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Long Voyage Poems | Long Voyage Poetry

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

See also: Famous Long Poems

Long Poems
Long poem by ravin Gupta | Details |

My Princess Of Imagination

                                        MY PRINCESS OF IMAGINATION
                                       -----------------------------
                                       -----------------------------

You are an empress of Heaven who descended on earth
A dear angel of God has taken birth

Your presence brings an awesome fragrance of joy
You are more beautiful than the Helen Of Troy

You resemble a symbol of peace, calmness, wonder and cheer
Like numerous scented flowers engulfed the entire atmosphere

Your presence enthralls the atmosphere with such an ardent passion
Flowers bloom, birds sing, oceans roar, Heaven rejoices in a supernatural fashion

Being a stranger but yet so familiar is an experience of mystery
I wanna be with your present, wanna be with the dreams of your future but never become your past history

I know nothing of you... but your life is a holy book written so well
Synonymous in nature to a religious novel

Every word of which would be so pious and divine
Their utterance will strengthen my soul and make it purely refined

And every word of which I wish you would share with me
And I would keep on listening with extreme curiosity

Hope this book of your life is so lengthy never ending and complicated
That while explaining me with clarity, your entire life is dedicated
Going through your inspiring life will make my mind so captivated
That in things of the world my attention will be never diverted

I would sync deep into your thoughts dreams and emotions
Explore your life like navigating through the depth of mighty oceans
The facts of your life will be as delightful as your nature
Synonymous in experience with a lifetime adventure 
                          to be remembered forever

I wish I was a memorable entity always alive in the vicinity of your thought
Some one who gifted u a special feeling which is beyond the scope of being bought
Spiritual connection with you is magical pleasure. My soul rejuvenates a lot

Your life is extraordinary, it is an eternal bliss
Similar to such a wonderful voyage, the bitter past I shall never reminisce 

Your soul resembles heaven's beauty filled with an angel's grace
I wish to find rest and comfort in such a sacred place

Worldly creatures are mesmerized by your supreme fragrance of serenity
The peace u provide, the calmness u bring resembles an heavenly entity
Synonymous to a medical replenishment of decaying souls to repair all their defects
Such that all disturbance, grief and sorrow are conquered and lose their effects

By the holiness of your spirit every evil existence shall perish
This divine revolution will leave behind only sweet remains to cherish
You bring forth the delight of eternity, a heavenly aura and shine
Which enlightens, encourages depressed souls, their lives renewed and new hopes defined

The everlasting impact of your presence inspires me to build an immortal attachment
And reside under your shadow which symbolizes an abode of holy settlement

I observe a pattern of silence in your behavior
I am unsure if this is part of your natural gesture
What is the reason for this sense of melancholy strain?
May be there is some trauma which brings you pain
Some moments of life you spend in mere solitude
What made u acquire such a lonely attitude?

I pray in your life there must not be any sorrow
Even if there is, I would willfully like to borrow
Any cloud of darkness over your life is beyond my tolerance
No power can besiege your holy throne of reverence

Alas and at last, there is something to say
I am striving with a pathetic feeling of dismay
Why I am so helpless that can not talk to you
Why are you a stranger? Am I some one so new?
Albeit a stranger, why I feel myself so close to you

Its my dream to talk to you for indefinite moments 
To disturb this peaceful conversation, i would'nt prefer ugly opponents

The passion of my imagination is beautiful far beyond the facts of reality
Where in I understand your holy life book in the sacred place with sanctity

I believe you live on earth but exist in the wonders of heaven
Alas your presence in my life may be something I am against hope hopen

Wish for an opportunity to express myself to you
Seems an awkward desire as u consider me so new

In the vision of my imagination, I will always find you near
Your divine presence eliminates any syndrome of fear
And I promise to cherish your presence in my memories till my days are over

I recognize your adorable nature rather than your beautiful look
I already defined you Synonymous to a precious holy book

Wish these feelings on your mind will have a profound impact
Finding acceptance in your life is still an unknown fact
Unknown is whether I bear that supreme fortune to experience your acceptance
Or Else you would consider me unimportant and indulge me in repentance

Wishing you all the best in your future endeavors
To honour my thoughts, please do me some small favours

Give me a true promise that you will forget me never
Request you to cherish these thoughts in your memory with pleasure
And edify yourself as heavenly princess as you are an eternal treasure

Thank You


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

Words The ship Melanie Dear Melanie Troubled Times LossTouch

Words
The ship

Words come to me like spring. 
They set free, they shed the shroud, 
open with all their glory, beauty and sing. 
They stand tall, they ring out loud, 
from a life that blossoms with life’s renewal, 
with its continuation and the energy it will fuel,
taking all living things, from their creation 
to exotic places, the place of their final destination 
and that of their destiny. 
And destiny for you and me.

