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Long poem by Dorian Petersen Potter | Details |

The Book



Shhh...Be quiet! please...or you'll wake up everybody... Did you see what that young man did all this evening at the table while taking some of his notes? Yes, sure we did, and so what? a "Poetry for a Lifetime" replied quietly. After all, we are all books and we are very important to mankind, everywhere.Yes, we are all very important, no matter who we are. Yes, but did you see, that he was only going through those old, dog-eared magazines, that are piled at that left corner table? I am telling you that most people are just browsing through all those computers.I think that they're kind of forgetting about us.I know I should be happy to take this dream vacation.No more prying eyes and hands touching and knowing my most privete thoughts.I should be in heaven! The Gone with the wind" book, just frowned and started laughing.Look at me and remember my lines. Tomorrow is another day! You should all be quiet, and go to sleep! Merrily a voice said in a whimsical manner.Everybody looked up at one of the highest shelves, where the voice seemed to have sounded from. Yes, it is me, you knuckles heads! A "Grim"s Complete Fairy Tales Volume" book, spoke in a playful tone.He opened up one of his pages and showed one of his most beloved fairie tales. Come all over here and pay me a visit.Which one you would wanted me to read you tonight? What about me reading you, Little Red Riding Hood or perhaps you would prefer, The Sleeping Beauty" I am just telling you that I am a very important book indeed.All my stories make children all over the world very happy and parents love me since they find my services more than welcome every night at bedtime.I am very important, yes, Sireeeee.And aaying all this,he chuckled with a most contented sight of relief in his very merry and child-like voice of his. The rest of all the books just fell silent for a moment.A "Pride and Prejudice" snorted loudly all of sudden, and retorted in his very conceited and masterful voice.Well, they all say that, they all think that they're important.One of my sisters " Wuthering Heights" thinks the same too, I am telling you.She's always scoffing me and thinking that she's better than me.But I tell her that she's wrong,because I am better than she is.That's for sure.I am a much better classical read than most of you here, just laying around gathering dust. Wait a minute, hold it right there! A very thunderous voice just said that.Everybody book shuddered at the sound of that very ntimidated voice.I am very old, and I am very important too.I am much older than many of you, just gossiping around, wasting your time and mine.I can't fall sleep with all the racket you're making down here.Can you have some consideration for the ones that need a little more sleep everyday? A " Tale of Two Cities" volume, took a royal bow to everybody around, while paced back and forth in his most comfortable upper shelf.I am a very important book too.Iam considered a classical among book readers all over the world.So now please go to sleep! and let's end all this nonsense about who's more important or not.Saying this, he yawned so loudly, that he woke up some of his other books that were before dozing in either side of his shelf. Who dare to do this and woke me up like this in such a rudely manner? A " Cronicles of Narnia" volume in a roaring voice moaned.How dared you to to do this and believe that you are more important than me.Well, let me tell you, mister, than you're not and never will, more important than me".A tale of Two Cities", let me tell you, that "Romeo and Juliet" think the same, and are spitting mad about your delussion of grandeur and self- pride.You know you got a coming anyway, even "Hamlet" thinks that is better than you are.Take that for a change! Now saying that, I can go back to sleep now.I bid you all good-night ladies and gentlemen! I don't really care, if you are young or very old, perhaps you may be older and more experienced than me, in many ways, but still I believe I am the most important of all the books in this library, and elsewhere in the world too.A very comanding voice, and full of authority said.Everybody turned around to see the "Half Blooded Prince" lifting one of his fingers in self- importantance, and saying "I am the most important book in the world and all my brothers are too.Look up my ratings and my movies too.Everybody wants to know about me, from beggining to end.Everybody wants to read me and know all my most hidden secrets in every chapter I have and possessed.So you see, people of all ages like me a lot and bring me to their homes.So that settles everything now, be quiet and go to sleep and stop all your shouting and whispering about.I am the most important book ever! Is that understood? I guess it is... Not so fast, you fat head! I am the most important, not you.No way! it can be you.I am the most important book in the whole wide world.I am the "Lord of the Rings" and I am very full of adventures,wars, death,heroism,magic,betrayals, self-sacrifice, love, and mistery too.I am the one that saves mankind and the whole world from darkness in the end.Remember that! One of my greatest citezens saves the world.His name is Frodo and is a Hobbit.So you see, I am the greatest among all the greatest here in this whole library and all the libraries in the whole wide world. So, please, go to sleep now! I see you tomorrow, my brothers and sisters.Saying that "The Lord Of The Rings" closed all his pages quietly and with a big smile went to sleep. Meanwhile in one of the main upper shelves in the library, a very old and worn out "Holy Bible" just chuckled softly under his breath... Dorian Petersen Potter aka ladydp2000 copyright@2001-20005 09.18.2014


