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 Innocence Poems

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

See also: Famous Long Poems

Long Poems
Long poem by T Wignesan | Details |

Which paradise is not the elusive chimere

Which paradise is not the elusive chimère?
…how long does it take to live one life…learn the lessons of a lifetime…find the time to live…find the time to sort things out…know what you did was wrong…know in whom lay the blame…what court hears your plea over your unwanted unwilled birth…who is there to tell you here is where you went wrong in the choices you made…take you by the hand and tell you this is not your making…this is all a dream…a dream that’ll never come true… what… is the maker a masochist…to what enduring purpose have you been asked to join the rest… would you want sex if you knew who you would put into this world… is there a crime more despicable than the life you engender into a world you cannot foresee… can you live as long as your progeny to protect them from the torture your genes prepare them for… can you provide for the unforeseen… for the dark that awaits you…your own faults visited on some one else you could never have conceived in thought…since the yonder is dark unknowable for all you know empty why continue… what ultimate purpose aeons from now affects you… is there a purpose to purpose…we search and search and see far enough only to be told we are getting closer and closer to the truth… nearer and nearer to the eternal truth… the one single formula to explain it all… the unified theory of theories… only to be told in between lie the dark matter the black holes three times the known dimensions of worlds hidden within unfathomable worlds of universes buried beyond sight beyond thought… all exploding colliding intermingling intersecting  in the unreachable distance that may have been but never probably was…that the infinitely tiniest world releases the infinitely bigbangish universe… who is to believe we’re going anywhere… who is to believe we are going some place…can you conceive of anything of anybody of anybeing of any self-making engine who/which can create an ounze of space let alone the mighty exploding skies hidden within the atoms… can you conceive of a plan so complex so minute so self-propagating so complete so thorough from time immemorial to time eternal from the ends of the endless space which could have inhabited some mighty self-sufficient all-mightiness…and yet it is true… it must be true…how else can you explain this eternal laila this eternal ephemeral-ness this eternal dance…nadaraja stomping twisting flailing his six arms in all six pairs of eye-directions…siva the destroyer…siva the adept dancer…siva the twelve to twenty-nine strings dancing vibrating in dimensions unseen to the eye… IT is there to be seen and be wondered at to be felt and to be suffered to be thought of and to keep thinking about to be befuddled about and to be flabbergasted by… to know that IT exists… touch yourself and you touch the IT… think you’re touching and you’re the IT thinking… but spread your fingers and cry abacradabra… no matter materialises no ready-made canvass no finished book no symphony drivels drops drips from your fingers… is this a mystery… is this a joke… if i’m part of the IT why is there no nothing at my command… are we then part of the IT… can we be part of the IT… or is the IT split into smithereens… no more the IT… no more the creating preserving destroying omnipotent IT the dancing Nadarajah the thundering Rudra the wailing Vayu the slaughtering Kali the admonishing Krishna the cool beneficent Vishnu…is the IT then in need of its sundered parts…must we all come to gather come together to save the IT and put IT back into place… put IT back in ITS self-conceiving womb never again to see the light of the Brahma Day…is the IT in need of all the consciousnesses IT split into to constitute ITS once inconceivable consciousness…is this  the Christian redemption… is this the Arabian heaven watered by streams of milk by date-palms… oases… to the sound of the singing of seventy-two virgins…nay…succulent dates…’a book of verse/a jug of wine/and thou singing beside me in the wilderness/and the wilderness is paradise enow//” …is this the Buddhist nirvana… is this the Taoist-Stoic submission to the ways of Nature…if not what purpose is there to a finalising finite world… what purpose is there to extending a quest for betterment when the Aztec sun drunk with human blood never rises again…when suns quasars galaxies universes are all doomed to be exploded out of their orbits… what purpose to so much human suffering and animal and insect and plant degradation…but gaseous-mineral stoicness….           

Abstracted from T. Wignesan. Ice in my Eyes…Paris, 2004-06, pp.  308-310.
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2016.

