Long Poem Topics

Check out these short poem topics. Find short poems by topic or form.

abortion absence
abuse addiction
adventure africa
age allah
allegory allusion
america analogy
angel anger
angst animal
anniversary anti bullying
anxiety appreciation
april arabic
art assonance
aubade august
autumn baby
bangla baptism
baseball basketball
beach beautiful
beauty bereavement
best friend betrayal
bible bio
bird birth
birthday black african american
blessing blue
boat body
books boxing day
boy boyfriend
break up bridal shower
brother bullying
business butterfly
cancer candy
car care
career caregiving
cat celebration
celebrity change
chanukah character
cheer up chicago
child child abuse
childhood children
chocolate christian
christmas cinco de mayo
cinderella city
class clothes
color columbus day
community computer
confidence conflict
confusion cool
corruption courage
cousin cowboy
crazy creation
crush cry
culture cute love
dad daffodils
dance dark
daughter day
death death of a friend
december dedication
deep depression
desire destiny
devotion discrimination
divorce dog
dream drink
drug earth
earth day easter
education emo
emotions encouraging
endurance engagement
england environment
epic eulogy
eve evil
fairy faith
family fantasy
farewell farm
fashion fate
father father daughter
father son fathers day
fear february
feelings film
fire firework
first love fish
fishing flower
flying food
football for children
for her for him
for kids forgiveness
freedom french
friend friendship
fruit fun
funeral funny
funny love future
games garden
gender giggle
girl girlfriend
giving god
golf good friday
good morning good night
goodbye gospel
gothic graduate
graduation grandchild
granddaughter grandfather
grandmother grandparents
grandson grave
green grief
growing up growth
guitar hair
halloween happiness
happy happy birthday
hate health
heart heartbreak
heartbroken heaven
hello hero
high school hilarious
hindi hip hop
history hockey
holiday holocaust
home homework
hope horror
horse house
how i feel howl
humanity humor
humorous hurt
husband hyperbole
i am i love you
i miss you identity
image imagery
imagination immigration
independence day innocence
insect inspiration
inspirational integrity
international internet
introspection ireland
irony islamic
january jealousy
jesus jewish
jobs journey
joy judgement
july june
kid kindergarten
kiss language
leadership leaving
life light
little sister london
loneliness lonely
longing loss
lost lost love
love love hurts
lust lyric
magic malayalam
marathi march
marriage math
may me
meaningful memorial day
memory men
mental illness mentor
metaphor middle school
military miracle
mirror miss you
missing missing you
mom money
moon morning
mother mother daughter
mother son mothers day
motivation mountains
moving on mum
murder muse
music my child
my children mystery
myth mythology
name native american
natural disasters nature
new year new years day
new york nice
niece night
nonsense nostalgia
november nursery rhyme
obituary ocean
october old
onomatopoeia pain
paradise parents
paris parody
pashto passion
patriotic peace
people perspective
pets philosophy
places planet
poems poetess
poetry poets
political pollution
poverty power
prayer prejudice
preschool presidents day
pride princess
prison proposal
psychological purple
quinceanera race
racism rain
rainbow rainforest
rap raven
recovery from red
relationship religion
religious remember
remembrance day repetition
retirement riddle
rights river
romance romantic
rose roses are red
rude sad
sad love satire
scary school
science science fiction
sea seasons
self senses
sensual september
sexy sick
silence silly
silver simile
simple sin
sister sky
slam slavery
sleep smart
smile snow
soccer social
society softball
soldier solitude
sometimes son
song sorrow
sorry soulmate
sound space
spanish spiritual
spoken word sports
spring star
stars storm
strength stress
student success
suicide summer
sun sunset
sunshine surreal
sweet symbolism
sympathy tamil
teacher teachers day
technology teen
teenage thank you
thanks thanksgiving
thanksgiving day tiger
time today
together travel
tree tribute
true love trust
truth universe
uplifting urban
urdu usa
vacation valentines day
vanity veterans day
violence visionary
vogon voice
volleyball voyage
war water
weather wedding
wife wind
wine winter
wisdom woman
women word play
words work
world world war i
world war ii write
writing yellow

Long Fish Poems

Long Fish Poems. Below are the most popular long Fish by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Fish poems by poem length and keyword.

