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Long Celebrity Poems

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Long Poems
Long poem by Dorian Petersen Potter | Details

The Boys Get In Trouble Again- Part 1

~The Boys Get In Trouble Again~Part 1- 
(A Narrative poem) 

Beth! Beth! Almanzo called out aloud for Laura upon entering their home., very late that afternoon, after so many long hours of work, since very early morning that day. 
I'm right here, in the kitchen, Manly.' 'I'm telling you Beth, I don't know what to do with those boys anymore.' they're driving me again crazy. 
I should had been more firm with them from day one and then maybe we wouldn't be having this situation now.Everytime we let them come to spend some time with us. 
It's like they keep on doing the same darn thing, that they did last time and that they have promised not to repeat. 

 Just look at this mess they did this time, Beth. Almanzo said to Laura,thrusting her way something on the floorboards, what it looked like ugly pieces of old rags,all wrapped up around a burnt piece of blackened stick. 
Laura jumped back so quickly and startled by it that she nearly lost her balance, in her failed intent of regaining her composure again. 
But just as soon she regained her balance and leaned forward very close to inspect and collect what Almanzo had brought in for her to see. 
Oh no! Manly, don't tell me this is what I think it is, she told Manly, all the while nodding her head in disbelief. 

Yes, it is Beth, and please this time you have to agree with me that they have to be punished. 
Oh Manly! I can't believe what they've done this time. This is really just to much. 
One thing is to get the scarecrow down and play with it a little bit for a while. 
But another one is to use it as a pinata and then burned it just like a piece of coal. 
They just can't continue doing things like this Beth,to us or anyone, Almanzo said to Laura. 
We have to stop them now, or next time they will hurt themselves very bad or next time they'll burn the stable or the whole house down. 
We have to talk to them right now and make them see how bad they've behaved and that they can't continue getting away with murder. 

Almanzo reached out for Laura who was very upset too by now,just thinking that the boys could have gotten really hurt this time, doing what they've done. 
I am so sorry Manly, I know how much you were hopping that the boys could have behaved this time around. 
Yes, I know Beth, I feel like a total fool for believing in them like I did for the last 2 days. 
Another thing Beth, remind me later of replacing that  scarecrow for another. 
We just can't afford having none in its intead out there in the fields, to protect our crop of corn. 
By the way I assume you know where the boys are right now, don't you Beth? 

I don't know for sure, Manly, but I just spotted them outside like an hour ago.They were laughing and playing hide and seek nearby the creek and told them to be careful. 
I'll just go outside and bring them in,and they have to answer for what they've done this time,it's getting kind of dark by now anyway. 
They should have been in by now, as they know we always expect them to do,when they're staying with us. 
Almanzo let go of Laura and gave her a light kiss on the cheek.Well, I better go now and find those naughty boys and bring them home. 
Don't worry Beth.I know what you must be thinking inside that little head of yours.You're thinking I am going to be very hard on those two, isn't it? 

Well, can you blame it, if I was at least for once this time? what they've done it's very bad, serious and very dangerous too. 
You see that,by now, don't you, Beth? Almanzo asked Laura.I know this time you have to agree with me about the boys.I hope you help me find the right punishment for both of them. 
I see you in a little while, Beth.'Oh Manly, just promised me that you won't scare the boys, or be too hard on them when you first see them. 
Can you at least promise me that now, so I can have a sigh of relief.Almanzo just smiled her back and said to Laura, ' I can't promise you that right now, Beth. 

I am sorry.The only thing i can promise you,is that I will try very hard and that you'll see them both again around supper time.Okay. Almanzo just gave her one of his smiles. 
Saying that he just turned away from her, and stepped out through the kitchen door, without looking back.Laura just stared back at Manly, rubbing her hands back and forth. 
She was so worried about Manly and the boys.Manly had been working so hard of late and was having some problems at the mill. Since Pa had left with her Ma. 
They had left both together for a little deserved vacation to California.A place they've visited it only for a second time since Albert had moved away. 

They have some good friends in San Francisco and they got an early invitation to go and stay with them for a while, at least a couple of weeks. 
Who knows they might change their mind and stay for a little longer than that, perhaps the whole month. 
She hoped they would, even when she missed them so much already. they have been gone only 3 days, but it seemed to her, like they have been gone for a whole year already. 
They both needed some time together to enjoy and have some fun, far away from home, and Walnut Grove, a place that held for them so many good and bad memories at the same time. 

