Long Iii Poems

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The Junkie's Son, Part Iii

III.
Making it worse, the doctors had told her
that great damage had been done by the birth,
she could never carry children again,
was bound to be childless on this earth,
for months she was just a big ball of hurt.
And when she thought of the junkie boy’s fate
she felt growing inside a ball of hate.

It made no sense, why God would do this to her,
but reward someone who had done such wrong.
She’d always lived her life the best she could,
and tried to operate by morals strong,
even when it meant she wouldn’t belong.
But the degenerate got to have kids
despite all the awful things that she did?

She felt like she was being punished for
something, but what it was she didn’t know.
And what kind of God would reward evil
yet lay upon a good soul such a blow?
Then break her womb, and leave her without hope.
Maureen slowly stopped going to the church,
would worship no one who left her in the lurch.

Her mind would just fume, it went on for years,
thinking of that damn crack-baby out there,
living out the life her son was denied,
no doubt trapped in a world of great despair,
and she knew just how that child would fare.
Trapped in the system, born of ruined stock,
to be in trouble until cell doors locked.

That’s what had been preferred to her own babe,
to such a wasted life God was endeared,
a worthless cast-off nobody wanted,
Who would grow to cause many people fear,
that was what the Almighty wanted here.
For years she just limped on, angry and bereft,
so much so that Mark eventually left.

About ten years on she normalized a bit,
enough that she started to work again,
swallowed the pain, save for her son’s birthday,
when she walked to the hospital and then
the pain would return, fill her ever sense.
That was all that Maureen cold bear to allow,
she stuck to this as if she’d taken a vow.

But way back in her head the hate remained,
for the junkie and the boy she gave life,
and no matter that mask that she put on
she knew the world was evil, and not right,
she just no longer had then strength to fight.
This pattern continued many years more,
until one brisk day when she was fifty-four.

CONCLUDES IN PART IV.
Form: Narrative


The War Journal Entry Iii

some men are born to be killed
some men life means nothing to

can old men hold their heads and cry
you can only dodge so many shots 
before you eventually take a a few
then it's about surviving

some men have no nightmares
some men only dare to dream
history reflects repeated screams
women, colored men, stars of david

I wish i could let it go
i can not
I wish there were such palaces as heaven minus hell
i don't know what i believe in

some men believe there should be 
a balance between good and evil
some men misunderstand the hurt
the hurt then becomes lethal

I don't know how i got here
or how much longer i will be here
but if i don't stand now
i will forever be falling down

i can only hope you understand
my sister says we didn't choose this life, she cries
I don't even know her
but i could feel the droplets from her eyes

some men are born into lies
others into contradictions
some men mean well
other live in a figment of fiction

"tiny thoughts of the black hitler"
Form: Verse

Our Peoples' Values, Part Iii

...But as Burning Wing approached them
three leapt up with long knives in hand,
and dragged Burning Wing from his horse,
down onto the rough desert sands.

Todd cried out as the knives slashed down,
spurred his horse in a sprint, gun drawn,
his pistol flashed, saw two men fall,
the other four ran and were gone.

He leapt of his horse and bent low,
saw Burning Wing choking up blood,
knew from the wounds there was no hope,
through him raw emotion did flood.

Burning Wing had enough strength left
to momentarily meet his eye,
but it soon left and Todd was forced
to sit there and watch his friend die.

It was over in a heartbeat,
his partner and pal was no more,
as he stood, stained by his blood,
Todd just sought to even the score.

He could see the trail in the dust,
four men were not easy to hide,
he walked over to his red roan,
mounted up, and began to ride.

The trail took him to the mountains,
he pursued them for half the day,
his mind told him that he was mad
to chase the Apache this way.

But Todd no longer thought of life,
all that remained inside was cruel,
the killers did not expect him,
did not think he would be such a fool…

It was early the next morning
when the army found Burning Wing,
Todd’s trail was quite easy to track,
the cavalry now following.

They came upon a massacre,
four bodies strewn upon the ground,
a dying man against a rock,
twas Todd, the soldiers gathered round.

Their commander came up to him,
said, “My God, son, what happened hear?”
Todd croaked, “Those bastards killed my friend…
my brother, so I brought them fear.

“I could not prevent his killing,
I was too slow to save my friend,
but if I couldn’t save his life
at least I’d see he was avenged.”

“You did this for that Indian?”
said the commander, shaking his head.
“Our people value loyal friends,”
said Todd, “Such true things are not dead.”

He died another hour on,
they brought them both back to the fort,
side-by-side in the potter’s field
the two will lie forever more.

