Long Cessation Poems | Poetry

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Long Poems
Long poem by Brendan J. Simons | Details

The Mask of Alabaster

Once the night had fallen upon a sleepless slumber,
Whence the winter woke me when the third was three in number.

I sense that a wince doth lurk and wear which wicked gaze,
Of conniving shadows cast between my bedroom windowpanes.

I try to sit up from the fluff of foul feathered pillows of goose,
Yet they hold me down as if they'd grown on my neck to form a noose.

Shadows are simple reverse reflections of what's been left behind
A thing when sight can see what light has yet to hit the mind.

They pirouette as silhouettes upon my wall and in my eyes,
In which I sense with worry why I'm frozen and feeling tied.

As I'm laying locked in horror I look through the window’s diaphanous glass, 
And see that in a tree there floats a fluorescent face in a mist of brass.

It floats aloft the frost of the frigid Winter floor, 
Stirring cirrus shadow limbs of the moonlit sycamore.

An incandescent twilight cloak, illumes the timber's lattice, 
Where shines this cryptic spectral glow akin the ignis fatuus.

Abrupt by insanity as I fancy this fantasy, surely born by a brief hallucination; 
Optic inventions craft in confusion surely conjured such nonce observation.

A peculiar perched mask seems to hang disguised within the wintry thicket, 
“An illusion,” I suspect “my percipience deceived, by a dubious false exhibit.”

Two holes are dug beneath rubbed bone, bleached white in wan complexion, 
Masquerading to mock the missing paired two eyes of aesthetic perfection.

“Indeed,” I thought, “These staring beams appear as do a pair of eyes,” 
I try and descry the light from which they shine under a gleaming guise.

Purloined I’m poised in a lucid melt, tasting a poisonous pure oppression, 
Wrought by this face that haunts my view through the lens of my fenestration.

Shifting my view to find fault in my faculty,
I sought salvage in sight of such psychic insanity.

My fidgeting efforts prove futile, the carven masked eyes fix upon mine still! 
Incessantly I’m stunned in speculum, boiling in a benumbing brisk of thrill.

Alas, my eyesight: no longer the sole sense of this deville, 
What once was mere vision hails now my ears with a trill.


My breath and pulse waxing slower, and waning ever faster, 
Aghast by celestial sounds from a susurrating mask of plaster.

Whence from my vision avowed, to the vacillations I succumb, 
Of undulations the mask strums, moving inside my eardrums.

Who brings to me this apparition, arisen from perhaps an adumbration,
Of a visit from he whose grim reaping, lends to the living certain cessation?

And then in reminiscence, to my mind arrived the anamnesis,
Of the shelf that shelters a book one might otherwise dismiss.

Within its parchment pages, whence in refuge resides a clue, 
To what this mask is made of; when, where, and why; by who?

Pins prick from prior paralysis, upon my dermis disguise of bone,
I shiver and grab the book and beg, bound reason to me be shone.

Within this covered lexicon read acrylic words in arcane diction, 
Which most readers would anthologize, as ancient artifact and fiction.

The first supposition tis true, that this book was bound in the archaic ages, 
Amiss the latter assumption that fable unfolds by the turning of its pages.

In my desperation I stir commotion, reading over every turned folio, 
Longing for light in yonder window break, as did Shakespeare’s Romeo.

Yet each passage read of occult sorcery, or a variety of mages, 
No line of a white mask, appeared to me on any of these pages.

All hope seemed to escape with passing page, turned by my flustered fingers, 
Then a sudden zephyr blown ingress to the page on which now I linger.

On the bottom right reads in numeral: “Nine-hundred and ninety-nine,” 
On which reads the magical recounted chronicle of myth upon its line.

The fluorescence of the pallid mask that posts upon the tree, 
Shares the ashen-sheen on a face seen afore, on this page by me.

An oblong oil-painted portrait, white and blush of reddish-pink, 
Its caption reads: “The Mask of Alabaster,” inscribed in faded ink.