They've done all their life all the best they could.Now it was the time for them to benefit of some of what they both have worked so hard. 
Pa have asked Manly to look after the Mill for him, while he was away,and Manly of course could never say no to her Pa. 
At least most of the time he couldn't or just he didn't want to, and at the thought of that she couldn't help but smile too. 

Dorian Petersen Potter 
aka ladydp2000 


Author Note: Just a Narrative poem or short story tha I've written inspired by some of the beloved characters of Little House In The Prarie series and books.~ 

This story continues  in 'The Boys Get In Trouble Again' part 2 ' 

Copyright © Dorian Petersen Potter | Year Posted 2015

Long poem by Robert Candler | Details

The Sooner Recruit

Fifty years, boy and man, I’ve been a Sooners fan;
And watched thousands of recruits try to make my Sooners Team.
Often, I’ve enviously wondered what it must be like
To be a touted Sooners recruit, living out his dream.

He’d had a great career through high school;
Made good grades, was a football star, played baseball too.
Coach said college recruiters were watching closely;
So, he tried his very best to make his dream come true.

You see, he’d played on the L’il Sooners as a kid;
Started getting serious about the game when he was only eight
Played with older, bigger boys and practiced hard;
Always told his friends, “To be a Sooner, ya gotta play great”.

Oh yes, his parents raised a football player;
And, even more important, a Sooners fan;
But he wanted more, to be a Sooner,
To feel the glory raining down from the stands. 

Now, the Sooners’ Head Coach is in his living room.
“Son, you’ve got talent.  We think you fit our scheme.
We’re offering you a scholarship, an opportunity
To be an important member of our great Sooners Team”.

His mother smiles her biggest smile.
His father nods proudly and pats him on the knee.
“Lord knows, son, it’s a dream come true.
Go be the very best Sooner you can be”.

He walks into the locker room,
Not quite sure what to expect;
But sure that to play for the Sooners
He will first have to earn respect.

He looks each man straight in the eye - 
Other recruits, trainers, assistants, and every coach.
“Be proud, but respectful”, his mother had said;
Your character, more than your performance, must be above reproach”.

His handshake is firm and he smiles.
“Only one chance for a first impression”, his father had said;
"Always put yourself in positive light, on and off the field.
That’s what it will take to play for the mighty Big Red”.

He meets so many other recruits, each one a high school star.
He’s played against a few and knows they share his dream.
And, to a man, each knows before any chance for Glory,
He first must prove worthy to play for this Sooners Team.

He knows a few will fail to meet the coaches’ expectations.
For some, the scout team will be their fate.
Many will suit up, but rarely play.
Only the very best will ever dare to be great.

Coach says, “If every man learns and executes when called on,
Then this team, we Sooners, will win a lot of games;
But, win or lose, if you play hard and give your very best,
You’ll never have to hang your heads in shame”.

“But gentlemen, with or without you, this team will win.
Every season, the Sooners strive to win it All.
So, listen, work hard, and prepare yourselves.  Each game is war...
And you must be ready when Victory calls”.

Through grueling practices, he finds himself.
As he walks to class, his closest friends are aches and pains;
But, just the other day, Coach helped him up, smiled, and patted his helmet.
“You’re doin’ fine, son.  Keep pushin’.  Remember, no pain, no gain”.

He sees his name on the "open scrimmage" roster for the very first time.
It’s a moment he’ll never forget, another milestone in his dream.
He calls his Mom and Dad, knowing they’ll tell his family and his friends.
He hopes they’ll actually see him play, proof he’s made the Team.

As he suits up for the last pre-season open scrimmage,
He wonders if the coaches would really let a freshman play at all;
But Coach puts him in for eight plays against the first team;
He makes two great open-field tackles and intercepts the ball.

He barely hears the roar of the crowd, as the whole defense “gives him five”.
He’s so excited, he forgets to ask if he can keep that ball.
Fans are buzzing, “Did you see that hit”!?  “Who is that kid”!?
“Will he red shirt or will Coach let him play this fall”? 

