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Long Imagism Poems | Poetry

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Long Poems
Long poem by Jamie Pan | Details

Storm

The day was fine and sunlit,
Decorated by several clouds 
drifting aimlessly in the radiant ocean-blue sky.
Chorused by gentle puffs of the morning breeze,
Sending leaves on the streets twirling like
ballerinas in a dazzling and mesmerising dance.
and the trees too,
waving their twigs like hands saluting people walking past,
Then the emergency siren suddenly shrieked,
Threatening of a descending storm,
Send us scurrying to safety,
As dark clouds stretched across the horizon
and its shadow slowly devours the daylight,
People around the village stormed like a colony of ants panicking
from the incoming storm,
Busy sand-bagging their houses and boarding up their windows with plywood
To keep them from falling apart.

I was inside my study room,
Huddled beneath the mountain of textbooks piling around me,
Terrified that I may not survive
from whatever’s happening outside,
From the storm clouds swarming over the school,
Unleashing sudden, violent bolts of lightning slashing across the skyline
As the deafening roar of thunder echoed through the village,
And then it came.
Cruel and merciless rain beating down upon us,
An untamed ocean of terror and destruction thrown from the unusually blackened sky
accompanied by the howling of immense hurricane-like wind,
Red blood-like sap spurted from the trees
moaning and groaning in agony
As their limbs were brutally ripped away by the monstrous downpour.
The winds were savage animals screaming at the children
While gnawing and clawing at our houses 
like a pack of hungry wolves
searching for their frightened prey.
Iced daggers stabbed at my feet
As the waterfall gushed through our roof
And knocked me to the floor.
Slowing the pressure eased,
as the rain gradually lessoned,
until finally fading into a charming melody,
Resembling the graceful chimes of bells.

The molten-gold rays peaked out over the mountain-tops
Emerging from behind a peaceful sheet of mist,
Casting slanted beams of light shining across the village.
Fluttering of wings could be heard
as birds erupted from their shelters
followed by an explosion of elegant song.
They sailed majestically over the schoolyard in unison,
Chirping and cheeping through the village’s moat of vast forest
as happy as a newborn penguin.
When I stared toward the golden coin glistening in the brilliant sky,
It appeared to me that the day was fine and sunlit,
Decorated by several clouds
drifting aimlessly in the radiant ocean-blue sky.

WRITER STATEMENT

My poem Storm is an extended metaphor for the emotions around school exams. It is written in three parts: before, during and after the exam. The intended audience is teachers, and the purpose is to elicit sympathy towards students, especially ones who underperform in exams. This poem has a scary mood, featuring the themes of destruction and terror up to the climax when ‘Iced daggers stabbed at my feet/As the waterfall gushed through our roof’. The third stanza used ‘birds’ to metaphorically represent the joyful group of students after the examination. 

Sibilance was used when ‘the emergency siren suddenly shrieked’, with the sharp ‘s’ sound being uncomfortable and shocking to the reader. Sibilance was also used in the previous quote ‘Iced daggers stabbed at my feet’ allowing the reader to picture and feel the uncomfortable and painful scenario of rain ‘gushing’ through the roof like daggers made of ice. The mood intensified at critical points, with similes such as ‘leaves on the streets twirling like ballerinas’. Personification was used in the simile ‘gnawing and clawing at our houses like a pack of hungry wolves’, which exaggerated the wind’s animalistic brutality. An example of vivid auditory imagery is the personification and assonance of the trees that ‘moaned’ and ‘groaned’, which is an unpleasant and painful human sound, strongly appealing to the reader’s empathy. Furthermore, enjambment was used during the second stanza to create an interrupted rhythm. This changed the tone to a more panicked one, engaging the reader in the suspense of the storm. 

Anthropomorphism was used throughout the second stanza, where the storm clouds were accompanied by ‘the deafening roar of thunder’ and throws down upon the village ‘an untamed ocean of terror and destruction’. The use of lending a human element to a non-human subject (eg. Storm) allows the reader to emphasise with the feelings of the ‘villagers’, increases the relativity between the storm and the villagers, and also granting character to the subject (ie. Storm). 