To the left of the ghostly image reads a paragraph like a spell, 
A warning of dark wizardry, which concocts white masks in hell:

"Animated by a wizard whose avarice bears blithe the thaumaturgy, 
To forge a warlock’s soul inside a gypsum stone, 
This augury and the legerdemain required of such magical metallurgy,
Siphons a sapphire from the fire inside his pelvic bone.

His soul is trapped in a putrid shell: his very own decapitate skull,
On which will gleam a glowing garnet, glimmering gold and scarlet,
His eyes shall cry with weeping, sunken, hollow two eyeholes
Luring any victim to view the red of this lustrous target."

Such dread and morbidity of a lost soul; ‘tis most tragic, 
When trapped in a mask made by evil mischievous magic.

What malice must succeed from such a tumorous terror? 
And what reconnaissance be sought by its hidden wearer?

Returning my gaze to the wraith in the window,
I remember that it has my mind muddled in limbo.

This mask of cadaverous complexion, 
To my horror, mine own reflection.

Copyright © Brendan J. Simons | Year Posted 2017


Long poem by Catie Lindsey | Details

Judgment, Bloody Judgment

When before the throne the Lamb advocated,
For those countless Souls in arbitration,
He reached for the Book without hesitation,
On the altar the Lamb's blood inundated.
God's chosen Lamb being consecrated,
Present at the Earth's foundation,
Then witnessing her mighty cessation,
This Lamb of God now mediated.
For a moment the time seemed to stall,
As blood from the altar spilled to the floor,
Many there were, in search of a door,
But the serpent, on his belly, crawled.
Each Soul stood complacently consigned,
To Hell's fire or Heaven sublime.

To Hell's fire or Heaven sublime,
Every head bowed, every Soul felt speculation,
Be it Heavenly bliss or eternal damnation?
For by righteousness or sins defined,
What was forgotten was in the book to remind.
As time after time, each Soul fell to temptation,
No stone left unturned in this lengthy investigation.
But for the glory of God this moment was designed.
Minions of Souls, of every nationality,
Pale and cold, as dripping sweat insinuates,
The guilt, the shame, the fear that alienates.
Not jot nor tittle removed from prophesy's biblicality.
Sins of darkness were brought to light,
From Hell's fire the demons took flight.

From Hell's fire the demons took flight,
Swooping down low upon the congregation,
As the fire flamed higher in Hell's orchestration,
While Lucifer's laughter offered no respite.
The smoke and the ash suffocated the light,
The sins of the Soul weighed heavy in condemnation,
Then each Soul experienced the evils of segregation.
Isolated, and shamed with immobilizing fright,
Some Souls did faint, their strength grew frail,
When out of the smoke came the Rose of Sharon,
Bound and tied, bloody, whipped, and beaten.
Countless Souls saw plainly where they gained or failed.
Composure denied, though the Soul struggled diligently,
To loose the bonds of sudden accountability.

To loose the bonds of sudden accountability,
Each Soul, a nail in fleshy augmentation,
Slammed into a beam of bloody fermentation.
Throwing stones at a young woman's assailibility,
Convenient doctrines demanding public proclamation,
Heresies and Pharisees in close association.
Each Soul bore the weight of responsibility.
Loud wailing was heard with gnashing of teeth,
While Lucifer's laughter rang out over all these things,
Then more demons took flight, with great and mighty wings,
As a burning sword was loosed from destruction's sheath.
The Lamb opened the Book of Life, judgment to confer,
He called out the first name written, "Lucifer."

He called out the first name written, "Lucifer."
Then an army of Angels appeared in mighty demonstration,
To witness Old Lucifer's final eternal annihilation;
Around the throne sweet incense was implored,
As Lucifer came forth with his minions to proffer,
"Take these," he began, "some of my closest associations,
Take dishonesty, theft, and the greed of the nations."
Then these sins on the altar were offered,
As Lucifer grinned with sheepish beguilement,
The blood of the Lamb arose in hostility,
Covering those sins with absolute capability.
Each Soul experienced honesty and enlightenment.
With the truth now clear for each Soul to discern,
Old Lucifer grew tempered with anger to burn.

