasn't up to me.
I'm sure that your home comforts are both adequate and fine,
But we both know there are standards; you've got yours and we've got mine.”

Now, faced with this dilemma as they enter your abode,
Makes you really want to flick them off and send them down the road.
Where hotels are three times our price, and they won't find that funny,
But instead draw consolation from the colour of their money.
Bear in mind they're ‘Southern English’ - and it's all part of their farce,
To knock folk when they meet them, so they'll think they're upper class.

It's all about the image; what you’re driving, what you wear,
So what, if you've a Bentley - I’ve got Saatchi underwear.
And just in case that's not enough, they throw in close relations;
How her sister went to ‘uni’ and now heads United Nations.
Plus, their children have enough degrees to buy you three times over,
And an auntie has a submarine she keeps tied up in Dover.

They must establish the imbalance at the very soonest time,
By reeling off plush purchases and restaurants where they dine.
And then to finally top things off, quote places they frequent,
Where pots and pots of money are so very easily spent.
Know that they cannot help themselves, as when all of this is done,
With their ‘leveling ritual’ exercised, a friendship has begun.

As, come race or creed or wealth or need, you’ll find that they are great,
It's just their way to kick things off, and test if you’re a mate.
For, once you’ve found the common ground and broken all the ice,
You’ve got yourself a brand new friend, who’ll stay with you for life.
You see, those English just don't travel well; they have to raise the flag
They must set you on your back foot, and if all else fails – brag!


Long poem by Brian Johnston | Details |

Why Fireflies Dance

Pausing on a late trip to South Dakota
I pulled off of the highway
Somewhere in Kansas
And shut off the lights
Reflecting that it might be good
To clear the windshield of bug carcasses
That were only being smeared 
Into a thin, barely transparent paste
By my windshield wipers at this stage.

As my eyes became used to the moonlit hollow
Where my vehicle purred quietly
I began to realize something was strange.
There were stars dancing that night 
Whose light had never been 
Gathered by a telescope, 
A job, better left perhaps, 
To a wide-eyed child with a ‘Ball Jar' & lid, 
Than to a scientist living behind thick lenses.

Opening the car door, revelation struck, 
Though alone in the dark, God was with me.
The valley in which I'd parked
Was teeming with more fireflies
Than I had ever seen
In the entirety of my uneventful life.
Even in the stupor of mechanical driving
I realized that by chance I had discovered
What might just be the ‘eighth wonder of the world.'
The air was full of ecstasy
And my impoverished heart simply enchanted.

The fireflies in their mating frenzy
Made the full moon seem 
The victim of an incredible meteor shower, 
Flashes of light exploding on lunar surface
As each projectile ended its journey, 
This illusion blurred only slightly
By less ambitious brothers and sisters
Whose ardor blotted out the milky way
Stretching horizon to horizon
As they flashed the opposite sex.

Still, all in all, it was quite a show.
These moon striking invertebrates, 
Faux-astronauts though they were, 
(Unlike us, leaving no debris behind to litter)             
Giving up their tiny ghosts over and over, 
As if trying to prove to the butt of their joke 
That reincarnation is real... 
And that meteors too reincarnate! 
But I think they went too far, don't you?

Brian Johnston
February 14,2014

This poem is dedicated to my honorary Grand-Daughter (who is perhaps the 
9th wonder of the world in my life right now) , the upcoming poet Neethu 
Panicker right here on Poem Hunter, and my friends Lora Colon, Ed Nigma, and 
Tapan Pradhan for their much valued support and comments. A psychic once 
told me that I had been St. Valentine in a previous lifetime. Don't suppose she 
will like this poem much! But just in case I was, I wish all my PH family a great 
Valentines day. 

And also a note of appreciation to the group Sixpence None The Richer and 
their song 'Kiss Me' which contains the line 'Strike up the band and make the 
fireflies dance until the moon is sparkling.' This line and my personal 
experience are both at the heart of this poem.


Long poem by Juanita Thorn | Details |

Flight 82

Roaring engines, wheels on tarmac
Flight 82 is running late
Pilots push the throttle forward
Flight 82 disappears into the black

The nose rises, the speed quickens
G-forces push you through your seat
Inkiness outside the windows thickens
The planes’ destination silently beckons

The plane reverberates with a steady hum
Passengers unclasp their belts
A little girl looks into the eyes of her Mum
As this huge metal object gathers momentum

The pilots are weary, they’re working overtime
Their minds and focus drift
When the birds’ big nose begins to climb
And red lights flash and alarms chime

Something’s wrong. Pilot’s now wide awake
They go into survival mode
But the plane takes on a deadly shake
As they try to figure out their mistake

Panicking passengers silently say their prayers
Praying for God to watch over them
Others confused with frightened stares
Sit motionless in their chairs

Flight attendants jump into action
Trying to calm the passengers down
Giving out emergency instruction
Disguising their fear, showing no reaction

They’ve done this drill, in class, on the ground
But it’s so different miles high in the air
Surrounded by chaos all around
Where crying and screaming is the only sound

The Captain speaks over microphone
Stammering, stuttering, and trying to sound calm
Saying “Get into crash position as shown”.
“Stay that way til more is known”.

One engine’s gone, another is dying
As they radio to the tower
“Mayday, Mayday”, the Captain is crying
As the co-pilot shakes his head, sighing

Heads between legs as the passengers wait
Bewildered and confused
To hear the Captain tell of their fate
Praying hours from now they’ll celebrate

The pilots stick rigidly to their role
But their hopes have quickly faded
Cos they have lost all control
They can’t save anyone, not one soul

As the plane falls from the sky
Minds going ten to the dozen
People on board keep asking, “Why”?
“Why me”? “Why today”? “Why did I fly”?

Pilots in the cockpit, tracing the sign of the cross
As the Earth races up to meet them
Making their peace, with their maker, the boss
Why would God allow this devastating loss?

A deafening silence encompasses the plane
As they come to terms with the inevitable
People writhing in excruciating pain
Suffering in silence, going surely insane

The impact is like a nuclear explosion
Metal disintegrates, body parts strewn
One hundred souls begin their next excursion
A leap of faith, hoping heaven’s no illusion

Flight 82 lies crumbling in its grave
The once intense fire, peetering out
Poor old bird, not a one could it save
It failed in its purpose as a human slave.


Long Poems