Long poem by
William J. Jr. Atfield | Details
THE FACE OF DEATH
On Monday March 14th 2011, at 1:05 PM, I believe I was looking into the face and eyes of Death, as we drove to Her, school .
I think I heard the voice and sounds of Death, on Monday March 14th 2011 at 1:15 PM as She tried to direct me past the entrance to Her class.
I felt the hands of Death, touch me as She turned away, leaving me standing there, heart in hand, bleeding profusely, no response, as she turned Her, back and walked away, not looking back .
3:40 PM and as I sat in the Henderson Mall, heart broken, feeling the pangs of regret, the Grim Reaper, cut into my chest, as I watched Lady Death, walk towards me with a look that said " die ", " go to hell " but the words that came out of Lady Death's, mouth were " such a serious look ! " and Her, response to my gift of apology ( flowers and a poem ) and my offer to give Her, a ride home where met with a curt response " I have something else to do " and She, was gone like the lights had been turned out, and then the Grim Reaper, plunged his scythe deep into my heart, twisting his blade with such aggression I could hardly breath as my lungs tightened up, my throat closed, my heart would not beat and my soul cried out in vain .
For eleven days I sat in the silences, looking into the casket, at this old fool, who, by his own hands, was killed, killed by his stupidity and thoughtless words. The evening of the eleventh day of my wake, a sweet, voice, from my memory, sang out to my dead ears, but the tones where sugarless and the lyrics where that of a dirge ringing out a death blow, as Lady Death, responded to " will I get to see you sometime ?" with a " maybe " and then " I have to go, I have things to do " and then the coffin lid came crashing down on my state of reverie, the dream shattered like a mirror struck by a meteor, shards, splinters, fragments fused together in twisted, distorted images of what once was ?, is ?, my dream, a dream that was not, is not Hers, and like Alice in Wonder Land, slipping through the looking glass, reality was not as it seemed, for one's reality, on the other side, may not be the reality of another. The visions, the desires, the dreams, one's perception, all, are but splinters of the holographic universe we inhabit, but have no control of. FATE ?, KARMA ?, THE GRAND DESIGN ?, BLIND CHOICES ?
Now I spend every hour of every day hanging on to the edges of my funeral, the wake, my spirit attends faithfully and from these, my mind will not let me escape .
I wonder if I will be able to step out from behind the looking glass ?, awake from my beautiful dream ?, face reality ?, reality reflected in those exotic, dark brown mirrors, the windows to your soul .
My Lotus Blossom, my Oriental Dream, my China Doll, my Exquisite Vision of Loveliness, my Exotic Beauty, - she has left me with my own death mask to reflect upon as I look into the mirrors ( images of what I once experienced with Her, ) and see only ghostly figures ( She and me and all that we shared, all we experienced ) haunting all the moments that lie among the ashes of all the beautiful experiences we shared, experience I believe She, has placed upon a funeral pyre, set them on fire, no longer having a desire to even remember we once lived them, them that gave my life some purpose, gave me meaning, put a sparkle in these tired old eyes and a spring to the shuffle of this old mans step. For Her, ?????????????
THE FACE OF DEATH ---------- THE DEATH MASK
Copyright © William J. Jr. Atfield | Year Posted 2012
Long poem by
Derek Ortiz | Details
Behind truth you can decide
Where the clay is set in
As clouds are in circles above the world
Setting eyes upon prices missing
Manipulated society onward to destruction
No one listens but the rules and programs for our minds
Since birth we are the machines
Those who dare go against the current
Extinct they become
Names with no leads
Do we know better?
Or rather know less?
Like numbers in our heads
Changing seasons to the like of the system
This is no rebellion
Is not the exact war settled against
Is just the fact no one puts their eyes out
As we march to the chambers
Where the sky is set clear for our eyes
But fire rains outside the tower
Like an eye set on our every movement
Isn't that the number we're given from birth?
Nothing we try
Can change the fact?
Have the world tried to go against holding hands
Side by side on the march to take the power beneath our sin's?
Haven't seen war or peace
But death and clairvoyant diseases are well settled
Is there no more man to stand their own grounds?
Where have the women's with authority fallen from?
Inside vile's the idea remains
Ashes we inhale to be programmed for control
Im not planning to change anything with the words I may place upon a paper
For I am no one
But I pity the world inside my mind
As I can see through
But cannot lead the remains to restore
Are there any more grounds to step in?
