Long Guardians Poems
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Poets That We Are…
Poets are umbilical cords—
chosen links of the pregnant mind
and its births—amniotic guardians
of the poetic descendent.
As mere servants of the word,
we cannot be more of an apostle
than that of: Humble.
Let us who write, worthily walk
in our own integrity;
man judges—The Most High chooses.
We’ve been blessed with the creativity
of the griots and muses of our own reality.
No longer must we let ourselves be led astray;
rather, let us forever write truth each blessed day.
When the keyboard, cobwebbed in silence,
ceases to ink, let not stillness miscarriage the word;
and may our creativity become like Lazarus.
The Encounter
When I first awakened spiritually my soul trembled with truth and revelation,
the world around me took a deep breath and all the sensations came,
all the experiences I've had since I opened these new eyes of mine,
came from afar among millions of stars in the infinite and vibrant galaxy.
Alien, seemingly impossible yet still real and so very close to me,
my soul whispered to me to remember to look up toward the sky,
seeking the forgotten protectors and my cosmic family lost in time,
smiling faces beheld the truth as the day was slowly approaching near.
A giant portal of light enveloped the planet and every living soul,
and right then I was about to meet those who had waited for me eternally,
I wanted to run and embrace them in my longing deep as an ocean,
oh, angelic beings, powerful guardians of light, the sacred and ancient Elohim.
I felt the vibration of energy as if the entire universe danced to one rhythm,
I stepped toward the center of existence where all questions find their answers,
they awaited there, entities indescribable with finite and limited words,
not just my protectors but also parts of myself that I had forgotten long ago.
When I awakened spiritually my soul trembled and the world breathed deeply,
the experiences came from afar among alien stars yet so very real,
my soul whispered to remember the forgotten family and the lost protectors,
and the portal of light embraced me when I met the Elohim at last.
Written February 28, 2025, For contest Sponsored by: Sara Jama
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On a planet
where kindness truly counts,
people's eyes widened as
the last petal fell.
Tears slid silently through empty rooms,
I gasped for air,
staring blankly into
chasm of despair.
It's a worldwide struggle aimed
at protecting our
extraordinary ecosystems.
Both motivation and meanness
chip away at the heart
of our real worth.
leading us to falter
as we strive to create
a pathway to a lasting future.
Beasts and beings alike,
both broken and bound,
navigate this challenging
reality together.
The final flicker of
life appears before us,
we face a dreadful plunge
into darkness that
we are forced to endure
in s o l i t u d e.
We offer guidance that
no one will ever abandon.
Ancient guardians of
the land and the people
who inhabit it stand
watch over us.
Sadly, the harsh reality of
existence is beginning to settle in.
We have measured our value
against wantonness winding
our journey toward its conclusion.
The softly fading rustle
of the foliage has also faded.
There's a wonderful warmth and
a welcoming embrace felt
among all living beings.
In the darkness with my
eyelids tightly shut,
a gentle breeze of
goodwill sweeps it all away.
As delicate petals f a l l. . .
a tear rolls down.
This symbolizes the lives
of those irrevocably amended.
Disappointment is woven into society,
and standards are shattered.
Unspoken words linger,
in the corners of memory.
Shadows quietly drift
through broken spaces—
where death meets its apex,
in stillness and serenity.
The fragmented hush of
the sunset s i l e n c e,
where once screams echoed.
MY CHILDHOOD DANCED
My childhood danced in wide ambient of suburb happily.
Five to ten siblings making joyous noises, common in a family.
Children were accustomed to run and play with bare feet
in open barren field and lanes, no vehicles on the street.
On access of near towns three buses ran as public transport.
To fulfill other needs rickshaws and bicycles gave support.
No hurry to get admission in school by the age of three
To study at home till age of seven -eight we were frolic free.
Dad asked my aunt to take me to high school where she took education
Guardians of my three playmates requested to take them for admission
We four girls aged between seven and eight were taken to school
That time only English and Arithmetic tests to take, so cool.
Four girls were taken by four different teachers to conduct test
I was sent to Mathematics Teacher to declare my performance best.
She was so impressed I was exempted from going for English exam.
Other three girls got admission to class three, me at class six by Ma’am.
We were five siblings but reared up in two separate chapters
We two sisters and brother in older group, two sisters came later
Older three formed senior group, younger two belonged to be junior
My childhood ran in older group, being oldest I acted always as leader
We played outdoor both at morn and eve after sundown till dark.
Only restriction to be back home when streetlights will be on at dusk.
To maintain discipline, I imposed a rule for all of us, not to ignore.
Last one to be back home must take responsibility to lock main door.
Now senior group is running in seventies carrying life-long load.
Cannot predict who will be the last one to leave earthly abode.
08/05/20
Fourth Place
'Dusty Old Memories' Contest by Constance La France.
The Life of Bench
A tranquil night opened quizzically
On an alien world by the park
Its river revealed soft ripples on the dark waters
Captured and held in place
By the temperament and stingy light
Afforded by a clouded moon
Reflecting the seeming movements
Of park benches
Perhaps hiding there for ages but
Open to suggestions of life here and elsewhere
Only benches….
Bent back
Repeating in a clean line
Against the mirrored elements of refracted luminosity
The rows of soldier like frames
Once held in high regard
Wood skeleton puppets
Dancing on reflective river bank waves
In a parade of emptiness
Then comes the calm
It abounds with the glow of night lights
Reveals what once was
Snow occupies the frozen seats
Where bench people once came
Now the voided structures sit alone against the cold
Thankless for their years of service
Guardians of the past world
Benched for eternity
To sit out the years in silence
In the hush of uncertain days,
I breathe with a calm I cannot claim for myself.
