Narrative Freedom Poems

These Narrative Freedom poems are examples of Narrative poems about Freedom. These are the best examples of Narrative Freedom poems written by international PoetrySoup poets

If you don't find the poem you want here, try our incredible, super duper, all-knowing, advanced poem search engine.

The poem(s) are below...

Details | Narrative |
JE SUIS CHARLIE — Afterthought

The shock of this most frightening tragedy is practically beyond 
the pale of any reasonable or adequate attempt or effort to explain
it or to rationalize the horrible circumstances surrounding it.

Let me just say that all of us who are writers and poets ply our
poetry, “our intellectual wares,” if you will, in a common written
medium that expects the same unrestricted level of freedom of
speech and expression exercised by those extraordinarily brave
artists at “Charlie Hebdo” who were recently murdered in cold
blood by self-styled Islamic extremists in Paris. 

It is also equally saddening and deplorable that some courageous 
police officers died in the line of duty defending these freedoms 
as well as some other security people and hostages caught up in 
the midst of these most terrifying circumstances. 

The heinous actions perpetrated by these armed extremists
destroyed innocent lives and affected the lives of a number of
loved ones whose burden of sadness and tragedy is unimaginable. 
Their actions also were an attempt to strike at the very heart of 
those sacred freedoms that all of us who live in open societies and
democracies cherish as part of our everyday lives. The armed 
extremists, by their actions, also personified and demonstrated an
obvious affectation for barbarity, stupidity, ignorance, and cowardice 
that were all on ample display as a result of what they did.

Freedom of speech and expression are among those certain
historic inalienable rights given to all of us by the divine hand of
God himself, and certainly not by the generosity of any government 
or religious group (regardless of faith). The brave souls who died
at Charlie Hebdo, died exercising this most sacred franchise.

The point I’m driving at is this: Those extremists who committed
these most reprehensible actions of recent against their fellow man 
did not win in spite of their collective efforts to destroy lives and to 
sully these precious freedoms that all of us as writers and artists 
hold so very dear.

The outpouring of emotion and sadness in support of these slain
heroes in the face of this most despicable crime is quite compelling, 
and underlies the continuing determination of all of us who love
and cherish the freedoms of speech and expression to continue to
speak out and to exercise these sacred rights without reservation.

With all of this in mind, I humbly and proudly conclude my narrative 
to all of you here by saying and echoing as loudly as possible:
“Je Suis Charlie” . . . “I am Charlie.”

Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved (January 10, 2015)

Copyright © Gary Bateman | Year Posted 2015

Details | Narrative |
I'm always there, in that place that doesn't mean a thing to anyone but me. A far away 
meadow where I don't have to hide all the happiness of a young girls heart. One that has 
been ripped apart, so many times. I stare at all the beautiful flowers and trees of my 
surroundings and let the wind gently rustle my hair. I close my eyes taking in all these 
wonderful things, as I lie on the cool grass. My body mixes in with the air, and I'm blowing 
past natures statues and creatures galore. I stop at the edge of a nearby pond, my body 
floating softly to the ground as an eagles feather. I look deep into the sparkling image that 
makes me who I am. I gracefully touch the water with my fingertips and let the water 
shimmer like the stars. A white unicorn grazing near the freshly harvested hay, called out to 
me. It approached me as I stood, and nuzzled my arm. I brushed its silk coat and burrowed 
my face against her cool cheek. This is the reason I come to this place. To interact with the 
things not known or believed in their world. Its just my own, my sound and the behind 
scenes of my eyes. It's calm and peaceful, which their world is far from. I'm the only one with 
the doorway to this meadow. I love going there, it's like a blanket that warms its comfort 
over me when I need it the most. And when I get there, my feelings are a boat sailing to 
sea, leaving me filled with perfect serenity. I'll always be there, till the end of all life, and I 
know this lovely meadow will never be replaced.

Copyright © Audrey Hays | Year Posted 2013

Details | Narrative |
Speak, and be heard, let those feelings be set free,
our God given right, I once heard, freedom for you, and me.

Look at the picture, some paint covered in clouds,
isn't it our right, to speak out loud?

History in high school, was taught with pride,
now all those Americans we studied about, have long died.

With them went hope, and a chance of equality,
these are the things they fought for, not selfish greed.

The Pledge of Allegiance we said everyday,
and everyone stood, as the words were said.

The Constitution was studied, and reports were made,
in front of the class the next day, we would stand up, and say.

All our freedoms that were given to us,
now narrowing down,  "help,"  who do we trust.

A prayer was given, with our heads humbly bowed,
using our freedom of speech, we thanked God out loud.

Everything has changed, now we worry about safety in schools,
shootings, perverts, and God was evicted, now Satan rules.