Why do we as human must be concealed from truth?
Things we shouldn't know?
Aren't they human too?
Because a profession is well made?
I don't swallow what I don't like
Man is made to lead
Women is made to lead
Or is there any difference in the ideals of one another?
Can someone speak up for anyone in this days?
Or is it made by mute emotions?
Everyone holding up to the little they can make
As those which have the world on their hands
Few wishes to know what an emotion is
While the rest manipulate us with the green on our number
Im no anarchist
Im not godless
I just know I have rights to speak
Because there's no place where my democracy cannot hail high
For I am free and of course I accept if they want to kill me
Is not having mercy or just destroying what is already in control
But making things right
People over the whole world make revolution
But they failed for the lack of hands raising fists
Is it fear running deeper than blood?
Or just blood cursed by the same system?
Can someone explain a bit?
No one does
They just get born, programmed and be utilized
Then die and decompose in time
Is it worth it?
Copyright © Derek Ortiz | Year Posted 2013
Long poem by
Neal Freeland | Details
I’m marching in the dream
It’s raining heavily and the sky is dark and flashed with electric white
Silver shards gleam down from the sky
To shatter the still and calm I love so of the rain
In the dream I am young as I am now
Full of life
Strong and full of grace like never before this moment
When I dream within dream of you standing there in the sunlight
Of the sighing of day light waning beneath the whisper of night cascading
Like the dreams of yesteryear come once more to pass this way
Dreaming in the dream of another dream born of memories long and old
Lost again am I amid the rains pelting my skin briskly, warmly
Like your voice in my ear of when we spoke to clutch each other fast
To hold one another close within the span of memories
Needing to feel alive and whole and with one another
For the space between us still of the yawning days and nights falling softly
Lingering here and then as we lay spent, smiling, laughing in the echoes of pleasure
And I march on; I march on toward the East where I see you standing
With your head held high and arms holding out to me
A bright smile somehow shyly kept across your beautiful face like a river
Fresh from the mountain of days reborn in the fullness of spring
And so I dream as I march under the raining sky and shatter spikes of silver gleaming
Of when and where I stand before you with a quiet smile of wars fought and won
When across these shoulders I carried the sum of world’s worries,
Pains and lamentations deep and plenty folded
Like the crystal I gazed within your eyes
When whisper of meaning deep as the sky unfolded within the stars above us now
Did you from across the chasm between
And still under the thunder of time and when I hear you so close
I dare to reach out and stroke your face with a feather light breath
From jaw line to lips so sweet I weep in the pleasure of knowing you deeply
But I am marching, still marching and into the East I find myself cast
In dream and still more I dream as I dreamed and dreamt never of you before this
For never having dared to dream such as you,
Could not for never seen such before have I . . .
I am marching in the dream
Under the raining sky that kisses my body briskly
Like the dream of your voice in my ear in the birth of day
When wrapped within you I did, was, and will be, I am to be once more
For the first
I am dreaming and in the dream I am marching
Marching under the silver gleaming sky I march
Copyright © Neal Freeland | Year Posted 2007
Long poem by
sashi prabhu | Details
By: Sashi Prabhu (zeauoxian)(written 29th march 2012)
(UNITING PEOPLE TO PROTECT THE PLANET)
(8.30 pm Saturday 31st march 2012)
The portent prophecy is teeming and bursting with dark fears,
Nature’s omens are crystal clear,
Horrendous and awful signs we see sense and repeatedly hear,
The blasphemous change will be here.
Mother nature’s bounties provide us with all that we need,
But we lose it all by pollution, deforestation, excessive mining and pristine greed.
Pundits and cognoscenti’s in unison they parley and say,
We dwellers of planet earth will dearly pay.
So come together and connect to make us a future green,
For us and generations to come a world truly clean.
Not right are the climatic change and atmospheric alterations,
At “earth hour” we symbolize and pledge to sow the green seeds of confirmations.
Now this movement in its fifth year since global initiation and activation,
Has now from all near and far won galore admiration.
Now to nature we show adoration and our affection,
Come join me in the celebrations.
Turn off all lights as of now only for only an hour,
We can learn to save the power.