Structurally, the shape of the text varied dramatically (not shown on the site, due to space availability) during the second stanza to represent the calamity and disorder brought by the storm, contrasted with the peace before and after the storm. The poem was also framed by repeating the same three lines at the beginning and end. This engages the reader in the message that no storm lasts forever just like exams. 

06/01/17

Copyright © Jamie Pan | Year Posted 2017


Long poem by Olamide Adebayo | Details

Robinson Crusoe

I killed my friend,
I never wanted,
Do not see me cruel,
I did it for love.
We both ran naked
Under this influential shower.
No one uncoupled his lips
Against this faint madness,
We were indebted,
Either had to earn the prize.


It was shiny,
Elegant!
Burnt cold,
Polished gold.
Oh no!
I couldn't bear it,
Bear to see his vein
Uncuff so much blood,
Was I so cruel,
I slashed him!
Right beneath the ear,
The chin suffered the lot.


He said it to my face:
Once we scoured the Queen's land,
Together;
Sang in praises of Great Britain,
Merriy!
As the innocent horses start;
Tugging behind them
Our chariot.
But now the horses are dead,
The chariot is birthed against us,
We are dead to brotherhood!


The volcano erupted,
In me, I felt it fuelling out.
I was feeting off,
When he dogged from behind,
With sombre intents.


I couldn't!
But I left my gruesome dagger,
Screening through his burdened life-bag.
Yes I did it!
He lay still before me,
In silence.
I wept over my destiny uncharted;
I could only bare
To see twilight willow
But onto my grave,
With epitaphs
Written in Mephistopheles's tongue.


I did, when I had to,
What a shame!
Fled my own land! ! !
A constipated crib conceived in my cranial court,
Was I rather too young,
So that I became a nomad soon.


I rode in grievous company of the sun,
I voyaged in the nailing complement of the storm-I
think we must have prickled its patience,
Its revenge was full of life,
We were dealt by our own destinies.
Death ravished!
The carrion-eating bird approved.
This unfaithful revenge
Did but fed my mindset a tongue of advise:
Do not err the storm! ! !


I was conceived on the river-bank,
'Grace' became a refrain in my head,
I felt it was more to be cherished;
Not even my enchanting physiognomy altered.
What could this be called
If not a reborn
Into a soil of freedom and cruelty?
Orphaned by twigs and branches,
Bats and skylarks.
Was it not a diet balanced enough
To sow a seed of ambivalence
In my nomadic thoughts! ?


Did I ever tell of the obnoxity
Of these creatures particularly?
They move their fingers like I do,
Stride like I do,
Chest broad,
Posture leveled to the horizone,
Skin worn black;
And they chant in languages I never understood.
I watched them discharge another's blood,
In brutality of what seems their tradition.
I think this island it was
Death feasted all day.


Should it be said that it was pre-destined?
I got hypnotized by a friendly one
Of a different tribe,
I presume.
Skin black?
Yes!
But he was lonely,
I proposed to know more of his poor fate.
He even calls me Master,
He seemed anonymous -
I think they were never christianed,
I named him 'Friday'.


Friday was a walking dead;
Dead to his own people,
Died the day doom cast a spell on him.
Death could have had its sediments in his life-
Friday never sieved to the crust
His last lee of ecstasy.
A fearless ant
Hoping to withstand the elephant's stampede.


Tell me; desert of years ago,
That blacks could make one's lifetime
A dream on water beds,
And I would sing to my love;
Let her womb cough out on black ink.
And who fall prey to ignorance,
That my friends were born
To feed our fire, woods,
Destined to be tugged in chains,
Like the survivor dog?
He journeyed to the river-bank too,
From a path unread to me,
He was a dog afterall.
My pains were read to his poor understanding,
Before came Friday.


Oh how I survived on that unlawful island!
I once aimed at those innocent birds
With my old-time riffle,
Friday amused my gaze;
My grave-night experience scored it,
That the fully-winged bird descended
At the furious hit of a dead stick
Thrown by my friend.
Tell me!
Is he not worth soldiers praised in the British
military?
Then why leave them in chains and cages! ?