Copyright © T Wignesan | Year Posted 2016

Long poem by Teppo Gren | Details |

Initiations of love - Part 1


In the hours of twilight your star brightened my shadowed dream,
long since faded from the youthful beleif of reverie.
In you I mirrored distant memories of childhood INNOCENCE,
beauty of love in it’s early bloom, to ripeness, yet with depth of sensation,
discovered only through the pain of yearning, hearts suffering.

Through the clouded haze I felt the dream once more,
with wisdom born through nature’s falseness of sullen existence.
A long gone vision of a mind once so hopeful,
whose desires were numbed, dreams shattered yet TRUST beheld;
a yearning heart turned into a core of solid gold; hard yet frail.

Where love once flowed in a heart so frail,
eagerness of will echoed in the emptiness to find a way through the dark.
The mind found PATIENCE to fulfill the desired image,
a promise of love, realization of a long-felt need,
thoughts and emotions sacrificed for mortal gestures.

Whispering winds of silence, blowing yonder an arduous past,
with a quiet wish for a reflection of bygone times of tranquility,
to encounter the warmth of serenity through FORGIVENESS.
Forgiveness, not only of injustice and treachery,
but for the disbelief in love’s worth; and destiny’s reason.

Yet you appeared in an angel pureness, a vision of white;
through time to understand the meaning of eternal love
which is not tied by wordly needs, by shallow desire, or pleasures of the flesh,
but of AWARENESS of love’s deepest form of ensued knowledge,
a realization of love’s eternity; at the level of the soul.

In your eyes I saw the depths of forsaken desire,
and the pain of love’s initiation, yearning, love’s sorrow.
When I saw the teardrops running down your cheek, I knew.
I knew you retained the depth of FEELING as did I,
to behold the tenderest appreciation of love’s virtue.

In appearances of disguise life exists, as does love.
Dreams mingled with charm and enticement of reality,
in submission of togetherness to end a lonely heart’s search,
to earn love’s fondness by DEVOTION to its existence,
yet with reverence to retain the purity of the souls longing.

Released from chains of amorous passion, false desire,
I hold you in my heart, gently, with chastity of innocence.
With enlightenment I renounce worldly pleasures,
and enjoy the FREEDOM given, for love to grow,
reach the ripeness of eternity; freedom to aspire endless love.

Delight of divine inspiration to encounter love’s ECSTASY,
its wordly passion fulfilled, and continued by nature’s gift.
A gift more precious than love itself; newborn to love once more.
Love exists in forms of many; passion to unite as one to give new life,
perceived by nurturing care, kindness of the heart; true love’s zeal.

But what is love without HUMILITY; modest humbleness?
Selfish contentment of desire; satisfaction of bodily needs
prone to temptations of deception to be drowned by lusts amorous lure.
Be it not the beauty of Venus or Mars, but that of awareness,
to feel the depth of meaning by lessons of life; and of loneliness.

Witheld from touch of the flesh, or minds wordly eagerness,
PURE love reigns, untarnished, blessed with innocence,
to fathom, and to feel the infinite tenderness of love once parted.
Love needs no proof for its existence; no words, no kisses, no promises.
When love has grown to ripeness, its existence remains with enlightnment.

Is there no easier way to find love’s eternal FULFILLMENT,
then to weather the wrath of love’s pain, fallacy of deception,
rejected hearts loneliness; lonely days followed by darkened nights.
Be it less to weather lightning of the heart to see the light of life.
But how to comprehend the light of life without a sight of darkness?

T.J Grén

Inspired by astrologer Linda Goodmans book „Love Signs“ and it’s concept of initiations of love, whereby each sign of the zodiak has a lesson of love to teach and to learn.
Lessons to teach: Love is: innocence, patience, awareness, devotion, ecstacy, pure, beauty, passion, ho-nesty, wisdom, tolerance, compassion.
Lessons to learn: Love is: trust, forgiveness, feeling, freedom, humility, fulfillment, harmony, surrender, loyalty, unselfish, oneness, all.
For me all this means that LOVE IS ALL. 

Copyright © Teppo Gren | Year Posted 2015

Long poem by Andrea Dietrich | Details |

The Instincts of Innocence

I reflect upon a word -
To understand more fully what it means,
I think of what it conjures up for me -
childhood times -
 those times when I believed all I was taught
from silly things like Santa Clause
 to sacred things
            like God and true religion.