He sees his name in the Sunday paper, hears it on local sports.
He’s happy, but he doesn’t let it go to his head.
He keeps his focus and uses it as motivation.
After all, he wants to start one day for the mighty Big Red.

Yes, we’ll hear more of this young recruit.
Perhaps, one day he’ll be the hero of the game.
A seasoned veteran, maybe All Conference or even All American,
Who’s tasted Victory many times and helped glorify the Sooners’ name.

Oh yes, there have been so many who’ve aspired;
But many fewer who’ve actually made our Sooners Team.
They are our heroes, each and every one;
For it’s through their accomplishments, we fans can live the dream.

Billy Vessels, Steve Owens, Billy Sims, and Jason White,
The Selmons, Little Joe, the Boz, Josh Heupel, and “Q”
They, and so many others, were once touted Sooners recruits;
Who set a higher mark and built the Tradition that is OU.

So, c’mon! c’mon! all you great young football players!
Dedicate your talents to OU’s Team and OU’s Fans.
Make Oklahoma’s Owen Field your Field of Dreams,
And feel the Glory raining down from the stands. 

Copyright © Robert Candler | Year Posted 2014

Long poem by James Edward Lee Sr. | Details

Buck N for Glory

Your searching for something you can touch;
Looking for the same things to love, with no results;
and it's hard to believe;
Hard to receive;
Your shucking and jiving;
ducking and diving;
wondering and why ing. . . your trying to
Buck N for Glory;

What you are hoping for;
 What's behind the next door;
Do you feel the burden;
What's on your shoulder son...
Having fun you think on the run you stink. . .
Well, well
Are you for certain, the He's here, He's here;
Do you know if He's real, He's real
What ya talk N bout William
Wondering and why-ing...
While people crying and trying to
Buck N for Glory;

Blood baths, subtraction in the math;
And the aftermath is what's that;
Make believe and cottage cheese;
There ain't no Santa Claus;
Man made laws, and water buffalos, wow!!
He's here, He is here, is He real is He real;
What's His name, what's His name;
I can feel, I can feel, yes He's real, yes He's real;
When I can't feel but I know I'd better stop denying;
better stop crin and stand up for the cause;
Littered and catch up in the closes causes;
Renouncing stories that been still and pauses. . .
What's your story, why you still
Buck N for Glory;

Better stop crin stand up , stand up for the cause, because;
Rejecting,  stop rejecting get in the kitchen and praise the Lord;
Thank U's  for my blessings cause
He's Real, He is real;
I believe stop Buck N fa re liz john;
I say Stop Buck N fa re liz john;
Stop bucking religions 
just serve Him, and just who is Him, the Him He is
 Jesus, the son of the
The almighty God;
Start believing in the real things,
Those real things that matter;
Stop getting madder and madder;
Or your heart, mind, soul and spirit will spatter;
All over the third heaven's into anti-matter;
Don't play church that will just make you get madder and sadder;
Just be glad that He's your Dadder, ya Daddy, your heavenly Father;
What's ya talking about William;
Wondering and watching;
People are trying, while they're;
Buck N for glory
It's  neither Coke nor Sprite;
None of that will save your life;
and just what, just what will, well it's Jesus, Jesus Christ;
I'm not trin to change your decision;
Not trying to knock your religion;
but if you're fighting your division;
Have no truth in your denomination;
You better stop buck N fa Re ligion;
He's here, yes He's here, standing right beside you and He's..
Real, He's real Hallelujah
Stop blowing smoke in your armpits;
Stop blaming it on reading, writing and arithmetic;
All of your demonstrations make me sick;
(and Denominations)
Stop Buck N for religion;
Throw your hands up, unstop believe in the wrong things;
When Jesus is the only being;
Who will bring you our;
And set you apart and save your soul;
Start believing in the real things, the things that really matter;
Don't play church that will just make you get madder, and madder;
It's neither Coke nor Sprite;
None of that will save your life, 
Your life is saved only in the omission of your sins and your believe in Him;
When Jesus is the only being;
Who will bring you out;
And set you apart and save your soul;
Stop Buck N for religion;
Throw them hands up
Up  toward heaven, praise the Lord;
He'll set you apart and save your soul;
Git ready for your name to be on the roll;
Throw your hands up, stop believing in the wrong things;
When Jesus is the only being;
Who will bring you out;
Read the word the bible, that's what I'm talking bout';
He's here, He's here, He's real, He's real...
Your searching for something you can touch;
Looking for the same thing to love;
And it's hard to believe, hard to receive;
What you are hoping for;
What's behind the next door;
Do you feel the burden;
Wanna be one of His soldiers;
Then armor up, reload, read the Word
You're His adorn...
Relish in this story;
Stop buck N for glory;

