Long poem by
Shadow Seeker | Details
-Reminiscence- (Bushwhaa below pronounced: Bish-shaw)
Bushwhaa! What’s on this sign swinging I see?
I’ll read while the rain pelt’s my horse and me.
From my mount on this night as the rain splashed the ground
I decided to read on about this place I had found.
Welcome to Reminiscence – and below a story to tell.
It’s located at nowhere - just a stone’s throw from Hell.
A place of bamboozlers, gamblers, and all sleight of hand.
Know if you enter it’s nothing short of some la-la land.
Of everything here there be not of one thing right.
It’s all cattywampus and a sure sorry sight.
You can bet your bottom dollar these words are soothfast.
Nothing here worth a plugged nickel - it would be wise to bypass.
Well! Okey-Dokey! But I’m not playing with a full deck
so I figured I’d ride in and see just what the heck.
In sludge - empty street – dismounted – I led at a pace greatly slowed
and held tight the idea of hugging the middle of the road.
In need of a scrub – a rub – in muck - with a hunger and thirst,
I conjured the order in which to do needed first-things-first.
Outside the saloon and darn near flat broke
I pulled the chaw from my lip and put it back in the poke.
Like a stick in the mud - collar up – head-and-hat down -
I pushed through the doors without looking around.
The boards, uneven-and-tilted, loose, un-useable at best.
The rain and slime on smooth soles – I’m sure you know the rest.
Flailing in mid-air I gave a screech and a cluck
then hit the floor sliding like a dying wounded duck.
I remained still where I had fallen – not moving a hair,
In an attempt ‘not’ to reveal that I was no worse for the wear.
I could feel the hairy eyeballs upon me --- I should have went South.
I could sense evil thoughts as they foamed at the mouth.
Now, I was never as one to cast the first stone.
I’ve always held high in leaving well enough alone.
I lay motionless and blurred staring into the floors cracks
Bidding what to do next as I was weighing the facts.
Through a grumble-and-growl of loud wicked laughter
A yell of, “Pick that thing up and throw it in the crapper!”
“He’s dead as a doornail”, someone continued to harp on.
“He darn sure kicked the bucket! He’s gone! He’s Gone.”
Then a remark from the back, “He bought the farm.”
“Now somebody tell me – Is that his neck or his arm?”
“If it ain’t broke don’t fix it. Let’s use it for a rug.”,
came a conclusion from a dragon-voiced, burly-built thug.
As I lay listening to snide remarks, laughter, and giggle
I held to my ways, hearing, but refusing to niggle”.
When ore’ me came a shadow and perfume filled the room.
From the shoes to the ankles-and-above stood my savior from doom.
Lo-and-behold I was drawn like a moth to a flame
as from the lips of this angel words of warning they came.
“That’s the last straw! Pipe-down! Lie-Low! Bite the bullet or skedaddle!”
“Like it or lump it, this dewdropper is mine or get your butts in the saddle.”
I was helped to rise up by this belle of the ball.
I would be forever in her debt and at her beck-and-call.
As the laughter rose higher and mugs turned bottoms up
I slipped on my cheaters for better view of this crazy mix-up.
The silence was golden - I raised then lowered one boot with a thud.
I slowly looked each one in the eye then bellowed, “My name is Mud.”
Needless to say, all hard feelings were now held at bay.
I ate and drank all night and nary once did I pay.
By-gum! We burned the midnight oil through the rise of the sun.
But morning haunted the mind for a time to cut-and-run.
Come Hell or high water I aimed to remain Free.
Being a big fish in a small pond was never my cup of tea.
If by chance you stumble on a creaking well-weathered sign,
don’t read just the words --- read between the lines.
Learn the ropes! Tit-for-tat! Buckle down!
Put a smile on that face and wipe off that frown.
Every day is a new life --- Brand spanking new!
Keep a stiff upper lip and mind your Ps and Qs.
Hey! Chap! I’m talking to You!
Now I have a sunset to catch, so Too-Toodle-oo.
