Long Kilometers Poems
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Oh, you powerful president of great Russia:
The largest country in the world
With its 17.1 square kilometers area
Covers 1/8 of the inhabited land of the globe.
Why have you attacked neighboring Ukraine?
Why started killing its people and devastating their land,
At the moment they hadn't caused any harm to you
Neither had they intended their country to expand?
You say you are a Christian and that to God you believe
Yet, the whole planet you threaten to destroy
With the 6,257 nuclear warheads, you possess
From which the 1,456 you are ready to deploy.
Ivan the fourth "The terrible " one may think your ancestor is
For he also to church went each and every day
And when the mass, finally, after many hours over was
He was going to torture men and some of them to slay.
Now, in the 21st century that we live
You seem Ivan's ferocious and heartless image to revive
Perhaps to torture and threaten the world with obliteration
BUT Mr. President know this: No matter what you do, we shall survive!
© Demetrios Trifiatis
01 April 2022
Wild were-women roaming in the hills, cliff dwellers around
Avoiding banshee ghost riders, sniffing for them in earthy ground.
Shushing there were-pups least their hidden unnatural selves be found.
Banshee ghost riders suddenly shush, listening to a baby were-wolf sound.
Heading toward a large crevice, which leads to a cave way down underground,
Were-women seal it up quickly after each banshee rider had ridden way down.
An instant banshee ghost rider graveyard, and these riders are never again found.
The prediction of the night hawks to whom the were-women were forever bound.
Is that when it comes to banshee ghost riders, and were-women, the cagiest are easily found.
And if there are caverns and cliffs that are the least big scary in or near your mountain town,
You had better stay safe in your bed, with the blankets pulled up, safe, and cozy and sound.
As wild were-women are more devious and dangerous than were-wolves, and totally honor bound.
They can also throw their voices, many hundreds of kilometers, and imitate a baby were-wolf sound.
Which is how they tricked the ghostly banshee riders, who are now trying to breathe in vain, underground.
And if you do not believe me, or you think you will survive it, you are the bravest man in town.
But if you choose to hunt for this kind of trouble, stand ready to never ever be found.
There is a were-woman right now peeking in your window; you would do best to not make a sound.
For if she notices you, and comes through that window, you will soon be lying underground.
Whenever I am passing by a stadium and
I hear, “Goal!” I think Red For I am a Fan
Of Manchester United.
The sound of a Gunshot tells me that
Someone might have been shot and the Splatter of
Red Thick Blood comes to mind.
When I hear people chatter
About the annoying traffic situation,
The Image in my head is the red Traffic Light sign
That tells hurrying motorists to halt.
While driving home from work
My wife phones me to say she cooked some stew
And the hunger in my head
Makes me see the red tomato pasted liquid as I salivate
While holding on to the starring wheel six Kilometers to my home.
When my wife yells, “Rose’’, I wonder why
She thinks the red flowers in the garden have ears
But the immediate response of
My second daughter, Rose
Jogs my memory.
If someone asks me to make a comparison between England and America
I will surely remember that they both have red on their flags.
As pedestrian on the high-way, I hear a siren behind me
And before I turn I can feel the
Blinking red light on top of the Vehicle behind.
When my wife says it is that time of the month when she has to
Wear pads, it is obvious that I can imagine
The redness she yearns to conceal.
When one says we should go get tipsy
The taste of Red Wine reminds me of its dark red Thickness and Freshness.
When my kid tells me the remote of our decoder is no longer working
I imagine that he means the red light that blinks from its head
Whenever one presses it, blinks no more.
Ever since I saw my Albino friend just after he was slapped,
Whenever I hear a story of an Albino who is slapped,
I imagine the immediate redness on the side of the face affected.
Overdosing (rather binge reading) thesaurus...
Imagine if ye will
earlier one blustery February sixteenth
two thousand twenty one,
yours truly experienced atypical thrill
perusing pages of heavily laden word book
marking where I leave off reading
courtesy no frills inked quill
(sold to yours truly courtesy original
big bird on his deathbed)
plus jotting down page number
so mundane effort to marry me interest
with me lingua franca (English language)
neither void nor nill
aforementioned laborious literary task
persevered despite forgoing
eating and sleeping might kill
(reading every last word)
hoop ping diligence improves vocabulary
making me maxillary stronger
no matter chronological years
considered smidgen whipping
over third scored Sam Hill
Earth orbitz around nearest star
traveling at (pun one mach two)
warp speed amidst escadrille
whereby accompanying aircraft
eventually zooms into Brazil
housing disproportionate Amazon
rainforest biome encompassing
6.7 million square kilometers and shared
by eight countries.