Robot Souls, Part Iii

...The humans call it the Armistice Day,
the end of conflict between man and machine,
but that name always sounds so weak to us,
the humans can’t understand what it means

to go from feeling no emotions at all,
to being seen as a Child of God,
within weeks the churches were all filled up
by hopeful robots who were no longer lost.

In fact some humans seemed rather annoyed
that we embraced this new state so quickly,
I think some of them did not much like that
we would worship with such alacrity.

They rolled their eyes at steel missionaries
walking door to door to teach them of Christ,
some said that machines should, “Be beyond that!”
that, “Supersition and robotics ain’t right!”

Others just said that is was quite bizarre
when God’s new prophets had a CPU,
and of course the world faiths grappled with this,
not all would accept our new points of view.

There’s churches out there that don’t allow, ‘metal,’
and others quite eager to integrate,
also you’ll find some that don’t allow ‘flesh,’
it seems even with souls some segregate.

But what about me, the first robot ensouled,
you may wonder what I am doing now?
Am I peaching? No, and I wish truly
that these damn pilgrims didn’t come to my house!

They’re always blocking my driveway…
Form: Epic

Sanctuary III

My throat feels scratchy
I'm irritable and edgy
Coming down with the flu
Trying to go for success 
I'm still pending
Reaching out to you oh Lord
Please don't make your ears too heavy
I'm ready to repent as my levy
I'm turning down the intensity
I need to proceed with caution
Too much chaos surrounding me
I need an exorcist
You're thinking poltergeist
I'm thinking of the mother of all heists
I'm disenfranchised
Officials turned on me too many times
Situations is becoming desperate
I'm desolate
I don't care about a wish list
It is going to be a bitter Christmas
Santa changed course
He is due south
Asparagus is stuck in my mouth
Isn't it ironic
Every new job I get
I had to have my tooth extract
No wonder I get this toothless aggression
I can't think straight
Every time I open up my mouth
You’ll see there is no more wisdom teeth
It is a clean slate
But I am keen to participate
On getting a break
A break into reality
Of a broken home
I might predict a bright future
Like Notre Dome
Without the hunchback
No matter how I lack
I'm always able to bounce back
Like a volleyball 
I’ve been beat 
fallen
I'm velocity and all
Crazy summer saying
Where is the one I recognise
But I won't cry for yesterday
Somehow I’ll learn to survive
© Phatt Matt  Create an image from this poem.
Form:


Imagine That Vol.Iii

Dey say patience is a virtue. Two things are for certain.
One, this world could never take anything eternal from me so lets close dem curtains.
Two, how I feel about u is real yeah my imagination is running
ready to do the unthinkable Im feelin like da last flame in dis tundra
no questions no 2nd guessing between us I then heard it all & I seen enuff pain & turmoil
Imagine dis...Im da seed & ur da soil lets grow together true love has no limits
so we'll stand thru da rain I'll guide u thru da fog
dont be scared baby nothin can seperate us from the love of God
yeah Im lovin it we've been chosen so lets build this covenant...
Imagine the good life where the unthinkable comes true,
friendship courtship marriage and that eternal honeymoon
so if ur ready lets make it happen yeah dey say love isn't reachable
but dey lied Im always teachable let me be ya pupil
Im takin notes on how to make sumthin outta nothin
look so beautiful so now...why dont u imagine me & you.
© Corey Ross  Create an image from this poem.
Form: Lyric

Oblivion Iii

Hello, Oblivion am I welcomed to thy realm?
            down into the darkness 
                of the perpetual engines, doom

I saw the sublime dissolution 
of my generation

I mourned its irritating irrelevancy 
I saw the eternal imaginary 
of my place in my history

Burned out at last:
I cannot help but stop and look into the melancholy waste
I cannot help but stop and look at the intellectual subjugation.

This my generation destroyed
       down into the darkness 
            of the perpetual engines of doom

The shadows now fade
sordid, tear-stained ruins 
eternal imagery of my perpetual place

           Not but prayer is troubled
                 Not a soul is tortured

Dearly departed I stand in my history
Feeling oblivion come; like the loss of faith
  once promised me an eternity now a burial shroud 
    on the table, a scarlet waste
      you once promised me infinity
        engines of doom

The shadow now fades
sordid, tear-stained ruins

There is only an illusion of my generation, in bloom

Hello, Oblivion am I welcomed to thy realm?
          down into the darkness of the perpetual engines, doom

Hello Oblivion you once promised me until the end of time
          so stated the raven nevermore

May thy tomb come upon some desolations shore

In millenniums evermore

For Honor, Part Iii

III.
It was three days later fate arrived,
when the two were eating breakfast.
An old van pulled up towards the house,
“Come on out!’Selim cried in a rasp.