Long poem by Cyndi MacMillan | Details |

SYLVIA

                         
                           It is a terrible thing
                           To be so open: it is as if my heart
                           Put on a face and walked into the world.


                                          Sylvia Plath, Three Women, 1962



_________________________________



SYLVIA

Sylvia, ever lucent, ever opaque,
an incongruity, a clever imbalance               
that spins collections her hounds facilitate.  
Failures and fractures she bravely lanced
with noncompliance. Reader, rebuff collars
labeled as forewords, smug introductions, 
for Plath’s voice is tenfold more a scholar 
than those receiving undue benedictions.    
Lofty beggars seek to bookend her words
and that empty space she instinctively refills
with her universe, a mayhem that girds,
unapologetic. Mirror images spill
over margins, searching for identity,
negating preamble, snubbing apathy.   

Negating preamble, snubbing apathy
with language that flickers, catches, combusts,
her volumes of wicks, her lit soliloquies,   
glint behind the stained-glass of trust.
There are those who are not really here,
they wander fault lines then crisscross chasms,
lost pilgrims who easily commandeer
unwary emotions. Some hearts just spasm,                         
pulled by their own nature, their delicacy,
for poetry is a weakness; poets die
between verses. Odes can become elegies.
The thin-skinned hear a snared rabbit cry,
and pray for the moonflower, always closing,
while cursing that page, unmoved and dozing.

While cursing that page, unmoved and dozing,
she corners rigid guides, keeps fingers poised,
synchronicity goes, the flow of typing
disappears, mislaid, that perfect noise
of a carriage return, a sound exclamation.
Joy is inspiration making its way home,
her Olivetti forages like a raven,
gifting found nouns, verbs that glare like chrome,
but love still flits, turns from hoarse requests,
and she longs for more than any man can give
for what snags worn ribbons will not rest,
it emits a strong beat, throbs as it loves.
Bless the bitter of life, all wisdom owing,
curse the open heart, its shadows showing.
  

Curse the open heart, its shadows showing,
for worldly delights take full advantage
of the wounded, their brokenness growing.
Everyday beauty wrings arteries, dredges
chambers with barbs, a prompt disobedient.
Fact, there’s no folder large enough to hold 
elation’s girth, no ink conveniently
on hand to black out depression. So, scold
the yew, its roots and branches reaching,
then poke at petals for being complacent, 
when all the while a candle is preaching
of give and take, surrender, luminance,
So, carefully archive apprehension,
revealing blue veins to tender lesions.

Revealing blue veins to tender lesions
requires much more than a room of one's own,
hours do dissolve, days lack cohesion 
when milk sours and tantrums are thrown.
Solitude is in short supply, loneliness,
however, is overstocked; her mind tugs      
at busy hands for attention, such darkness
contrasts to jammy smiles and sleepy hugs.
Elusive titles whimper each morning,
and short stanzas steep, so desperately,
all the while a manuscript is scorning
her swipes at dry crumbs, cold pots of tea.
A life sheds its months, gallows take delight
as sundials atrophy in the arms of night. 

As sundials atrophy in the arms of night. 
the moon blanches tidepools, suckles sand,
even the face of the clock is pulled too tight
and the new calendar can not understand
that writing is sex, is fresh bread, is air,
that time is a brute, quick fisted, rough,
that weeks come and go without a care
that a marriage vow is never enough
to mend adoration, repossess bliss.  
Words make better lovers, rarely stray,
upon her lips, the impression of a kiss
feels as cold as sheets then melts away.
Paper sops afterbirth, accepts her all:
fossil and seed, shackles and free falls.