Copyright © Shadow Seeker | Year Posted 2016
Long poem by
Charmaine Chircop | Details
Feel me an emotion deep inside your heart,a soft crimson rose reicarnated,
a red heart full of velvet petals ,birthed from a white wild simple daisy
embroided in mystique passion,a bacchus of wine in finest aroma of verses,
and deepest thoughts of you.Feel me ,as I come back to you,in your night,a
gentle sweet wind through your open window, caressing your face,breezing you
in a sweet dream,breathin you in,lullabying you on a ride just for two,me and
you,in a beautiful forest by the lake,lying down on a carpet of golden
leaves.Feel me there,once again,Feel me so very close to you.taste me,taste
my juicy strawberry lips as we kiss,a wet kiss.Feel me in the fresh liquid
raidrops cleansing your mind,from every worry,from every trouble, as i pat your
back,and listen to you,to your wants,to your needs,and to your every
thought.Let me listen to your silent voice,echoing inside my own existence!Let
me feel you,your wishes,your dreams,your past,your present,Let me listen to
who you are and what you are,what you want,let me be here,feel me,cos I am
here for you.Feel that little soft spot in my heart,that soft spot full of
love and warmth ,reserved just for you.Feel me as we dream,as we hug,as we
snog,under yesterday's lanterne,in the park,holding hands ,once again.
Feel me as we walk and talk,smile and giggle all the way,Feel me as we lie on
the rocks,gazing in each other's eyes,cheered by tamed silver waves,covered
by a warm balnket of shining stars,Hugging the golden Moon,in blue black
velvet skies.Feel me as i dip my brush in oils,painting this path,a garden of
Eden,created just for you.A path of coloured rainbows where we can walk.where
we can dream,where we can live and love,where we will never lose each other
again.A path where emotions and feelings aren't hid.a path, where i will always
feel loved by you,and you will always feel loved by me.Feel me a candle flame
born just for you.I don't wanna go away again,I want to stay here with you.I
don't want you to go away,I want you to stay here,with me.I want you to love
me ,as you did in the past,I want to feel your passion,your love once again,I
want to feel your hearbeat,that heart, i loved so much.I want, need to know
you love me still. Feel my love,cos i always loved you ,and I always will.Feel me
as your hand cups my breast.Let your palm feel the drumming of my
heart,Feel me, cos I'm still so much in love with you.
New Version : Feel Me ...
Feel me, an emotion deep inside your heart
A blushed rose reincarnated from withered petals
Birthed in fervent passion and affectionate thoughts of you.
Feel my colours of red- wine within the jet-black of your night
Let me rest upon your pillow breathing in your lullaby.
Feel me on blanket of blown leaves and a dew-lush zephyr breeze
Taste me,taste my waters from fresh rain,let me wash away your pain.
Let me cleanse your mind and soul from saxaphonic blues.
Let my fingers run way down all over your back
as I listen to desires ,wants and jazzy tunes.
Let me hold on to your hand,while we walk,giggle and talk.
Let us sit on our on the old bench where our hearts were scarred by stems.
Feel me fall where footprints rest.Pick me up,feel my caress.
Watch me paint a rainbow path with palettes of hundred hues
Let your secret garden blossom where my velvet bleeds its blooms.
Feel me, Feel me by your side. Let me capture
sun and moon within the fire of your eyes.
Feel me, can you hear my plea ?
My beloved you...Come close ...Come get lost in me.
Least Viewed - Contest sponsored by Marugo Mo
Rewritten : 19th October 2016
Copyright © Charmaine Chircop | Year Posted 2010
Long poem by
Diane Lefebvre | Details
Millie Mable Millipede was worried by the news.
Mike and Molly Millipede would soon need winter shoes.
Their itsy, bitsy, tiny feet, until now free and bare,
Were leaving cold and frosty foot prints almost everywhere.
Winter soon would visit, with the ground all hard and white.
A millipede not wearing shoes might be a dreadful sight.
For all you ‘people’ children, buying shoes is just a treat.
The reason for this being is, you only have two feet.
You try one on and lace it up and if it's not too snug;
The other shoe, is put on too, then tested on the rug.
And if they fit, you may be sent, outdoors to run and play.
Without one hundred stiff, new shoes getting in your way.