Old Lucifer grew tempered with anger to burn.
Displaying murder, lust, and war's devastation,
The blood on the altar covered these evil manifestations.
But within himself, Old Lucifer's patience churned.
As the cosmic wheels of divine justice slowly turned,
Lucifer became enamored with his own amplified palpitations,
Biting the heel of humility, in his moment of greatest tribulation.
"I AM GREATER THAN THOU!" The Lamb, he spurned.
Then an Angel brought forth keys, as the Lamb was inclined,
To protect the Soul from sinful separation,
Due to Old Lucifer's dishonest inclination.
The Lamb held the keys, and to Hell, Lucifer was confined.
Then the Lamb came forward and smashed the Serpent's head.
Now that Old Culprit, Lucifer, was eternally dead.

Now that Old Culprit, Lucifer, was eternally dead,
Received in the end, the Lamb's final summation,
As the Soul was washed clean of sin's sedimentation.
Each sin covered on the altar where the Lamb bled.
Never again would a Soul know sin or experience death,
The Soul felt it's worth as the beloved creation,
Brothers of Christ, in eternal salvation.
Filled with brotherly love, the Soul, felt blessed.
A new Heaven and a new Earth appeared,
Where Eden was restored to it's celestial estate,
Of the Tree of Life each Soul was free to partake,
But having knowledge the law was revered,
Eat not of the Tree in the midst, mandated.
When before the throne the Lamb advocated.

Copyright © Catie Lindsey | Year Posted 2018


Long poem by Brendan J. Simons | Details

Original Mask of Alabaster

A wince doth lurk wearing which wicked gaze,
Of conniving cast shadows ‘tween my windowpanes.

Gazing through the window’s diaphanous gelid glass, 
I see a flushing fluorescent misty haze of frothy brass.

It floats aloft the frost of the frigid Winter floor, 
Stirring cirrus shadow limbs of a moonlit sycamore.

An incandescent twilight cloak, illumes the timber's lattice, 
Where shines this cryptic spectral glow akin the ignis fatuus.

Abrupt by insanity as I fancy this fantasy, surely born by a brief hallucination;
Optic inventions craft in confusion surely conjured such nonce observation.

A peculiar perched mask seems to hang disguised within the wintry thicket, “An illusion,” I suspect “my percipience deceived, by a dubious false exhibit.”

Two holes are dug beneath rubbed bone, bleached white in wan complexion, Masquerading to mock the missing paired two eyes of aesthetic perfection.

“Indeed,” I thought, “These staring beams appear as do a pair of eyes,”
I try and descry the light from which they shine under a gleaming guise.

Purloined I’m poised in a lucid melt, tasting a poisonous pure oppression, Wrought by this face that haunts my view through the lens of my fenestration.

Shifting my view to find fault in my faculty,
I sought salvage in sight of such psychic insanity.

My fidgeting efforts prove futile, the carven masked eyes fix upon mine still! Incessantly I’m stunned in speculum, boiling in a benumbing brisk of thrill.

Alas, my eyesight: no longer the sole sense of this deville, 
What once was mere vision hails now my ears with a trill.

My breath and pulse waxing slower, and waning ever faster, 
Aghast by celestial sounds from a susurrating mask of plaster.

Whence from my vision avowed, to the vacillations I succumb, 
Of undulations the mask strums, moving inside my eardrums.

Who brings to me this apparition, arisen from perhaps an adumbration,
Of a visit from he whose grim reaping, lends to the living certain cessation?

And then in reminiscence, to my mind arrived the anamnesis,
Of the shelf that shelters a book one might otherwise dismiss.

Within its parchment pages, whence in refuge resides a clue, 
To what this mask is made of; when, where, and why; by who?

Pins prick from prior paralysis, upon my dermis disguise of bone,
I shiver and grab the book and beg, bound reason to me be shone.

Within this covered lexicon read acrylic words in arcane diction, 
Which most readers would anthologize, as ancient artifact and fiction.

The first supposition tis true, that this book was bound in the archaic ages, Amiss the latter assumption that fable unfolds by the turning of its pages.

In my desperation I stir commotion, reading over every turned folio, 
Longing for light in yonder window break, as did Shakespeare’s Romeo.