Copyright © Christy Hardy | Year Posted 2007

Details | Narrative |
In the past I remember how things were so simple
When I was little my cheeks had such cute dimples
Looking back I remember how sweet I was as a child
When I think again my heart told me I was so wild
Yet, in time my simple choices was revealed as true as anyone
The reason I was the way I am today, I did things, to get done
Finishing lots of my undone ideas was so incredibly hard
So I figure my heart and choices should never hold in no bard
I never thought I would learn heart aches and pain
With such under statement I did things for no gain
I was a child who held true to what he has learned
But as we got older those kinda perspective would get me burned
When I made up my mind that people was not kind
I led myself in a confusion that I was blind
In the past I do recall that seeing is believing
So I was the one who stood their with friends leaving
Alone, I felt I did not belong, I cherish each person who knew me
I got older too see how the world works it stung me like a bee
The feeling of tingling ran through my vain
My view of the world and people who knew me was stained
Now I know they are out for their selves with no kind feelings
Life I know is just a joke because of who I hung out with seeing
Today as I look at the world it is in such shambles and astray
And rather fallow everyone I just walk away

Copyright © Reynaldo Mast | Year Posted 2013

Details | Narrative |

It’s one o'clock in the morning on a Monday
Not much to look forward to this week.  Just another week in the life of a workingman.  Punch the clock.  Punch the boss.  What’s the difference?  A paycheck.  Living week-to-week and scrounging around for sustenance. You call this a life?  I call it hell.

  Yes hell is right here on this earth.  No need to go looking for it.  It will find you soon enough.  And in it’s time it will drive you mad.  Mad as a hatter.  You will grow into this vision of capitalistic euphoria and then realize that the numbing of your soul is a tiger that smiles on a box of cereal.....It’s frosted flakes.  Corn flakes dressed up like a transvestite on the corner or your life; a corner that you can’t turn.  It keeps coming back like a dream of cornfields withering in the August heat.  Billowing up and the fading to gray mindless matter that drifts down and settles on your brain.

Rows and rows of the same green dragon grinning with a twinkle in its eye that pulsates with every breath you draw.  You can try and plow it under but it will grow back like a virus.  You can’t escape the endless letting of your blood to the Man.  You kneel down and pray like a fool.  Did you not hear the whistle blow it’s five o’clock in the afternoon?  You will have wasted another day in this meaningless mire of apocalyptic goo.

Dream if you must.  Let the fires burn in the fields of your dreary illusions.  But for God’s sake don’t forsake your love for the job. The Man waits and the money goes into his account.  Don’t give up there is a pension and one day you will you fly to Hawaii and limp on the beaches of your sorrowful work. 
You put the gun against your head and feel the cold steel against your skin.  I can’t do this anymore you think.  Pull the trigger.  I can't do this anymore you think.  Pull the trigger.  You lay the gun down next to the glass filled with sorrow.  You have a mortgage and a wife and kids.  You have to do this.  And so it goes.  Life is always there and is stronger than death.  But the gun is always there too.  What should you do?  Pray to the Man because he is your keeper? Or take a chance on life?
The rusty cage of work will hold you and feed you but you will never break free until you realize that it is you that lives in your soul and you are a not a Godless animal but a child of this world.  Don't let this world pass you by my friend.
Live free.
Die free.

Copyright © Stephen Kilmer | Year Posted 2015

Details | Narrative |
Which way leads to the 
land of green white 
Which way are we 
   A country the wicked 
bears the rulership, and 
the people sighing 
   A terrible thing sprouts 
beneath the sun: a 
pregnant woman 
delivering not.
Imps come to lime-light 
by snuffing air from the 
goose that laid the 
golden eggs.
The blind guiding the un
The weak suppressing 
the strong-a terrible 
Like the overthrow of the 
gods at Mt. Olympus by 
the Titans.
A country where also 
thieves appear as men of 
Land of green white 
green,which way?
A land where the 
enlightened ones are 
overshadowed and 
peanuts given to them.
The masses are dogs that 
eat the crumbs.
 Which way to go you 
Iliterates stand on 
podium of power 
bellowing orders as milk 
of sorrow known as 
dividends of democracy 
is passed around.
The machine of progress 
manned by the 
"There is better 
tomorrow" we hear.
Land of green white 
green,my country 
where rule of law walk 
beside anarchy.
The proles are sentenced 
to adversity,and there 
endured death-like trials.
Chai! Aru! People 
dancing on thorns 
whimpering as they 
  I see a new sun rising 
from the horizon,hope is 
rekindled as its rays 
grace on hopeless bodies.
 Look!! there soon be 


Copyright © Ifeanyi Bob Ekechukwu | Year Posted 2013

Details | Narrative |
 from Uncle Tom's Cabin  (See notes for story background)

The long night was not long enough; 
The new master and his hired men
Soon will come; the river rages,
The water glistens in the morning sun. 
The boat is tethered at the other side,
but water beats against the wharf
And ice blocks bob as if on ocean tide.

The child sleeps. I can but wait,
For merchants traveling to and fro
Will need to reach Kentucky’s shore;
I dare not rest when freedom is so close.
But hark! The men are in the street;
I fear one saw me in the window—
I hear the pound of booted feet.