The problem with all millipedes, a dilemma . . it is true,
Is fitting one foot at a time, with one good fitting shoe.
For if you have one hundred feet, all bare and black as soot;
It's hard to figure out real fast, where each shoe should get put.
And soon all little millipedes get bored and squirm about.
A squirmy, wormy millipede can make a clerk a grouch.
Were all the shoes kept in one house they'd fill the empty space.
Out the back door, down the street; you'd find them everyplace.
Hundreds in the attic and hundreds in the shed.
Shoes peeking out the windows, shoes stacked beneath each bed.
Shoes filling up the cellar and lining hallways too;
And where would Millie find the room to keep her favorite shoes?
Now comes another problem when you wear a lot of shoes:
Keeping track of hundreds; there’d be some shoes you’d just loose.
And the shoes need be like slippers, with no ties of any kind.
For millipedes to tie each tie, would take far too much time.
It would make them late for school, for lunchtime and for play.
Tying shoes is how the 'pedes' would spend most of each day.
They'd be behind in everything; why nothing'd come out right.
They'd still be tying their last shoe at bedtime every night.
To add to this, there comes another awful, dreadful thought.
For safety's sake each lace need be tied in a double knot.
When finally comes the time to tuck each little 'pede' in bed;
Those double knots might make a mommy millipede see red.
Millie Mable Millipede knew she was in the stew.
Dealing with her children's feet was more than she could do.
She thought a lot and then some more, until her brain felt dead.
And then a bright, white light went off, in the left side of her head.
She had the problem figured out and how to make it end.
Her children's many feet would be all toasty warm again.
Now Millie, Mike and Molly need no winter shoes at all,
Since moving south to Florida, where they now grow strong and tall.
Pale Moon Lagoon has now been picked, to run and jump and play.
If you should choose to look around, you’ll find them there today.
They live beneath the rocks and logs, their feet all bare and free.
And when you have one hundred feet, that’s just how it should be.
© 2015 Diane Lefebvre
Copyright © Diane Lefebvre | Year Posted 2015
Long poem by
Maria Williams | Details
Shy Julie - A Punters Nightmare Part 1
They fancied themselves "Gurus of racing", this Ron and his best mate John
So they sat down one day in an easy relaxed way
And mused on the pros and the cons
Of punting and racing, of adrenalin flow chasing
To syndicates, systems and form
And came to the conclusion under no delusion
With brains like theirs they would make their millions
How could they ever go wrong?
So one Saturday night when conditions were right
Armed with papers, computers and the rest
With determined breath and excitement at height
They decided to put to the test
With odds in their favor and set not to waver
On favorites systems and short sight
Wearing magnified glasses and warm woolen beanies
They were starting to see the light
The air was electric the pulses a tingle
The adrenalin high and in tune to this jingle
Lets go get em my good man Ron
Get on the phone and lay that bet on
Now hang on there John and don't be a fool
Calm down have a drink try to be cool
So what will you have Scotch Vodka or Gin
Scotch will be fine said John with a grin
This is the big one all up on this pup
A world record holder a bolter for the Cup
The race drew near the air was electric
The caller was good the crowd was ecstatic
Shy Julie the select one was rearing to go
Couldn't wait for the green light and the bunny to show
The gates were lifted she was off like a shot
Ten lengths ahead the pursuit running hot
Then much to their amazement and everyone's awe
She stopped short in her tracks-fifty meters to go
One could almost hear the drop of a pin
She'd decided to stop and throw it all in
Sweet bashful and shy I always will be
Serves them right for trying to make a Hound out of me
T'was too much to bear Shock Horrors of Horrors
The crowd was aghast our two punters in sorrow.
What went wrong said John to that world record holder
Would you think me less a man if I cried on your shoulder
Not a word said Ron but by the look on his face
You could see he thought her performance a disgrace
This is a true story, where my husband Ron and my brother John decided to throw some big money on this World record Holder Shy Julie, who had won 11 of her 18 starts . The super stayer had this Semi final of the rich Association Cup seemingly "all parceled up". However without warning Shy Julie propped badly and failed to complete the course, much to the punters who had backed her into 2/1 favoritism I don't think they shared my view of seeing the funny side to it.