All ended!
All burden seized,
When we both seek chairs from the frogs,
We nursed into the cage of dogs not bone-fed.
All ended!
When for the homeless sake of freedom,
Friday had to unchain my soul
From these hopeless wander,
Or I honour his.


But why is such ugly fate stringed to my journey
Through this turmoil?
No way could I once more vaporize my friend
For any prize,
Not even for a freedom worthless!
I begged him take the prize,
But time rode my own countrymen-waist armed
With improved guns,
Faster than Friday could have lived.
Today,
I owe my gratitude
To that very man
Who killed my friend-Friday!
The End.

Note:
This poem is based on the legend;
'Life And Adventures Of Robinson Crusoe'.
Penned by
Daniel Defoe.

Copyright © Olamide Adebayo | Year Posted 2016


Long poem by Verlena S. Walker | Details

THE PERSPECTIVE OF ALABASTER SCROOGE

THE PERSPECTIVE OF ALABASTER SCROOGE In modern English people time, when the world was full of eminent joy, there lived a man of prestige who was totally the opposite of anyone who strives to form the perfect environment that established his person in which he was the brother of Ebeneezer. Alabaster was his first name. For sure, he was a Scrooge. He was a modest being in his undertakings. Endeavoring to form a best way that was better than what his time presumed, Alabaster Scrooge conceptualized where life is itself and living is meaningful. In boundaries of time in place, dynasties were fabricated. To writers such as Alabaster, this enriched his focus and denied his procrastination. He was thematic and topical to what he wanted to perceive. The world he desired was imagism of his prolific deeds. As he architects, he would become a great civil engineer. Hitherto, he was a mover of economic power. Yet, he was not an economist. Alabaster Scrooge was respected as a mind-of-minds that provided greater acumen. Marginalized journalism was in its day and age. Alabaster would laugh at these homogeneity that lack the focus of tradition. He expanded his ideas of the modern family by writing about the great advantages of capitalism. His driving focus was his pen mightier than his sword. Alabaster was an imperialist refined. Where 'the throne of Ireland was united to that of the British'. Where the expansion of private enterprise formed the Industrial Revolution. Alabaster Scrooge was a mover and a shaker. A forerunner of his time, which is a true trailblazer. A catalyst mind-sets people within his surroundings. Alabaster name was known for just that. He wrote about the wills and ways of humanity. The system of regulation that existed did not ostracize Alabaster commentary. It only provided the world a torchbearer of integrity and truth. Alabaster Scrooge was a Fabian, 'one who spreads socialist principles gradually'. As a result, Alabaster would become a true transformer of communities. Transmogrifying what needed a humorous effect, Alabaster editorials impacted society to a positive change. He would tabloid that which needed to be sensationalized. His work was stated to be the rococo effect. Alabaster influence was so illustrious that an immediate response manifested. One example was that of ‘the tiny class of pauper apprentices in textile mills’ who lives were jeopardized from the lack of protection via industry. Alabaster Scrooge wrote: – “To regulate the conditions of industrial employment is simply to invest in good business. Therefore, why do the mannequins deny safe hours of labor and sanitation, protection against accidents, mealtimes and holidays, the methods of remuneration, as well as a decent wage itself is because these tailored dummies deny the range of Factory Legislation.” Reaction, retreat, and abandonment Alabaster would disclose. Many noble people did not conform to the laws. Wherefore, society was dampened by their atrocities and civil demonstrations became the scene. Alabaster expositions provided the less fortunate with the means to address issues foreseen. Never a day he did not provide propaganda about current policies. Society became a hub of political ideologies. The Perspective of Alabaster Scrooge was published weekly. ‘Social sets, sociability, and community’ became Alabaster’s academic miens. ‘Spaces, places, and material culture’ interconnectivity was palpability. Across regions, his dialogue would capture scholastically. Alabaster examine’ the town planning, churches, forts, farmhouses, merchant’s stores, and state houses' to explore the power of visual language to architecture and design. He aspired to allow people of this epoch to preserve ‘common cultural experiences’ across the different landscapes that exist to inform their individuality. Alabaster Scrooge provided empiricism to the interaction linking ‘physical construction and social themes’ where ‘race, identity, politics, taste, gender, and domesticity’ reins as material culture in such a way that the people who ‘built, occupied, and used the spaces’ are ruminated through the complexity of this cultural exchange. That exchange that exist between its era and the New World. A range and depth of imagism that is well-argued and sets a high benchmark for this emerging field. Alabaster Scrooge intellectual agility brilliantly forms within the endowment of the humanities. _____________________________________________________________________| Written 3/11/2016!

