Long poem by
Stephanie Gutierrez | Details
The 10th grade-I was hurt, had a lot of pain I wore, thought that everyone could see it on my shirt, I felt incomplete, tried to be neat and do all the things I could to just be me, however, the pain didn’t cease, I couldn’t escape, had that basketball in my hand and that was clear that I had found the love of my life, ballen, shooting hoops, being me, the lost sheep with not too many that new inside how I was feeling deep inside.
First love came after a heart break, or so I thought, trying to fit in in high school I settled with the fools doing what they do, not cool evidently. And my heart was crushed when I rushed to trust someone to hold my hand and call me there girl, didn’t happen quite that way, so I opted out to pray and one day my prayer was answered. And there he was… handsome, tender and happy, he was hard and caring at the same time, I was on Marvin’s “my oh my” welcome to a true high. We caught each other’s eyes, and in an instant all the pain that resided drowned away and I still remained, with a clean plate and he melted my heart. We started talking, walking, meeting each other on breaks, and at the end of the day we lived close enough to one another that the chase kept up pace. Once we got off the bus we would meet up again day after day. Walk to the movies, like kids I finally felt free to play -no escaping I was having fun living finally, innocent love.
We would take pictures once a month, go to breakfast, dinners and lunch, and when we kissed it was like we were the only ones. A hug like a safety neat, a laugh that you wouldn’t forget; and that was just us.
But people started talking, teachers became concerned, parents expressed the things that we were trying to explore, and it went from free, to complicate almost instantly. Stress and test, trust it was rougher than a good game of chess. We are now at graduation and knotting our heads, I'm getting kicked out the door of my parents, while he is trying to be proper to his. So love became a task, and the chase became more complicated than math, where it got so bad we had to ask “do you still want me? Love me?” heartbreak…broken glass.
Chasing love is no easy task, seeing your love incarcerated and numb not a righteous path, taking greyhound buses to visit, driving alone in the lonely journey to be nearer… didn’t make life any clearer. But loyalty helps to fill up an empty glass. In the mist of the twist, and the roller coaster we have two lovely children that remind us daily why we survived our trials and tribulations, there smiles and laughs are pure and innocent. Seventeen years later we are closer than we ever cloud have planned for or imagined, and when we look in each other eyes it’s no surprise the love that sprouted once upon a time is still shinning, through good times and bad, the rain and sunshine are hands are locked and intertwined, and the love is unconditional; innocent love still growing within us.
Copyright © Stephanie Gutierrez | Year Posted 2015
Long poem by
Country Girl48 | Details
A couple decided to walk
down to the park near the river
At that time, you could barely see
the crimson moon, just a sliver
Moon was always that color
on Halloween night.
Lexy was holding on
to James hand very tight.
They were so romantically in love
Lexy thought he was sent from above.
They'd been dating for quite some time,
everything seemed so sublime.
The moon had finally came out
from behind the clouds
While they were standing by the river
they had heard something crack loud.
Lexy grabbed James and screamed,
"Let's get out of here."
She had a fearful look on her face
and turned to tears.
It was too late, a strange creature came out
the water with fiery eyes.
They were grabbed from behind,
She screamed, continues to cry.
After she had screamed,
her mouth was covered.
Creature said, "You two lovers,
are mine tonight."
I need two virgins for the witch
had been watchingfor you all year
Their faces were white, full of fear.
The creature had blood
flowing from his eyes
As he completely came out of the water,
He was all covered with flies.
Lexy and James hands were finally tied.
The two who had grabbed them
walked in front of them at last
They were zombies, dry blood Tongues were like a serpents, fast
they didn't dare move for they were poisonous with venom.
A boat came by, the monster gave the kids to the witch
when she spoke, she was loud and had a high pitch.
When Lexy and James were placed
in the boat,
The witch cast a spell, then put on a black coat.
When she cast another spell, large snakes came out, then wrapped
around their bodies, hissing,
they were trapped.
Boat finally stopped, snakes had disappeared, zombies had came
and picked them up out of the boat,
laid on a huge rock, positioned same.
Their hands and feet were spread
tied to the trees, next to where they laid,
spells were cast, evil prayers were chanted, when ordered, zombies obeyed.