Yet each passage read of occult sorcery, or a variety of mages, No line of a white mask, appeared to me on any of these pages.

All hope seemed to escape with passing page, turned by my flustered fingers,
Then a sudden zephyr blown ingress to the page on which now I linger.

On the bottom right reads in numeral: “Nine-hundred and ninety-nine,” On which reads the magical recounted chronicle of myth upon its line.

The fluorescence of the pallid mask that posts upon the tree, 
Shares the ashen-sheen on a face seen afore, on this page by me.

An oblong oil-painted portrait, white and blush of reddish-pink, 
Its caption reads: “The Mask of Alabaster,” inscribed in faded ink.

To the left of the ghostly image reads a paragraph like a spell, 
A story of dark wizardry, which concocts white masks in hell.

Animated by a wizard whose avarice, bears blithe the thaumaturgy, 
Of augury and the legerdemain, required of such magical metallurgy.

A warlock’s soul is cursed with gypsum stone, 
And forged in a fire of sapphire and bone.
His soul is trapped in a putrid shell: his very own decapitate skull! 
Oh, his eyes shall cry within each weeping and hollow-sunk eyehole.
On his brow will gleam a glowing garnet, glimmering gold and scarlet, 
Luring any sanguine victim whose view found this red lustrous target.

Such dread and morbidity of a lost soul; ‘tis most tragic, 
When trapped in a mask made by evil mischievous magic.

What malice must succeed from such a tumorous terror? 
And what reconnaissance be sought by its hidden wearer?

Returning my gaze to the wraith in the window,
I remember that it has my mind muddled in limbo.

This mask of cadaverous complexion, 
To my horror, mine own reflection.

Copyright © Brendan J. Simons | Year Posted 2018

Long poem by Dchante Mckenzie | Details

Remember

*Old poem that I forgot I wrote. Haha. I don't think it's as good as the last one I uploaded but I'm behind so here you go*

REMEMBER
 
Beauty is a state of mind
 
That envelops mankind
 
And leaves people blind
 
To who they truly are
 
 
You feel the need to be a superstar
 
Coating your face
 
With waxes and pastes
 
Trying to hide what God took His time to create
 
 
Your rejection of your perfection
 
Is the neglection of His vision
 
That He instilled upon you
 
Yet you think your life ain’t worth living
 
 
I got cuts and bruises down my hands and feet
 
I bleed oil spills but I’m still sexy
 
Skin dark as ebony, but I don’t give a **** what you’re telling me
 
Eyes like black holes so they pierce to your soul
 
 
Your misguided reality
 
Becomes your fatality
 
And your willing abduction
 
Becomes your destruction
 
 
You isolate yourself in a dark abyss
 
Where you reminisce
 
Over the existence you lead…
 
Yet your hands do not bleed
 
 
Your shadow doesn’t show
 
On the wall where you sit
 
Whitewashed like your skin
 
Cuz you’re feeling like shit
 
 
Drugs, gangs, and sex
 
Become your everyday life
 
Cuz it’s all you got left
 
And it’s all that feels right
 
 
Why must your absence be the cessation of everyone’s existence?
 
And why must everyone’s existence be the reason for your absence?
 