Words are my stairway towards the breasts 
of heaven, its waiting arms and its protective nests, 
where there is nothing that harms 
- as one snuggles in its enfolding arms -
one on his journey down long winding roads
he has to travel with such heavy loads.

Words are the steps I have climbed, they take me 
on adventures – and many, they have been – to see 
me through the doors, ( doors of perception ) of my mind,
those places, where it is, I spend most of my time. 
These pathways I have chosen to embark upon,
seem to linger on, and on, and on 
through to the subconscious that doth confirm,  
to consciousness, the light and I do learn 
from the words, the life, the thought
flowing like meandering streams, into raging rivers,
rivers into seas, into oceans and ought 
to take flight, light up the livers 
of life on their voyage towards heaven above 
where all might be pure love 
for a soul and for that soul to know
what is unknowable to conscious man, what doesn’t show, 
of what is not known to life, in its everyday living.

Words, for me, are knowledge, are for wisdom, for giving 
to all of whom want to know for all those who want to grow. 

B. J. “A” 2
March 21st 2002

Melanie, Dear Melanie !!!

My heart, Melanie, is aching.
My heart, Melanie, is braking 
from the attitudes that never seems to cease. 
They just seem – to me that is – to ever increase,
taking you ever deeper and deeper into ?, and further away
from who you are – what I feel and what I pray, 
is not where you are at and what you are heading for. 
It seems that there are few days left ?, before you are out the door. 

B. J. “A” 2
March 21st  2002

Troubled Times 

My hours tremble, they shake in their passing.
The minutes I live, are pressing, they are oppressing, 
for the thunder that rages, that is your presence, 
I have no safe haven, no shelter, I have no defence.
To become completely silent ?, never to sing out,
to ring the bell that tolls of your life, turned about
expressed  with anger, in the hostile words you shout 
at me, words that let me see into, know something is amiss 
in our little world, that once tasted the sweetness of bliss, 
but now, has been destroyed, taken away !,
by what ?, by whom ?, who has lead you astray.

B. J. “A” 2
March 21st  2002

Loss

I have felt, for some time, and do feel the light 
within you flicker, yet does not quite burn bright 
for long, but one day, may just take flight 
on your butter fly wings, not dried or out of sight 
and carry you passed all in life – BAD – you tried, in darkest of night..

B. J. “A” 2
March 21st  2002

Touch

I have reached out !, I have tried to touch you Melanie !, 
but have found, not but vapour, mist in my hands, 
passing air, on the run, to an uncharted, unknown sea, 
to far off, barren, dusty,  desert lands.
I offer you, - my Daughter, my Child, - my time, my ear. 
I would like to know, to understand, to listen, I want to hear, 
but silence is all that comes to me, upon the turbulent wind, 
on the run, in the air, stilled by this horrendous sin.

B. J. “A ” 2
March 21st  2002

The Fall

Melanie, !!!, your fall, I find hard to conceive. 
It is a picture, a movie that I do not want to believe, 
yet it is all around me, but if I would perceive.

B. J. “A ” 2
March 21st  2002

A black hole

My life is caught up in this vortex called living. 
This whirl pool, called life, sucks me in,
 spins me round and around, giving 
nothing, just drawing me ever downward, in,
 into this it’s empty black hole, pierced by it’s swards,
laying my heart wide open, bleeding on my thoughts, my words. 

B. J. “A ” 2 
March 21st 2002

Veiled sight

My eyes flow, they swell with red 
rivers, in vain as painful waves 
of tears, tears full of fears fill my head
as the pain, from within, fills the caves, 
the hollows, the shelters in my mind, never put to bed

B. J. “A ” 2 
March 21st 2002

Much to much time !!! 

It seemed that I had too much time on my hands to reflect,
Too much time on my hands to project
to much time on my hands to infect
my days, my nights with what I did suspect,
and now the years have slipped by like lightening,
and all that once was frightening
has, with the passing of time, become clear
as time has shown, elevating all that I did  fear.