Fossil and seed, shackles and free falls,
unlocking visions, defying any cage, 
art resists validity, upsets stone walls  
to scale the scarlet heights of a rampage,
to breach the barricades to euphoria.
She excavates id, bares teeth at ego, 
plays the parts of illusion and phobia
then infuses rhyme with soft indigo. 
Colossus begins to shrivel as Ariel
unmans him, riding hard upon metaphors,
and will remain strong, constant, ethereal. 
but curtailed are epics that still implore  
like the cusp of dream long after you wake

Sylvia, ever lucent, ever opaque.









 

 
* For Craig Cornish, whose contest inspired this piece. Thank you, Daddy-O. 




About this poem

This is my first crown of sonnets. It took over 25 hours to write, a full week of me-time! 

These are modern sonnets and the syllable count is extremely loose, intentionally, as it would seem odd to keep things too tight when writing of Sylvia. If anything, I regret not being even looser, altering syllable counts DRAMATICALLY. Also, I used a great deal of slant rhyme for the same reason.


I really wanted to capture Sylvia Plath with this poem, and it was a real struggle. Her language is so precise, and I wanted to do her justice. I had wanted to feel, upon its completion, that Sylvia would have said, "Well, it isn't quite horrible. Not bad for a novice. And there are parts of me there, but only the smallest bits." I do not feel I did this.  I feel like I didn't even TOUCH her mastery of language. But, it is good enough for now.. one day, who knows? 

Oh, Sylvia's typewriter was a Olivetti Lettera 22. It was portable!


Long poem by betty njie | Details |

In my head

This is not a perfect story, its a feeling that i just want to share with you. I need HELP

The love i show to everyone in my surrounding, its just rediculous the way have trained myself to become or should i just say its my character thats how i am. I hate it when i cry for nothing, its just that i cant get it, do i have to be perfect to earn something in life. Am a good dancer, a good writer as well as a good person, but what have i earned in these living nothing absolutly nothig. Have plied myself to be thee who loves all and never attempt to hate any even thoes who have shown me hatred. Deep in me i feel the agony something somewhere in my daily living is not satisfied have allow my instincts to believe that its just the human strategy we are never satisfied and can never truly and pratically be satisfied, but in my case its a bit different. I miss love, looking at the whole situation properly i cant tell who loves me and who really hates me devastating anomly. The history of my life carries untold stories within its path, i dont even know who truly i am. One thing that am very sure of is that i am always there for thoes whom i feel am bound to be there for although i could be somewhere else. In tears i sometimes sit to ask why, why do i have to be these way. Am so mean to myself as the ones am so hardly trying to be a help of, at a moment i hate myself so much that i dont want to exsist anymore, i wish to be another somebody of somewhere. Just because i couldnt once make it right to the ones i feel bound to help. I am a lost soul screaming loud for attention at some point i can explode if i could, there is such much going on in my head i have issues that i want to talk about things that i just cant keep to myself. Thanks to writing i can state it down. This is a rapid that have ever since search to write about about but i  just could figure it out. I really cant tell weather my own mother loves to talk less of my dad or my boyfriend. My motto, never have up the fight for love, deep inside me am gone, empty and lost, but in my heart i know i can make things happen and watch myself work wonders i believe that. It might be hard to understand if you cant feel what am feeling in me but am completely lost. Do i even have talents? i dont know i have no idea, what i think is am just that loser that dont want to accept her destiny. There is nothing i repeat nothing in this world that cant be solved, my soul is longing for satisfaction love and nothing but the truth. The big thank you i always carry around in me goes to thee the almighty thee who created man from a thick clot of blood and gave hime life despite all what he know that would happen, who has given me the chance to live a life. Suddenly am starting to see life with a different eye than i normally used to as i am writing this,have just figured out life is me, i am my life its only me that can make myself feel just the right way i deserve to feel. Have made so many wrong dicisions, gone through so many hard ways that i could have actually safe myself from. Have given away my last penny to make another fellow feel happy and like me for thoes moments, have thrown my pride away to make a boy fall for my adventurious way, have hurt someones feeling to make another one like me, have done so many harm to myself and others. I just dont know where to head to sometimes i just feel like i should just kill myself and free my thoughts but then I always have this tiny voice in my head that always reminds me of Gods love and it works everytime, thats just what keeps me moving anytime i want to turn back. Have written a manuscript that carries living in it but its still in my laptop. At a certain point i thought putting down 28 pills in my tiny body could save by story, totally wrong thought am stronger than that.   SAVE MY STORY.