A goblet came over with a dagger
piercing them through the heart
they died instantly, which was planned from the start.
Poured the blood, from the heart into the glass bowl, too
Each zombie and goblet sipped blood from the bowl, they knew
they had to chant, then the leaders of the group and the witch bit through
it and bit a piece from the heart.
Passed it around to each zombie
so they could do the same
gave them energy and now
they were no longer tame.
Ate all the flesh off the bodies, made a sacrifice, spirits came out and flew away,
turned midnight and disappeared, they all went to their homes to stay.
© Melanie . All rights reserved,
Copyright © Country Girl48 | Year Posted 2014
Long poem by
Sonia Walker | Details
Sunday drives into the country,
escaping the heat from the city,
passing tobacco farms along the way,
with old barns and rusty Coca-Cola signs
resting against their weathered sides.
Driving along the narrow two-lane road
we count the number of RFD mail boxes
placed in painted milk cans which announce
the rural ambience of each home,
we stare out the windows and enjoy the quietness.
A village general store greets and beckons us to stop,
farmers with straw hats and ladies in full shirt-waist dresses
are gathered on the front porch chatting to one another
and enjoying the cool ice cream cones wrapped in napkins,
our mouths water at the refreshing and delightful treat.
We leave our station wagon and run into the store to explore
smells of chocolate fudge, cinnamon and scented candles
which capture our senses----we are excited as we run around and
take in the attractive displays trying to discover all the treasures,
our parents remind us that we stopped for ice cream and not play.
Grabbing our hands our parents lead us to our original goal,
ordering ice cream cones at the counter for the entire family,
napkins are passed around but it doesn't matter since our faces
are smeared with the heavenly flavors of strawberry, maple
and other combinations making us lick the left-over goodness.
Further down the road we see a crumbling stone fence so typical of
olden times as we are told by our parents who insist we stop by and
take a closer look at the unique formation of bucolic New England,
old stone fences are boring to us, we would rather see horses galloping
away in meadows as if something scary was chasing them.
As we walk along the fence line of gray stone we discover a saltbox
home partially hidden by maple trees which house chatty squirrels and
singing birds announcing our intrusion of their territory----we whisper not
wanting to upset their domain and trying not to look obvious as we enjoy the sight,
a lady opens the front door and stares at us as we wave at her.
The sun is setting and it is time to drive home after the excursion,
my brother and I are sound asleep as our mother turns around with a smile
on her face knowing that the rest of the trip will remain quiet except for
our child-like snoring which interrupts her conversation with our dad by
an occasional giggle from us adding to the Sunday drive into the country.
Copyright © Sonia Walker | Year Posted 2016
Long poem by
Taoi Chanan | Details
A zip lining tree makes about as much sense as a robotic hamster. Neurotic neanderthal neon numbers neither neutralise nor nut needed narcotic nymph nights. Oh wow a triangular pendulum. Must swing around on that. If the mice like it then so will I thought the round square faced jug whose pleasure cane from attempting the antics of others but whose destiny it was to perform pouring duties only. It is only ever wise to attempt a swinging climb if one has hands argued the duster. But I get to go very high on top of those giggling glass cabinets. I am most fortunate. To which the jug made no reply for the duster never made much sense and had a fruitless existence which culminated always in the journey through the washing machine whose booming voice rang around the house. For goodness sake it could nit be quiet even when spinning. The jug sighed bit had not been used recently so was clean. Hmmm food for thoughts. Slowly the jug edged its way to the edge and looked at the distance between pendulum and side board. I can make this. He thought. And with one mighty mind leap he projected his mighty crystal frame in an arch reached the pendulum and dangled by his handle grinning in contentment but smirking when the duster appeared. The jug gloated. I made it and you thought I would not. It is evident that should one wish to attempt impossible acts one must have clean inners and and a desire to succeed. I did it. The duster sat motionless and not too pleased to be wrong. But still the efforts needed somewhat acknowledging. Yes you made it. I shall clap. And the duster began beating the air with flaps so hard that the gravity could only mean a rise and rise it did. Spinning around the room and finally resting on the blinds which gurgled sunlight and breathed relief at the soft caresses of the cloth. The duster smiled. Soon the house would be full. The pendulum swang to and fro and the jug chuckled in delight. The lady lords had arrived with their key turning tune. The lady was very puzzled and enquired as to who had placed the jug onto the pendulum. The duster smirked. Ha. Now the jug would be in trouble. The lady noticed the duster. Then running from the room she found Archie the terrier in the fish bowl. What on earth is going on here? And still the jug swang in solid state of being. And the duster sunbathed on the evening sun beams. The sign went up. And twenty three pickles ran out of the house climbed on bikes and rode away. Great. Z novellas number number number nice norms. Parasympathetic parapsychologists Z Z Z Z
Copyright © Taoi Chanan | Year Posted 2017
Long poem by
curtis johnson | Details
Number 22 in 1964
The prior season and many seasons past had been great for our school. However, the ‘63-’64 season was to prove disastrous for our school. I had been looking forward to the 64-65 season when I knew that I would be ready and prepared, but the district changed the rules and eliminated the concept of ‘Junior High Schools’. In so during, the best possible players were sent to high school, and the school was stuck with the likes of me and others just a little better. I was the shortest on the team and played the two guard position.