B. J. “A ” 2 
October 12th  2013


Long poem by Sergio Silveira | Details |

The Volunteer, A Poem Inspired by HRH Prince George of Cambridge

'We have a future king to make,'
Said the deep, resounding voice.
'But it is not a proper fit for everyone.
For a king must know first how to obey than to command,
And to abide rather than reign.'

'And thus, I need a volunteer.'

The eager little voices swiftly gathered ‘round.
'To have a throne and my own crown,' said a little voice with delight. 
'A great palace for my home,' cried another, 'or a castle with tall ramparts.'
'I’d be above all others,' said yet another, 'that would surely ease one’s comparing mind;'
'And best of all, to be revered by everyone and through all time!'   

'Don’t fool yourselves with thrones and crowns,' said a little voice from the side,
'Do not haste into a choice you may regret for all your life!
I’d rather risk oblivion and even want, but be free to choose my fate,
What is precious life for but to discover one’s gift and thirst?
You take that crown and throne, and you forever renounce the greatest prize you own!'

There were no volunteers at hand for that grand, distinguished life.
The once lively little voices now stood silent, with cautious glances in their eyes.
Yet they began to move a little, but not to volunteer their fates; 
Someone was slowly coming forward all the way from far behind. 
Soon, one single little voice stood ahead of all the others, and with a thoughtful stare, it spoke:

'I overheard a story once
Of a vast and balmy river 
That braves across cold, stormy seas
So it can meet a fabled shore
And become one with it.

'Wearied from its long voyage, 
It crashes beneath the sheer cliffs.
And as its froth caresses the jagged rocks,
It echoes the green, velvety meadows above
Which gently cuddle the harsh precipice. 

'The wee, babe-in-arms coming king 
Will hold that fabled shore in him.
For he, though one sole man
Will stand for an entire land.
And in choosing this destiny
Of that fabled shore I also shall be,
For it will be a part of me, 
And I, humbly, of it.

'And then, there is the brave lad who in sheer fright,
Gathered all his nerve and leaped into the dark night
Over the unknown enemy’s laird.
Oh, how I would leap into the dark along with thee!
Though he is now long gone, he will live in me,
And I, humbly, in him.

'And the family who huddled deep beneath the ground
Through the terrifying shudder of the enemy’s raging rounds. 
Then, to rise again, and not concede.
I was in that shelter along with them,
And so were a million others who were yet to be!

'Such as the young boy now walking to school on a quiet country lane,
To learn his Scott, his Shakespeare, his Milton, and his Keats.
I will follow him close behind, and my own feet shall grow within his footprints.
It takes no less than each of them to make a king, 
And not more than lacking one to lessen him.
For a king, though one sole self, stands for all, 
And all do stand for him.

'I know that in choosing this path, 
I’ll forever relinquish command of my compass, 
And may never find out what I could’ve become on my own, 
Or what my true talent may be.
I will follow, instead, a course that has long been set,
By others, and not by me.

'But I have a strong hunch 
That if I don’t put myself first,
Or what I feel I’m entitled to do and to have,
And choose, instead, to be fair, as best as I possibly can, 
To those for whom I’ll be honored to stand,
I’ll eventually know who I really am; 
And will meet, one day, the man I am meant to become.'

'Thus, I volunteer 
To be the child who’s one day to be king.'

A newborn day blazed in the distance,
And a transformation was about to take place, 
As momentous as the invasion of spring,
The rising of the harvest, or a mighty winter gale.
Nearly two thousand babies were coming to life on that land, 
From that land, to that land, for that land, 
And a single one amongst them exalted all. 

Half a world away, a vast and balmy river 
Was setting out on its long voyage to a fabled shore,
And nearby, radiant sunlight battled gray, stormy clouds,
So as to break through and paint in brilliant and broad brushstrokes
The lofty Highlands below,
And thus, be reborn as shimmering glens and moors.