Walls stand firm, unseen hands guiding,
Shielding hearts from the tremors beyond our doors.
Each morning, the sun rises, unafraid,
And I, too, rise, carrying gratitude
For the quiet guardians of life and peace,
For the safety that feels like a soft embrace.
Even when the world hums with tension,
I find solace in small certainties
The laughter echoing through our rooms,
The steady heartbeat beside me,
The unseen shields that hold us whole.
I bow my thanks to every thread of protection,
Every gentle force unseen,
That keeps fear at bay
And let the heart rest,
Even for a moment, in safety.
The school bell's chorus wakes a drowsy room,
Sunlight spills, a golden, dusty plume.
Desks, once dormant, morph to galleons grand,
Ready to set sail to each uncharted land.
Chalk, a spectral hand, whispers wisdom's lore,
Unveiling mysteries on the darkened shore.
Sharpeners gnash their teeth, devouring leaden dreams,
Leaving silver whispers where logic's spotlight beams.
Globes, like captive Earths, continents in hold,
Beckon's curious minds, stories yet untold.
Maps unfurl, adventures waiting to ignite,
Mountains pierce the paper, bathed in imagined light.
Scissors, silver storks with beaks of silent snip,
Carve out thoughts like snowflakes, on a question's icy lip.
Crayons, waxy rainbows, melt on paper's plain,
Birthing vibrant jungles, where creatures rule their reign.
Pencils, graphite serpents, coil with inky grace,
Weaving tales fantastical, across time and space.
Rulers, stoic guardians, lines etched firm and true,
Marking boundaries where dreams and logic accrue.
Erasers, gentle guardians, with a patient touch,
Whisper soft forgiveness, a lesson learned so much.
Puppets dance on fingers, with stories in their eyes,
Of pirates, and princesses, beneath invented skies.
Chart paper, a canvas, vast and white and bare,
Awaits the brushstrokes of imagination's flair.
Microscopes, with a curious gaze, reveal unseen worlds,
Tiny hidden wonders, like poems yet unfurled.
Bells chime once more, a day complete and free,
But echoes linger still, where knowledge sets us free.
Rulers, maps, and globes, a symphony they weave,
Of knowledge, dreams, and wonder, lessons minds believe.
March 20, 2024
DUALITY
In a realm where contrasts align,
A lady stood with grace you can't define.
Betwixt her, two guardians strong,
A golden dragon and one of snow's throng.
On a white canvas, the golden beast,
Flames ablaze, its power released.
A regal presence, fierce and bold,
Its aura shimmered, turning gold.
Its eyes burned bright, like molten fire,
Igniting courage, filling hearts with desire.
With wings unfurled like a sun's embrace,
It soared through skies, traversing space.
Beside her, the ferocious white dragon did rest,
A noble creature, epitome of the best.
Against a midnight backdrop it gleamed,
A beacon of light, where darkness beamed.
A guardian pure, serene and spitting flames
Its visage gentle, yet harness death games.
Its aura exhaled a frosty breeze,
Freezing doubts & putting minds at ease.
Between these two, the lady stood,
A bridge of balance, understood.
Her essence melded vibrant and bright,
A symbol of harmony, bridging day and night.
With each step she took, she'd dance,
Between opposing forces, in a trance.
Uniting qualities, both fierce and serene,
And in her presence, harmony was seen.
With golden and white, the lady stood,
Embracing the duality, as she should.
For in life's tapestry, colors intertwine,
And from juxtaposition, beauty will shine.
VickManuelPoetry
{VMP}
FORM: Rhymes
Copyright ©? 26th November 2023.
They sit on the thrones..
Yes, they sit higher than God,
But call themselves servants..
Of whom?
Ego or obsession?
Or some kind of mental sickness?...
They proclaimed themselves leaders.
But good followers, they never could be.
'Little knowledge is dangerous...' it's been said.
Sure, they are a danger to the human race.
They are the very roots of sufferings and pains.
Their blind faith upon thyself is masked as fervent worshippers of the great one.
Who's the great, is it not around us, among us?
But none can be greater than the life gifted to each and every one...
Wake up human fellows, question these rulers...these guardians..these dark Angels..
At every point of your life..
It's like hide and seek...if you discover my hideouts, you catch me.
Come on, look for me..know who I am
And what I am...
I know the rule of the game...
Once denounced you will know me, as I come out of my self made hideouts and masquerades..
Till then bad luck I will lead the game...
I hold your nose..check!
Dance with me, say what I say, do what I do.
You cannot lead yourself...you are a follower..
Or you're ME..??????
© Sunita U D Palawon (monologue)
Above all else
A daughter
wants to be seen……by her mother
There are small big things
That are said
That are done
Those disapproving glances
Tiny big criticisms
The imperceptible monumental moments
The shame that accompanies disappointment
The knowing she can’t meet expectations
Still she desperately tries
All the while
a part of her rebels
needing to find herself
She needs to see herself
even when she feels unseen
Above all else
A mother
wants the best…..for her daughter
She sacrifices
EVERYTHING
Including herself
Sometimes even the relationship
Dreams are powerful destructive things
They are forces of nature
not easily wielded
Pushing pulling
Forks in the road
Doors to open
Potential to achieve
Pitfalls to avoid
Mothers want the best
They stand as guardians
of both the past and the future
Those things they have lost
Those things they hope for
They sometimes miss the present
They cannot see the paper cut wounds they inflict
Mothers
Daughters
Above all
they know each other
In the end they have a way of seeing
Children of children
Hope from hope
Do overs
Softened voices
Glimpses
Stories told around dinner tables
Laughter
Tears
Anger and joy
The act of seeing and being seen,
it takes several lifetimes being joined together.