However, what my school and the entire county did not realize is that #22 was about to become the super stars of super stars. #22 was about to set the gym on fire, because he was so ‘hot’ with the ‘shot’. He was about to redefine the meaning of ‘underdogs’, because he was indeed a ‘hot dog’ at shooting the ‘long ball’. #22's long ball caused the NBA to create 'The three'.
Number 22 became the district's ‘Most Valuable Player’. He was voted #one and made team captain. There was one game that everyone pointed to as the key turnaround for their season.
#22 had a most spectacular game, giving hope and leadership to his team. Prior years had left the team either in the #one or #two spot; but the 63-64 season would have been declared successful if they finished any place but ‘last’. However, #22 and his team succeeded by not finishing last. But also. They finished first.
They were loosing that turnaround game, and being so inexperienced, there was no ‘go to guy’ when the chips were down. But #22 made himself the ‘go to player’ and took the ball rapidly down court and put up a shot just beyond half court. Before Marv Albert became famous with his “Downtown!” description of a long shot, #22 clearly went ‘Downtown’. The crowd went wild!
#22 wasn’t done. So again, he took the ball rapidly down the left side line and shot just past half court. You guessed it! Again! “Downtown”! And again the crowd went ballistic!!!
He would not score again, but came down the court again on the left side. But this time, he drove the left side of the key, and attempted an acrobatic lay-up and missed. Even his miss caused a cheer, and sent the stands into a frenzy. By then, his team was ready to take over and finished off their opponents, because the spirit and quick three plays of #22 had done the damage. His team then went in for the kill.
07022016 PS Contest, Tell a Tall Tale by Jesse Day
Copyright © curtis johnson | Year Posted 2016
Long poem by
Robert Ronnow | Details
There cannot be two identical things in the world. Two
offer infinite locations within their shells for electrons.
Thus, nothing can be definitely eventually known.
All to the good
because golf and chess and basketball, as well as
mathematics, language and genetic recombination
for discovering the possible (which is more attractive than
in what we thought we thought about the sun and clouds.
In Borges' The Parable of the Palace, the poet's attempt
the world in a word results in what, surprisingly, is
personal obliteration a piece of anti-matter that
occupies no known shell in this or any other instantiation.
Got the plot?
We are "moving through some allegory between a City of Hope,
has been abolished, and a City of History, where hope can be slipped
Actually, the recombinations
which make prediction and intuition fortunately hopeless and each
gone well or wrong, are represented by equations of such complexity
not at all from the very stars and neurons whose interactions we wish
The world keeps up or ahead of the collective attention span by offering
or otherwise rapidly contracting universes, big bang by big crunch.
I like that, I like that I can't know what I'm doing (until it's done).
faith and understanding
(hope and history) become one absolutely fluid quantum motion, a lovely
a thunderstorm, a terrifying and (for someone) final tornado or volcano.
From his earliest published work, Ronnow displays a fascination with
the world without the self, a ridiculous consideration considering time's
6.5 x 1010 sunsets and sunrises over mountains and deserts (for every
themselves rising and setting via magmas, oceans, tectonics, meteors,
Do your homework I said to Zach. Why bother was his attitude.
time is an illusion, an invention man made, there is only change. Birds
But the calendar and colors, genus and species, bacteria and galaxies,
are the innumerable wonders about which Sophocles said man's
why because we identify or classify birds by the complexity or beauty
of their songs.