Long poem by T Wignesan | Details |

Metaphor of outrage, Translation of Carlos Bousono's poem: Metafora del desafuero

Metaphor of outrage, Translation of Carlos Bousono’s poem : Metafora del desafuero

			                    ( In celebration of a birthday)
           for Andrés Amoros

Having been outside of you, yourself, dizzying voyage 
         and then
the quiet, beggar
of your conscience, hermit
in the desert of your inaction, believing
only in the cactus/thistle, in the excessive stone,
without a hole from which to drink, without food, without bread,
miserable and without grove
like a boat struck by tempest
but a tempest not particularly disruptive, without the grandeur
of this sum of experience
in a sea, now, later, monotonous, without end, monochromic,
	with greying water,
or, better still, without it, sailing on it in its non-colour,
sailing in the not-water, with continuity in the never-monotony,
or in the midst of ruins after an earth-quake
	that leaves everthing low,
rather in a place where there was no house nor where they put up 
monuments,
neither was the floor split open, nor were there cracks,
there, exiled, without the remembrance of a lost country,
dumb, without the notion of a language ido*
all the shine shorn off, all persuation, all complaint,
irremediably left alone, but without solitude,
yet you hadn’t any memory of any earlier companionship,
there, where no form of evocation could touch you,
even if to accomplish this, you had to be precise with the previous
	declaration ;
there, there you were with your back to your own being,
without seeing, without seeing yourself,
even if sometimes the opposite took place and you began to think with
	great clear-sightedness
who knows if for his (sic) condition, that is, principally,
your knee,
which happened, during this period, to occupy
the totality of your attentions and which grew (perceived then as of 	
a short distance) with it,
your enormous knee, your extraordinary foot, your great foot,
stepping on the treeless plain with resonance,
	in a clatter like the rattle of a tambourine,
your gigantic foot,
your treacherous leg, rotund, which grew longer, alone and 
autonomous, to a point where nobody could ever reach it,
and after that, but only afterwards,
your entire body made up of indeterminate materal, of noise, such 
that your skeleton without peer,
your terrible skeleton, advancing with great strides
towards no one, towards nothing,
because later
everything of a sudden began to diminish in size and returned little 
by little to its initial state,
and every part of your body began, by slow degrees – yes, this – to 
absent itself :
first the flesh and the skin disappeared, and then your erect sex : 
	impenitent, the object of ridicule,
even if the nails continued with indifference to grow,
attentive exclusively to its pre-occupation with its strange sense
	of avariciousness in an effort to acquire much more :
the hair, the beard, without paying any attention to how 
parsimoniously it proceeded,
but, following which, that in itself, subjected to such a state of 
enrapture, obliterated itself, and arrived punctually on the
generalization of the scrupulous duty to obedience,
which is to disengage itself, in all precision, without any exception
	whatsoever, nor leaving even an iota of dust on the polished 
surface of the piece of furniture,
disorder,
the chaos of not being seen, the scandal of invisibility, of confusion,
there, on the obverse side of truth, on the other side of lying
on the frontier which it was deemed not worthy of being demarcated,
this area without topography where truth and lies appeared 
intermingled
as the self-same answer to the question that you didn’t pose.
Oh ! Beggar of your conscience ! Oh ! Scrutinisor !
	Oh ! finicky Explorer !
Oh ! Celebrator of the unfortunate ! 

* Ido, cf. Idus, meaning the « Ides » of March, etc., in English. I don’t quite know. Could the poet be so kind as to enlighten us ?

© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2013


Long poem by Robert Mayy | Details |

Drifting on a Cloud

Drifting on the clouds I lie
With my head pointing
To yonder skies
In a sea of dreams 
 Where mind and spirit 
Igniting natures prize
To feel like you are heaven bound 
But feet standing firmly
 On hallowed ground
But in the clouds you drift
As the cascade shifts
Your feet no longer touching
The ground

A lift off to a peaceful place
an Ease from  pain
Heading to heaven
On the now train
No heading back
 
Settling in  your own time
Welcoming  rain
An escape
For the things that beset us
Riding our backs
Painting the surfaces
Filling the cracks
No longer weary
Nor hearing sounds
 of hungry cries
Heading to glory
With the echoing of lullabies
Off on a voyage
With an opt out clause
Given by nature
When we stop and pause
Discarding distress,
And inflicted pains, 
Looking for a redress
With  sweet Refrains
 eyes wide opened 
To a beauty and a guile 
Painted by nature
By the clouds on high
So I decided
 to pause for a little while
 
Taking nature in my stride
Story’s written
 in the clouds
artist at play
Mixing the co lours
Painting a picture
Inviting a crowd
Having her say
Without uttering a word
How the lines are drawn
The bold highlights, 
And intricate designs
Nature’s Way 

In shades of grey and pastel blue
With the turquoise borders
Depths of indigo 
How can I not be taken in
Blending with unison
Of a presence and a place
Is it not inspiration?
That brought me here 
My resting place!
That there is peace and harmony
In  yonder skies
 