Copyright © Verlena S. Walker | Year Posted 2016

Long poem by Isabel San Martin | Details

EIGENGRAU

Little escalations
Have turned into another scar
Self medicate on self harm
I spit upon my own self reflection
A mirror of self deception
Exasperate my own intentions
Of my own disgusting being
Just beginning to unravel
As I float around in jet tar
While I burn at third degree
I conceive just one more nightmare
Another twisted fantasy
Another hand with smoldered flesh
Another foot in embedded nails
As I scratch away myself in vain
As I peel away my skin
Regained
Another arm enveloped in barbed wire bracelets
Another leg goes callous from a branding iron placed in
My own grimaced countenance
My own self decision
My own self destruction
My own self affliction
Time to coil a whip of shame
Time to strike my back with blame
My child is the Grave
Certification is my name
Throw me into a diamond coffin
While we walk in endarkened grass
While we claps hands and sing,
“Welcome to the world of gray”
My mind’s a fistful of maggots
Maybe it’s admittance to renewal
But when you dream of marching flies
It’s only logical to conclude
That I’ve been dead inside
For far too long
Why keep living in this violent planet
While I’ve had it with 200 gone
Why do we have it all wrong
With this war in Syria going on?
A world of transience
Unhappiness 
Another surreal reality
A fog of fluke while I vaporize
This lie with an eye of simplicity
With a flashlight of melancholy
Time to view events realistically:
My own epiphany in full succession
It’s no wonder I’ve given up on
Another rigged election
Politics
A doublethink
Take two contradictions
And don’t rethink
Just believe
And deceive
With a feigned smile
A stretched tongue
Only to saw it off
From self insanity
Reveal the shameless fakery
Or conceal the odious fallacy
Pull the trigger
I’m undithered
Cause I’ve belittled
This entire nation
Of disintegration
No innovation
Just inception
Of deprivation
Of execration
Of fueled self hatred
Of racism
Of sexism
Of beguiled friendship
No loyalty
No liberty
No honesty
No sincerity
No eternity
Just a space
Just a vacancy
Just a proclamation
Of what’s to come to all of us
Now say with me
Now sing with me
The song that is with all of us:
My child is the Grave
Certification is my name
Throw me into a diamond coffin
While we walk in endarkened grass
While we claps hands and sing,
“Welcome to the world of gray”
Suffocate from my own tears
Or asphyxiate with my own fears?
No lesser of two evils
Both have torn me apart
Anyhow
Hanging by a mess of twine
I am tethered by its ropes
A puppeteer named Dysthymia 
Another hand
Another soul
Another being
Not my own
It’s not me
But this creature
I presume
Rusted iron nails featured
Five oxidized
Gaping wounds
Upon my bleeding scalp
My ocean eyes
I’ve painted navy
Time to brew another bulletstorm
Time to let a silhouette save me
And drag me down into a living hell
Time to bite with bleeding gums
Upon another steel shell
Time to laugh insanely with phlegm
At another pistol shoved down my throat
Slitting wrists with butter knives
Pain is a paintbrush in a stained canvas
Black lungs wheezing out from agony
Because I’ve reckoned with
My past
My bereavement
My forlorn infamy
As if I had a worthwhile memory
Time to lie in a spindle of thorns
As I lie morose in a bed of coal
I lie and wait as I see proceedings
As I plant the seeds of weeping
Turning my already fragmented thoughts
Into a septillion little pieces
And while I’m reeling
From choking weeds
From the creepers of the night
From the reapers inspiring fright
I’m at peace now
I’m just fine
Stay with me
As I mutter
With my final breath
Let’s all utter
Yes don’t leave me
As I mutter
With my final breath
Let's all utter:
“I am a mother...
“My child is the Grave
Certification is my name
Throw me into a diamond coffin
While we walk in endarkened grass
While we claps hands and sing,
“Welcome to the world of gray””