Written words by    James E. Lee Sr.
Arranged music by Buck Bowen
February 17 2007 (c)

Copyright © James Edward Lee Sr. | Year Posted 2017

Long poem by Poet M.e. | Details

Miles Davis and God, Kind of Blue

Kind Of Blue (For Miles Davis)

Woodlawn Cemetery, Bronx Ny 1991

Before they could lower Miles 
into the damp, dark ground
Thought they heard musical sounds

Before the Preacher could say
Turn your BiblesTo Acts, 
The preacher paused.

After he read Deuteronomy
He looked back

But there was nothing there

But deep under the sepulchers
Six feet below the sand
The Spirits realized it was jus’ 
ColTrane and Gillespie
Warmin’ up the band

And a hundred corpses started
Creeping' out those coffins
Sayin', We don’t get parties round here often

And those Trom Bones started rattling
Those Trom Bones rattled
Like they were audition for Ezekial
Like they were auditioning for Ezekiel
And MILES was ready for his musical sequel

And MILES said
Is everyone here dead??
And they said, Do we look Dead?
And started snapping their fingers
And bobbling their heads

And they started to sing 
and shimmy and sway 
In A Silent Way

And Miles asked the Dead Man with the horn
Where am I?
How long do we get to play?
He said, We ain't got long, Son
The Shovels are on the way
The shovels are always on the way

And Miles crawled  out of that casket
To a vertical stand
And Tommy put a horn in his hand

Miles stood on the tallest tombstome
And he played like a Boogey Man
He played like a Boogey Man
And then Mingus appeared, saying
 Miles??   Can I give you a hand?

And Miles put his wrinkled Black lips on that horn
And sucked it like it like it was a breast
And he felt like  he was a Newborn
And he pulled music deep in his chest

And he played like there was no tomorrow
Because there wasn’t one
He hesitated
And they said, It’s alright Son

And he played Vibrato 
And he played G sharp
And he played sweeter
Then Caesars harp

Then Miles looked sad eyed
And thought back to 1945
Shooting heroin with Bird
recalling those sad words:
“Hey Miles”
“Yeah Bird”

This  shit is kind enough to kill you
And show up at your funeral too.”
And Miles said, 
Yeah it’s Bitches Brew
It’s a Bitches Brew

He laughed, Crazy of  Ol’ Coleman
To tell me to stay away from you

And that heroin went down
Their veins
Like a Macy’s  escalator
Then they went back up to their brains
like an elevator

And Bird was dead ten years later

And Miles went back even further in his mind
1944, East Saint Louis, when he met Billy Eckstine
He pressed Play, fast forward and rewind
Then he thought about Webster and Navarro
And he was filled with sorrow

Miles cried as he cleared his throat
But He saved
The Sweetest note
for alton, Illinois
Where he played as a boy
And was his mother’s joy:

“I think God himself made the piano
Now the Devil made the trumpet
A day later tryna show God off…"
She faded with words real soft

That thought was interrupted
Miles, We gotta hurry
The comin’ with the shovels
They told Miles not to worry

And those Spirits knew the party
Was coming to an end
And Miles played one last note
To the sun, to the wind



Those What  If-heaven-

And then he brought  to an end
 That syncopated tune

Someone whispered, We know
"It always ends too soon.
It always ends too soon."

And the music stopped playin
And they confiscated those horns
Like a New York pawn shop
And that party came to a stop

And every ghost went back to his tomb
ANd Mingus said, Goodbye Miles
It’s a long way to Bangledesh.
You stay out of trouble  
And then they saw  the shovels

The very next morning
The Undertaker
saw a Brass pipe on the ground
Where it came from he didn’t have a clue
But the Corpses  knew

But if he had looked up, 
Miles and MILES up into the sky
He would have noticed
The more Ominous clue
The Sky wasn’t white
Or Opaque or even Grey

It was was Kind of  Blue

Copyright © Poet M.e. | Year Posted 2017

Long poem by Funom Makama | Details

Fan of a Fan

Sights are far but our minds are close
two hearts share one inhale with one nose
stage acts are for her even the pose
smiles from down she wishes for a rose
ten out of ten is her loyal dose
ever since it was confirmed I rose
my deep loving of her no one knows
the feeling, branching from the two grows
her quick flight after my shows create woes
until the next, my soul stands on toes.