 
You don’t have to be zero in size
 
With golden-brown eyes
 
For others to notice
 
That you are alive
 
 
With all your hips and your thighs
 
You will cause their demise
 
With your dark chocolate eyes
 
You will be glorified
 
 
Remember your name
 
Recognize your existence
 
And when people talk shit
 
Don’t even bother to listen
 
 
Cuz while others just have beauty
 
You have that…plus your brains
 
You have that…plus your pride
 
And people will know your name
 
 
While others just give good sex
 
You give good conversation
 
You can strut your stuff
 
And rock the whole nation
 
 
You don’t need Next Top Model
 
Telling you that you’re fly
 
You don’t need Covergirl
 
To tell you how to get by
 
 
And you don’t need a man
 
Trying to take control
 
All you need is your mind, heart, body, and
 
SOUL
 
 
Remember
 
You’re beautiful
 
Remember
 
You’re chill
 
They can say what they want
 
And think what they will
 
 
He made you with a purpose
 
So go on and live
 
And to all of your haters
 
Forget and forgive…
 
I got cuts and bruises down my hands and my feet
 
I bleed oil spills but I’m still sexy
 
 
Honey, my skin so dark it puts midnight to shame
 
But I don’t give a ****
 
As long as you remember…
 
MY NAME

Copyright © Dchante Mckenzie | Year Posted 2013

Long poem by Ajayi Angel-Simon | Details

A REQUIEM TO MY PRECIOUS LEGS

A REQUIEM TO MY PRECIOUS LEGS: ELEGY TO MY PARENTS

FREE VERSE FOR MUM
My birth remark reads:
                                     You tramped for a season
                                          With a puffy trunk
                                      Along dangerous paths—
                              Waded on puddles and quagmire,
                                    Scuffed your flat feet and 
                          Trampled it on serpents and scorpions
                                 To bid my glorious existence…

I lost my balance
When I felt your expiration from my pubis.
I staggered in pain
Like a fowl stripped off by fierce breeze.

                                                    My physique—
Which a thousand-and-one-princesses adore—
                                                       Is distorted.
The trunk you both carry—
Through rocky hills and sloppy mountains—
Is now an elephantine for the other leg.

Oh! Your cessation is at break of dawn
      You danced to the tune that glooms souls
           You are bereft of ambling
                 On such and such burg…
                        You hurried for the Golden City.

The scorch sun and mild moon cloy
You take pleasure in the one-off of quietus…

With streams of briny water
Rolling down my cheek,
I watched you wriggling helplessly to and fro—
After being ricocheted on Death's spindly pole:
Death clasped your brawny brittle bones.
You swell, swelter, near bursting,
Impatient for suppuration in your crimson attire.

                                         Farewell!
                            You scoot the living abode
                          On mutilated soles and toes;
                                                                                 My precious leg!
                                                                         In your gracefulness,
                                                                   I created beautiful traits.
                                                 I'm left limping as you're supplanted
                                       By quasi-legs and crutches.
Will you ever return?
Even in posterity…   

HAIKU FOR DAD
                                       Dad! Why? Another crutch?
                                            Both legs amputated
                                 You couldn't stay; you loved mum.
Your Love, Angel Simon.
On Christ The Solid Rock I Stand...*tears*

Copyright © Ajayi Angel-Simon | Year Posted 2012

Long poem by Nasiphi Siyolo | Details

THE FEELING YOU GET AFTER MISSIVE OF DEATH


you get to be comforted immediately as the message is delivered that a person is no more for the cessation has taken place, you get to stay with people and they makes the pain go away for you know that they care and they are with you in this dark shade that has showered over you, you get to forget about the shadow and dimness, you get to lough and feel free and thinks that the obscuration is no more.

During preparation your mind becomes unrealistic, everything happens fast and your mind keeps on cheering yourself by thinking maybe it’s a lie, maybe It’s not happening, the pain you experience is in-imaginable and it wipe all the happiness, you become stressed and distracted n your mind, you get to worry about your loss, the cost of the funeral and your life on wards.

There comes the day where you get to see the body of your love one lying in the coffin looking helpless, where your heart drifts into more sorrow, where your eyes becomes wet with uncontrollable warm and painful water, where the pain cuts through your heart like an arrow and you wonder to GOD if why did this happen, you become overwhelmed with confusion and depression, life seem worthless, hopeless and unfair.

You get to watch the coffin going down slowly to the grave, your soul becomes trembled, your spirits cries to GOD for comfort, your heart become locked in miserable and your mind become filled with dullness,…you get comforted by people who are around you, you start longing that they would stay forever with you for their presence makes you forget the pain, but the reality always stands still the challenge is yours so you got to stand alone in the battle and face it.