Lord, help me, they will not take my only babe;
With the river, I’ll take my chance—
No thought. Ice bobs and sinks beneath the waves,
I leap without a backward glance.
The ice seems not so slippery
I leap and leap and leap again
God gives me purchase—we will be free!

The last frozen block sinks beneath 
My numbéd feet. I toss my child to the ground
And lunge—gripping grass midst mud and sleet,
The river roars behind, a deafening sound.
 But o’er my head—an open hand,
A heav’n sent soul, my babe held in his arms—
A chance at freedom in an angry land.

Copyright © Karen Ruff | Year Posted 2014

Details | Narrative |
My first love - when we ended,
They told me to pray to God,
And that he would make time,
My new best friend.
And with the love I had for you,
The despair I would fall out of.
My second love - when we ended,
They did not tell me anything,
For what really could they say?
I sit and watch the hands of grace,
Embalming memories of emotion.
Love forbidden to ever die but,
Peace in how under time it hides.
So I still know,
In spirits and parallels,
I am still with you both,
And this was never written.


From a brunette final encore,
they told me to pray to God,
and that he would make time
my new best friend.
And with the love I had for you,
the despair I would fall out of, but
when blond strands reached split ends,
they did not tell me anything,
for what really could they say?
I sat and watched the hands of grace,
embalming memories of emotion.
Love forbidden to ever die, but
peace in how under time it hides.
So I still know,
in spirits and parallels,
I am still with you both,
and this was never written.

Copyright © rob carmack | Year Posted 2014

Details | Narrative |
Why to Sulu you cannot grant?
To Sulu you don’t mind!

Sulus cried for once!
Sulus need to embrace then…

Until this shall not achieve
Still the march towards it!
Sulus need this to happen
United Nations please do what is due to them!

Freedom and independence 
Are basic human rights 
For the Sulu to regain!

Should other nations feel
What was their will to have their freedom? 
They could have felt how Sulus 
Wanted to be like them!

Do not add time to waste lives!
Please act to help Sulu stateless nation!
This could be done by United Nations?
For Decolonization!

Justice! Justice! Justice!

Copyright © Neldy Jolo | Year Posted 2009

Details | Narrative |
Unless you understand ,
What it's like to have noises inside your head 
Loud sometimes buzzing ,always keeping beat.
They say to have tinnitus is temporary you see
But when I have these noises, they envelop me.               

Lose my concentration, 
Cannot sit and think.
Want them to stop buzzing. 
Like cicadas on a tree. 
Constantly building intensity and force.

I feel that there will come a day
When I stand some where and scream
Tell each and ever person
To remove the sounds I hear
For once nothing would be good.

I know it's my condition
To listen every day 
To buzzing crackling noises
That never go away.
If I'm lucky they diminish. 

There not as loud as some
Days that had me crying
Wanting just to run
This is my affliction 
I battle every day. 

Because I let a surgeon
Roto root my head
He was supposed to fix my sinus
Not turn on headphones
Buzzing every day. 

Copyright © Jennifer Marie Oliver | Year Posted 2013

Details | Narrative |
Hurled into the desert by a beatnik pilot and dropped off just above nirvana.  I find myself in a peculiar yet remarkable position.  I am now alone.  I look out above the high sierras and find a moonbeam shooting down on the valley below me.  I follow it down and realize it is not a guiding light but that of a 747 landing at LAX.  I am up here with the coyotes and jackrabbits.  Equal prey once I get hungry.  I have a canteen full of gin and a beretta 32 caliber pistol.  No directions no map.  Who cares?  The other thing I have is a tin full of sardines and 4 joints of some primo sativa.
I begin to wander towards the city wondering what I will find on my way down.  I crank up a joint and take a hit of gin.  Another night in city for me, its just a few miles down through the valley.  I’ve been here before.  Messed up on crank.  They keep telling me I must survive.  And I keep asking them what is it that I must survive?  This ain’t no homeward bound trip.  I slip into between rocks of billionaire’s homes hoping not to set off the security systems.  When I get to the bottom will they pick me up or have they dropped me off for the last time?
I change my mind.  I head the other direction.  Away from L.A. trekking towards the desert and maybe home.  At least there I have a chance of a new beginning.  There is nothing left for me back there.  I stumble and fall but I get up and keep going.  There is something and somebody there for me.  I just need to keep moving.
Sometime around dawn I awake from an alcohol and drug induced stupor.  I think of heading back to L.A. it would be so much easier.  Then a car passes and I stick out my thumb and she stops.
“Hey where you heading?”
“Anywhere but here,” I reply.
“Hop in I am headed for Santa Fe.”
“Sounds good to me”
“You like the Grateful Dead,” she asks?”
“Hell yeah I got some conscious bud here.”
And the road begins to wind to our future.