Wrapped in a woolen shroud,
Floating on high
As on a cloud I now reside
Homeward bound 
While in the depth 
Of an azure sea,
over yonder a tide does wake
Surging to inner shore
A surfers dream
 
Riding its waves
Horizontally, I must glide
To cross over in spirit of the other side
I am at a time and place
Where though imagery 
we can foretaste
Although somewhere different
in time and space 
It must be like being in heaven ,
when nature take its place
At the cent re of the stage
 revealing its beauty
 

So humble yet so almighty
There is complexity in every art
the very corners and intricate parts
Inviting the  eye
Taking time out on a page
Syncing with beauty
 Looking from  the sky
Floating on high
In a woolen casket
 Weightlessly 
Drifting on by
I am in no race
Just run life’s race
Off on another journey
A different time and a different place
 

An escape from the rat race
To find a new place
Full of joy and grace
That I would always be floating
from the skies 
While the north east trades go wonder
Pushing on by 
to open the seven seals
blessing my eyes
See what picture is painted
And the wisdom that it derived
In secrets of the wise
Recovering lost virtues
From failure to realize

Imbalance of the senses one cannot deny
But to approach beauty you have to switch off others 
for another to come alive 
Its not faking reality
But letting spirituality in
To be sublime but not yet ridiculous
But moving to another realm
Enjoying earthly blessings
While wishing changes in


Long poem by arthur vaso | Details |

A Fairy Tale

In a land, far away, once upon a time
An ancient place, deep in mystical forests
There lived a sickly old man
The years had passed and he was but an empty shell

Even he had no memories of who he used to be
But now, in the forest, he breathed his bitterness
A small barren one room cabin
His only possession, his grumpy voice

The town, further down the hill
Was to be his only detested outing
Each month the voyage,  a barter for rations
Chopped wood, for his meager means

The children would taunt and tease
This smelly aberration to their playful days
And toss pebbles and stones
What do you mutter, you ragged old man?

He pictured them in a pot of stew
Yet no smile would he spend even on this thought
And off he went back up the hill, his bitterness too
The echo’s of laughing children, now but a distant taunt

He grew older, as did his bitterness
Year by year, and like a curse he lived
Certainly not of his choosing
Almost not hearing the village sneers

One day the men elders where called away
Kings declare wars, but it’s the villagers who do battle
Times became dark, who lived who died, no one was sure
The village children wept for their fathers

The old mans monthly pilgrimage to the village
Was met with sad infant stares
His mutterings now no concern of theirs
When off in the distance, beating drums and horses hooves

Soldiers of terror, pillaged and burned
The fires and haze, arrows and swords
The villagers ran in into the forests deep
Save for some of the children, confused and dazed

The old man stood in the midst of it all
And fearing nothing, his soul long dead
The children behind him, with fear and dread
He lifted a fallen sword and felled a horsemen 

The a second, a third, in vengeance did come
And he felled them too, no fear in his eyes
The others retreated, their loot in tow
Only the angel of death, left with the wind

The old man, fell to the ground
Surrounded by children, staring in shock
They carried him home, his frown, and all
And stoked his fire, and laid him to rest

When he woke the next morning
All the children were there
With smiles, be dammed, what did he care?
They chattered and praises his heroic acts

They truly saw, the beauty hidden so deep
This old man saved them, his bravery noble
His silence, and rudeness, they ignored it all
And a little boy, with wonder, said thank you grumpy

Well, against his will, a smile did appear
This little one, taken so, thought him so dear
And day by day, the children returned
And he told them stories he had long forgotten

In the forest, up in the trees
Two angel fairies, where singing in the breeze
Looking down and over the cabin
And filled with joy, for an old soul was revived

The old man, spent his days, telling stories and teaching
The children learned the ways of their past
And the old man, who once was dead
Now knew the meaning of all life ahead

The village rebuilt and returned to routine
Honored the old man, once unwashed and unseen
The children grew older, the old man passed on
And now he sits in a tree and sings in the breeze


Long poem by Sam Raj | Details |

Agony And Ecstasy Of Doubt

Doubt is anonymous.
It's (more) synonymous,
to the fairer sex.
It's a, in built feature,
of possessiveness.
A default setting,
of mother nature.
Selfish at times,
devoid of broader vision.

Natural defense mechanism;
that activates when love
is not reciprocated.
Just a shadow of affection,
towards another.
Can cast aspirations,
of doubt in the mind.