Day after the funeral everything seems hopeless, the future becomes vanished, faith diminishes and love disappears, you wish not to exist at all for the pain you get to experience seem beyond measure but then GOD never gives anyone a burden that is over his or her powers, you’ve got to be strong and endure patience for after drought there is always something zealous and ecstatic, life will never be only be covered with sorrow there are joyful moments also and one got to remain positive and be thankful to GOD with whatever he bringz into, for GOD has trusted you enough with the situation that HE brought you in your life, either its shines up your smile or brings tears into your eyes but it has a devine purpose behind….GOD IS A HURRICANE LAMP in your feelings
By NASIe

Copyright © Nasiphi Siyolo | Year Posted 2016

Long poem by MAF Longfellow | Details

PUFF THAT MAGIC DRAGON

                                                              PUFF THAT MAGIC DRAGON.
                                                                   In rain or sleet or hail.
                                                            Work and food and drink can wait.
                                                                   One -two -three inhale!
                                                              PUFF THAT MAGIC DRAGON.
                                                                Its wonders never cease.
                                                             Calming nerves & desire to eat.
                                                              With its carcinogenic feats.
                                                              PUFF THAT MAGIC DRAGON.
                                                                No matter what the cost.
                                                          Cancer, birth defects, emphysema.
                                                              Thousands of lives are lost.
                                                              PUFF THAT MAGIC DRAGON.
                                                                 This tiny paper roll.
                                                            Dictates the human body
                                                                To obey its every rule.
                                                              PUFF THAT MAGIC DRAGON.
                                                                    As ashes pile  high.
                                                             The smell is quite atrocious.
                                                                 Its goal for you is die.
                                                               PUFF THAT MAGIC DRAGON.
                                                                 But please for just one day.
                                                              Read these helps to conquer
                                                                Tobacco's addictive ways.
                                                         GREAT AMERICAN SMOKEOUT/NOV.17th.
                                                          ABOUT.COM/SMOKING CESSATION
                                                                       MAFLongfellow

Copyright © MAF Longfellow | Year Posted 2008

Long poem by Crow thepoet | Details

Bother

The interrogation threatens to shudder like an earthquake
A long index of accusations spread out among the atmosphere like a blazing forest fire
Satisfaction, the officer and venomous umbrage, the criminal
Self-appreciation, the quiescent defense attorney with no right to be there
Misery, the boisterous dauntless prosecutor
The months of the annual calendar, the jury
Pain, the almighty judge
It’s a court case already divested from the defendant
Why should it not
Bother, why bother
Its past the millionth time in 216 divided by the jury
Satisfaction has seen countless rewards of capturing umbrage
Satisfaction has felt the boundless benevolence of glory
And foaming at the mouth, glowering with muffled respected fury
Sits umbrage, staring out blurred vision
Victimized in his own apperception
What’s the cost, the damage total; what has befell, befell reality
The anathema of fate or rather the favored affliction of fortune’s fool
Within a realm of possibility it may perceive to be both
A pebble laced with a thread thrown into grass only miles away
To be reeled right back in like a helpless fish on a line
The audacity, the audacity; oh just hush
Silence is golden and this silence is benevolent
Joy was once prevalent in the company of such disgrace umbrage reigned
Together they were serenity, a mixed graceful period of harmony
Such a song sung by dual owls in the presence of the lightened darkness of night
(sigh) …I can’t do this anymore
Make a world, create a story peacefully
Creating a plot circulating, tip-toeing around the issues placing bait in front of my eyes for me to take
What is wrong with me, my life
One word, a sharp enough blade to stab in the ankle to slaughter Achilles 
In this case, me
The poet’s banishment, scourge creating a series of nine lashes
Still runs deep, refuses cessation
Proceeds to feed on every ounce of merriment to permeate through the cracks 
Melancholy has produced to invade back in
What’s the cause this time for it to attack
A few simple words, reflection, swift defiance
the bruises upon the right appendage whispering, begging for more scars
FOR WHAT? ! ? ! ? ! ? ! 
Forget it….it’s nothing
Satisfaction has pardoned me, set me free
Umbrage, my twin has taken over me
To another bridge, we sit and sulk over a failed attempt at flight
Cause we willingly defy the right to say goodnight

Copyright © Crow thepoet | Year Posted 2016

Long poem by Brendan J. Simons | Details

Flicked Cigarette

Through the hills within the woods of a mountain's slithering slopes,
A road winds its way, on which rides a car driven by a misanthrope. 