Copyright © Stephen Kilmer | Year Posted 2015

Details | Narrative |
Paris November 13th Makes Me Weep — Afterthought

The shock and tragedy of this most horrendous event of slaughter, murder, and unmitigated evil are indeed a very sad commentary on the state mankind finds itself in today as the dark specter of terrorism and chaos attempts to engulf our entire world.

We can never forgive and we should never forget the evil that these minions of darkness—in their acts of barbarity, cruelty and cowardice—perpetrated upon the innocent, unsuspecting people in the magnificent city of Paris during the evening of November 13, 2015. 

The death and destruction wrought by these armed terrorists, although similar to that which occurred to “Charlie Hebdo” earlier in the year on January 7, 2015, was unfortunately executed on a much larger scope and scale resulting in the deaths of 129 people presently and injuries to over 350. All of this transpired in the later evening hours with a cold and quick military precision among terrifying shouts of “Allahu Akbar” by ISIS-associated terrorists.

All of this was supposed to done by these terrorists in the name of God! Huh? Really? All of this was to satiate a dark thirst and to justify an evil philosophy of murder, rape, pillage, and destruction en masse in the Middle East—and now brought to the evening-hour streets of the great city of Paris in France.

The makes me weep the deepest tears possible for sure, as I am also sure it does Almighty God in Heaven! This horrific event is beyond the pale of any semblance of human decency and dignity, let alone morality! These self-styled Islamic terrorists and extremists filled with hate and anger committed the cold-blooded murder of innocent people to fulfill their warped vision of Islamic sanctity—and in God’s name! This was an abhorrent act of absolute sacrilegious depravity on the part of these terrorists!

These individuals may perpetrate this evil and stain the streets with the blood of innocent people presently, but they shall never be allowed to win in this ultimate struggle. The motto “Liberté, Égalité, Fraternité” (or “Liberty, Equality, Fraternity”) for France stands at the vanguard of freedom and justice as a timeless symbol and legacy from the Age of Enlightenment that is now inextricably bound as part of the French national heritage. I pay my humble tears and respect for what this historical motto stands for and means today.

The freedom-loving countries of the world and their people must stand together now with France in this hour of maximum danger, and help support its government and people in combating and destroying this dark specter of terrorism that has entered its borders and murdered innocent people without any iota of conscience or remorse whatsoever.

With all of this said, I offer my sincere respect to all of the dead and injured victims who had to endure this nightmare tragedy in Paris on the evening of November 13, 2015. My God protect the eternal souls of those who perished in these coordinated acts of senseless violence, and give solace and peace to their families and loved ones who remain behind.

I know that I shall never forget this evening of terrible violence inflicted upon Paris and its innocent people, just like the violence and death during 9/11 in the United States.

May God Bless the victims’ eternal souls forever, and let us pray that the murderous violence of ISIS and other radical movements analogous to them are one day stamped out from the face of this Earth. Amen!!   

Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved,
November 15, 2015 (Narrative)

Copyright © Gary Bateman | Year Posted 2015

Details | Narrative |

11082016 A.K.A. TRUTH BE TOLD

Copyright © Michael E. Harris | Year Posted 2016

Details | Narrative |
We left the barracks in mid-March,
With snow still on the ground,
Drove two days across the border,
To participate in a multi-national event,
Commemorating the World War II atrocities,
The Japanese called Death Marches.
Our soldiers, sailors, and airmen,
Were marched relentlessly across the Philippines.
Bataan Death March,
Where only the strongest survived.
Today I march for them, 
For fallen comrades,
Recognizing their sacrifices.
Freedom’s price so high, paid with our brothers lives.
Here I am, out of water, as I march through the deep sands;
Bataan Memorial Death March,
Where quitting is not my option, 
As my brothers marched without choice.
Wounded warrior, I suffered through dehydration,
Through pain in joints already injured in service to my country.
Out of water, I did not worry, for I knew;
The human body’s capability to survive,
For days on end in relentless conditions,
I marched on, to the end…

16 Feb 2015
© 2015 CM Davidson Pickett

Copyright © C.M. Davidson-Pickett | Year Posted 2015

Details | Narrative |
Freedom’s Quest

They bravely set sail and escaped on the Mayflower.
Those first settlers, common people from Europe,
Came ashore from the Atlantic with faith and hope.
Freedom is what they sought.
“No Bishop, no King”
Is what they said.
In a Mayflower Compact,
They established a body politic.
One quest done; four more to go

The American Revolution,
Mr. George Washington,
Independence Day.
Freedom is what they sought.
Freedom is what they obtained.
Three quests more

Abraham Lincoln,
The Civil War,
And Unity.
The cost was high
for the freedom they bought.
Three quests done

Desegregation and equality,
Civil Rights and Martin Luther King.
Bold symbols of the fourth quest.
Freedom: neither free nor cheap