The way I accepted and then reacted to 
my mother’s definitions  of what was wrong and right
  I think is how I might define 
           my instincts ….. of innocence.
Having learned well right from wrong in my youth,
            my instinct was to feel shock or dismay
when I saw others doing      things I deemed immoral,
especially when the doers were those that I looked up to
           inside the parameters of my own church.
However, my tolerance for others’ evil doing 
  increased year by year, 
            Even in my youth, I never judged them outright.
Those girls and boys that slept around through high school
              were judged inside the silence of my mind.
       I never shunned them.

A few more decades passed. 
      Religion’s walls around me were wearing down.
  I never did cement the cracks in my walls’ foundation
      as did some others in my community -
               others who sought to strengthen their own walls
    with instincts of innocence espoused inside
                        the sanctity of chapels.
When was it I let my childhood instincts  totally crumble?

Generally more tolerant than many of my friends
  that I grew up with, I saw “other” people
with eyes that rarely blinked  at what I deemed to be audacity.
Those with different customs, or with strange new religions
          I have accepted in my life and tried hard not to judge.
Some things, however, I cannot tolerate.
             Societies that put their women down and 
people who abuse the weak, emotionally as well as physically,
Never will those actions I accept.

Now I ponder this: Are the instincts of innocence simply tied
          to what we learn as children?
I have seen select groups of people shunned
            by both the religious and the non-religious
simply for the fact that they are different!
And from whence comes the idea in a child’s mind 
to make him think that someone should be shunned?
Do our instincts of innocence simply come
from that time of life
when we looked up to our parents as our Gods,
accepting their every teaching as Gospel
and feeling fear to ever go against them?
Many things we learn are for our good, and
societies would turn to chaos without some guidelines
akin to the ten commandments.

On the other hand,
as a child, I was innocent.
    My instinct was to trust in strangers.
              Then I learned better.
My instinct was to cringe but say nothing   
   the time I was inappropriately touched.
Thankfully, since then, I have learned better.
In some instances, I would say, 
our instincts of innocence
                                                should be laid to rest!

For a long while now, I’ve been seeing
a small but significant segment of the population
that differs in their sexual orientation or preference.
Those who taught me in my youth
 that I ought to be as meek as a child
         still point today to ancient Scriptures
                  as the way for all to keep their innocence.

But my walls have fallen down.
    I stand here in the rubble
              unsure that I've done right or wrong
         in letting many of my childhood  ways of thinking
                   collapse so utterly.
The instincts of my thinking adult mind tell me that
     I am not wrong to stand with those who want their right
                to the pursuit of their own happiness
despite the fact their actions are denounced
         by the very teachings on which I was raised.

Can we ever really lose completely 
those thoughts developed from our early teachings, 
which led to the instincts of our childhood innocence?
At times, I cannot be completely at ease
in what I have let go of and in who I have become,
for the instincts of innocence 
     still dwell           in the caverns of my mind.

Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2015

Long poem by Therese Bacha | Details |


                            ~ Punished~
One evening with her dad she met this man at a bar very
handsome well mannered visiting from England.
After a few visits she started feeling him approaching her 
with nice compliments.

His attention made her fall In love with him
For months he took her out running to the beach 
shouting out loud I love your body i love your eyes
you’ll never belong to nobody but me.
On a moonlight night he was holding her so tight 
kissing her lips caressing her tits expressing his 
desire to light up the fire that was burning in their
entire body and soul.

As he was her first this is what she thought at the 
beginning she was very reserved yet she liked the 
fire she was feeling they were new to her his kissing 
was sensuous he smelled lovely he was caressing her
hair while sitting on the sand she was so taken by her
thoughts suddenly she heard.

Oh my darling let me love you my way let me make you 
my woman without any delay I beg you to give up and 
stop the fight I am promising at the same time to marry 
you very soon I will ask your dad that you will become my 
wife next Sunday at soon.

She wanted to believe him her head was spinning her heart
was beating to the sounds of his powerful movements
she was reaching the sky so quickly sensations of ecstasy 
she was feeling with his compliments whispering his love 
to her out loud while she was dreaming of the marriage 
as being lifted up on a carriage listening to the horses 
tapping on the course to the hotel room where they will 
spend their honeymoon as she will become that bride 
at noon.