See also: Famous Long Poems

Long Poems
Long poem by Jack Scott | Details |


It is so hard to let go of love,

It sharks, 
unpeels more gut more quickly
than reel or reeler ever lost
in all those years of lazy inches
in and out:
winding in and playing out,
hardly fishing, rarely catching
from the deepness out of sight,
hardly ever losing . . .

Blisters lust into the greedy thumb.
the startled brake lets go.

It dives full length into the never,
finds the limit of its leash,
pounds against its half-round prison,
demands unknot
at end of end of rope -
Let go!

Got you, shrieks the reel and reeler
cranking in the give and take.
The line is taut,
the weight upon it heavy, 
not docile,
and waiting . . . 

. . .waiting for adrenaline:
against the angry, smoldering thumb.
Caught to catcher,
fish to fisher:
let me go!

It tries too hard to turn to something else: away.
Away and bottom still beyond the knot,
the creature climbs toward the light, 
the something.
her leap, an alchemy:
silver unto gold.

Sun shining.
Sea smiling,
crinkled all about.

slow motion 
of glints 
and droplets,
the yesses.

Million mile amnesia.
Buddha flashback:
a flash of tooth,
then placid lips close over any sign of youth . . .

. . . as if the fish had never been.
-the fisher wonders:
gone forever?

The line is limp
as if . . .
for all the years of it,
nothing at its other end.

A flash of recognition:
she leaps another time, 
not knowing if what held her holds.
Silver fish scales golden ladder
a sunbeam at a time,
and all the rungs of memory -
so slow,
breaks air an instant.

The line has held
and as she leaps, it claims her,
a thunder clap.
Arrested in her flight,
and broken,
she drops deadweight into the bucket sea-
fish to air to gold to water,
too bad.

Of the gold,
an afterglow centered in the thumb.
Did it happen?
Was she really there?
Was I?

Air turns to air once more, 
the fisherman to memory,
pig-a-back the job at hand,
one slender monofilament insisting: no! 
and memory, another plastic,
refusing to let go.

Another time:
my pretty lovely,
so flying and so softly spun,
you seemed the air to me.
So high and free,
so very near the sun,
my tears dissolve the earth’s connection.
The line my hands are holding:
to limit freedom at its height,
impossible without restraint-
the line between us,
  	subtle and so gossamer.
 		There, it glinted,
there! So very real.

Real . . .
The hook is realer.
Tangerine transfusion from the fastened lip,
transfuse dilution
bleeds unreckoned into the larger blue.
The sea - as wide as weakness -
sucks the strength without a hunger.
Tired, the hooked,
and tiring even more,
the line grows stronger, 
shortening toward the bobber boat.
I’ve got her, cries the fisherman,
raping at dead weight,
dragging mystery toward the kitchen
-on his mind is steak.
Slaughter, separate from supper,
passion with a knife, 
the knife . . .

. . . the knife is ready
held tight between the skinless thumb,
and vendetta fingers -
five Sicilian brothers 
waiting for their sister to come home.

The other hand around the rod
is closing on the lover’s throat.
The rod’s erect,
the reel is angry.
Come, my dear, come, come.

She hears the music of the end,
the bowstring whine of gut
still lean and taut from her weight alone,
hears the rhythm of the reel
and tries to run once more
-provoking lust to snatch still harder-

but can’t . . .
. . . is free at last
of strength
surrendered with the last of blood:
quicksilver nearing zero-
and two dollars worth of ice.

Maiden fish,
(a virgin: never dead before)
betrayed and penetrated,
(it’s time now to give in, enjoy)
rests her weight upon the line,
sinks upward,
toward the bottom of the boat.

The whore! I see her in the water!
She gave me quite a fight.

The captain, ready with the gaff,
the lover, in his rented swivel chair,
seize her from the water.
The maiden’s heartbeat
is faint and futile as a final cry of rape.
Her breath is fear, yet sounds like passion
at the very end.
Her swoon is now complete.