Even before (the square root of 3844)
years ago exiting the womb
Logophile mine self anointed
nom figuratively feathery de plume
no matter mine cranium
ready to explode ka-boom
I continue to parlay mental energy
like some garden variety harum scarum
and jam additional minutiae
(at thee expense not preserving sanity)
despite very limited (maximum) headroom
to decrease hydranencephaly
the whole hare brain scheme
rigged up with shunted
(think chutes and ladders) flume.
One definite lament
until death doth do me proud
constitutes deficient intelligence
genetically (father) endowed
imbibing cerebral thirst for knowledge
constitutes the lack of photographic memory
nsync with fifty plus shades of gray matter
ofttimes smoldering like dark storm cloud
to retain information I read aloud.
Quite an exciting
(seat of pants) life I did asseverate
less to impress any anonymous reader,
whose interest I did pique and captivate
versus (verses crafted) more so to delineate
quirky passion (couched as poetic endeavor)
inexplicable how to formulate
though no justification be given
hoop fully only kudos to generate.
The bar-tailed godwit
caught birddom by surprise
When word got out
just how far this bird flies
A juvenile Limosa lapponica,
satellite tag 2-3-4-6-8-4
flew nonstop from Alaska
to the Tasmanian shore!
13,560 kilometers nonstop,
eleven days and nights
A new world record for
marathon bird flights
"From Alaska to Tasmania?
The devil, you say!"
cried ravens and crows,
"Every bird knows,
claiming to fly 8400 miles
To the Tasmanian isles—
is the height of audacity!
No bird has the capacity
We protest with pugnacity
Demanding veracity!"
The godwits conveyed
a very chill groove
They had, after all
nothing to prove
having set the prior
world records in '20 and '21
A controversy was brewing
Would their achievements
be undone?
A commission was appointed
for a bird's-eye review
into the facts of the matter
the truth to pursue
Wise owls were chosen
to adjudicate this claim
To settle once and for all
who deserved the acclaim
Only item considered
had scientific backing
Since satellite data
Allowed accurate tracking
Of the tagged young bird's
ultramarathon flights
The facts indisputable
No need for bird fights,
ending investigation into
this migration gyration
Bar-tailed godwits awarded
the Oiseau de Plume
for being the farthest nonstop
flying bird in the room
The Arctic terns too
received acclamation
For flying the farthest
In their migration—pole to pole,
24,000 miles each year
causing most birds present to
stand up and cheer
in spontaneous applause—
But not all birds were willing
To concede their cause
Displaying proclivity
to resist the festivity
The crows and ravens
As they stormed out the door
vowed in unison, wings clenched,
"Nevermore!"
The orders were clear and for unknown reasons I was in charge given a loaded pistol and commanded to send everyone to a central area 5 kilometers away the enemy with overwhelming strength was already on the outskirts of our city pillaging plundering and taking prisoners within my designated area schools homes and businesses were were open and occupied schools were easy to evacuate students quickly complied homes were more challenging as some refused to leave orders were to let them stay if resisting as time was not forgiving force only to be used as defense if physical safety was compromised animals were allowed those unable to evacuate were to be left behind services were promised to be available at the gathering location transport vehicles were random and uncomfortable alerts were communicated through various media my dream ended when I woke up I noticed towards the end of my dream I was in stocking feet and regretted not putting my boots on I wanted it to go away to be like before I didn't like being mean to people
Not my jamm
Come see me.
I'm just at the end of the dirt lane.
Just pass the flourishing sycamore and maple trees.
Just pass the vast meadow where crickets play and butterflies probe for nectar.
Come see me.
I'm just at the end of the dirt lane.
Just a few kilometers from me is a blue water pond that is a seasonal home for
a family of trumpeter swans.
Come see me.
I'm just at the end of the dirt lane.
Where I'm surrounded by a rustic gothic fence.
And at my feet are glorious variegated annuals and perennials.
Come see me.
I'm just at the end of the dirt lane.
Come see me in my brilliance where the sun is pouring its heavenly beams upon my ivory body.