Before even her dreams were over she felt him suddenly 
role over and ran away with no delay she could not understand
why ? Why? Did he leave with no good-bye.

Not realizing she was undressed hurried to get dressed ran to look 
from side to side asking herself why did he hide he promised me 
to be his bride? even if she was yet a child.

She sat where they loved each other looking at the ocean maybe
he will come back he must he told her he is in love.

Already it was dark in a low voice having no choice she ran 
home straight to her room wiping her running tears and fears
covering her feet to feel some heat and fell asleep not to see
her dad as maybe tomorrow he will come back with an 
explanation to his act. 

Hoping not to be deceived and very soon to be relieved
when he ‘ll knock on their door and swipe her off her feet 
tell her dad to fix their marriage.

She waited for days and days but that day never came 
she knew then it was only a game and she`ll never see 
him again and will never be the same.
That early morning she woke up before her dad to cheer up 
herself for him not to doubt she had maybe made a huge 
Having her coffee she pulled the newspaper and screamed
Oh Oh the man she loved was an addicted rapist being 
searched from the Interpol in England, he had convinced 
everybody doctors and nurses that he was cured.

Continuing to read she read his history that he was battling 
addiction of raping teenagers for the past twenty years. Lived
most of the time in jail.
She cried and cried she was raped by an addicted rapist who
was never cured.
She could not eat or drink not knowing what to think 
while running to the sink that’s when she found out 
but couldn’t shout that she was carrying a rapist child. 

Where are you? She thought you were honest
But you were only an ordinary man still battling
your addiction.

Forgive me Oh My God! Her dad
forgave her out of love to his innocent daughter.

She had to keep her child and trusted herself
to bring him up not like his father.
And she did her son became an international lawyer.

   Therese Bacha
Contest for PD....Any Poem Goes.

Copyright © Therese Bacha | Year Posted 2012

Long poem by Ir0nic ZiNk | Details |


Baby birds tweet as their long skinny necks stretch towards blind faith. Somewhat frantically; newly born; next to dead; fragile existence; protected with life. Regurgitation from the same embodied mouth that an egg came from. Hidden from the world in a tree of life and chosen by the universe, without choice. Bound by instinct, life's purpose is to live. Feather light with a solid frame; wings for flight flap for unexplainable reason…; decomposers prey on the dead. Predators’ gifted with unmatched naked eye site; take life. Meaningless meanings that explanation is interrogated by; comparing this ability to fly with freedom. Arguing its merits as well; baby birds incubated from eggs rely on instinct…; unable to see with their eyelids stuck shut. Definitions define with answers…; created by a man. Facts become law. Acceptance leaves out the option of debate; born into this world with instincts and long necks…; only to rely on blind faith.


I have a special place in my heart for this poem. Naming a poem ‘Huffing Paint in the Minivan’ just randomly popped into my head upon a recollection from my teenage years. My closest brother (at that time of my life) made a comfortable living selling twenty bags to all my high school friends. He bought a big blue van that we called the Smurf Mobile because we removed all the seats and lined every inch of the interior with super thick foam and we lined it with camouflage blue. And it was a full-size van; not a minivan. For whatever reason, huffing paint in the van just doesn’t have the same ring to it as Minivan.
The idea of the title originated in roughly 2002 when I was up early one Saturday morning. I was packing for baseball training camp in Omaha, NE, when I noticed the Smurf van rocking and I heard whispering voices. When I ripped open the back doors I was greeted by my two best friends and they were, in fact, huffing paint in the mini-wan; gold paint…
The two of them, complete idiots getting caught, looked like baby birds trying  to flap their armsd like chicken wings. I laughed and then aided their secret huffing society by shutting the doors, left with a mental image that I won’t ever forget. 
About the metaphor that this poem most surely is, I am pointing out the innocence of newly found life; in general. We are dependent on our guidance; vulnerable to life at the most fragile level possible. This inability of the baby birds to see is an imagery tactic that is extremely versatile in regards to relatable on a majority scale. It is my poetic mission to point out the options of our ignorance. Ignorance as a stigma rather that definitive word and has a great deal of hype attached to its meaning; ignorantly misunderstood. As we all are born ignorant and clueless to life we look to our closest role models for answers to what’s right and wrong; true or false. As we eventually become of age to freely think about life and begin forming our own opinions and establishing beliefs that we can only deem as self evident. I mention the food chain as a reminder of the circle of life. And through this is an entire seemingly naturalistic poem, about baby birds that rely on blind faith in the ability of their caretakers to provide as an instinctual behavior; without question. Logical led belief would be that we put faith into the ones who love us. Ultimately reliant upon faith in a higher meaning to life, truly believing that life is a blessing no matter how bad things may be right now, deep down we know in our hearts that we have a special place here on earth. This positive life outlook is the most effective way to achieve our ultimate life goal; happiness…