Separation of Church and State,
Moral decline, War and Peace.
O’Hare says, “No Prayer in schools”.
Roe v Wade says, “It’s a woman’s choice”.
Supreme Court says, “Same Sex Marriage”.
Ever fluid, the Spiritual War is ongoing.
Symbols of the fifth quest, ever evolving.
Whether fires of emotion or literal flames,
Freedom’s Quest seems to be packaged in fire.
05052013;3302016PSContest, Where Freedom Finds the Fire                                                                              
Justin Bordner

Copyright © curtis johnson | Year Posted 2016

Details | Narrative |
It's not just about what country you live in
It's not about the rights you have. 
It's not about the religion you choose to practice
You also have the right not to choose one at all.
It's not about being able to stand up and speak your mind.                               
It's not about your right to vote 
Or your right to choose the life or death of the unborn
Freedom is a gift from God 
Starting with free will
Freedom was not given to be taken for granted
Men died for you to have freedom
Racism shouldn't exist in a free society
They watched friends die on the battlefield
 against tyranny for your children to live free.
It's a gift worth fighting for
 even when you really don't want to fight.
When we start respecting the gift
The wrongs in this country will be made right
The futures of your children deserve for us to get it right.
Black people, white people, native people, Mexican people
All people want to see their children grow up free and happy
It's time we let them.

Copyright © Carl Fraser | Year Posted 2016

Details | Narrative |
I saw a look of hurt so primordial, the dust teared and cleared
Every wrinkle, every agony,
Every twinkle in his eye hopelessly wrought by words
He struggled with a bag of old books,
His white hair scraggly, his breathing heavy

I, with sorrow wrenching from my soul,
Sought his own, in a sad smile that he so feverishly caught

Moments passed, as the older man disappeared,
But I sat there, ready to speak to him if he should return
For such a catch in the eye
Cannot soon dim and die with chance

He returned swiftly,
“Excuse me, will you be here long?”
I said, “Sure. What is it?”
He looked into my eyes and smiled,
“Would you mind watching my books for just a bit?
My clarinet is in the building, I need to go fetch it from a friend.”

“Sure,” Said I. “No problem.”

He thanked me, setting the bag down near me
And walked with confidence to the building,
To retrieve his instrument

I pondered his life, the pain in his eyes,
And for a moment wondered how it might compare to mine
This old man, struggling with a massive bag of books,
An even greater weight pressing upon his practiced brain
A brain filled with the pure notes of a mechanism that soars

He returned almost joyously, thanking me once again,
Relaying to me his previous sufferings,
Unkind, uncouth words,
In his mind, sure and inerasable
 “Have you ever been treated so ill you wished to die?
Have you ever felt that little?
Felt so powerless, and failing?
Surely I must be boring you. . .”
When his countenance calmed and I reassured him,
 Offering my sympathetic ear,
 And many a sensitive nod, 
He asked my name before leaving forever

“Ah…do you know the song ‘Laura’?”
He hummed the tune and I beamed, nodding,
Remembering the haunting melody
It was as if he was anticipating that nod,
That he knew I recognized such a strange, haunting tune
By his happy, alighted smile

So when he went on his way,
With his heavy bag of books,
And his clarinet tucked safely in his black box,
Our pains sauntered on to less fortunate fellows

Copyright © Laura Breidenthal | Year Posted 2015

Details | Narrative |
She was sitting on her bed while resting her back against a pillow that she placed vertically against the headboard. The chilly evening breeze managed to sneak inside to her bedroom so she snuggled her legs under her thick comforter. Her face was expressionless to begin with- she felt empty and hollow. She scrolled through her music playlist and played the song "Cuando me Enamoro" by Enrique Iglesias. It has been a while since she had listened to it. Spanish songs never fail to lift her soul as they always give her tingles and tickles.

When I am falling in love (Cuando me enamoro).

Closed her eyes and she could imagine herself walking towards a beach. She pictured a white large beach resort facing towards the ocean. It's sunset now.  "Pero por dentro, entiende que no puedo, y a veces me pierdo..." That song again; sweetly paired with invigorating beats produced by a light brown bongo and perfectly harmonized with passionate husky voices. It matched with a benign nylon strings of a Spanish guitar which were plucked meticulously.

Huu...uuu...cuando me enamoro...

The feminine wind rippled through her white maxi dress. She took hold of her sun hat so that it won't get knocked off by the wind. Her long dark blonde hair was blown softly. 

She was swayed by the moment but to her despair a few strands entered her mouth so she quickly got them out and tucked them in behind her right ear in order to not look like a person who's too starved they eat their own hair.

(Okay, back to the beachy mood.)

The music is still playing... obviously because she put it on repeat. The bongo is her favorite part- it mixes so well with other instruments. She smiled as she listened to it. The feeling of confidence has started to seep in so she decided to act as if she was wise and had experienced every ups and downs in life.

Si la luna sería tu premio, yo juraría hacer cualquier...