Her swain is prickled with his heat.
His blood pounds within his thumb.
He gloats,
is left alone with her.
He ponders . . .
. . . while he does,
she pales and sheds her rainbow.
Her eyes turn glassy from the air,
and death.
She’s turned to meat.

He lusts at memory for a moment,
then dries the little sweat
and goes forward for a beer,
and band aids.

The captain’s seen it all before,
surgically removes the hook
and tidies up the gear.
He and the mate carry her to the ice 
and lay her out within the cold.
The mate disinfects the deck
with sea water and a stiff brush.

Returning with his second beer,
a badge of gauze and Vaseline upon his thumb,
the lover is confused.
The deck, shipshape,
so bare 
of scales and blood
it all might not have happened.
Then there would be hope.

The mate calls him to the ice chest
for the viewing,
opens it . . 
I’ve lost her. There she is.

The smell . . . it must wash off !
Time to go home.
The sea is empty.
It is over.
My thumb!

Copyright © Jack Scott | Year Posted 2013

Long poem by Dennis East | Details |

Dead and buried TWICE

As years go by I think of friends and people from my past.
Where are they now, what did they do, the years go by so fast.
I thought it time to contact some - and one guy in particular.
We were best of pals on motorbikes and all things deemed "vehicular."

I searched for him the usual way, in phone lists and on line,
And drew a blank and found 'not known' most every flipping time.
His googled name had no results, where can old Dave be skiving,
So being smart, I searched his name with his hobby - deep sea diving.

Well, there he was and in a club, and listed as a member.
So I sent an email to the link, with facts I could remember.
I told of how I'd searched for Dave, and how diving came to mind,
And to see him mentioned on their site was such a lucky find.

It was almost three weeks later, someone emailed back to me,
It said, “thank you for your contact, phone this number after three.”
So kind of them to pass me on, Dave's number would be handy,
But when dialed, I got the club line - and a nice guy, name of Andy.

Well he thanked me for my email and then told me I should sit……,
He said.” I have some news to tell you, I said "oh no, can't be - blip."
He said, "it's really hard to tell you this; you've guessed he's not alive,
You see we lost Dave eighteen months back as we surfaced from a dive.

Oh, the news it hit me so very hard, and it shook me to the core,
And then Andy poured the details out and told me even more.
He said, they all had made the surface at the end of one long day,
And that nobody had noticed that poor Dave had slipped away.

So they searched the sea relentlessly with lifeboats joining in.
And though they tried all through the night, no trace was found of him.
Eventually they had to stop, as the currents were that strong.
There was no way he'd survived it, he'd been out of sight too long.

So they organised his funeral and held the service at the docks,
And they gave him one great send-off, though with nothing in the box.
And then nearly six weeks later, when his wife had said, “Amen.”
A trawler caught him in their net  - and they did it all again.

Well, I said my thanks to Andy for the way he let me know,
And I said that I shall miss my mate, but have to let him go.
It was almost four days down the road, that Andy called me back,
And he offered Dave's wife's number, in case I felt the need to chat.

We then went on to laugh at Dave, as stories we exchanged.
How he’d such a sense of humour and no fun was out of range.
Then Andy said a little thing that made my ears prick up,
Saying “Dave was such a great big guy and as playful as a pup.”

Now it's true that Dave was puppy like, and loved to play the dope.
But, my Dave was more a sapling shape, more like a length of rope.
How tall was he, how much he weighed, filled me with sudden joy,
And elated realisation that his Dave….. was not my boy.

I could feel my heart start pounding; I was like a little kid.
And I set about a brand new search to find out where Dave hid.
My wife and I, we searched for days, until we found a clue,
I'd been looking in the wrong place, ex-directory from our view.

So we climbed into the electoral roll, as it doesn’t let you hide,
And there was our dear David, with sweet and blushing bride.
I rang them up and got his wife and told her of my plight,
And she told me David worked away and won’t be back that night.

Then very soon he rang me back; it was like a call from God.
We sat and talked an hour or more, as I thought I’d lost the sod.
He told me that he worked away and off-shore on a boat,
And I told him how I mourned the git while he was off afloat.