1. Even in her absence, she exist in real apparition
my quest for the very best is nothing but her creation
she’s always in the fore-front, my music the only rival
the heart recognizes nothing else until her arrival
dancing with great joy and so much grace she happily commits
her love and beauty’s aroma, through my lyrics I vomit
meeting her expectations is the peak of every moment
it's worth the risk to damn any caution of a divestment
pure in her charm, subtle in her reach to my inner love seat
exhibits total submission to my fame through every beat
behind this glory is a being confined in a one horse town
you can please enter through a thousand places and change its gown
shaking your flesh even in long dress still makes things happen
and making my intuition and inspiration stay sharpened
all my life I’ve been a panda lost in the Sahara
now have a transformed dwelling with many a Jacaranda
every live performance is a chance to act like her macho
an addition of her love, keeps my stream completely stable.
Containing her lack of attention, that I’m not capable.

Sights are far but our minds are close
two hearts share one inhale with one nose
stage acts are for her even the pose
smiles from down she wishes for a rose
ten out of ten is her loyal dose
ever since it was confirmed I rose
my deep loving of her no one knows
the feeling, branching from the two grows
her quick flight after my shows create woes
until the next, my soul stands on toes.

2. So broken and down, my face and voice were just the only hope
she appeared to this lazy engine like a needed tow rope
my television appearances cause huge street bonfires
ignoring her sweet tweets makes my heart and head connived liars
giving good entertainment but to all others I forfeit
every cell in me, focuses down on her from four feet up
moves come with the same wonder if her affection is pre-owned
such premonition endangers my emotions to be stoned.
Oh love, the abstract distance between us is a forgery
letting you go, makes my ego commit a deadly treachery
a response to my well rehearsed hi will append my blessings
an invite upstage to face other fans, hope it won’t offend.
Our jamming tearing eyes taking both souls to planet mars
looking for a way for both hearts, in need of an overpass.
taking a European tour, missing her becomes revealing
her clicks on social media makes the whole day sweet evening
adding her karaoke, my microphone accepts the magic
trying to follow her up, the boomerang becomes epic
as far as Russian hands, relocating the heart of a Scouse
my sounds, her dances have intrigued me to want to be her spouse.

Sights are far but our minds are close
two hearts share one inhale with one nose
stage acts are for her even the pose
smiles from down she wishes for a rose
ten out of ten is her loyal dose
ever since it was confirmed I rose
my deep loving of her no one knows
the feeling, branching from the two grows
her quick flight after my shows create woes
until the next, my soul stands on toes.

Copyright © Funom Makama | Year Posted 2017

Long poem by James Edward Lee Sr. | Details

Not Beautiful but you are you are

They say your not beautiful;
but you are, you are;
Because you were made by created by God. . .
They say your ugly, and you just don't
You don't, you don't fit it won't fit in
The images of the world system
they say ya got no..
No hips, no waist, no big lips or big breast
Got nothing to offer any man, no nothing;
That's not all a woman is. . .
                               They say your not beautiful;
                                  but you are, you are;
                    because you were made by,  created by God...
                   and God don't make nothing ugly, no my child
                      your beautiful and God don't make no mess

They say you're not handsome, such a frumpy man
But in God's eyes your a handsome guy
They say your not beautiful;
but you are, you are;
Because you were made by created by God. . .
They say your ugly, and you just don't
You don't, you don't fit it won't fit in
The images of the world system
no broad shoulders, 8 pack muscle budging out midsection
muscle bound gladiator  packing a giant forearms
That's not all a man is. . .