(continue to Cuando Me Enamoro II)

Copyright © Abidah Mahri | Year Posted 2016

Details | Narrative |
The Sinorians were all happy when the guests came
They welcomed the guests with warm hugs
The guests promised to show them heaven
They did take them to heaven
They built houses and cars for the Sinorians
They made them feel the taste of freshness and luxury 
They taught them to live a king’s life
Then it was the era of happiness, abundance and festivals
One fine day the guests left with a wicked smile
They didn’t wait for the farewell
It was too late when the Sinorians realize the valuables are gone
And they have nothing left there
By the time the seeds which the guests left behind started to grow
The seeds of war
The seeds of riots
Slowly those plants started grow 
The plants became trees in no time
And those trees started to hunt the Sinorians 
Some tried to run 
Some tried to swim
But the roots and branches of the plants were so deep and long
The Sinorians couldn’t escape from those
The houses were no help for them
The cars couldn’t take them too far
Kids drowned and their dead bodies were lying on the beach
Now they think of the good old days of desert life
The days before the guests came
The days they only had to love their women
They only had to play with their kids
The days they only had to worship the god
But those days were out of their reach 
They searched for the god everywhere
They couldn’t find him
The god was with the guests
Hanging on the walls of the palace made with the fortune of Sinorians
Everything they loved and worshipped was taken by the guests
The wicked smile on the guests face was so powerful and meaningful….

Copyright © Jay Dev | Year Posted 2017

Details | Narrative |
*Note: This was made on July 2nd. I honestly forgot I wrote it. It was mostly written in incoherent scribbles. AND NOW IT'S A MASTERPIECE. Just kidding. It's....uh... a fickle drizzle of thought let's just say. ;)

Trying to find a certain balance of genius
Within this tired dollop of foolishness...
Craving excitement....messy...indulgent words...
I never knew the difficulty would rise so substantially under such little pressure

You don't see me, do you..?
I'm not so good at these damn writes, about you...

When I look out of the window of a car,
Sometimes I get lost in myself
I feel so pensive...often, very sad...
Like I'm in a movie, and I am missing someone, or something
Almost as if I am lost in the death of a loved one
But it's not usually someone in particular
Other times it is...

I think about his side of earth...
Yeah, him...

It gets crazy in my head from there..
I guess I harbor bitter toward people that will never feel the same way
Though I harbor bitterness from seemingly nowhere sometimes

My thoughts often go back to the majority of people
And how fickle we are
It's a little bit depressing but,
More annoying I suppose

I am strange...
There could be opportunities that I don't even see
I guess you can call it blindness
I don't know...I guess the first step of getting rid of the blindness
Is acknowledging the fact that you are blind...
Sometimes the darkness of not knowing is rather comforting...
Maybe I'm just writing from my ass, but who cares?

Laughter...I've done a lot of that lately
I guess it's difficult to get back to that groove, at least for me
I'm so emotional, it hurts
I sometimes wish I was more grounded...more realistic
I never ask for normality 
Because I don't think that there's anybody who knows exactly what that means
Whatever though; that's not really significant, is it? 

What is important though?
I'm not sure anymore
Maybe I do know; I just don't acknowledge it enough
I am better than that, aren't I?
I'm just so lost in myself..
I know I am better than this...
But who cares about me?
Shut up already!
Gain some perspective for once!

The bottom line is, I need to learn to love myself
Otherwise, I'll become the fickle one.

Copyright © Laura Breidenthal | Year Posted 2015

Details | Narrative |
It's not because of flood or fire,
nothing more than a desire
that's  prompting us to tear apart 
all that we've  established here.

Tired of treadmill tedium
breakfast always at eight am,
walk the dog by nine o'clock,
skim the pool tick tock, tick tock.

Time to find new closets, in which
to re- arrange familiar things, 
possessions, we can find in our sleep
Convenience, imprinted on memory

Decisions now on what we must cull
things we thought we'd always keep.
Oops, there goes the baby grand, 
the price of shipping way too steep.

We know of roads we've yet to take,
new friendships that we've yet to make.
Unseen rainbows and unformed dreams,
leaving behind established routines.

Beyond - a new horizon rises
Freedom comes from letting go
Detachment happens from cutting strings
Mix up the pieces - start again

Copyright © Suzanne Delaney | Year Posted 2016

Details | Narrative |
Gun fire all around, bombs going off in the distance
It was some of the angry mobs and resistance
Father was the king of SafeHaven a small kingdom
Like all other kingdoms it fell in random
Fire started in the castle
And along with it came a battle

It was a distance memory now because the child has now grew
Many things in this child that made memories stew
My name is Mastrey, a young orphan who was there that night
Mastrey saw her in the distance and her father and mother in his sight
Everyone was loud that night and made all the children hide
But that evening Mastrey saw her mother and father die

She ran into the bushes in such a fright
And evil doers were running around with flashlights
Mastrey remember it as he distracted them 
Her eyes was so confused with problems
Mastrey new that it was because of what just occurred
His feelings of what those people did was not awkward