And the moral of this story is - when you’re looking for your mate,
Be sure to leave no stone un-turned as you investigate.
Don’t settle for the facts too soon, be sure inside your head,
As it’s worth it when you get one back - especially from the dead.

Copyright © Dennis East | Year Posted 2016

Long poem by Robert Candler | Details |

Went Fishin'

Submitted to the "Gone Fishin" contest

Trollin’ the islands at Texoma,
It was April, 1964.
New rod and reel in hand,
I’d NEVER been fishing before.

A Garcia 2510T casting rod.
The reel, a Mitchell 301,
Plus hand-selected worms and lures…
I was ready to have some fun.

My teacher, a master fisherman,
Had fished all over the earth...
From trout in Austrian mountain streams
To sea bass just west of Perth.

He showed me all the basics,
Including how to tie a lure.
“No snaps. They’re no good.
Tie’em on…just to be sure.”

He made me practice casting.
“Take aim with your rod’s tip 
Take her back - ten, eleven, twelve, one;
Smoothly return to ten… with just a little flip.”

While I practiced the casting motion,
He said, “Large Mouths will be jumpin’ bugs.
Water’s bubblin’ with Sand Bass spawnin’.
You’ll know the difference if one gives you a tug.”

As we drifted around the islands,
He said, “I think you’re ready.”
So, I picked a lure, a pretty Heddon;
And tied her on.  My hands were steady.

Yellow with black dots and a weed guard. 
A streamer tail and double treble hooks.
Who knew if she would do the job,
But I liked the way she looked.

As I tied her on, I looked around
For a likely place for my first cast.
Magazine pictures always showed weeds
In the background of a striking Bass.

So, I picked a reed bed in the shallows;
Threw my first cast, watched her fly.
What happened next was the stuff of dreams.
We couldn’t believe our eyes. 

About eighteen inches before she lit,
A monstrous Large Mouth erupted from the water.
My teacher screamed, “Holy Mary, Mother of God!  
Kiss O’Reilly’s Ugly Daughter!”

When the Bass broke water, it scared me. 
My whole body jerked and shook.
So sudden, so silent, it seemed like slow motion.
Until I heard him screaming, “Set the hook!  Set the hook!”

When the big Bass scared me,
I must have set the hook.
The tussle was on, long and hard.
This fish didn’t want to be cooked.

My lack of skills prevailed, however,
As I finally reeled him in;
I grabbed him by the lower lip,
Like I’d seen Don Wallace do, time and time again.

“Oh, my God”, he murmured as he weighed the Bass;
“Jeez.  Over thirteen pounds....Thirteen pounds, two.”
He took out his Polaroid and laughed, 
“I’ll take a picture of this fish... holdin' you.”

He snapped the picture of me holding the Bass;
On the back wrote the date, the length and weight.
As he turned to put the camera away……
Get ready.  This is the part that’s great.

I’d watched Don Wallace ‘catch and release’.
He always did that on his show.
“This fish put up a good fight.” he’d say;
“Now it’s time to let him go.”

Yes, as my teacher put away the camera,
I held the big Bass by the lower lip and tail
And ‘swished’ him in the water,
Making sure his gills would not fail.

My teacher turned and saw what I was doing
Just as I let the big Bass go.
This, too, was like slow motion
As I heard him screaming, “NOOOOOOO!”

“Why would you do that, Lad?
Do ya know nothin’ at all?
A fish like that... on your very first cast?
Well...Lad, that fish goes on the wall.”

“Well…he’ll be here next year.” I said with a smile,
“And even bigger, I’ll bet.”
He said, ”You’ll make a fisherman, Lad.
It’s not for the fish that we fish…

but for the great stories we get.” 

I still have that lure…and the rod and reel.
Still in their bags and boxes, just like new.
I thought about selling them on eBay,
But 50 years later, they have sentimental value.

You see…I’ve been invited to go fishin’ several times
By golfin’ buddies and other friends;
But for some reason…I really don’t know why…
I’ve never gone fishin’ again.