Come and see how many seasons has embraced me.
Let your eyes be gifted with the sight of my golden thatched crown, where larks and wren gently nestle.
Come see me.
I'm just at the end of the dirt lane.
Come inside me.
Enjoy my warmth.
Explore me and all my charm.
Come see me.
I'm just at the end of the dirt lane.
Come rest your weight on the antique rocker in front of the Rumford fireplace.
Enjoy the port that is half filled inside a lead crystal decanter.
Come see me.
I'm just at the end of the dirt lane.
You will, with great contentment bury yourself in the serenity, and pity many in the world who isn't you.
Come see me.
I'm just at the end of the dirt lane.
Come and listen to the enchanting sounds of my memories.
Come see me.
I'm just at the end of the dirt lane.
Come and hold in perfection the moments you share with me.
copyright Looking At The Light From The Bottom Of The Lake.
Inspired by a picture. 2017
Thief to rule
Africa
We are Like a donkey
in the rivers of water
Yet we remain so deeply tasty
What is exactly the colour of our problem
Or are we exactly the problem itself
Here come again another new good man
Yes the perfect thief
The man with the big plans
The man that knows it all
The man that can see the future
The man with the solution
The man with large evil heart
Every season of power
They roll the dice of our future
How come till now our reality
Remains same same
What exactly is the colour of our problem
Cos with the reality now
The hand on the horn just want to
Thief and rule
Thief and rule
Africa
Are we better today or
Were we much better before now
What made the difference
Has a solution
We have come to the point
Of no return
Now the grounds are shaking
The volume of the rumors of wars are high
The kilometers of our enemies are closer
They can't lose their survival
Despite we meant nothing to them
Still they want it all from us
All we've been hoping to survive with
History has shown who they were before now
But our greedy brothers are part of them
They took in charge from our oppressor
They became more brutal with time
Cos their hands are on the horn
So all they can do is just to
Thief and rule
Let the top runners run a way ahead of me,
Let them hold their coveted trophies high,
Just to finish, my modest version feels happy;
True beauty this of long-distance running, feel I.
Every runner carries a story with him:
Some have faced a bitter breakup or a lost job,
Some confront middle age and fight low self-esteem,
Weary victims of dull days all, all blending with the mob.
As the heavy kilometers are getting killed,
The old gulf in my confidence begins to yield,
Anxieties and deep hurts get quietly healed
As empty space before the finish line is filled.
My lungs burn with a clean, honest fire--
A welcome distraction from the weight on my chest,
This pain, a fair reward for my old ire,
Sweat washing clean the scars of my quiet conquest.
It all begins with a few tentative steps
Driven by the most benign motives of the crowd,
To make friends with strangers, to earn their claps,
Slowly forming a habit that makes a person proud.
Life is not won by a wooden podium’s call
If only we have the patience to wait,
A long-distance journey awaits us all,
Whether or not a few medals await their fate.
__________________________________
Reflections | 04.08.2026 | analogy, ambition, competition, goal, prize, race, Quatrain
Note: This piece reflects on competing with the self with an aim to improve rather than winning a medal, taking an illustration of long-distance running. The lines of the quatrain with varying lengths follow a relaxed rhyming rhythm.
2025 Poetry Marathon Mile 12 Contest // Sponsored by: Mark Toney
Contest Judged: 8/31/2025 8:56:00 AM
( 2nd Place )
Written: August 29, 2025
I did not come here to sprint.
I came to gather the pulse of the road,
to feel the gnaw of silence
against the bones of my resolve.
Each step is a revolution
against tiredness,
against the voices that murmur quit,
against the burden of what I once carried.
The horizon never hurries.
It waits, steady as a metronome,
marking time with the breath of dawn,
reminding me: endurance is a kind of prayer.
What is a marathon if not memory
unfolded across distance
the faces that hailed,
the hands that let go,
the griefs I refused to bury?
Still, I run.
Not because triumph is certain
but because the road demands witness.
Even the broke beg a compass.
I anchor my heart to the road,
woven mile after mile.
The finish is not some banner
it is the hour I see
fractures still hold weight.
And so I move,
one breath louder than surrender,
forty-two kilometers of fire
coursing through my veins.
If I falter, let it be forward.
If I fall, let it be on the line
where the road has already
turned me into flame.