Copyright © Isabel San Martin | Year Posted 2018

Long poem by Young King sa | Details

Dress Code

Today i was wearing my words in codes                                                              
Full stops and brackets covered me from sniper voices.                                          
Codes that smell choices made to cancel chances of painting pavements around angry gestures                                                                                                            I had battery guitar sound effects attached to my metaphors                                                                     Killing my new pair of rhymes    

Snapping snaps of brain camera snaps that showered me in photographic memory                                                                                                                        Lefifi Tladi knows Africa's memory                                                                          
I was confident in my African steps avoiding felonies                                           
My walk spoke smiles and street smartness painting my fellow fallen niece and kings                                                                                                                         Fellow poets put together broken knees!!   
                                                        
Like verses that rebuke fire fighters who own dry lips and yellow teeth in the streets                                                                                                                 Those that waste water in their desert                                                                 
Today i was wearing my respect, my colourless mind blowing words in a black tie that secured my images tying all broken knots that were secretly tailor made for joy                                                                                                                

Gossips that emancipate heart burns burning safe houses in details                                                               Shots were taken from experience's tail telling tales wearing attitude and my brain                                                                                                                         Engels borrowed me wings to fly over long distant hatred Chances define spoken word fashion   
                                                                                           
Get lost in poetry's outfit while searching word designers                                                 
I address my visions dressing my body language in different stresses undressing my presence in fashion police poetry fashions                                                               
Blessed kings know my motive is to parade my voice in the streets of your desert                                                    The dusty land you set to sell ideas in slippery days Poetry's only red carpet in open mic pamphlets 
                                                                                            
Today i was wearing my pride and sniper mood in baby dippers                                                                               Any bumper let loose all dirt in my head                                                                 
Unpredictable i am                                                                                               
Like written revenge beautiful words don't ask for attention                                                                    Attention hires beautiful words to word the spoken word in different fantasies                                                                           Today I loved my dress code.                                                                                 
Myself loving words (c)
                                                                                         
By Raymond Ngomane

Copyright © Young King sa | Year Posted 2014

Long poem by Dale Gregory Cozart | Details

Still Life with Passion and Regret

It is an unseasonable March day.
My kitchen blinds are drawn against morning sun,
their slender slats like new skin protecting the body's vital organs;
eyelids before this rose-covered tablecloth as though the blooms
are the pale larvae of our future, still coiled and sleepy,
not-yet-flowers at the sill of this too-early spring,
who would murmur, if so evolved:  We are not ready to be born.
I perspire at the sudden heat; the ceiling fan beats downward
onto my damp corner, this alcove of waning winter.
But the flowers:  muslin washed to faded smoothness,
blooms asymmetrical, each calyx waiting like fingers clasped
in prayer to blossom into a new dimension,
a heartfelt request to rejoin the living.
And there are rhododendrons, pink with their baby freckles, tiny stamen-fingers
reaching past those same pliant slats, this time of the crib
of their incubation, to touch softly anything of strange newness
of their coming fruition.  We are dawning, come the earliest babblings;
they know what they mean even if we do not.  The first alien syllables
fall on deaf carpeting and semi-gloss of these pale walls,
absorbed and forgotten in stiff pleats of similar-colored curtains.
In this house, in these manufactured shadows, I am still of winter,
of our shared grief and shame at our compelling
obscenity of civilization, knowing full well this structure
stood as shelter against recent, freezing rains, the showering
silver spears of a marauding infidel, who, as the earlier mulch of autumn,
has come to dust, spent as the bride whose wedding dress
falls away and disappears in a tatter of fallen leaves
that soon dry up and disintegrate.  In its place, in folds of new skin,
comes a house of flowers, plant-life sacrificing itself on the altar,
using its own bodies to erect its shrine.
Suddenly this tabletop, awash in once-vibrant maroons, greens,
pinks and whites, is a crystal ball.  In this sphere of all-knowing
I see things as they will be.  This table is a loom and the cloth
a tapestry, each thread a component of fabric to come.
And the flowers:  roses unscrolling; chrysanthemums bursting
into the applause of dozens of tiny hands; hibiscus, the silent trumpets,
all laid out on a bed of stems and leaves woven as the threads themselves
upon which their likenesses have been cast, like a portrait
painted in their own green blood.