Pull out all the plugs and turn out all the lights,
Its 8.30 pm (31st march 2012) and the timely numbers the clocks strikes.
We all are human, we make mistakes curt,
We have our world hurt and been also badly hurt,
We now have commenced to learn,
We will fall and rise and bad fortunes upturn.
Come join me in the celebrations,
Its “earth hour” time for contemplation and reflection.
And be on a mission,
To be green and reduce carbon emission.
Now as the hour glass sand grains begin to trickle,
People! Join me in the cause and stop being fickle.
For the sake of Mother Nature, Father Time and Future Generations,
Come one and all and join me in the “EARTH HOUR” CELEBRATIONS
8.30 pm Saturday 31st march 2012
I will ………will U???????
“LET US PLEDGE TO SWITCH OFF”
This is a ubiquitous and unique opportunity for all of us to make a positive stoke for the cause of environment. It is really not about saving energy for just one hour.
It is to epitomize and indicate the first steps in direction of living with conducting and propagating environmental friendly activities in everyday life, which will surely lead to cleaner, greener environment and sustainable life style. Go green say no to plastic use cloth bags.I will......will you??
Copyright © sashi prabhu | Year Posted 2012
Long poem by
Joshua Rhodes | Details
Just because you can
Sailing ships away is easier then returning them back to port with red tainted monther land sand to perpetuate a pain then will later pledge a society by man’s evil hands. That pain for years mixed with fears with not allowed to be talked about but commanded to understand un the lie that its over since we took or gave this here still dos and riot shields bring fear but said don’t live her in the USA but you so ok anyway
Just because you can
Doesn’t mean that dad decides to divide instead of reside where you and your mother standed or hides due the facet of the lack of manhood hes had inside doesn’t mean in years of upset stomachs and hearts that barly can comprehend we mend to you push to be the subliminally by the same man just to act the same way he said the I can cause his father was that type of man
Just because you can
So why do we knock her image As pristine as created. Only because her back history oh my mistake black listing the trust only because her power to change you cant clame and Her future is in her youth so what truth she know must be detroyed by you simply because if you cant control beauty you must define it so what you name call and taunt till her mind is frail as yours is for sale yet you say this life she lead has nothing to do with mine but you buy her and promote her so she is proud of being loose perpetuated for a dime. Instead of you being man enough to hold her at night tell her you are scared to lose her always chose her love and never to hide wife that makes you a man even when society saids your are soft to even want just to hold ur hand you can feel alright but that feeling you fight
just because you can
Kats get shot for spaces on concrete cracks and due to lack better parent hood into and not around the project Mat . To be truthful in my city no one is met with love only homelessness so quick aint easy cause everybody got a contact to get some compact and can change a life that’s what they all say but prob just another scared kid. So many og’s lie, and help you die like they can’t or control what you eat and what time so of course there is crime and I thank its real I just wanna know what’s on your mind cause doc a glock got mine a color you wear determents whether ur bloodline dies at his had of a kid wanna be hard at one five or are you alive but dead week and you sit waiting on death in a Bed
Just because you can
Copyright © Joshua Rhodes | Year Posted 2014
Long poem by
Su Ben | Details
The sun peeks his face out from the passing wind
still chilly and cold, and in this air the tree branches
stretch their arms to hold the sun as if sails on the deep and gray sky
The sun that is out of reach of a hand
may be a hope; no, it ought to be a hope
One night I saw a wayfarer, becoming a moonbeam,
going toward April stepping on the footmarks March
has left behind
Although he has gone through so many hills and high waters
with a knapsack on his back that was full with the countless
sentiments he put in it for pity’s sake, the sack was emptied;
for the lapse of time makes things wear and tear
his garment was worn to rags, and when the wind
passes through it penetrates the garment to chill the bone
The deep anxiety he is unable to shake off, and therefore,
reflected on the running water murmuring through the field
as ripples of moonbeam, which is not from the fleeting of time
or his sufferings while he was walking among the foes, but because
he is sorry for and worries about friends he has to leave behind
The friends, not many in number shared his happiness
at the time of banqueting, surrounding the table though
plain and simple, abundance in God;
at the time counting the falling stars lying on a stone pillow
by the gap between rocks. The friends, not in damnation but
in endurance and warmhearted understanding, talked about better day to come while burning the passions in the bone fire on a day when they were wet and shivering in early spring drizzle
For the days he was with his friends were too short,
it caused him an embarrassment in counting the days,
yet they were unforgettable moments of joyous and happy experiences