The distraction worked, he went back to were she was
Hiding and very scared she was, he asked her, can you trust me just because?
Her answer that night depended on her lively hood
As Mastrey was their with his hand reaching out to her as he stood
Pulling her up from the ground he looked into her eyes that were SeaBlue
Mastrey had made a life long friend and love, She knew it was true

Next: My Story Telling,  Who is this Princess

Copyright © Reynaldo Mast | Year Posted 2013

Details | Narrative |
Autopilot tired
broken wings
sore in soaring flight
fluttering, down-spiral 
clouds streaming beyond fog 
three barrel rolls
swirling through silver light
simulcast storm shakes black topsoil
mineral enriched,
vitamins collide,
seep through porous skin
providing synthesized eruptions
cataclysmic spasms drop knowledge undetected by erudition
Thick walls wobble, crack, then begin to close in on the thin skull
a metaphysical transformation manifests 
threes permeate 
preserving Oblivion...
Earth, moon, stars
proton, neutron, electron, 
mother, father, child

Fertile land dissolves for the horizon
turquoise soaks toes
and so 
an enigmatic awakening 
idle imagination swiftly shifts gears here
from stationary stone 
to being thrown through the moon
effervescent agitation bubbling oceans strewn
triggering intensity
tridimensional trepidation 
sleet sheets pelt clipper ships

Parochial, no longer the vision
mood scoots through sinister to happy-go-lucky 
three grim blankets lift from melodramatic souls

This mighty universe revolves
aflame with AGAPE...

                                         (*sappy to sophisticated)
The final oscillation 

©2014 ~JSL PoetTreez Publishing

Copyright © JSLambert Mister ROBOTO | Year Posted 2014

Details | Narrative |

Did your day meet adversary in the face?  For I the LORD have proven myself to you, over a thousand times.
I’ve been with you in your corner, 
Your foot have not fallen or slipped, through it all I’ve been right there beside you.
Do you not understand the reward for finishing the race?
Do you not deserve rewards for staying the course?  When all around you others seem to be failing, 
Am I not with you?
If love equal to victory, then have I failed in my love to you?
If I’m powerful would I let you slip through the cracks?
Forces can try to bind you, but you can move
In all this I say na, for not once have you fallen or slipped from my sight.  
You reside in the eyes of the LORD, yours are forever and eternal
I repeat these are MY words not YOURS

Copyright © F. Darlene Mack | Year Posted 2015

Details | Narrative |
Righteous Malaysians they are found everywhere...
Here in Malaysia and in countless countries out there...
August 29th 2015 heralds the dawn of a new awakening.....
August 30th 2015 continues this launching of renewed enlightening...
Worldwide, concerned Malaysians they take to the streets dressed in yellow...
People, young and old, proudly they rallied in their T shirt yellow..
Day 1 saw masses of righteous Malaysians stay up through the night...
To awaken afresh for the rally the next day alright...

August 30th is the 2nd day for this monstrous rally...
One that will be immortalized for posterity in local history...
This is the day when righteous Malaysians sounded in alarm....
Of a beloved nation in a distress never yet to be found...
We Malaysians usually read with only passing interest....
When neighboring Asian countries suffer political unrest...
And their people take to the streets to be heard and to protest...

Who ever thought we Malaysians too will one day  thread the same path...
Just to be heard, and to push for the government for a change of heart....
From a progressively authorative government in mismanagement...
To a people-centric democratic government expected by all its people...
This monstrous rally of 36 hours was widely touted as  Bersih 4.0....
Simultaneously held in all countries that teem with righteous Malaysians...

Bersih 4.0 is a historic event  for Malaysians in hundreds of thousands ....
Where true Malaysians showed solidarity for genuine love of the nation... 
The monstrous rally was but a mass appeal to awaken an uncaring government...
In the hopes that a cleaner and just government for the people will be eminent....
Now that the dust and drama of that massive rally is settled...
Whither goes the direction of the government for the people of Malaysia?

Copyright © KENG CHUAN SENG | Year Posted 2015

Details | Narrative |
Lend me a listen
And hear this tale of woe
The life and times 
Of a man 'called' Joe

Keep still, keep quiet
Hush, listen to the sound
The silent footsteps of a man
As he walks his native ground

Joe was born long, long ago
Across the waters blue
In a land of plenty
There, Joe the babe grew

Five generations deep
A lifetime of needs supplied
Hard work, respect for self
Full of heritage and pride

Now, Joe's given name was 'Shakka'
A father, a husband, a strong man
One day while hunting
Was snatched from the 'Motherland'

In a ship made of wood
With white sails full mast
Joe and fellow countrymen
Were in the deep below casted

Please, listen a little longer
Can you hear the pain
The fear, the confusion
The frustration of chains

Landing on the auction block
Stripped of humanity and pride
There, Shakka's name was lost
And all his rights deprived

The years were hard, the master cruel
In a strange and foreign land
With obstacles to suppress
Still Shakka (called Joe) remained a man

The whip couldn't break that freedom spirit
Held deep within his soul
Joe vowed that freedom dream
His people someday restore

Listen, can you hear the silence
As his people struggle on
Keep still? ...Keep quiet?
Has all the work been done?