Motto of the Story
When a female says No she means No
Copyright © Maria Williams | Year Posted 2017
Long poem by
Peter Dome | Details
It was a warm summers day and I was walking down the lane
I'm sure I saw a pixie
waving to me from a train
And later I saw him again
A Pixie waving to me from a train.
Well! I was so surprised I scratched my head
and had to pinch myself
just in case I was dreaming in my bed.
So I carried on with my walk
down the lane
I heard someone laughing at me
''he he he''
I turned around to see a cheeky laughing Elf
sitting in a tree.
I tickled his Belly
and he chuckled with glee
''eee eee e''.
He was hungry
so we built a campfire
and toasted muffins for our tea.
The Elf was so thankful
he gave me three wishes
I gave them away
to the Pixie on the train I saw waving to me
from the train earlier that day.
You see sometimes
it gives you more pleasure to give than
to those who need it
more than we.
So the next time
you see a train go by
you just might see
A Pixie on a
wave at you
like he did to me.
Peter Dome.copyright.2013. July.
Copyright © Peter Dome | Year Posted 2013
Long poem by
Wrulf Gunkl-VonGlashaus | Details
VIII … stop! - Skid! - Shift knobs, slide gears, vomit numbness, fondle!… the music of
VII … unmannered retching! since everything is a percentage of death in motel prayer-nights
separated from unholy echoes and junkyard dogs yapping the insanity by disdain mating
hysterical drools with refried rectitude, masticating giggling shame: “That dog, there, lifting a
leg, there, back-alley sodomy of wetness in air – Hush, mentioned for headstones only”
strewn among graveyards, sweet-jeezus jukeboxes purple-trumpeting along the borders of
Their juice: “Yes, Holy! Holy! Holy!” screaming down the Holy Ghost and Fire in prayer-
gutters backbiting along time of choicely chosen madonnas weeping children dear-jeezus-
glittering through open legs into angst, screaming tilted jigsaw puzzle pizza-glitzy jive for
crumbling bridges back and forth between us and wrinkles of self-righteously disgusted
VI … bloodcurse-running!
V … in dark rain! Red Sea deluges of body burning with love or shame-delight while
lightnings flash through babies’ mouths giggling thunder rattling screaming jigsaw puzzle
dripping into gelled pots of leftover Judgement “Not here, not there, not any nor every when
or now!” “Jilt the proper puke! Go with pyromania! Torch the Dogma State! – the pimps of
puppy pimple-love!” who juggle governed durges of rote, “Save the children!” - lapdogs
yipping the absurd reprobation of cloned devotion drowning unwashed questions, non-visa
versa versus vice: “Dead business liturgy!…
IV … confessing in whimpers while love returns unwashed by tears of joy with eyes unwept
and blank - chameleon colors change with choice of sins - the tilt, undropped shoe, The Word
beyond all words waiting in the hush of The Timeless Whisper, the sighing , yet, of a stinging
sweetness: blushing dawn draped like a Bridal Veil! Hear it, touch the deep Hymnal-Wraith
when the darkness yawns and Gypsy-Sun slips mirthy skyward with giggle of wind in birth -
stallions chasing mares, babies playing the alleys of apple-cider autumn, Soon, amethyst-
glittter of dusk and Gypsy-Sun kiosk-safe beyond; moon, then, perhaps, and lovers’
juxtaposition before rooster-purple dawn with All contained in all,
III … and the why of how, when and where, the where of how, when and why… all we, here,
in roads, fields, cradles, in streets…
II … the rain! - the dark rain!…
I … ascending silence like cathedral-chills of tomb up spine…
O… oh sweet, snorting jeezus…
Copyright © Wrulf Gunkl-VonGlashaus | Year Posted 2010
Long poem by
Joel Thornton | Details
Spy vs. Poet - pen trickery
(A collaborative poem by Serena Storm and Joel Thornton)
Dissimulating cloak – an apocryphal script
Ah, I see "I" the spy has stumbled upon new tricks
Disloyalty - The Perfidy - eye-witness – an errant scheme
Perhaps errant- perfidious? A joke! - I the spy got an eye full it seems.