Plucking from his pocket a pack of poison sticks with one hand,
To suck the smoke from a cigarette labeled with his favorite brand.

From the ashes of the cindered cylinder arises an airy sensation,
Which swirls within his head as his body suffers from oxidation.

After deciding with an apathetic puff that he'd had enough tobacco,
He flicked the cigarette through the open window with an apathetic throw.

As he drove he thought of the days to come and of his job and friends he'll see,
With the wind in his hair he happily traveled from nine at night to the morning's three.

He arrived to his destination: his parent's home for a weekend sojourn,
And in his childhood bed he drifted to sleep and awoke at eleven in the morn'.

Laughs with loved ones and home-cooked feasts had continued to unravel,
During this weekend which he ended with yet another nighttime travel.

From the suburbs of the foothills he ascended through to mountain roads,
With popping ears he picked with pinkies, producing several waxy loads.

Onward through the familiar roads which swerve along the curves of rivers,
Which pour from bleeding basins which, to below, their water is delivered. 

Then, as the sun had settled its golden hue upon the wrinkles of the wooded thick,
Darkness spilled atop the forest's feathers to slather its leaves like an oil slick.

A sudden cessation of the leaves' silhouettes had slipped the sight of the distracted man,
Who, while he drove, had been lost in thought of the snacks he'd make in a frying pan.

Then, as the darkness had settled its cimmerian hue upon the naked wooded thick,
Flames spilled atop the forest's feathers which slathered its leaves like a lit oil slick.

Firetrucks battled the fire as the man stopped his car so he could walk,
Towards a volunteer fireman who stood before him to warn of the roadblock.

The man asked the firefighter what had caused the scorching of the trees,
Acres of woods burnt in smoking condensation which made the man begin to wheeze.

The firefighter responded to the man who began to trickle with sweat:
"We believe the fire was started by someone's casually flicked cigarette."

Copyright © Brendan J. Simons | Year Posted 2017

Long poem by matthew harris | Details

Penelope Alecknavage

Penelope Alecknavage nee perskin whose death aye assay
to comprehend, this son of the late Harriet Harris - 
   November thirteenth 2016 marked her eighty first birthday
if she still lived these last eleven years - instead met crossway
where grim reaper awaited - though my mum sought to delay
futility to accept Pyrrhic outcome - homage pep rally
   thru poetry n essay
writing, and finding cadence of words 
   helps me (with powder milk biscuits) 
   gather courageous foray
   and means to grapple with demise 
   of a loved one, and hence my gray
matter sifts thru childhoods' end, 
   where remembrance of hooray
amidst claque of chattering aunts, cousins, and uncles
   the fuzzy interplay
of Penny racing at dog speed across lawn of family home
   cordoned off via a jackstay
looms in forefront of my mind, 
   vulnerable to grief most people sad - me, oh kay,
reckons cessation of life = equalizer of sorts
   when significant person without breath doth lay
Tom foolery deft hands of motley crue prestidigitation 
   playing game versus sobbing as corpse 
   driven to graveside viz motorway,
where belief at such stark catastrophe - nay
numbness pervades next of kin survivors
   especially when passing occurs pre-holiday,
yet no matter whence one departs 
   bobbing along River Styx to unreachable quay
mourning iz broken with nary sunny and Cher full ray
to warm earth, wind and fire - seeking soul asylum, 
   trying to blink away ill logic cheap trick re: acceptance, 
   but inxs of tears for fears begs scene 2b screenplay
   not hard rocking coldplay accursed reality
   terminal illness ushers helplessness cuz part of ourselves 
   agonizingly rent asunder, which psychic tearaway 
far exceeds any physical pain, and will underlay
the immediate future, which bodes hollow 
   with the sounds of silence
   despite informing musicians or veejay
to lighten moody blue - 
   boot invariably bono fide, green day, 
   Lady gaga emitting beat,
   per the human league (plus the culture club 
   of heart felt village people affiliated with goo goo doll    
   traversing into nirvana) 
   creates clangorous discordant ringing 
   increasing nostalgia for loved one lost before yesterday!

Copyright © matthew harris | Year Posted 2016

Long Poems