Copyright © Ir0nic ZiNk | Year Posted 2017

Long poem by John Hamilton | Details |

Life in the so called free world

                                      Life in the so called free world

                                  So we live in the free world...really?

                                     Are you free to go out at night
                                        go where ever you like...or
                                        are you afraid, living in fear
                                 hiding behind triple locked doors with
                                        bars on the windows, like a 
                                               prisoner doing time 
                                              until daylight comes?

                                               Who rule the night
                                        are they not the delinquents
                                            and gang members and
                                               gun toting criminals
                                        that have the freedom to kill
                                            and to do as they please.

                                        Land of the free? You decide!

                                        What about freedom from lies
                              that are spread like manure on the ground,
                              and we eat of it's poisonous fruit everyday
                                          and it becomes a part of us
                                               and the cycle repeats.

                                                 What about freedom 
                                            from hate and prejudice? Or
                                                Is it alive and kicking
                                              in your neighbourhoods?

                                             Hate and racism run wild
                                             like the wolf and the lion
                                              seeking to devour their
                                           next innocent young victim
                                           who waits wide eyed like a 
                                               deer in the headlights
                                             waiting for death to come
                                                without even knowing
                                                     what hit them.

                                          What about freedom from fear?
                                        When it is preached in the pulpits
                                        that God is vengeful and tortures
                                             for an eternity in a hellfire.
                                           Does that make sense to you
                                             that a God of love tortures
                                        and torments, when we are made
                                              in his image and torture
                                                 to us is repugnant?

                                        Life in the free world is really free?
                                                       You decide.

John Derek Hamilton
January 17,2016


Copyright © John Hamilton | Year Posted 2016

Long poem by Elisa Christensen | Details |

My Little Kings

I met you on the road of Longing,
As you took me hand in hand,
My heart burst with love wide open,
And so our journey began.-

My Kings, my life is yours,
I have lived to this moment for you,
And from this very breath until my last,
I am devotedly yours in all that I do.

We splashed and played that day,
Along the water's crystal edge blue.
As the grey heron gracefully glided,
And the gentle, green lace lay softly in dew.

I looked at my First King and asked,
As his eyes sparkled crystal blue,
What will you teach me this day?
For it was what you were born to do.

At that moment, I barely caught him,
As my dancing around him led to a fall,
And although I knew he was hurting,
With tears he said nothing at all.

My heart, at the mere idea of,
Causing my Little King pain,
Like the most delicate glass it shattered,
And I vowed to never be so careless again!

"My Dear Mom, don't you understand?
A perfect you is not what I seek,
I want a mother who is brave enough,
To dance with me when I'm strong or weak!

Your love for us is without limit,
In all that we are and that we do,
Give us the gift of loving yourself the same,
Be gentle and forgiving of yourself too."
My Youngest King ran up to me now,
And the sun sparkled off his golden hair,
"My Dear King, will you still find me beautiful?
Even when my glow and shine are no longer there?"

"My Dear Mother, there is no beauty,
Like the beauty you are in our eyes,
As we are to you, the green in your world,
You bring the blue to our skies."

There in the forest, I began to sing,
My sons' favorite lullabies,
And suddenly the birds all joined in,
Flitting down to us from the skies.

Although my voice cracked horribly,
And I constantly changed to a worse key,
I noticed the boys smiled and hummed with me,
As if I was in perfect harmony.