A lie – a guise – eyesore - obvious & obscene
Lying to a liar, eye for an eye, i spy, seems fair to me
Fairness? ashes to fire, eyes of the spy stare - choke with antipathy
Agent, you should care less- i echoed your morals - you're the only psychopath for me.
Black-ops - My heart stops – deplorable – still I see this secret path. – spying on destiny
Special ops-special kind of special -no concern for collateral wrath, abandoned protocol, to spy on me
An echo back - a laugh - I spy within your eyes at last - an encumbered immortality
A new attack -a giggle- encumbered within portal as well, charged for weaponized poetry
A sign to act – a symbol – rumored derision – in the cradle of hell - rediscover – unutilized Creativity
So with no further hesitation, regards to this investigation, endless determination : speak your goals to me
I spy now confessor, my beautiful complication, I spied from the noblest intentions, I spied out of love and adoration, - entangled souls - a predetermined destiny without other goals I focused myopically
This poet feared aggressor, set traps to lead to implication, no foresight for prevention.
Could've avoided some damnation- spiralled out of control- nothings predetermined with me.
I sensed it spy -I know you guy- but you're crafty to a fault.
I know not why - or just in portal you lie-i take it with a grain of salt
I followed some leads- confessed and made up false deeds- to lure you out somehow
Your pen enslaved-up until bedave- how come I feel love for you now.
Ultimate entrapment - not taking the rap for it, I will not turn myself in
Your wire taps hint- level of ridiculous shit- same prison, different pen.
You're a true romantic, through and through - have good intentions and i know it too, ineed you to see
You're coming at me cape on back-understanding of situation you lack- black and white files don't show you meme
These places-these faces-you so deserately seek to spare me from
Were salvation, took me in no hesitation, I call them my home
I am struggling now, confused some how, of who's right or who's wrong
Red handed you said-portaless tape red- now, you state where i belong
Copyright © Joel Thornton | Year Posted 2014
Long poem by
Rhoda Monihan | Details
It was the year 4250 and a very nice day. Grine who was well tanned and with long, dark flowing hair had just left his Mac, the warmth to his bedroom, on which he had been home bouncing, or as it used to be known, home programming, in Merte. Everyone everywhere could program because we were taught it from P1 of school, and he was headed for The Network Nibble restaurant where he was to meet his buddies Shark (a gaming name), Peirca and Tullon who’d also been bouncing. All restaurants were considered places where you could meet other people as chatting at mealtimes had reclaimed its importance because we reflected on the meaning of life and had accepted just one belief as a world, humanism based on atheism, since we had sent a humanoid robot onto Venus, when technology became morally described by law court.
Finished bouncing, pleased
Sat with friends, bat around code
Forward! To chat, grace
They ordered, and all four wanted Ninis, Tanzup and Cousmous. Tunis was a purple vegetable like the good carrot, and like most new foods which became available, was artificially grown in a lab where synthetic foods were invented in cultures. Tanzup likewise was a synthetic steak bought from the Harvard labs by the grandfather of all food companies, Findus, which had gone gourmet a millennium and a half ago. And cousmous was just shredded banana combined with eviagé, a recently developed synthetic vegetable which tasted like mars bar, extinct for 1913 years, that was bought from Harvard by Nike, because all sports companies by law now have to sell at least one food product, since we’d caught up with our capitalist ignorance and accepted the primacy of marketing ethics, specifically that a private company’s responsibility to direct people towards health, fitness and diet was indisputable.
Food good, fills me right
Main component Ninis, veg
Not the steak aside
A server must’ve overheard Grine discuss his computer program, because both the chefs came out, and they were both superforms, humanoid robots made at MIT Lab, because this was Massachusetts. The manager of the Network had a friend in research there looking at human flight for all people, not just for the academical who were also sporty. She’d bought the chef superforms for half their cost. But that was just another benefit of friendship to her, and of opening up to people rather than stagnating by introverting too much into tech.
My chefs love me, oil
No questions of friendliness
Discount for good friends
Copyright © Rhoda Monihan | Year Posted 2016
Long poem by
Jolene Cheyney | Details
Which would you have me describe?
The path taken?