Copyright © Robert Ronnow | Year Posted 2015
Long poem by
Taoi Chanan | Details
A slipper stained in a knot is appearing to emulate a wanton soup. Wanton soup is grinning a beaming smile. Whirling around. Nine noodles nimbly nick niceties. And the prawn dance begins as they fling themselves out of the rice at great speed. And minis a heavy shell they are rather agile. The little patterned bowls began to spin and the contents shrieked in sheer delight. The arrival of the multi-coloured crackers was treated to a roar from the seaweeds who were basking in their baskets. Then the long legged eating utensils began to walk elegantly around the table. The beef and black beans were discussing whether or not to climb out of the sauce. And meanwhile a pineapple decided that it had had enough of the gloopy red mixture and climbed out snuck next door to a pizza house and lay down next to other pineapples which confused the pizza men for it was cylindrically shaped and they only ever placed cubes on tomato dough bread. He was pulled out and chipped into cubes. But on returning to the plastic pineapple bucket he never had felt so alive or at home. There were other pineapples which he could talk to. How great! They all had the same fate anyway. Best enjoy the remaining time before the displacement. Meanwhile a sand otter was trotting over the beaches on a stallion using full beam. Much to the delight of the wild party of herons, seagulls, sharks, sea oysters, and an overweight pumped up jelly fish who was sat having a beach fire and cooking a large meal of dusky leaves. Breaded boiled bracken became breads. And just what if? What if an ice cream cone arrives? They were known to jog at night. And surely the jog is a jig and a jogger is a jigging jiving juvenile jam. But who would want to travel around in a brightly coloured ding ding truck playing the same song and hypnotising children into buying the many creams on offer. Therefore it is to be said that any jogging cone is fleeing from daily monotony. The duty of a derelict building is to rotate wildly at three a m particularly under bridges but a nice neat new house can collapse under a bicycle wheel. Tailspin then. Wow. And all this at ten rabbits to nineteen eels? Rather remarkable the pointed sharpened ears of a snail. the beetles and bugs are bathing today in a boiled brilliant bath. the leftovers of the dinners are rising and running away. culinary cumin calms chaotic cucumbers. And a nice rum jumped over a hill on a slab of ice. C
Copyright © Taoi Chanan | Year Posted 2017
Long poem by
Natasha Horton | Details
Separation rules the nation it seems
Our race decrease the identity that cannot be redeemed
Yes we have amicable lives whom still believe in MLK's dream
The steam from our hatred of deceit and misfortune
Has brought our brains to be washed in them
I feel like my people don't understand fear
Only the kind that could end your life or when the boys in blue are near
It's very rare for a black community to have unity
Even though their own may bring forth destruction or present a bad opportunity
Blind in a path of darkness, deciding to change but it's too late
Went down the wrong road and took the bait
Putting ourselves in situations we didn't want to create
It's Satan's job to keep you in that place
But God said to repent and He'll forgive and it'll be erased
What's happening to us in this world today?
It's very obvious where some of our people's priorities lay
Are we really that distracted
On the hottest rapper, shoes, money, and fashion
Disaster is right around the corner while your're ignoring the real problem that's about to happen
Reactions are suppose to be in the realm of wisdom
Being in your feelings can sometimes be the end of your feedom
Just listen to what people say and what they do
Why? Trust me, they are watching your every move
You were born to win and not loose
Let's encourage one another and not be abused
By those who taught us the false hood of our heritage
For it goes beyond Harriett Tubman
We are royalty
Kings and Queens with true loyalty
Now we have become jokers and servants
Stripped for our knowledge to be non-observant
To follow the rules of this land
Limits us by a simple code through the government's hands
Tobacco and liquor stores on every corner
Yet shutdown the programs the kept our kids out of trouble
Double negatives that play in our lives
Despise those who take our future for granted and not recognize that we were structured not to survive
Open your eyes
For time is not on our side
Never was and never will be
Yet we still have control of what we face and see
Clock is ticking
No more wishing
That circumstances will change
Yes, faith can rearrange all things
Pray about it, trust and witness your abundance
For we have always been the chosen ones from each end of the compass
Wake up and know who you are
For God has brought us this far to reach the stars
Copyright © Natasha Horton | Year Posted 2015
Long poem by
KENG CHUAN SENG | Details
Here I am trying to string some coherent thoughts into a prose in writing…
When there is this sudden continuous thumping noise behind where I am seating…
Oh no! That can only mean one thing, my little girl is into her basketball dribbling...