Seizing, the moment;
of weakness.
Mr. Jealousy, smoothly;
Waltz into her heart.
For nature has cast;
him as a villain,
in life's play.

Bestowed, with the dubious,
gift of 'conviction'.
He plants the seed,
of doubt in her heart.
Tormenting her night and day.

She's just humane.
Blessed, as such,
to be the fairer sex.
Her heart just crumbles.
She starts hearing,
music in her ear.

The rythym of blues,
That's so hauntingly addictive.
Takes her to desolate places.
Insecurity takes her toll.
And plays mind games with her.
Mirages, take control,
of doubting mind.

She is losing her grip,
on the railing of her trust.
From where, she was hanging.
Having slipped, from the deck,
of the sinking ship, of hope.
As her grip loosens,
her mind abandons her.
Slowly; but surely,
she's slipping into the dark,
unfathomable abyss.

And as she slips into void.
She reminiscence.
Wonderful days of her life:

On a cruise ship,
she was sailing.
A voyage so alluring,
happiness and joy,
her constant company.
She blissfully,
slept the nights away.
Dreaming about,
the wonderful days ahead.
A life, filled with unending;
love, with her chosen one.

Her love was waiting,
for her with open arms:
on a sandy shore.
Cupid's arrows spring fourth,
and strike the target with precision.
Venus she quivers, with jealousy.
Erotica spreads her wings,
and soars into the winds.
And sprinkles
her stardust in the sky.

Her heart would tingle.
She'll feel weak in her limbs.
Her whole body will shudder.
A symphony in agony and ecstasy.
Garnished with a dash of love.
Drizzle of sex and little sprinkle of lust .
And little twist of sweetness from the lips.
Enchanting life with immortality.

That's bliss so sublime.
That Picasso's colours,
have lost their hues.
And Beethoven's,
music sounds off tune.

She feels the rapid beating,
of her gentle heart,.
the heaving of her soft breast.
And the pounding of his chest,
against her breast.

Her ecstasy reaches the crescendo,
And plummets back to the ground.
As the rippled, sensation generated;
in her loins, subside in concentric waves.
She completely encapsulated,
with unyielding love.
Where there is no time or space.
Emancipation from the Mortal kind.

Manna from the heaven above.
The gift ordained,
by the wonderful,
handiwork, of the Creator.
The, only physical thing that exists,
free of any encumbrance.
So spiritual, it cannot be experienced,
without passion.

They lie in each other arms,
Savouring extreme rapture,
Of the ecstasy.
Devoid of expectations,
of any kind.
Just a prologue,
to procreation,
epilogue to life.


Long poem by Peter Dorr | Details |

Open Closed

                           
                                  Open Closed





Open letter addressed by me to myself as as though I am in any way complicit in my third time failure; entering what is becoming an annual crop failure in the beautiful place where I was ugly born; where the judge year after year looks red rock faced with rage, or with tears streaming down their cheeks with incredulity at my wide off the mark poesy. My crop this year was two haikus short on which reasonable people (whoever they are) would love to quaff while the other, long lines, (just within the limits) as though I, a Camusian existentialist, had counted, discounted again, and again, until the dizziness of decision made me yelp, "yeah! it does me proud oh judge". 'Perception is All' as it foxily upsets our stall. In our life expressed for truth it is hard to tell even if quarried deep for it is still queried deep. Shallow or short 'Truth is not open to all' but is seen as so precious as to be hermentic, sealed, so only the few, only the right-on literati can judge.
Never mind! This old comforter raises one's eyes from the list of winners - one, two, three; 'Highly Commended' too; the sentence embossed by one's writing on the envelope, for the arena of the sky backdrops the shushing green yellow tree leaves and slowing turning gold beach hedge that the red hot copper has so speedily, successfully infiltrated. As the Constable clouds stately sail by on their voyage eastwards there is always next year, an easier open, or my very own closed, competition - even then not winning! All this is small beer compared to the rum of worldly strife, the champagne of celebrity, the vin ordinaire of the good, the bitter of labour, and our sometimes burgundy blessed days. Peter Dorr 25th. October 2011


Long poem by Johnny Sumler | Details |

A Mutiny on the Bounty

It was a sight that I could not forsee
Ambushed by my own men at morning hour
Hands tight with cord and naked from the waist
A mean air on the Bounty blew unkind
It was the troubled wind of mutiny
My men, whose morals all have been erased
Once officers, now Pirates inward-out
Reached for the Bounty as a gang of thieves
Abused and overturned by thine own dogs
If only that thy men were proud Marines