As the sun glittered down through the trees,
Casting green and yellow light shows all around,
I understood for the very first time,
To them I was the perfect act, perfect sound.

My Kings, I spoke, slowing a bit,
My eyes on the earth's raw floor,
What if I just don't know the right things?
Don't know the best or need to know more?

What if I misguide the King's best ships?
Or lead his finest ponies astray?
What if you look to me for help in need,
And I fail you on your most critical day?

My tears dropped heavily onto the wide leaves,
And my heart beat hard at the thought,
Cruze slipped his small hand into one of mine,
And Neeko the other then they told what I sought,

Our, dear, sweet mother we ask nothing of you,
Except your love and acceptance, nothing more.
And just as I lifted my eyes to see them,
I heard a distant mother lion roar.

You are perfect just by being ours,
Our Queen, our Mother, our Love,
Just as we, your Sons, your Little Kings,
Are your perfect gifts from Heaven above.

Come walk through this life with us, Mom,
And let use show you the many ways,
We can share our lives and the joy they bring,
In all of our many glorious, sunny, days.

And when your gift of unconditional love, Mom,
Has turned us from Little Kings into Great Men,
We will present you with gifts to show you our love,
A new set of Little Kings for you to love again!

Copyright © Elisa Christensen | Year Posted 2016

Long poem by Suzy Davies | Details |

Going Places

She sat on the bus,

with a pencil in hand,

and watched the young 


who decided to stand.

The bus was quite crowded,

and, in front of her,

was the woman rider,

with the bow in her hair.


A guitar man,

sat sideways on,

and talked to the woman,

who was very young.

His face looked so wild

his wide eyes, gray-blue,

he was one of life’s wanderers,

like me, and you.


She was going places,

that you’ve never been,

on a coastal highway,

near the ocean’s dream,

where sailors come in,

and stay, for a while,

then it's back to the sea,

and a wandering life.


“Where are you goin?”

the man said to her,

and she turned to him, smiling,

and touching her hair.

She seemed quite unsure

of how far it would be,

to get to the town, 

on the edge of the sea.


“It's not far,” he told her,

"as the albatross flies."

and she noticed the mirror

she saw in his eyes,

for they were both searchin’

for somewhere to be,

and they thought

they might find 

life’s sweet mystery.


She was going places,

that you’ve never been,

on a coastal highway,

near the ocean’s dream,

where sailors come in,

and stay for a while,

then it's back to the sea

and a wandering life.


The bus kept on goin’

through the mountain pass,

and the girl slept so soundly

she never noticed,

that the man with the guitar

was playing a song,

and the passengers sang it,

as they went along. 


“Where are you going,

you sweet gypsy girl,

mahogany skin,

and hair full of curls,

do you search for a lost love

over the sea

or will you keep running

from love’s mystery?”


She was going places,

that you’ve never been,

on a coastal highway,

near the ocean’s dream,

where sailors come in,

and stay for a while,

then it's back to the sea,

and a wandering life.


She started to wake,

to find people round her,

and the man with the guitar,

he was a stranger.

But the song he was humming

caused her heart to stir,

for it mirrored

the lines she had written,



They’d been going places,

in far- flung lands,

cross deserts, and mountains,

and shimmering sands,

to all the world’s wonders,

and places of note,

and they sang to their song,

and the lines,

that they wrote.


“We are going places,

as if in a dream,

and the mystery takes us

where you’ve never been,

if you want to be there,

then, why don’t you come,

on a voyage you’ll find

in this travelers’ song”


Copyright Suzy Davies. 08/02/2016. All Rights Reserved.

Copyright © Suzy Davies | Year Posted 2016

Long poem by Odin Roark | Details |

X Continues Marking Many Spots

X Continues Marking Many Spots
                        by Odin Roark

Anonymous living suits many,
gypsy fever of the brain.

Seldom hiding in the shadows,
the glare of klieg-light attention
forever glares upon responsibility,
a disease to many,
a growing malady for most,
a welcome invitation to others.

Even back then,
at twenty,
the waking age,
at least for this X,
a Midwest-ignoramus,
a miscreant not even aware,
experience was about
to render raw and tender the face.