A Dream
What happens when you feel so lost, so devastated knowing that no one seems to be understanding your situation. When the whole world turns their backs on you, you feel empty, its a terrible feeling.

A Wish
Wanting to become a somebody to make a certain person in your life happy, a wish that appears not to becoming true, wanting to publish your first book at the age of 20 but you almost 20 and nothing.


Long poem by Peter Duggan | Details |

From anxiety to Joy

From anxiety to joy

Hi to all my friends
   I decided to write this story of me down, because I see so many unhappy people on this site. They make this very clear to me when I read some of their beautiful poems. I have tried telling it in verse, but now I feel it is time to write it down in prose

    When I was a child I was not happy because I had very strict parents who robbed me of all my freedom. I was a very freedom loving boy and I felt so totally restricted in a family that never could and never would understand me. There was a lot of psychological cruelty handed out to me by my Father and a hell of lot of bullying, I was subjected to by the other kids, I came from a very rough part of London called Peckham, and I was an extremely sensitive young lad.

    When I grew up I married a beautiful Australian girl named Vera who is still my beloved wife after fifty years. We immigrated to Australia, and after about three months, I decided to join the army, and I volunteered to go to Vietnam, so I could pay back the kindness that the Australians had Showed me by receiving me to their beautiful country.

     I served in Vietnam for about nine and a half months, then they decided to ship me back to Australia because of injuries and illness. when I came back my troubles all started and I developed PTSD, even though I had not really been in much danger during my days of war. I was filled with a terrible anxiety, and  was absolutely terrified of both life and death. I had these periods of deep, deep dread that completely ruled my life. I was angry most of the time, and I detested everybody I ever met with a vengeance so hard to understand

     This got worse and worse as the year proceeded, and I tried everything to control it, from counselling to reading every kind of self help books, and I read every religion, and all the stuff by so many different Spiritual teachers until I had a bookcase brim filled with all the books I had read. I tried every kind of meditation, plus yoga, Tai chi, and many other things. However, nothing worked. They helped a bit but not enough to stop the ugly terror I felt.

    Then one day I came across a man named John Sherman on the net, who has helped so many people, and thousands of people now practice what he advocates with much success.

     John told me that all I had to do was close my eyes and look at the me ness of me, it was as simple as that. At first I laughed at him with this simplistic approach to gaining back ones sanity. But I was desperate; I had walked out on my wife for a year and given everything I had away. My anger was getting worse and worse, and when I finally came back to my family, I really wasn’t worth being with. My wife tolerated me because she loved me so totally, but I could tell that I was leading her into Pyschological, of physical illness.

    So I gave John’s method a try, I meditated every day using my me ness as a meditation point. I don’t mean my thoughts or sensations, emotions or such. I mean the ‘me’ the part of me that actually runs the show. The ‘me’ that always seems hidden but is always there in the background. I noticed some changes in me very quickly, but then the progress came slower, but very steady.  Now I have been doing this for nearly five years and the difference in me is phenomenal. I am so happy now, that I could almost scream with joy. I have no more anxiety any more, and the dread that once debilitated is totally gone.

     My neurotic fear of death has faded, and although I don’t want to die, when it comes I will be totally ready for it. My life is so beautiful these days and everything seems so beautiful, and crystal clear. These days I walk on feather feet, and I am so grateful to John and his wife Carla for what they gave to me. I really want to share this with anyone who cares to listen. You would not believe how beautiful my life is these days.  Thank you for reading, all you who reached the end of this story. I hope it helps you as it most certainly helped me….Peter.


Long poem by Peter Duggan | Details | . You can read it on PoetrySoup.com' st_url='http://www.poetrysoup.com/poem/veras_first_write_560406' st_title='Vera's first write'>

Vera's first write

This is a write that I helped Vera with, as many people have asked her to write something. I helped to make it a better read for her, though I did not think she needed my help….Peter



Hi everybody, my name is Vera as some of you already know, and I am the wife of Peter Duggan. I came on this site to cheer Peter on, and also to read some poetry which I do enjoy at times. I have made a few friends on this site and correspond with some, and a few of them have asked me to write something. Now I have never done anything like this before, but I decided to humor these friends any way.