                               They say your not beautiful;
                                  but you are, you are;
                    because you were made by, created by God...
                   and God don't make nothing ugly, no my child
                      your beautiful and God don't make no mess

When you see pictures of Satan;
that's not what he looks like
Lucifer was an archangel, elevated high until the fall;
One of the most beautiful angels of all
Those pictures man has of him red foulest man with a tail
walking around with a pitchfork, that's not him at all

                               They say your not beautiful;
                                  but you are, you are;
                    because you were made by, created by God...
                   and God don't make nothing ugly, no my child
                      your beautiful and God don't make no mess

Women  don't listen to those other women;
Don't listen to those men;
your beauty not hidden it shines on through in God;
Men don't worry bout the eight-pack christen back board shoulders;
don't have to have a thunderous deep baritone voice;
you are handsome beautiful  Godly man (if you stand)
Believe in this and witness to our young men boys below us

Teach them to humble themselves, honor Christ worship God;
Show them true beauty and true love;
Show them to grow up follow and honor God;
Rise up, stand against the wiles of the Devil;
Show them to be kind to the creation
Show them to love the brethren all races;
Show them to respect and honor the female race womankind;
Show them this is how they our handsome;

                               They say your not beautiful;
                                  but you are, you are;
                    because you were made by, created by God...
                   and God don't make nothing ugly, no my child
                      your beautiful and God don't make no mess
                         you are fearful and wonderfully made
                        my sister, my brother and your blessed

Written by James Edward Lee Sr.
July 23 2017 (c)

Copyright © James Edward Lee Sr. | Year Posted 2017

Long poem by T Wignesan | Details

Stop writing Literature, You garrulous Indian

 for Eric Mottram (1924 - 1995)*

 a life of toil for the man in the centre
 a hub in the peripheral tireless wheel
   where he go then where he go this working man
   he go on waking people   working at waking man
no words cling now no words meant in blame
the tongue  he lash the words  they now tame
no shock of blast open laughter rock the hall
everyman there say    there sure were a man
a man  no fear cowed    in communion to other
made for no gods   made for no demons either
all men he know best when he see just once
no second thought resurrect the man if bad
so go tell the magi   no trek in sight in sky
here a man be born  here he so sure die
other no like see one so bright stand up high
other no like feel like sky fall low into ocean
what make ‘m i say with feeling so just
is sure he different  he force hisself work
work work work   work an’ again work
he work nite an’ nite so 50-hour in day
   where he go then where he go this working man
   he go on waking people   working at waking man
where you go from word born here now
turn and twist   all whoring the alphabet
‘don’t write anything you can get published’
so publish only what you can’t call your own
writing like reading’s a public coital act
so showing your work is exhibitionism
‘why don’t you send your stuff around
keeping it to yourself’s sheer masturbation’
reading-watching-listening’s just voyeurism
so sending wares around is prostitutionism
    where he go then where he go this working man
    he go on waking people  working at waking man
he it was in minesweeper capture aurora borealis
message from extrasensory enter into he word
in Bengal waters alone he hear No-man cry
only in deepdown psyche water drip drip dry
then on land he no see reason to the fight
so he let he wrists spill he guts to the fill
then he take the world on all by he torn self
he spare no skin in dug-Malayan-jungle-out
what he do  what he think he do   he no tell
everybody meet man an’ no see albatross hang
he no tell story like ol’ mariner in dream
he go wake people from dumb dead trance
many many people high up no like this act
some call him stuckup other just ‘im damn
is all he do then     what kind of working this
is big work man ‘cause most body dead sleep
    where he go then where he go this working man
    he go on waking people  working at waking man

* The late Eric N. W. Mottram, made Chair Professor of English and American Literature at King's College, University of London, in 1983, was appointed Lecturer
in American Literature - the first such appointment - in the University of London. By then he had already taught English literature in Zurich, Singapore, and Groningen. He obtained a Double First in English Tripos at Cambridge University after serving out the Second World War (in the North Sea and the Bay of Bengal) on a mine-sweeper. He edited 22 issues of the Poetry Review in the seventies, the organ of the Poetry Society in England. He published some 35 books of poems and some fifteen books of criticism and was the recepient of the American Learned Society's Award for 1965. He also taught at Northwestern University and in New York University at Buffalo. In 1994-1995, he was recommended for the Nobel Prize in Literature, but he passed away on January 16, 1995 while a E-meritus Professor at London University. 

 © T. Wignesan 13-15 October 1995. Pub. in "Radical Poetics (Inventory of Possibilities)", London, 1997.