They say, “Truth is stranger than fiction.”
And I believe that is a fact.
I hope you enjoyed this bit of truth and,
In the meantime…..”Ya’ll come back!”

Copyright © Robert Candler | Year Posted 2014

Long poem by Poetryof Providence | Details |


Have you swam the forests      under the seas
glided it's waters             wandered it's keys
watched the gray giants             and albino squid
attached to kelp leaves             sharks eggs were hid

Clouded by algae             just being born
followed the whales             rounding Cape Horn
watching up rivers             salmon schools run
fur seals cartwheeling             under the sun

soft twinning corals                swaying like trees
waving their branches                  as if in breeze
Fingers of hydra                 grasping their meals
under sea ferns                unrolling their reels

the cuddlefish hug                the limbs of it's mate
a new generation                they're about to create
wondering wherever                your wonder has gone
wondering how species                can gender our song

a manatee grazes                 upon the sea grass
beneath the boats                 ocean swarms underpass
in every color                every rainbow                 and hue
daily inquiry                into what do they do

so graceful like                ballerinas they play
wandering it's reaches                by night and day
the nudibranches                 scaling their hills
Lobsters saluting                 and razorfish drills

swimming the whirlpools                 with shapely tails
jackass penguins                and jellies with sails
predict the movements                 of the Blue whales
picture the angels                 sacheting their trails

shimmering glitters                sparkling the sands
finwalkers walking                as if they had hands
leatherback babies                 skimming the tides
upon water fountains                the sea urchin's slides

a red emperor                ruling the the strays
roving the shoals                 edging the bays
basket stars wrapping                themselves in embrace
the straights and fjords                where sea otters race

pipefishes drifting                the eels in their caves
upon the reef floors                fish dancing their raves
shoveling and building                with undersea tools
the Jacks and Jills                 swimming to schools

tubeworms array                 upon hot water vents
where clownfish play                anemone tents
surfing the currents                and ocean spray
moving so swiftly                they're off and away

composed of armies                marching the streams
sea mountain passages                 and sub...marine dreams
within the reef beds                creches do sleep
in seaweed meadows                lives in the deep

Marlins found herding                 sardines and smelt
it's all the playground                sea lives have been dealt
life's exhibition                 an  endless parade
so many wonders                radiantly  displayed

C Michael Miller

Copyright © Poetryof Providence | Year Posted 2015

Long poem by Terry Trainor | Details |

Old Styles Old Smiles

One fine blustering autumn day an old man puts on his boots pulls up his trousers off he goes,
If anyone wondered where he was going it was to a forest a good long walk it was a fine day,
The old man walked at a leisurely pace stopping every now and again pulling up his trousers,
Looking over fences just to see what the farmer’s men were up to and who was ploughing today.

In his days, the prime of his life, he and his old horse would plough the fields from early morning,
Working through the day stopping for a bottle of cold tea a loaf of bread and a large lump of cheese,
The horse had a nosebag and while they rested, eating, the clapper of the bird boy could be heard,
He would work on until the sun went down on a blue horizon and shadows disappeared with the day.

As he paused he took pleasure at the sight of fat cattle and poultry roaming around the farmhouse,
Duck and geese and turkeys busying themselves beside the big barn doors pecking out the chaff,
And he could hear the flail, or the swipple, knocking the corn, as the bails piled high in the barn,
Happy that all was well he carried on walking, smiling and made his way up to the brow of a hill.

As a young farmer he leaped over stiles and ran in the corn, the land was his workplace and home,
There was no job he could not do or did not enjoy doing, whatever needed doing it had to be done,
His arms were so thick, strong, the farm girls giggled but could not get their hands all the way round,
He used to blush as each girl tried, he was a bit shy, but it made him feel good to be so very strong.

He also stopped at stiles, or a rustic bridge casting its arch over water, fish swam in the shallows
Breathing in deeply through his nose, sampling the fresh autumnal air, a bonfire in the distance,
After looking all around he wished he had brought some tackle to catch some for his late dinner,
Never mind he thought it’s another day tomorrow I will be up here to fish at the crack of the dawn.