     I could not really think of anything to write about, but then I thought of a subject dear to both myself and Peter; the transformation that he has gone through in the last five years. This might be of interest, and indeed some help to others who are having problems within their relationships with others.

   We married in London in sixty five, Then emigrated to Australia in 1967 and our marriage was going very well, filled with love and laughter. But then Peter decided to join the army, and volunteered to fight in Vietnam, because he wanted to do something to repay this wonderful country back for letting him live here.

   When he came back to Australia, this was when it all went pear shaped. Peter started to change; he become very aggressive and Psychologically cruel to myself and our three children and was like a keg of dynamite just waiting to explode. He would argue about everything and anything, and got involved in many very nasty fights. No one could tolerate him for very long, and myself and the children often felt like we were walking on eggshells whenever he was around. He turned to alcohol, and cannabis, and he was always off his head on any one of those drugs. Having said all this, Peter was never physically aggressive to me or the children.        

     Anyhow, this all came to a climax, when he suddenly walked out on us all and decided he wanted to live like a bum. Said he wanted his freedom. This was the last time I saw him for a year. When because I loved him so very much, I asked him to come back to us again. He came back, but nothing really changed, in fact I told him he would never change, and I honestly thought our marriage was beyond repair. He had done so much counselling, read every book on self-help, and tried religion [all the major ones], but nothing really helped.

    Then one day about five years ago, Peter was perusing through the net, desperate to find someone to help him get rid of this evil that lurked within him He came cross a man named John Sherman, who claimed that he could help people with this simple little action, that he gave Peter to do. In his desperation Peter put his whole life into this simple act.

   He never strayed from this path, and after a month or two things started dropping away. Each day he seemed to get more, and more happy, so happy in fact that he seemed to bubble with happiness. His anger started to drop away gradually until it diminished completely. He still loves to argue, but he never has to be right all the time and treats it all as a game. How anyone can change so dramatically, is completely beyond me, but the miracle happened; the evidence is before me. If I ever won the lottery, I would donate half of it to the Sherman foundation, and would be totally happy to do this. But the only thing that we can do Is spread the Sherman’s work any chance we can get. We both owe them so much.

    Anyhow, this is my first write, and I hope that many people might gain something from it. Peter and I are now the the happiest couple that ever walked the face of the Earth. I thank all of you that chose to read, this. Whether I’ll ever make a second attempt one never knows. But I surely enjoyed writing this. Peter helped me to arrange the words, as I had no confidence in my own abilities…..Vera


Long poem by J. W. M. Earnings | Details |

Lonely Days Are Over - Chapter 5 - Let the Blessed Breeze Blow

 (Chant: You threw me out like a pen that ran out of ink
I’m no longer useful for writing…drawing…I’ll stop resisting & fighting
Though the tears run down my eyes…the tears were clouding my eyes – I somberly blink
You abandoned me, putting me in adoption, leaving me in the margins, howling…I’m sick of feeling like life has no meaning…my mind settles down when I start writing
I’m no longer willing to put up with your lying…
But, I’m still surviving…still crying!! I’ll keep on trying!!)