Copyright © T Wignesan | Year Posted 2012

Long poem by Robert Candler | Details

Two's Magic Nose

Such a nose had Ol’ Blue.
Best in south Missouri... everybody knew.
Could smell a pheasant across the plain.
Could point a covey in a hurricane.
That’s the way the legend goes.
Ol’ Blue had a “magic nose.”
As Blue got older, his master’s mind would drift away
To a place where he and young Blue used to play. 
In the mornings, sitting over his coffee cup
He found it sad there were no pups.
He thought it would be such a shame
If the only memory was Ol’ Blue’s name.
So, Jim was compelled and full of pride;
He made a search, far and wide,
To find Ol’ Blue a suitable mate.
No doubt, his offspring would be great.
It seemed likely, he supposed,
At least one pup would have his “magic nose.”
She was a Champion Miss from New Orleans,
A beautiful “red” named Cajun Queen.
But Blue suddenly passed away, before the pups were born.
Jim was broken hearted.  He and “Queenie” mourned.
Then came the litter, but there was only one.
Jim struggled for hope; after all, he was Ol’ Blue’s son.
Dappled and lanky, a handsome little cuss,
He looked just like Blue.  Jim made such a fuss.
Naming this pup would require no ado.
It was obvious.  Officially, he would be “Blue Two.”
Oh yes, these were mighty large tracks to fill.
“Can he?”, folks asked.  Jim would say, “Heck yes he will!”

So his nickname became “Two” and he seemed to be smart.
Soon it was time for his training to start.
The basics went well, but Jim’s outlook grew very dim
When, instead of pointing, Two would wag and jump and bark at him.
Oh, Two seemed to be trying; but try as he might,
He just could not seem to ever get it right.

“Blue’s son or not, he’s got to go!”
Jim found Two a “pet home” far away, in Tupelo.
On his way back, he stopped in Texarkana.
Been too long a time since he’d seen his sister Hannah.
Six days and six pounds later, he was back on his way.
Work at the farm was callin’ and he’d be drivin’ all day.
He thought about Ol’ Blue and wondered if and when
He’d ever have a birddog as good as Blue again.
Oh, he knew another “magic nose” was just a far off dream;
After all, it wasn’t something any man could scheme.
A “magic nose” was a gift from God, only given to a few;
And he was proud and very lucky just to have known Ol’ Blue.
As he turned into his drive, he broke into a smile.
“Why… I can’t believe it!  It…It must be 300 miles!”
Two was on the porch, thin and dirty; but he struck a handsome pose.
Jim ran and hugged Two hard.  “How’d you get back?  Lord only knows!”
Suddenly Jim realized; and struck with awe, he slowly rose.
A tear trickled to his smile.  “Why Two… you have a “magic nose!”
Two and Jim are best of friends, together everywhere.
From milkin’ cows to bedtime, Two is always there.
Jim doesn’t hunt much anymore, now Two’s a rescue dog.
Just last month, he saved a little girl lost in Cooley’s Bog.
Jim struts and tells proud, heroic stories;
While Two wags and jumps and barks, and shares his glory.
Jim boasts, “Like father, like son!”, then speaks fondly of Blue;
But all know the largest tracks to fill are those of Two.
His deeds are known far and wide,
And fill Jim’s heart with love and pride.
For with every rescue, the legend grows;
About a dog named Two, and his “magic nose.”

Copyright © Robert Candler | Year Posted 2014

Long poem by T Wignesan | Details



                     in words 
             coloured structures   
  tones                                   movements
       all the multifarious ways of being savvy      earnest
                                                       of show-looking  in earnest
                                                              of believing in earnestness
                         of wanting to be thought of in earnest
            by being read thumbed 
     scrutinised       listened to in silence
                    who shores up whose image