In his young days he was not allowed to fish the river, so in the moonless nights he would poach,
Beautiful brown trout as fresh as a berry from a tree eaten with warm bread a feast fit for a king,
It would not be long before he stopped again getting his breath resting for a few short minutes,
As his lungs filled with the purest of pure air he restarted his country walk and relived his life.

He passed by clusters of rich, jetty blackberries hanging from a hedge and took time to pick a few,
And clusters of nuts hanging by the wayside through the copse on his way along a little old lane,
And in all this natural beauty the old man seemed to have enjoyment of a child one more time,
The world moved around but this time backwards he saw the things he used to see as a young boy

Copyright © Terry Trainor | Year Posted 2013

Long poem by Jay Anderson-Taylor | Details |

Mr. Policeman or Officer I maybe...

I serve out here each and every day as I walk my beat, I protect the homes and business of others that never even bother to get to know my name...they see only the name (Officer)... which comes just before my real name. 

They never see my real name, just a badge and a uniform and the last person they like to see, depending on their game? They never ever see my real name "James Taylor" 

which was given to me by someone who loved me way before I even thought about patrolling our streets in DC...what everyone else seems to take for granted every day of their lives as they leave out of their homes to go to work or play...

They fail to see I'm probably all that maybe standing between them and the predators that walk our streets both night and day? No, I'm nothing special, just a mere man... even a good policemen can fall from grace…we get angry with our kids…we even fight and argue with 

the ones we love…and we put our legs in our pants one hole at a time too, the same as you do. We flush our toilet the same way and it goes to the same place as yours… and spins into an abyss seen by few. 

I pray to the same God that most of you all do…The only difference between me and some of you? I can’t look the other way when I hear a child pleading for his Momma to stop beating him...

and I can’t look the other way when Mr. Pookeys comes home from the fish market where he works all day…and when he is mad about the cuts that he gets on his hands and the fish gut smell that just won’t go away...so he slaps his poor wife Mrs. Pookeys who just picked the wrong day to have complained about Mr. Pookeys pay? 

So the next time you encounter me as I'm walking my beat? As I walk pass by you and head down 7th St and wearing what appears to be a frown on my face? As you start to spread your lips to tell me to smile?

And say, "it can’t be all that bad, Mr. Policeman?" I think I would say back to you... Hey, my friend it’s not about being a cop that makes me into this police officer that you see…

It’s the fact that I chose to be Officer Taylor today, but it could have went just about anyway...I could be that drunk or a wife beater or even the thief down the street? So, the next time you see your local policeman on the beat? Just look him in the eye and tell him with a 

sincere heart...I know you could have made the choice to have been any of those people I see out here every day? But I want to thank you Officer James Taylor, I’m sure glad to see you did chose to work on our streets and make the world a much safer place for me!

Copyright © Jay Anderson-Taylor | Year Posted 2008

Long poem by jay del fierro | Details |

our souls pathway to the heart

                    Innocence and peace are states of mind at the very beginning and 
towards the very end . Everything in between , the mid-cycle , of our lives are what 
create all the differences , through multiple emotional interaction . 
                     The dual mind , positive / negative , and how it effects our behaviors , 
which ultimately becomes who we project and how we eventually percieve 
ourselves , or decieve ourselves and others , by not knowing honestly who we 
truly are internally , our soul being , a spark of light which is that spark of love 
within' . Our physical being is a shadow of our spiritual self , our shadow 
becomes an expression , an accumulation of emotions learned through 
experience . From the moment of our birth into the physical world , our life 
experiences begin as pebbles . Through the course of time and space , our 
experiences , our spiritual growth , become larger stones , boulders , or better 
put , " weights of burden " . Once we begin to understand and recognize , at that 
moment of facing our heaviest obstacle , at that moment , we have to take an 
honest look internally and summon the strength and courage to properly remove 
it . Once we can unlearn to relearn , those boulders , obstacles , begin to get 
smaller , until they again appear as pebbles . A story in retrospect .
                            Imagine yourself as a fish in the river . One day the river floods 
over it's embankment , and you the fish , instead of staying in the river , you get 
caught in the wave of the flood into a pool outside the rivers edge . As the flood 
waters recede to normal , you now become stuck outside the natural flow of your 
existence , in an outer pool . In time as the water evaporates into the air from the 
heat of the sun , you begin to lose sense of your life force , the essence of your 
being , until the moment comes when you begin to die and as the ground around 
you begins to dry and crack , so do you , being reduced to dust to be blown in the 
wind . 
                              If the fish hadn't lost his way and had faced the challenge of the 
flood , and stayed true to itself and stayed the course of his natural existence , he 
may have avoided such a tragic fate . Like the fish , that monstrous boulder is our 
challenge to remove and stay on our pathway , our soul journey . The moment we 
look for the easy way around and head in a different direction , we could possibly 
be setting ourselves up with the same fate of the fish .