But these dragons stationed at the gates of paradise
are only cotton heroes; it is March.  It is too soon.
This sudden heat will pass as this day passes, its images
dissolving into memory as a stone obliterates the reflection
in a tranquil pool.  What I have seen will be, but not now.
I am myself in this little room, the adult who must go 
about the tasks of day.  But I am also an infant poised
on a threshold, the golden crocus in first bloom, arriving prematurely.
And I am held at this brink of fruition by a body not sufficiently evolved,
being led away by a parent I barely recognize, who cannot offer consolation
as he does not know the vision I have seen.
As we move I look back, reaching with the bulb of my hand
and its tiny sprouting fingers, for the image growing
further out of reach, and I murmur gravely,
half in knowledge, half in absentia, the only word I can pronounce:
Flower.

Copyright © Dale Gregory Cozart | Year Posted 2017

Long poem by Prince Patterson | Details

ALIEN

A.L.I.E.NS
(Advanced people Living In an Enigmatic world under a Nation with a Stentorian voice.)


Hear me, as I roar.
Hear me, as I walk on two than foe.
Hear me, as I pour this O.E all over the floe.

Hear me, as my mouth begins to expand 3inches wide, 3ft deep. Eyes wide awake to count to 1,000 sheep & you’ll be sleeping. In the end take the time to create a system whose actions can’t be duplicated where great steaks can’t be duplicated. Building “MY’ name in the air, in between these clouds.
Hearing the crowd scream “MY” out loud. How sweet it sounds hearing you name being shouted from the top of the balcony. Flashing screen lights screaming “Marry me, sexy!!!”

Craving out guitars from twigs, building white wigs from sheep wool. While we drown our sorrows in swimming pools, pull me out before I drown in my on intelligence. Pushing 88 into the future with a superior mind concept.

Hear me, as I roar,
Hear me, as I walk on two than foe.
Hear me, as I pour this O.E all over the floe.

Hear me, as I build with no skills a behemoth monument. Where the whips are the teacher & the work was consider book-work. From Dusk to Dawn to your yawn is dead & gone. Wishing to be transported back to home. Home was now the place where the invalid escaped the punishment & the dead was the only one who got away from the marks. Sleep on hay or make a bed where you feel you should lay. Skin melts turning from light to where it’s impossible to see at night.

Hear me, as I roar.
Hear me, as I walk on two than foe.
Hear me, as I pour this O.E all over the floe.

The time of living in caves felt more like living in cages. A limited option where the only catch is the cage is un-locked, not knowing where the next step will lead. Perform deeds to provide the FAM with feed. Sweet hams & candy yams brings hell of cavities, we perform better activities to stay active.

Hear me, as I roar.
Hear me, as I walk on two than foe.
Hear me, as I pour this O.E all over the floe.

The Cool Breeze brings a measure of good ease. Changing topics better than the last High top fade coming back “A blast from the past”. From the liquid tree on every corner to the hungry anteater crawling over your quarter.

Hear me, as I roar.
Hear me, as I walk on two than foe.
Hear me, as I pour this O.E all over the floe.

Confused on whom to choose, will this person act a fool or shine bright as a jewel? Big guns, small bullets, Gun-powered overflow, who will be the first one to go? Go down loud with a Big Bang and a POW. The nation is screaming WOW! How did it come to end with a #POW!! And everybody is wondering HOW?

Hear me, as I roar.
Hear me, as I walk on two than foe.
Hear me, as I pour this O.E all over the floe.
Hear me, as I tell a short un-thought of story never been told before.
Hear me, as I whisper a softly poetic poem as the cure to being a being among Otherworldly beings.

At the end of the day we are...

-A.L.I.E.NS
(Advanced people Living in an Enigmatic world under a Nation with a Stentorian voice.)