In this limited space of the living room, her boundless energy needs venting…
Ever since the local junior basketball competition has started, I wish we live on the moon…
When the whim strikes, it’s Michael Jordan incessant dribbling about in the living room…
Only the emptiness of space around the moon can silence the sounds of these staccato booms…
NASA or whatever relevant space agency, book me quickly, if possible, beam me to the moon..
Yeah, I know better, our cajolings and pleas for quiet in this living room is a waste of saliva…
This feminine version of Michael Jordan in my living room is in one of her breakaways runs afire…
Look out! Control that ball, you almost bump poor Nemo in his cute fish bowl off that table…
Where’s your mother, what do I have to do to get a little peace in this time of the day altogether…
Little girl, if you don’t mind, I’m trying to finish this little poem of mine to post on-line…
I have my readers and fans, they’re just like yours, hoping to see the best I can offer each time…
Yeah I know, your fans and supporters, they are cheering you on too, I see the picture…
But little angel of mine, please put away that blasted ball , how about something else to consider …
Let me finish up this shortened prose, post it up online and then I will bother you no longer…
After that, it would be better that I quickly retire to the master bedroom, silence there is pre ordered…
Tell me again, when is your last game, for all this thumping through the week is giving me heartburns…
Do you have to bounce that ball indoors, that noisy din will one fine day bring on angry neighbours…
Better you do something not so noisy, say, clean Nemo’s tank - it looks rather dirty to me….
What? You’ve clean it twice already in this week, are you very sure of that? How about money?..
Would you like to have some change and maybe you can grab a soda outside, it is one fine weather..
Fervently I dare hope, my little Michael Jordan, do go and pick up your many dolls, where’s Barbie..?
Copyright © KENG CHUAN SENG | Year Posted 2015
Long poem by
Reynaldo Mast | Details
I will start with using my hand as a guide
And in the end I will open my eyes that I will decide
I consider to do this with one thing in mind
I will close my eyes and will imagine it blind
With no colors or fractionation of the light
Just plain me and a vision with my hand as my sight
My hair is very coarse and some what fine
What I just described is so benign
I twirl my hair and make it bend
And I will say its very clean not oily on the ends
As I press on my forehead I simply feel a distinct part
I notice from hair to skin it is very different from the start
The simple partings from hair not like skin
I am going to feel with my other hand and begin
The smoothness of my skin like years of water eroding a rough rock surface smooth
Not just that my skin is like home to years of stories like scars and attitude
And when I raise my eyebrows the wrinkles it makes is more so for expression
I did not notice it with certain ideas, thoughts, and emotions
I run my hands down to my eyelids I feel movement of my eyes trying to peek
Eyelids that I have, vibrates with some kind of fear, Why?, that I will seek
Just now as I thought about it a sensation ran through my brain
My eyes is the world to me and that is true and not insane
Myself portrait of me is through my touch for now
But to finish it I will have to open my eyes soon and how
I been in a trance full of so many ideas just with my eyes closed
I run my hand on my nose and lips and I smile who could apposed
The feelings in the tip of my fingers rub on my chin and jaw with care
I do notice roughness of unshaved velcro gripping hair
I skip my ears so I will sneak a feel with my fingers I chose
I notice it is like my nose with cartilage, so I don't suppose
I will now open my eyes that I will use a mirror to see myself
My head is oval shape and my neck is like a stump, please help
My skin is very tan and my eyes are brown with my eyes I see
With all the description with my hands, one sure thing is the same and key
It is the description of measurements that is what my hands and eyes can see me
With a smile I am looking into the mirror and I can describe that I am happy
Myself portrait of me is such a way to get to know myself once more
I will never think it was a waste of time or a bore
Copyright © Reynaldo Mast | Year Posted 2013