Let the good sensations flow and let the blessed breeze blow ~ I know…I know I gottah let go! Let it go, you know! Remain sane…we’re trying not to appear insane We’re actin’ like fools with an inadequate tool, Runnin’ around in circles without a brain Hey! Hey! All we need is God’s healing rain! Let us both grow like golden grain In the vibrant, tranquil terrain In reality, The truth hurts really badly – I’m a weak individual without a life, you see? I’m in poverty… Set me free from captivity! Your Precious, Holy Spirit Gives me love fuel to drive on the right lane… I’m gaining back my sanity Here’s something unusual and new (I feel no pain) I saw God’s Healing Rain when I looked through my pane He unchained me from the chain of calamity (Chant: Feel the rhythm of my heart… The moment you broke it apart Feel the rhythm of my storm The moment you shoved me in your deserted dorm x3) Lonely days are over A new day resembles a new start No more doubting or pouting… Have high hopes instead – Let’s embrace each other It’s time to explore a valley of virtuous vibes… Promise me you won’t rip my heart apart Writing…anticipation motivates me…helping me out with any circumstance! Yeah – my writing skills are buff! But, I think I shall change the subject *cough cough* Typing – gratefully, but reluctantly typing it out with confidence – After I’m done with this, I’m going to dance with joy and laugh my pants off! Let the blessed breeze blow away our sorrows of yesterday’s tomorrow! Off you trot! Off you trot, you miserable clowns that have frowns painted on your faces! Wipe that off! I didn’t mean to act gruff, but enough! Wipe that off! Let’s be happy, for the lonely days are over! Enough is enough – knock it off! Knock it off – Stop acting immature and insecure, Though and you and I’s future’s a blur! Still, be happy!
(Chant: Be still, sunshine’s near for sure! Let the blessed breeze blow away our away our bittersweet sentiments and fear The blessed breeze will make us feel secure – Don’t break a sweat or shed another tear! Have no fear, for God’s draws near! He’ll wipe away every single tear From your eyes No need to wave your goodbyes Let the Blessed Breeze blow away your grief Let God’s miracles mend your wounds & stitch it up with relief!) Let the good sensations grow and flow where ever it may go! ~ I know…I know I gottah let go! Let go! Let it go (Frozen reference hehe) Remain sane…trying not to appear insane I’m actin’ like a fool with an inadequate tool, Runnin’ around in circles without a brain Frankly, all we need is to refrain! You are as sweet as sugar cane! I can't refrain from writing these verses - appearing insane! This poem is driving on another wacko lane! Am I driving on another lane? Am I being a pain again? Are you on the same page with me? Am I a pain in the bum or am I unique and incredible like God's healing rain? I wish I can be as gloriously grand and gracious evermore like golden grain in a peculiar, tranquil terrain! Tell me if I am Insane to a certain degree! Am I a pain? Probably so because I’m yearning for His rain! Tell me if I’m taking this too far – do you long to be free? Do you long to be truly, sincerely free?


Long poem by Alhad Barbadikar | Details |

Summer

Summer's late,
I am left here to die, 
Stuck in a phase, 
And time wouldn't fly. 
Asking me to change, 
What do I be?
More like you?
What's in it for me?
Do I be a two faced man,
Or a ten tongued woman,
I'd rather be,
Alone & Inhuman,
She's selling my soul,
She's getting her gold. 
She's got an endless greed,
More of me she needs. 
A soulless man,
I do what I can,
Kill me now, 
Like you kill my men,
Kill me in the middle of my dream,
So, I won't feel the pain. 
If you see me in a piece,
Shoot me again. 
Summer's near,
For her it's a fear,
She has to now bear me,
For I will be near,
In her home,
And on her bed,
While she's dreaming of others,
Inside her head. 
Asking me to change,
This summer breathes a new life,
Look at her face,
Doesn't look like my wife,
She's already found,
Another man,
I'm a soulless body,
I did what I can. 
Shoot me now,
While I'm alive,
Let me watch my blood,
Can't take anymore of this world. 
All the kids playing outside,
Oblivious of this ride,
This ride called life, 
Death is my wife. 
Summer's far,
I am closer to death hour,
Do I bury my grave,
Am I so brave?
Or do I find a rope,
My only hope, 
One thing agreed,
By all the wise,
Suicide,
The best advice. 
Let this summer,
Take away my life,
And breathe one in her,
My beautiful wife. 
I have nothing to live, 
I have no place to stay,
Where is the light,
I don't see the end of my day. 
I've got her by my side,
I'm promised her the best ride,
She's smiling,
So hard, I know she's pretending.
So, I take a gun,
Shoot her in the head. 
I promised her,
This one last ride,
A beautiful death,
To my beautiful bride,
Drifting away,
Into the Sunset, 
Love is an illusion,
Built in your head. 
Shut all the voices,
Shoot yourself instead. 
Summer's here,
And I am not there.
The price for her lie,
We've both died. 
She's getting her gold. 
She's got an endless greed,
More of me she needs. 
A soulless man,
I do what I can,
Kill me now, 
Like you kill my men,
Kill me in the middle of my dream,
So, I won't feel the pain. 
If you see me in a piece,
Shoot me again. 
Summer's near,
For her it's a fear,
She has to now bear me,
For I will be near,
In her home,
And on her bed,
While she's dreaming of others,
Inside her head. 
Asking me to change,
This summer breathes a new life,
Look at her face,
Doesn't look like my wife,
She's already found,
Another man,
I'm a soulless body,
I did what I can. 
Shoot me now,
While I'm alive,
Let me watch my blood,
Can't take anymore of this world. 
All the kids playing outside,
Oblivious of this ride,
This ride called life, 
Death is my wife. 
Summer's far,
I am closer to death hour,
Do I bury my grave,
Am I so brave?
Or do I find a rope,
My only hope, 
One thing agreed,
By all the wise,
Suicide,
The best advice. 
Let this summer,
Take away my life,
And breathe one in her,
My beautiful wife. 
I have nothing to live, 
I have no place to stay,
Where is the light,
I don't see the end of my day. 
I've got her by my side,
I'm promised her the best ride,
She's smiling,
So hard, I know she's pretending.
So, I take a gun,
Shoot her in the head. 
I promised her,
This one last ride,
A beautiful death,
To my beautiful bride,
Drifting away,
Into the Sunset, 
Love is an illusion,
Built in your head. 
Shut all the voices,
Shoot yourself instead. 
Summer's here,
And I am not there.
The price for her lie,
We've both died. 