 

Copyright © Prince Patterson | Year Posted 2014

Long poem by Dale Gregory Cozart | Details

Alpine Wind

It is too hot and humid for September!
Even dust specks descending in the room's sunlight
are beads of sweat running down my sides.
I bring pencil, crossword and ice tea 
to this chair and table, these angled shutters, this ceiling fan.
In a world of metaphors
perhaps a cool alternate reality can emerge.
I sit still as glaciers, remembering houses
I have lived in less impervious to heat than this, 
but still this silk flower arrangement bulges with moisture, 
saturates my bones.  Their stems, like torchieres,
explode in fountains of light;
the morning sun fades for want of power.
I have drained salmon blood truer than you,
disdain the lilies, echoes a chorus of golden cat-tails.
Pink iridescent roses uncurl with laughter.
"Alpine Wind", beckons the puzzle to my neon veins;
somewhere in Webster's English waits a panacea of snow,
a virgin crest white as morning, firs towering,
their cones crisp as Pippins.
In my mind I cannot conjure adjectives
to match December's frozen silt.
"Foehn", I write Across, imaging the Down words 
will dangle from each letter like Christmas icicles.
I suffer through "Lunches for Caesar", "Egyptian Cobra", "Asian Gazelle",
knowing in my exasperation that crystals will never drift
up to my window; that "Salads", "Asp" and "Goa"
bring deserts to my desert.  They languish in the web
of these obscene flowers, make umbrellas of their petals.
Soon I will perforate them with my No. 2 spear.
I murmur, "This'll get the thistle".
"Beach Sight", ask the Crossword again.  Four letters.
I think of waves as arctic oceans would lay cold and soothing at my temples.
Alas, "Dune" is all that fits, miles of arid dust for Caesar and his cobra
to mock me as they conquer.
Condensation has gathered on my glass.  I press
the tumbler to my forehead, think again of arctic seas.
The fan sends a breeze down to succor this weary pilgrim;
I am better for an instant.  My fingers leave
translucent windows in the frost.  Through them I see
icebergs glistening in Alaskan inlets,
snakes and Caesars drowning in the flood.
The illusion melts as my forehead dries.
Even the wooden blades above me send Santa Ana winds
in their endless spirals.
Other words begin crossing my Alpine Wind:
"Serf" and "Ego" fasten themselves like leeches in a fetid swamp.
Letters coagulate in "Fungus", "Mire" and "Moss".
I am suffocating in the coils of that Egyptian Asp.

Suddenly I attack with the eraser, pounding
like a sledge hammer, smudging lines and squares
until only Foehn remains, clean and new as when I first wrote it.
Now Asp gives way to "Alp", Caesar falls in a "Fjord".
Fungus is dead with "Weed Killer".
Villages appear draped in blue calm,
chalets and seaside cottages shine in gentle sun.
My glass is an icon for the God of Winter,
for "Norsemen" and "Reindeer" fleeting across the page.
At the tranquil hub blows my Alpine Wind now cool like Autumn's first sigh,
the icicles promises yet to come.

Copyright © Dale Gregory Cozart | Year Posted 2017

Long poem by Abubakar Mohammed Musa | Details

Again and Again

Still happened again?
Or I'm the one who can't explain?
I've tried baby, can't you see?
Is it true you liked to unite like a bee?
Or you will only love me when you a free?
Don't waste time love used to flee.

Again and again, I love it,
I still care all about it.
My clamorous and glamorous heart
Loves you well, well and well heart.
The bloods within my body
And the fats within my body
The marrow within my bones
And the sponge within my bones
Are only surviving when your
Love shakes in my body.

Dreams always petrify me,
Because I dreamed you before me
With our former principal near me,
He warned us to halt noise but
You overheaded and stood before me;
You started dancing next to me.
You made noise that also disturbed me,
The principal motivated but
He didn't hanker to daze me.
For sure he would daze me,
If he strike you before me.