Copyright © jay del fierro | Year Posted 2007

Long poem by Sidney Beck | Details |


Always cold in the morning, this kitchen is warmed now
With a roaring fire and my wife working beside me making just desserts
We stand here two hours this afternoon doing one of our projects
Cooking soup and fish for this evening’s xmas party of friends. 

The ghetto, the Projects, contained me with the music of 
The school’s leather belt and cane.  And then 
Parents lost in a fire. 
              That was a tough xmas, alcohol boozy flavored in an
              Empty-bottle kitchen, crowded and smoky.
It was a tough meat just cut today red blooded, now pale in the friends’ 
Xmas gift, the tureen shiny clean. The soup’s              
Alcohol flavored in effort to disguise taste of the firm onion, now soft slop. Next, must
Empty bottle of sauce in …add spice…Oh, now chop more veg: and the 
Kitchen knife peels and reveals their secret inner fleshes,
Crowded and jostling with juicy tomatoes, now reduced to wrinkled skins; and
Smoky, tall, erect celery now chopped into mini-sets of false teeth

Innocence lost in the poisonous smog of Dublin’s
Orphanage hymns and anthems: God and the state will help
Uniformed religious staff and teachers to tell me 
I do not belong - I must reveal no secrets about being
Woken, shaken out of bed, taken (with no word spoken) from the 
               Cold dormitory, scaly hand on my knee:
               Drown in this grasp -  fish out of water
Cold.  A small shivering fish caught in net, taken now from its fridge 
Dormitory for this sacrifice: staring, unfeeling, cold-blooded creature, its
Scaly skin shining on my cutting plate.
Hand on knee, I sit down to gut it, gills first - which made him
Drown as he struggled in the tightened net; and 
In this grasp I cut the fish open - an old  
Fish which was still feeling
Out of water. It seems a silly, scaled creature now, lifeless, staring at nothing.

I lost my loneliness from that hostile world:
She gave me peace and serenity  -
Warm feelings of belonging ; and it’s
Christmas every day. 
                 She is sweet, inviting, colorful, and around her
                 Melt-in-the-mouth music plays.
She is the essence of sugar,
Sweet free-running chocolate,
Inviting me to dissolve all of her creamy meringue shells 
Colorful and delightful, which will swirl
Around her taste  and 
Melt like love on a summer’s day.
In the mouth of my hell, she has uttered  
Music, and forever now,  it
Plays sweetly.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 

Written for and entered in Debbie Guzzi’s  Contest     GET SERIOUS

Copyright © Sidney Beck | Year Posted 2012

Long poem by Anna Hopper | Details |

Fishing with dad

   Early in the morn, just before the sun would rise
The scent of bacon, thick enough to burn my eyes
Crept under my door, across the sheets and into my nose
The aroma I smelt every morning before I arose
It's a memory. It comes with the territory
Each and every time I tell my favorite story

   The vibration of the morning news, ringing from the t.v.
The first sound I would hear, inevitably
Good morning sleepy head, my daddy would grumble 
From behind his coffee cup as he watched me fumble 
You have "bed head" he'd chuckle
"Now give me some knuckle"
Before I knew it, we were wrestling and I'd end up in a head lock
We'd pack up our breakfast and head to the dock
Sitting side by side as the sun made its way into the sky
To this day, I've seen nothing more beautiful than an Albuquerque rise
We didn't speak much as daddy loved to soak up the hues
I know now that he wasn't thinking of the morning news