His Majesties Ship was all but a voyage
To Tahiti where the breadfruit lay
Our mission was to gather in abundance
Thy fruit as diet for the English slaves
Yet as for fruit, my men did taste the women
How beautiful the native women were
In all compare, the beauty of a Goddess
From skin to tone one also could compare
Her beauty to her Island, a paradise
'Twas something in the air of that fine land
That made savages of my poor pale men

With every fruit aboard the ship to sea
But of themselves, themselves rather not leave
Yet off we sailed, and carelesness carressed
Uncomfort in the head and shoulders of men

Which are ye stubborn fools, cowards or clowns?
Yes from my tongue my words did lash a whip
Upon scoundrels of little self-esteem
Art thy mind but a pyramid of mold?
Again, to officers I raised the question
Are ye capable of morality?
What ounce of Navy blood dost ye concur?
Must curiosity outweigh thy wit?
Where art thou mothers breast, you babe of fools?
Ye brains, the size of grapes and tasteless wine
It seems to me thou intellect is ill

Not once did I not discipline untruth
To say my words of truth, an sharp-edged sword
Did strike my men again, again, and again
Without truth we are fools and prisoners
Compared to other Captains, I was mild
For these men did not realize in themselves
Their duties, yet beguiled by their desires

'Twas like a clockwork orange of secrecy
A little rum and brand of mutiny
That caused this plan of treason to incur
And in my cabin did my rascals storm
Seizing that I may not utter a sound
Forcing me on to deck, my mutineers
This officer Pirate scorn, Fletcher Christian
Whose own words..."I'm in hell, I am in hell"
Now forcing me onto the Bounties launch
A twenty-three foot boat, in seconds 'twas
Overloaded with eighteen loyal men
Against the waves that wanted us to drown
And many storms whose plans were our demise
Against all odds, an underprovisioned boat
Beyond the verge of probability
Unsound skiff through such dangerous a sea
A subsequent quest three thousand miles and more
Did I return unto the English shores
To thine Judges, is court martial the question?
Do pardon me for thine loss of the Bounty


Long poem by Nicole Sharon Brown | Details |

For The Just

What the sinner man,

Thinks he has sowed,

Up. God really has it,

Laid up for the just.

So don't hate when,

The sinner man has,

Coins that are fake.

God can put that on,

Your plate and it totally,

Does not deal with fate,

It deals with faith. "Faith

Comes by hearing, and

Hearing by the word,

Of God", the Bible states

In Romans 10:17. Don't

Hate on the sinner man's

Coins. Have faith that

God will give you your

Own and keep sowing

Seeds, doing good deeds,

And be happy with what

You need. He'll then give

You what you want when

He trusts you. The more

You trust Him, He trusts

You. He wants us to

Strive harder and harder

To be just. In other words,

He wants us to live righteous.

You know to walk the straight

And narrow. He wants to

Be in your heart and reading

The Bible and applying the

Knowledge is a great smart.

You can be street smart,

Have coins and don't get

That far. You can be book

Smart, go to college,

Have knowledge and

Never really take a voyage.

You can have the knowledge

Of God's Word  and,

No application and still

Drama chasing and facing,

Or you can have the knowledge

Of God's Word along with

Application, Strive to

Live right, Meditate on

God's Word day and night,

 Face the drama,and the

Battles let the Lord fight.

Increase faith from day

To day. Labor for the

Lord with or without pay

While your life has day,

And the wealth that,

The sinner man is ,

Still laid up for the,

Just. God gives it,

To you because,

You chose to live,

The life that's true.

Satan in the sinner's

Mind tells him that

The way is what's up

Because he got all

Of this material stuff.

Indeed the word of

God, says it's not

What's up because

To get that stuff

In God He did not

Trust. He or she

May have in the

Beginning and

May have backslidden.

Some may have always

Been bed ridden in sin

And never really let

God in. Just because

You don't have coins

Now. Don't think you'll

Ever have it. "The earth

Is the Lord's and the

fullness thereof and

Those who dwell therin."

God will give you what

He wants you to have

Especially if you stand

Firm not to live in sin.

 
1-5-11

A good man leaves an inheritance to his children's children: and the wealth of the 
sinner is laid up for the just. Proverbs 13:22

So then faith comes by hearing, and hearing by the word of God. Romans 10:17


Long Poems