The path not taken?
Well how can I describe the path not taken?
I haven't been there.
So I guess this is the story of the path taken, or is it? Maybe it's just my imagination.
The open road was calling.
It said her name with no abandon.
It had no shame in calling for her.
Silver car was packed to the brim. But what was really inside?
Well she couldn't fit the entire filing cabinet, or was it three filing cabinets now, of craft books. Three filing cabinets of recipe books,
1 cabinet of old school books,
and 2 bookshelves full of magazines and easy reading materials.
But that's what she really wanted to take.
She would have left behind the food and the clothes
and, well all the personal items that women take with them simply to be able to take her books, but she had to just select her favorites and leave the rest behind.
She was going to miss them dearly. But the open road called and so sacrifices must be made.
She's still not sure where she's going she's just driving.
She's been driving for days.
She did leave her cat with her parents so that it would be cared for.
Didn't figure he could handle the trip.
Not sure if she can handle the trip, but she's trying, and that's what counts.
She knew she was headed somewhere else.
So it didn't matter which direction she turned at the end of the driveway.
She chose left, South, her long blonde hair blowing in the breeze,.
And okay, maybe a few tears for the people she's leaving behind.
And well, maybe a few more for her cat.
The driving is something difficult for her these days.
Causes anxiety for her.
Which because of her disease is multiplied tenfold. So she has to stop every 45 minutes or so to regain her composure.
She sits and waits sometimes in police station parking lots.
If the locale seems safe, she'll sit at a gas station, or Library.
She's had some pretty interesting conversations with the cops, they have to check to see why she's sitting there.
Most of the time they just advise her to wait patiently until she can drive again, but on evenings when there's no crime spree occurring the kind ones will visit for a while.
So she's heard tales of chasing down people that made bomb threats, chasing down people who have escaped the prison and many other adventures too long to dictate here.
Tune in Sunday for the next edition. Please in the comments, where do you think she's headed and why?
Copyright © Jolene Cheyney | Year Posted 2016
Long poem by
matthew harris | Details
Alpha Bet Cap Cha
Just twenty six letters of the english language to whit
twisted in various & sundry combinations pit
this bull dog of a canonical wordsmith with true grit
to craft bone a fide filigreed grammatical parts of speech fit
together against their verbose will
akin to arranged marriage or prominent zit
upon smooth complexioned face
best lanced with strong arm and first aid kit
lest said unsightly blemish rent asunder
and erupt like mount vesusius lava
that appeared never to quit
until plugged by humungous corkerasp*-
made by one anthropocentric brit
seeking to escape from the madding crowd
and return of native sun within his hermitage
where rays of warmth could barely viz it.
ASTERISKED * POSTSCRIPT:
Lemme explain the essence of a corkerasp!
whenever constipation a pain in the ass
just maneuver this lightweight metal contrivance made of brass
no matter if anybody considers this action crass
apply corkscrew motion up the alimentary canal to remove waste
which most likely will be thick like petrified paste
stuck deep inside bowels of sphincter muscles and solidly encased
causing severe cramps within lower gastrointestinal tract
inducing one to wince nonstop from being fecal matter packed
and no amount of primal groaning doth loose this hard fact
nor does imagery of freed turd
ease anal plight, no laughing matter despite how absurd
squeezing does nothing even applying all inner might
thus necessary to incorporate un-natural intervention to un-clog
rectal blockage + uncomfortable bloating swelling anus the size of a hog
disabling bare derriere ease to stand let alone jog
yet tis essential per extricating what feels like one swallowed a log
which could presage demise of sufferer, whereby epitaph
twill induce impossible eulogy
spoken in the language where tongues wag in prague
every ounce of effort required to bend
over gingerly affixing plunger end of device to business of rear end
best accompanied with close companion or friend
this dirty deed done dirt cheap trick will ideally rend
rock solid excrement to roll and crash
(on par traversing highway to hell) sound send
upon bathroom floor
possibly inducing seismic waves less or more
whereby toilet bowl water will pour
over the sides akin to white caps near sea shore
without doubt making gluteus maximums extremely sore!
Copyright © matthew harris | Year Posted 2016