Long poem by Katie Pukash | Details |

That Memoir

I remember when I wrote that memoir at The Fix, when The Fix coffee shop was still on Tenth Street.
That was the year that my sister moved to Pocatello to become a nurse, you know that awful place about three hours away.
I was running a lot then, mostly at the YMCA. I took showers there and I’d stay until it closed, then I’d tell my parents that I was spending the night at a friend’s house when really I was downtown reclining the seat back in my car. 
I’d wake up and go to The Fix early in the morning and type on my little netbook until my finger pads got sore. 
I never really liked that netbook. It was so small and I could barely see what I was writing but then again that was back when I didn’t have my glasses.
I remember that man, that man that looked like a father who never saw his kids because he was too focused on work. He would always ask me if I liked my netbook and what I was working on and where I went to school. I don’t really remember what I said to him but it was probably something nonsense like. 

Sometimes I don’t really think I wrote that nameless memoir. Maybe it was the pills that spilt blood on the page; clever, earnest, and blunt – an out of body experience because my stomach was inhaling these aliens – almost twenty a day.
I loved pecans then, pecans from the co-op and coffee, any kind of coffee.
I thrived then, solely on those things; ghastly I looked.
My dad called me the little string bean.

You know, sometimes I hate that time – looking back at the wondrous things. And I still don’t know how I wrote that, such a long piece in so little time. 
I guess after all stimulation from the pills and caffeine and pecans and madly running, running, running my fingers across the keys.

And when we think we are alone
Are we?
Because my family barely talked to me, that page in front of me being the only thing I talked to besides the Barista lady who memorized my order 
And I went home yelling with sewing scissors in my hands because my mom hid all the real ones
And I had already read the book Running with Scissors but I ran anyway, straight to my bathroom, standing in front of the mirror.
And this time I wasn’t alone. I was with that string bean standing in front of me – moving how I moved. 
And I took those sewing scissors and I cut off all of my long locks. 
I don’t know why I did it. Sometimes I think that maybe I did it so people could see more of me and if they saw more of me then I wouldn’t be so alone – so much hiding. 

And I remember writing that memoir - so many pages.
And once I left for that hospital in Arizona, the one that could take care of my heart and that could mold it into something heartlike again; I had left the piece all alone. 
I wonder if it edited itself, like how I cut my hair, to see if I would come back to it
Touch it
Extend it
Scream at it
I haven’t read that piece in such a long time, since I wrote it actually. 
But now I might just go back and read it and mend it and make its heart heartlike aga


Long poem by Chris D. Aechtner | Details |

A Reminder: To Be


Those of you with a unique voice,
with a vision painted outside the lines of over-regulated cadence and rhyme,
I implore you to continue exploring a core
that is fearless in writing against the grain of convention --
for this very friction is a sandpaper helping to perpetually re-invent 
yourself by smoothing your raw, unfiltered passion
into a timeless chair in which people of the future will sit in
while reading your poetry ....