   Like clockwork, his coffee cup began to leaven
He would look up to the sky as if straight into heaven
By this time I was anxious, beginning to squirm
He'd look down with a grin, "let's drown us a worm"
I remember the feeling, so vibrant and telling
 theatrically alive as a result of my compelling

   We'd sit there all day, stirring the pot
Bragging to one another of the fish we had caught
When the sun was blazing, I'd grab our swimming trunks
Around the lake we would race and then, "Kerplunk!"
Out once again, we would dash
To see who could make the biggest splash
Tossing a ball, to and fro
I dreaded the words "it's time to go"
But of coarse they would come and I'd suck in my lip
No towels for drying.  He'd tell me to drip

   Back to the dock, we'd resume our position
Everything the same to satisfy our superstition 
We fished until dark, catching our dinner
Then playfully argued over who caught the winner
I peeled potatoes as he cleaned the fish
Together we made a manly dish
We caught fireflies and frogs before hitting the sack
Then went to bed like zombies, tomorrow we'd be back 

   I reminisce those days before my daddy passed
The greatest days of my life went by too fast
My time with him tragically ended
Never again was my life so splendid
Like a piece of luggage, shipped off to the city
People would look at me and say "what a pity"
I would always stand out, in my cowboy boots
Despite my environment, I was true to my roots
People grew tired as I would ramble on about my dad
To this day, I ramble, to quiet the sad

Copyright © Anna Hopper | Year Posted 2015

Long poem by Ivo Cosentino | Details |


For this Turk Turku is a 1-horse
city but he has got to have horse
sense. He will not be as happy as a peacock in Turkey.
Hindi, the Turk word for turkey, is how we'll call this turkey.
Hindi, when living in Turkey, was a horse
dealer. Today he's no longer into horse
trading. He quit selling that drug. One morning
when he got up all his belongings were gone
He was shocked & almost started mourning
over this theft like a baby. His gun

gone too. Instead of going bananas
he sat down & thought: "That a lot of my country fellas have a monkey
on their backs is my bad! I won't cry over my pilfered pelf! No more monkey
business! From now on I decide to be a good egg!
I'm starting a new life! Today I cease being a yegg"
The Turk turkey put all his eggs
in one basket & wended his way to Turku!

He got a job in a Turkish bath as a front desk clerk. One noon he met a not
pigheaded porky from Alaska who told him had quit smoking blunt cold turkey
of late & was quite itching to relapse. Hindi didn't want to be a cold turkey
nowadays so he gave him advice on withdrawal. He jotted down some
notes for the porcupine to read & apply & didn't ask, at all, a sum
of money in exchange for the nice advice. The porky thanked him a lot & got
inside the bath. Finn tongue was Greek to Hindi
Whenever he had a chance, took a gander at

the phrasebook to learn Finnish.
At 5 pm he was glad to finish
his shift get the puck
out of that place
go home have duck
soup & plaice.
He wanted to invite the hake for supper. The latter
refused, didn't want to feel like a fish out of water.
Hindi, quite offended, told him off but it was like water
off a duck's back. He didn't want dinner alone, so
he thought who else could come. Bingo! The sow!
And she did. He did indeed bring home the bacon.
The food was very simple to prepare. It was duck
soup. He was cocksure the sow would love duck
soup & plaice. For dessert, a piece of cake
they'd have. Cooking all this was a piece of cake
without doubt. When nosh was ready, the sow
brooded over & said: "Wait a sec. This is so
weird. You invited the hake, a fish, to eat plaice.
You're eating duck & you're a turkey. In place
of eating explain. Are you a cannibal?" "Clam
up & pig out!" he said, not happy as a clam.

"O In a pig's eye I will! You are such a cold fish!
Horsefeathers! Besides, I am no longer hungry!
I've never seen anything like this in Hungary!"

"I eat duck soup and, if I want to, I cook my goose!"

The sow, horrified, at once did for sure vamoose.

Copyright © Ivo Cosentino | Year Posted 2014

Long Poems