As he walked through the field with friends he talked about tomorrow
standing on the hill top side by side, he asked them to pray for him,
sitting on the sands by the water he sighed for he has to leave
the friends, the sweet and bitter memories behind
Nonetheless, he cannot just stand by a roadside as an emotionless stone,
he crosses the hill under the shade of a waning moon, and when
the humble hearted teary-eyed wanderer blooms as a lily on the other side of
the hill in dawning, the sunray fall on the lily on the dew
as hope to those who remember him, as happiness to the friends
he left behind, as the covenant of the Lord to all who trust in him
Copyright © Su Ben | Year Posted 2016
Long poem by
Debra Coppinger Hill | Details
Johnny Clare is an example of many a young man who Cowboy'd in the truest sense of the word. He did a job. He did it well. Though he met an untimely end, his life did not go unnoticed. Continental Oil Company put up a monument to a young man who worked for them, but Larry McWhorter's words made him real. The essence of who he was is immortalized in that poem. It is more than a poem about one Cowboy...it is a poem about every Cowboy who ever rode for the Brand. It is a poem about the heart and soul of men who built our country through hard work and sacrifice. It is a poem about one man's basic belief that time may march on, but those everyday Cowboys like Johnny Clare will not be forgotten. The monument stands as a reminder of "where," but Larry McWhorter's words stand as a reminder of "why." His words, a tribute to the spirit of man and a lesson on how to live what you love.
I cried that day. Tears of joy for having shared this moment with Larry and Andrea; for having one of my heroes of Cowboy Poetry recognize me and for his gift of words to me. We have been friends since. I love and respect him and Andrea; because they are good, kind, strong people of the land with deep conviction in their faith and strong relationship with the Savior. They live each day with grace, they give that grace to others and they make all strangers friends. Proud am I that I know them. Lucky am I that I got to go to Weatherford, Texas that day.
I have learned that it's not the trail we ride, but the tracks we leave behind for others to follow that matters. Time may march on, but word and deed live on forever; as does the spirit of any person dedicated to living life to the fullest while serving their fellow man. The impression we leave is our memorial to this earthly life. Building a monument with words and telling the stories about others so they are never forgotten is our memorial
to those we love and admire. Johnny Clare, Larry McWhorter, all those men I grew up with and those I am privileged to call my friends; all living life their way by the Grace of God, all fighting the good fight and marching forward no matter the obstacles, all inspiring us to live life to its fullest. When it comes to great men of heart and spirit the memory never fades and the words of praise are endless. And that, my friends, is the greatest monument of all.
Copyright © Debra Coppinger Hill | Year Posted 2005
Long poem by
John Boak | Details
This is about a man whose name is Jesse
Born In Kansas and raised in Missouri
Was called to fight for his beloved country
And assigned to defend an outlying territory
Jesse fought as hard as any American would
For freedom and democracy he did everything he could
For Uncle Sam, even in danger steadfast he stood
Believing in his heart that everything will turn out good
He was with the Death March in Bataan
But he was helped to escape by his special someone
Josie was the name of this special woman
Who walked along with the March since it began
It was in the territory that he met Josie
A woman whose dad was from Cincinnati
The two fell in love cause they had chemistry
They had their first child in nineteen forty three
In forty four he was again captured by the Japanese
He was already sick cause he caught a disease
Was taken to a prison camp and placed under lock and keys
In the end the harsh conditions led to his demise
Josie tried to look for his grave but failed
She couldn't do anything and in sadness she wailed
There were reports that he died in the hell ship as it sailed
But to get proof to the true cause of his death we have failed
Jesse died in January of nineteen forty five
Stories about him that Josie told kept him alive
In the heart of his descendants his memories survive
Love for him in their hearts continues to thrive
But every time I go to bed and close my eyes
I see his face and think of the truth that I despise
My whole body stiffens and I get as cold as ice
Sadly thinking that still, in an unknown grave he lies
(For my grandfather US Army 2nd Lt. Jesse C. Boak of the 33rd Infantry
Regiment, who was declared MIA in WWII. His body was never found and true
cause of his death was never known.His name is listed in the Tablets of the
Missing at the Manila American Cemetery and on a Memorial Monument at the
State of Missouri
Grandpa even though I never got the chance to really know you I will always be
proud of you-JEB)
JESSE C. BOAK
2nd Lt. US Army
Awards: Silver Star, Bronze Star, Purple Heart with 2 Oak Leaf Clusters
Copyright © John Boak | Year Posted 2006
Long poem by
Cynthia Jones | Details
There's a leprechaun in my garden
stomping all over my soil,
I'm trying to prepare it for flowers
with the sweat of my brow, I've toiled.