Still in the same dream,
Means yesternight's dream.
Principal maintained and maintained,
Again still explained, complained,
Complained and restrained his heart.
His blood sprinted and found it
Difficult to control it.
He darted his cane towards you
He then followed through our aisles.
He fumbled his cane on you stoutly.
I felt so bad temper like a hungry lion.
In other hand, I felt so bliss, because
I love you but you waylay my mind.
I finally made up my mind just to
Face him in anyway.
I also felt a moan and blazing sores
In my heart when I saw blood in thy hand.

Loving you baby is compulsory in me.
Nothing can hesitate it unless you denied.
We're made to love eachother but Evil
Had extinguished us in the world.
Love is nothing but hard affection.

Still in the dream, still in the yesternight.
Principal rose his hand on you,
Then bravely I held it and lifted him up
And smashed him on the floor.
You tried to stand up but your blood
Was dripping as if a tap water host.
I told Zainab Goje to take you up
But she felt so afraid of what she did saw.
I implored almost all the girls including
Asma'u your bosom friend but still the same.
Finally, Maimuna Bala Magaji did helped
Me to take you up.
Before principal rose up, I was awaken by
My sister.

Still in the other dream, I woke up
So overreacted against my dream.
I asked her why she woke me while
I was in dreaming my life?
Again my mother woke me up.
I felt so disappointed, but I smiled
After I seen my mother standing next to me.

Again and again, I love you.
I love you, I love your lovers.
I love you, I love your advisers.
I love you, I love your friends.
I love you, but I hate the person
Who says he love you after all
The hummocks and towers
I had overcrossed
Like that kid that ever told you
He loves you.

Remember that I say I love you,
Not I hate you.

Copyright © Abubakar Mohammed Musa | Year Posted 2018

Long poem by SAMSON MANYALA | Details

CHRISTMAS ON MY COMPUTER

             CHRISTMAS ON MY COMPUTER
	
1.Attention on my computer!
An intruder detected.
It is not a virus 
It is a strong December aroma
From your cakes you Christians .
It has reached me online
This chilly morning!
Okay,
We all agree today
That 25 December
Is not the exactly date 
When his holiness the king
Was born,
One thing we confess,
He took the mortal body
And made it immortal
For all 
Who believe
And feign to live
Here after.
Merry Christmas!

	
 2. Huuh..!  
   An intruder detected,
It is a strong light
On my laptop screen!
Okay…now!
It is not a virus
It is a beam of light
From your so many
Christmas candles.
So, all of you love Jesus!
We all agree today,	
That no history
Either in the bible or
Elsewhere,
Justifies December 25.
But one thing
We all agree,
His holiness is the king,
Is the God son,
Is our brother,
A very rich person and generous,
A very keen listener 
If we ask beyond doubts,
And the most trusted friend.
Merry Christmas!

3.Attention please!
Something strange
On my computer.
Okay,
Its is not a virus.
It is the images of Christmas trees
With colored flowers
From all angles
Of the world!
So, all of you
Colour baby Jesus?
Too wonderful a victory!
We all agree that Christmas
Is simply a Christian 
Theological fabrication,
Aimed to fill the vacuum
Left in the great events
Of a humbly born king.
But one thing 
We all agree,
He lived among us,
Shared our feelings
And met  these
Same challenges
We daily suffer
Merry Christmas !

4.Jingle bells
For a Christmas day.
Jingle bells because
You are set free.
Jingle bells for a slave
Who is still in the
Satan’s bondage.
Jingle bells to awaken
The sleeping enslaved people
That,
They are now set free
And the devil
 Is bound tight
At the prison’s gate.
Merry Christmas.

5.Jingle bells for Christmas day.
Jingle bells because 
We are the children 
Of the most high.
Jingle bells because
Humanity has been upgraded
To a high level of
Super nature
Above all creations.
Jingle bells
Because we are now
Kings and Queens.

6.Jingle bells because
The history of our doubts,
Cries and sufferings
Is at its end.
Jingle bells because
Jesus will take us all
Around that throne
And say
“I have bought children for you father
With my blood.”
Jingle bells because
We shall see the father,
Shall learn ,
And solve
All  the mysteries
In our doubts.
Jingle bells because
We shall see
Hell no more,
Merry Christmas!












 











   




   
        
     
     
     
     

Copyright © SAMSON MANYALA | Year Posted 2016

Long Poems