The vengeance proffered
gloriously fait accompli,
needing not the klieg light focus,
better mere awakening
by simpler means
a few beers,
so liberating,
so embarrassing.

This '56 student of students,
bathed in the drenching of
damned near drowning
in flailing need to see
and survive.

After all…

This was education,
totally missing
from cult religious dogma,
not offered in Aristotelian mode.


Here X was,
always at the Plaza screens,
or the Waverly,
Saturday nights,
lasting forever.

X along with some buddy Y's and Z's
exited the art houses and made their way,
oh yeah,
to the Russian Tea Room.

Saved up rations of money…

Black Russians,
minimal water,
more Black Russians,
the world as we discovered it,
not the world as professed
All around us.

in Italy,
life seemed somehow more real
not caked over with candied syrup
like American’s urban seduction.

Oh how we longed
to be part of it…
make films.

But more important,
discover what it was all about,
this life
that for many

Was but professed by a God.

Those were times,
magical times
where peeling away the facade
was so delicious,
while we got wasted.

Along about 2 AM
Columbus Circle Books.

Sit on the floor,
thumb through 25 cent paperbacks,
always a Nietzsche,
a dog-eared Menninger,
a used Baldwin,
treasures we could afford.

We had to careful to save enough
for the subway.


The X Y's and Z's hugged,
kissed with manly disregard,
we didn’t care who was watching.

We were happy.
We were learning.
We were happening.

X dragged his weary ass up
the 4 flights
screwed back in the light bulb
old man in 4f always unscrewed,
figuring no one's gonna rob
a dark floor.

Simple shit.

love him
to this day.
He was wise.
My first introduction to street cred
in spite of his oldness.

Next morning…

Sunday New York Times,

Growing up.

Learning the hard way.

One’s x’s.

Copyright © Odin Roark | Year Posted 2014

Long poem by Audonus Taylor | Details |


Of all the memories I hold of you,
I have written of all except the most 
Maybe I am afraid of sharing that
 deeply as a writer, as a man, as a 
Perhaps I fear I cannot hold my 
breath long
enough to survive the submergence 
tears freeing drops of salty liquid 
from my lungs. Just enough to keep 
me conscious and myself during the 
descent to the most beautiful and 
guarded memory I have to date.

I still recall the day my eyes learned 
to properly interpret the beauty of a 
portrait, because your face tapped 
my sense of sight.
I still recall the way a simple touch 
wake a body more than life itself,
because you touched my shoulder to 
gain my attention, the one thing that 
was always yours.
I still recall the chill of an owned 
heartbeat willingly belonging to 
someone who was once a stranger,
Its skip when you smiled, its race 
when you teased, and the agony it 
felt when you were the slightest bit 

Yes, I recall each of these 
experiences happening with 
successions of breaths.
Three deep ones, and I was too 
to decide which of us I loved more.
One more, and reality slipped away
to become a single recurring 
"Awake or asleep, alive or dead, 
wherever I am now, with her, is my 
day, my existence."
Yeah, I remember every single 
Each one was a few moments of 
forever, and they each bear the 
imprint of my clenched hand...

For me, that was the landslide.
The time in my life when
all structure and foundations of 
were destroyed by emotions 
unknown to me.
Where the purity of powerful snow 
with the earth that once rested 
firmly beneath my feet.
And all I once believed, as a boy, 
was too damaged by the laws of life 
to get back.
I was a teenager afterwards, and 
my childhood innocence left the 
moment I chose to love with the 
urgency of a body, trapped beneath 
the rubble of what was, seeking 
oxygen to survive to what would be, 
could be, should have been.
And that clueless boy with the 
nervous smile died that day.
Life stole that innocence with 
promises of a lasting first love, only 
love, being offered at the end of a 
yoyo string.

But now, as child became teenager, 
teenager is now damaged young 
man. Bitter, cold, and still clueless as 
to what is worth changing for, dying 
Still terrified of the next landslide to 
destroy the little that was salvaged 
from the first.
Wishing like hell that he could be 
that little boy once more, but all the 
while knowing:
No amount of digging will ever see 
him live again...

Copyright © Audonus Taylor | Year Posted 2013

Long Poems