.... and their brows will crease, their eyebrows will arch into gates
where sighs of enlightenment will pass through,
for they are reading poetry that has not lost its novelty,
nor is it mimicry: a despondent, washed-out version
of 20 million other identically tired poems already written and read.

If you feel yourself being sucked down by the undertow 
of homogenization, fight against the current, drag yourself onto shore,
let sunlight percolate pure word-intentions from the nucleus 
of your ancient psalm-writing ancestry.

Your ancestors left behind DNA building blocks,
disciplinary examples and practices 
with which to construct mitochondrial drift
that bridges together the past and future
into a runway for you to take-off from
after the training wheels have been removed,
and gain a bird's eye view of what was,
what will always be sacred but not yours to build a mynah nest in
once truth's marrow is tasted from its winged divine inspiration --
a bird's eye view lifting above carbon-copy complacency.

To always be the freedom that manifests your luminous originality.




September 18th, 2013

*Author's Note: This piece isn't about writing in form or not writing in form. 
To ass.u.me such, is being short-sighted.

Having been a member here for years now, I have noticed a recurring phenomenon 
on this site. Many times, new members join who showcase a freshness, a sharp distinction in their style and poetic voice. They are a breath of fresh air for this site 
to breathe in. Over time, one can literally watch some of these members begin to homogenize themselves into a more general, stale style of writing. I am not sure 
wot all the variables are for this phenomenon, and it likely differs according to each experience. Depending on circumstance, I can only speculate the reasons why some people are willing to compromise their distinctness on this site. Maybe sometimes it happens because of entering too many contests? Of wanting to fit in with the flock?

When I do see it happen, I want to yell: "No, no, no! Stop! Please don't do it! Turn 
back while you still have the chance! Please don't compromise your distinctness for some inane contest .jpegs and congratulations, or insincere, back-patting comments. One sincerely inspired comment, is worth more than 10,000 petty comments -- worth 
so much more."





+/-


Long poem by Anne Lise Andresen | Details |

- A Ghost - Written in 1973 -


Several years of my childhood I spent with my aunt and uncle
who lived in an old rectory in Northern Norway
It was a hard time, much work, little food never time for play or entertainment
My aunt and uncle were strict, we had to work for food

When I had some time to myself, I spent time at the old church yard
or in the woods close by - No other children to talk with
therefore I spoke loudly to myself
The old church yard was my secret world
Old gravestones that were far over a hundred years old
People who were forgotten long ago, no flowers on the graves
The man who we called "Gravedigger", was always serious and rarely smiled
but he was always kind and often had time for a little chat

Earth was sunk and often I found bones, buttons or needles on the ground
"Gravedigger" said always put them back in the ground and I did as he said
One day I found a shiny white incisor
I didnt put the the tooth back into the soil - I took it home with me
This happened in the fall and it was dark early
It was dark in the castle room at the rectory
I did not dare to light the candle
It was my work to rekindle the fire
As I fumbled my way after the wood I suddenly felt like a light stroke
on my head - looked around me and listening
I whispered "is there anyone here?" ..... No sound, no answer
In silence I sat ... suddenly felt someone stroking my hair through
Ice cold fingers which had a nasty smell
Now I was really scared
I hurried in from the woodshed with wood and fired up in the fireplace
Stuffed my hands in the pockets it was still so cold
There .... I felt the tooth from the cemetery
Looked at it from the fireplace light
A powerful knock on the windowpane I turned to see
You will not believe what I saw
A face pressed against the window, a face that I had never seen before
He had red hair and lots of beard
The face scared me ...
He started to laugh a scary laughter with open mouth
Now I could see ... he lacked an incisor
I walked a little closer to the window,
but then the face in the window diseappered

I felt I had done something wrong
Decided to go back to the graveyard with the tooth
The darkness and the fear took me as I approached the gate
The laughter came back, he stood there waiting for me 
I placed the tooth gently down at the gate
He just looked at me and laughed again the frightening laughter
It is many years since this happened to me
but I remember it like it was yesterday
One autumn night many years after I awoke with
a cold hand on my forehead
I heard the laughter, saw his face and red hair
long beard .... but he lacked no teeth



 - A story written by A-L Andresen 1973 :)
   (17.01.2015)


Long Poems