They were prepared for this event,
and went up to their bedroom.
Sepidah took up the pump-shotgun
since her aim wasn’t as good.

Carter grabbed his trusty AR-10,
and risked a glance out the window,
Selim, a brother, and two cousins,
with pistols in hand stood below.

He opened the window and called to them:
“This does not have to be blood and tears.
If you value your lives, leave us alone,
get yourselves far away from here!”

Selim and the young men opened fire,
riddling glass and wood walls with lead.
Carter took a breath, drawing a bead,
and shot a cousin right through the head.

The man collapsed, the others charged,
smashing headlong through the door.
The last thing that Sepidah’s brother heard,
was a deafening shotgun’s roar.

She fired again, hitting the last cousin,
taking of half of his left foot.
Her father fired his gun blindly back,
the lamps and tables all shook.

A bullet caught dear Sepidah,
winging her hard in the thigh.
She cried out as her father advanced,
red murder raging in his eyes.

A sudden shadow then fell over her,
and three shots echoed ‘cross the room.
He father tumbled over backwards,
crashing downwards to his doom.

In the distance a siren blared,
Growing louder as it drew near,
Deputy Steve walking into the house,
gasping,”Good lord, what happened here?”

“They thought they were dishonored,”
Said Carter,”They came looking for honor.”

CONCLUDES IN PART IV.
Form: Narrative

Premium Member The Great American Songbook of the Soul - Part III: The Running Man

VI. THE RUNNING MAN’S
LIFE 
 
She comes out of the sun in a silk dress running
        Like a watercolour in the rain

Tramps like us
        Baby,
                we were born to run
 
The highways jammed
        with broken heroes
                On a last chance drive
 
It’s a wild world
        It’s hard to get by
                just upon a smile, girl

He was born
        in the summer
                of his twenty-seventh year

We’re just two lost
souls
        swimming
                in a fish bowl

No one told you
        when to run
                You missed the starting gun
       (Stefi, Becca, Jules—how did the years
outpace the engine?)
        (a poetry man since '73, the same three
chords still finding
        new ways to break)
 
Talk to me some more
        You don't have to go
 
Fathers taught me
how to leave;
        the years taught me how to wait

After changes
        upon changes
                we are more or less the same

And then one day you
find
        ten years
                have got behind you

And then one day you
find
        ten years
                have got behind you again
 
There never seems
        to be enough time

It was long ago and far away
       the world was younger than today
 
All we are
        is dust in the wind
 
        (corridor break)
 
All we are
        is dust in the wind
 
       (the descent deepens)
 
 
VII. THE COLLAPSE OF
TIME
 
I’ve been lately thinking 
        about my life’s time
 
Time can bring you
down
        Time can bend your knees
 
So you speak to me
        of sadness
 
Then winter’s
        for wondering
                what went wrong
 
I have stood upon
the mountain
        and looked down
                on all the people
 
I’m going to be a
happy idiot
        and struggle
                for the legal tender
 
        (pause)
 
I’ve seen fire
        and I’ve seen rain

Still, a man
        hears what he wants to hear
                and disregards the rest

Across the evening
sky
        all the birds
                are leaving

In the year
        of the cat

        (the descent reaches its floor, hell)
 

 ====== 
END OF PART 3 of 5
Form: Cento

Forgetting Where You Came From, Part Iii

...In a fury Malcolm shot to his feet,
shouted ‘Uncle Tom!’ in a moment of heat,
got into his car, a half-dead pinto,
in a cloud of dust down the road did he go.

As he drove away in the door appeared
Booker’s love Mindy, eyes half cast with fear,
she said,”I take it things didn’t go smooth?”
Said Booker,”No, we won’t be seeing him soon.”

He went on thinking he’d not see him again,
but fate has a way of making fools of men,
six years had passed, and two daughters had come,
when up the drive came a station wagon.

Emerging form it, brother Malcolm came,
it was clear to Booker something had changed,
with him an olive-skinned girl with a ring,
on her shoulder a newborn boy sleeping.

Malcolm ever dressed like the suburbs,
was it possible he’d heard his loud words?
The something had pierced all the acrimony?
From what Booker saw, this didn’t seem phony.

His brother looker sheepish, afraid to speak,
until his wife said,’Why don’t you come see
your little nephew, his name is Carson.
He wants to see where his cousins come from!”

The young woman came forward, and Malcolm followed,
shame is his face, a very heavy load.
Booker just sighed once, and said there to him,
“Took you long enough, now come meet your kin…”
Form: Narrative

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