He is extremely mischievous
he pees all over the place,
tries to kill my trees and grass
and then, laughs in my face.
I can't stand him at times
he ruins every little thing,
at one time, he was my friend
but, now, it's just trouble he brings.
I've been waiting since last year
for him to get away from me,
I have tried everything possible
now, he just won't let me be.
I've kicked him out of my house
threw his stuff out onto the lawn,
I think he's paying me back
he bugs me from night until dawn.
I'll have to do something
something that I won't regret,
I'll get him back for sure
that will be a sure bet.
I'll steal his shoes and hide them
shave his beard off his face,
make him wear lots of make-up
only then, maybe he'll be disgraced.
He'll surely be ashamed of himself
for nagging me morning, noon and night,
I will have to make sure
to give him quite a fright.
I went out and sprayed my garden
with a concoction of disgusting things,
the smell it gave off was extremely gross
a lot of trouble, Mr. Leprechaun, I will bring.
He found out what I was doing
saw the clothespin upon my nose,
quietly laughed, while running to my barn
then, sprayed me with the garden hose.
I really wasn't expecting this
now I truly disapprove,
I can't stand his shenanigans
guess I will have to move.
He laughed and pointed his finger
I had anger written all over my face,
he kicked me, while I was down
my own medicine, I could taste.
I have tried so hard this year
to get this wee bugger back,
he has done it to me again
mischievous intelligence, I do lack.
I can't seem to get him back
it doesn't matter what I do,
I've been planning this for quite a while
hoping he wouldn't have a clue.
Guess I'll have to throw in the towel
I know when I have been beat,
maybe next year, I'll have some luck
and my garden will be nice and neat.
For now, I'll have to put up with him
stomping all over my soil,
there's a leprechaun in my garden
watching him dance, makes my blood boil.
Copyright © Cynthia Jones
He's gonna get his. LOL
Copyright © Cynthia Jones | Year Posted 2015
Long poem by
Toya Williams | Details
Freedom before my lost brother
They march before the rising sun with guns at six
We stand before sun down with signs of freedom
Who really marches to the same drum?
When my hand have been blown off for beat
The beat, the beat, the beat
As he races from the explosion of freedom in his chest
To escape this tide of hate
That swept us slaves of red, white and blue
And he is nothing like before when hate took him away
He is a man at six and we are still children as adult
War took my hands and feet I am no solider
I fight for freedom not money
You fight so this tide will not cross-oceans and sands
We fight here for food and light
And light, to breathe, to die for family
Across the ocean hand my son an ak-47
And he will march and kneel before God for forgiveness
Hand my brother a ruger and he will stand in the shadows for American greed
Greed in the land of freedom and hope, black in the shadows
And mother can mend wounds here across the oceans she can only dial
Mother over there must know how to be doctor and surgeon, and warrior for the
Generation to survive, to live
We cannot procreate; we are the ends of mankind
With bombs in the hands of babies
To extend our left hand of hate across the ocean, across towers of hope
We must all be the same here a million mile from each other
My skin dictates that I hate, be hated, I rape, be raped
I bleed red, white and blue
Watching in shock, disbelief as red, white and blue goes up in flames in the
Ashes of the wind just like you
Freedom can never come to me here before her with that torch
My mother across the ocean must be sending me a package of death to kill my
Your four father because my complexion means that no one can see me
I am a lost brother, forgotten sister
Hated child with no hands, no hands in freedom
March me before television cameras, signs of peace, and words of love
I am still a lost brother............ before truth
But you knoe me so well..
From the the same box that caused my cousins in your land to be hung
Money means nothing here, Money means every thing beside her with the torch
Pass it to me so I may freedom---the truth
Copyright © Toya Williams | Year Posted 2006