« when the feeling comes, I feel the need to go » … 
                                                                            Sekoto said
      looking into the guest with devouring Picasso eyes
   and yet his image bothered him
              his need to be felt useful        needed  
                                                      to be thought of as in the know
        no background to lay the usual foundation
    Ecole des Beaux Arts  
		Atelier in the Rue des Augustins
            no one to lean on to
     only the self-peddled jazz piano   a lolling pittance
        and the loud lingering death at the Maison des Artistes
     canvasses    stached away at some brocanteur’s junkyard

it matters to leave behind a corpus
     a bibliography firsthand original    right from the tréfonds
         long before  death 
   the diurnal deaths   
                      felled by dizzy spells
 some ex-librarian’s list of secondary source pieces
                         articles talks opening-day speeches conferences radio-interviews
                             tv declarations chapters-in-books edited revised --editions reviews biblios
             tertiary lists of critiques 
       unsigned TLS reviews        communications 
                what the editor said in memoirs of his peers

      not to have said enough is not enough

there will be those who will attribute what others have said to us

we have made provision for that
       we told so and so what the others have taken from us
                                             with a word carefully placed in the leeward of the ear
              while sitting in the din of the rear seat    words garbled gobbled by the exhaust beat

to have left behind a load 
    heavy with prizes pounds royalties titles
                                                    by the dozens  even scores
  definitive recapitulative editions in velours 
       computerised translations         transvesti(t)es 
        through years of solitude sans sexe sans joie sans care may the publisher be
      forever loading to jettison 
the heavier the corpus the longer/longslower 
                                                                           the worm rot in the      
            mud   catacombs of staring accusing 

From the privately-pub. coll. (rev. 2016) : longhand notes (a binding of poems), Paris : 1999, 115p.

© T.Wignesan - Paris
Fresnes, November 6, 1994 

Copyright © T Wignesan | Year Posted 2016

Long poem by cherl dunn | Details


Lightly the rain falls upon the lamp lit streets, the shabbily dressed figure
Walks with an air of uncertainty down the cobbled stone streets, leaning,
On his rickety cane, the elderly gentleman huddles beneath his umbrella Of refuge.
Shadows of the tenement brownstones line the edge of this rough necked
Part of town, here is the sheltering halls of the forgotten do dwell, the poorer
Venue that slum lords build their fortune’s foundation’s upon.
The gentlemen approaches his own dwellings dormancy with hesitations
Beating heart throbbing within his small fragile bent frame, for he knows
Tonight shall be his last night on this ethereal plane of existence.
For one last moments belief reflection he remains completely still, just to
To feel the autumn breeze against his bare flesh, to hear the rain drops hitting
Against the window panes, and to bid his final farewell to humanity.
Taking out his keys with his wrinkled twisted hands, he unlocks the doors
To his apartment, turning around to look outwards the gentlemen sighs, it has
Been a hard life, but I’m resolved to meet the next adventure, then he shuts
And locks the tenement’s door.
Weary from his days traveling the elderly gentlemen, climbs his steps upwards,
Towards his little room in the back area of his apartments, then he sits at his office
Desk for the last and final time, now to complete my journeys final entry, he thought
To himself this writer of the super natural’s acclaim.
Dipping his quilted golden pen into his ink well, the master writes one last line,
The end, or is this just the beginning?
Clumping over, clasping upon his desk the elder gentlemen’s heart lies stilled
As if at perfection’s final rest, his golden pen now runs crimson, bleeding downwards
Across the aged parchment paper, dripping onto the old wooden floor boards below.
The office door blows open a tall figure thus so enters, dressed in a raggedy robe of black,
Thread borne and full of tares and wholes, the creature approaches the dead gentleman,
As if in a screeching howl, the Grim Reapers touches him, ripping his spectral spirit
Free from the fleshes boney shell.
I’ve come for you old man, resist me not for your sins are heavy, and I’ve no time for
The ranting or ravening’s last pleas for salvations from one such as yourself, I have no
Last wishes qualms my friend, take me at your leisure, for I’ve grown weary of this life,
And it’s lonely emptiness.
Then the room grows cold, the ethereal disturbance ends as quickly as it had begun,
Leaving only the shell sitting at the old wooden desk, what happens when the writers
Golden pen runs crimson, bleeding downwards across the aged parchment paper,
Dripping onto the old wooden floor boards below?
The world of humanity thus so weeps for him, for he is the grand master of darkness’s
Written word, the skilled craftsman’s whom reveals what lies beyond the darker realms
Ebony gates, by his darker words of wonderment.
Farewell Mr. Edgar Allen Poe, we shall miss you always, you whom welcomed death
So easily, but the world of men is left empty without thee, as thy golden pen thus so
Now runs crimson and lies stilled forever.


Copyright © cherl dunn | Year Posted 2014

Long Poems