Joe's dreams
Shakka's screams
Mother's crying
Children dying
Policemen hosing
Prison doors closing
Dog attacks
Refusing the back
College sit-ins
Integration begins
Malcom's plight
Martin's fight
Jesse's stand
Mandela's victory
Apartheid's history

A borrowed ear, Joe's tale's been told
Yet the struggle remains
Speak Out! Shout Loud! the time has come
Total freedom we must regain

Copyright © Hattye Jones | Year Posted 2006

Details | Narrative |
Her shadows followed her while she was strolling alongside the beach. The red hues of sunset fell upon her skin and emphasized the freckles on her cheeks. The girl desperately wanted to remember the taste of independence and openness. For some reason, the loud sound of the crashing waves complemented the song beautifully like when Haley Reinhart collaborated with Casey Abrams. She felt the rough texture of every grain of sand beneath her feet and squished it only to see that they come right out between her toes. Some Spanish dancers dancing Flamenco would be perfect here...and a cocktail or a glass of Sangria... or both. 

Cuando menos me lo espero me enamoro, se detiene el tiempo...

The wind is getting colder. A few boulders were seen just near the shore. One of them was dry and large enough for her to sit on top of. She hugged her knees and gazed out across the broad crimson sea, throwing the feeling of longing far towards the horizon. A mixture of maroon, apricot and amber colors painted the sky, performing a balmy gradient. A few small crows were present, like splashes of blank ink splattered across a canvas. 

Si la luna sería tu premio, yo juraría hacer cualquier cosa por ser su dueño, por ser tu dueño, oh...

She stayed there until the sun buried itself into the horizon and the bright spotlights at the beach resort were switched on. -The music stopped abruptly-

She slowly opened her eyes ... One by one, the furniture in her bedroom came to view. She looked out the window and it was so dark outside, it was already night. The girl lifted the comforter to take a look at her two paralyzed legs and let out a small sigh. She closed her eyes and subsided into her bed quietly. pictured the same beach and continued her fantasy. Only this time with different song.

Si pudiera bajarte una estrella del cielo, lo haría sin pensarlo dos veces, porque te quiero, ay, y hasta un lucero, ay.

26 March 2016
A'bidah Mahri

Copyright © Abidah Mahri | Year Posted 2016

Details | Narrative |

Freedom isn't something We should ever take for granted It's a feeling resting deep inside It's roots are firmly planted From birth to death we struggle To always do what's right And sometimes lose our focus The goal seems out of sight Lose sight of what's important Get hung up on petty things At times forget there are some folks Who don't have anything Homes destroyed in an instant Feeling terror every day Is this the day their life will end Ruthlessly snatched away? The real measure of one's freedom Is buried deep within our soul Reach down deep every single day Be thankful of your role

Copyright © Jack Ellison | Year Posted 2016

Details | Narrative |
		Christmas Night

Out in the cold, chained to a tree,
The old dog watched as the sad little girl approached.
Meeting, loving, the poor things cuddled close,
Sharing their animal heat on that cold Christmas night.

A passing stranger and his wife halted in their journey home, 
Taken by the sight of the ugly old dog leaning trustfully,
As the small barefoot girl slowly, carefully freed it from its chain.
"You're my Christmas baby now," they heard her whisper. 

The man said, "Surely the dog must be abandoned," and 
The wife said, "That child has been thrown away, too." 
Both asked in unison, "What can we do?" In unison they replied,
"Let's take them home and adopt them both." 

Entry for contest #25 inspired by "The Little Match Girl" by H.C. Andersen

By Pat Holland
528 Prescott Rd
Paris, KY 40361

Copyright © Pat Holland | Year Posted 2014

Details | Narrative |
The night air made her feel tired
As she looked out side all the fences were wired
In the distance she hears crowds yelling
As she was to young to know they were rebelling
Father she asked where are we going?
Mother said to keep quiet and keep walking

Mother yelled in the night air
Father gave out a blank stare
They yelled run my princess run as far as you can
As that moment past her little feet pushed off and she ran
She ran to the nearest bushes and crawled into it to hide
She never smelled the air before as if someone just had died

As she lay on the ground under a bush she heard 
A loud yell in the distance almost to absurd
My name is Angelica, I am just a young girl who does not know 
Angelica just wants to live her life with help to grow
Angelica did not know what just happened she notice a figure in the distance
A little person just like her, a strong but gentle presence

Angelica saw the people who were shouting run off toward the voice
She was scared and she knew that she had to make a choice
Angelica fragile state was so confused and lost
She knew it will take burden on her at a cost
But in that moment of quietness a young but strong voice called out
Can you trust me just because? will you come with me with no doubt

My Story Telling  Together In A Strange World

Copyright © Reynaldo Mast | Year Posted 2013