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Long Poems
Long poem by Sunshine Smile | Details

- Au Revoir - Goodbye -

- 2016 -


A freezing cold evening

Where the stars shining bright

With frost blade flanks

From mouth and nose steam

In the clear silence

White untrodden snows

Nature's frozen pulse

Sleep like a little baby

One gracious moon

After the night the light is shattered into gold

At sunrise raise your heartbeat


The ground is chained in frozen iron
Snow crystals glued on pine cones
Overhangs embroideries of polished ice
The wind shakes and shatters them into millions of pieces

Slowly more brightness toward longer days
A new light is born across a white landscape
With its beauty and bliss a squirrel in a pine tree
Thoughts and reflections how beautiful it is


Kong winter resolve his power struggle to live a little longer
Cold soil protects wild modest tiny flowers
March deserve tribute by an dignified pen
A soothing voice whisper in dew wet morning sun
When Spring youthful glory revitalises

With blessed glow in brilliant charm
A soft mother breast for all to be born again
Nature pregnancies seeds of life
Spring unveiled with a colorful smile
We go brighter times ahead, wakes up from beauty sleep
Princess Spring I feel lucky and almighty


Spring marks the end of winter and start of summer
It is lovely with colorful contrasts
Norway is a long country with a lot of mountains and valleys
Wide variations in climate from south to north and from east to west

Migrant's return, and the first flower is coltsfoot
Both humans and animals awakened by hibernation with new energy
The sun is high, no snow falls and the birds singing
Small downy mouse ears to be leaves on birch tree

- MAY -

May show us how beautiful you are
A Spirea blooms like a beautiful and white cloud in the garden
Beautiful spring bride
Dressed with creation she herself had designed
A golden ring of eternal happiness
The veil thin and beautiful like cobwebs kisses her cheek

May is the month with wonderful contrasts
As sure as the sun rises each morning
When I turn my face toward the warm sun
I feel it gives me new energy

Seventeenth of May is Norway's National Day
We lift up the flag in red, white and blue
The sky is blue, as far as the eye can see
A celebration of sun, spring, life and eternal love

- JUNE -

The sun constantly light flickers through the air and brighten up long nights
The summer carnations were Gods flower for the Greeks
They bloom earlier than most other species
A delight to the eye throughout the summer

Midsummer night - Midsummer Celebration 23rd and 24th June
A dear child has many names it is said,
and Midsummer night is no exception
Across Norway celebrated it with large fires
Some placed a rag doll on top of the fire
The witches burnt this night

Dance, music, porridge and flower garlands with carnations
Barbeque, Norwegian strawberries and fireworks all night
If a young girl picks seven or nine various mode herbs that night,
and put them under the pillow, she would dream of her future husband

- JULY -

No doubt that July is a beautiful summer month
It is the year's best month is named after Julius Caesar himself

Summer raindrops pierced by sunbeams
Just think of how precious privilege it is to wake up to bird song

Columbines are still in full bloom, they are charming
Spices herbs for diversity and for flavor

Who would have anything against sitting in the garden all day
and let you tickle a bit of a grape plant in the neck

Flowers and plants are an important part of summer
Enjoy it all with family and good friends

Fair weather clouds that just gives a little variety in all the blue
July is synonymous with holidays for most

The temperature and enthusiasm rises
This summer we will swim in the ocean and eat lots of ice cream


Our receptive hearts have allready heard
The breeze reports August

The shadows fall when the day is done
Roving winds and rain are waiting

For every day that passes, the autumn is preparing
Goodbye butterfly, wondering where your journey ends

When that day comes, I will kiss you softly
The painting will change color and give the landscape a blush

We always seek, and new jewels will be found
It hurts to say it, but the summer has an end


Let autumn wind whisper its song
Summer sunshine rays from yesterday we remember
After a long and lovely summer,
it often feels like autumn kept going cold and gray
But the truth is that this is one of the most colorful month

Now comes the polar night and the storm's time is near
We celebrated Thanksgiving in connection with the harvest
Autumn is yellow, red and orange
This is perhaps the finest with the autumn
Take a hike and you will see how beautiful it is out there


The life light shimmers in the air
Love and delights

Death and pain
Drowsy in numbness

The leaves have never known
Embalmed darkness with grief

Cold winter is coming soon
Silver bells and white snow

Stardust, northern lights and moonlight
While wonder and guesses


Daylight change, and go to its winter rest
Night frost drips from the eaves

A cold wind rushed and shoveled his way
Caught your lungs with clear icy air

In this deep cold, it feels just right
Leave the door open to be a part of the season

Human rhythms always searching
The lunar takes its own bath in silver dust

November night will show you: The Milky Way
Keep your senses and soul awake, and enjoy it


Some say they can smell the spring
... Is it possible to smell December?
A scent of something can hit you
anytime and anywhere

The frost sneak up on the night
and color the landscape white
Northern Lights with its spectacular light
dancing in the sky
Beautiful music, has no borders
Creating a sense of meaning

So stop fighting against wind turbines
December is the month for reflection
Joy and peace ~ when darkness falls
  "A child is born in Bethlehem"

  ... ... Au Revoir ... ... Goodbye ... ... Adjø

Sun :) - A-L Andresen :)
Copyright © All Rights Reserved

Copyright © Sunshine Smile | Year Posted 2016

Long poem by Ralph Sergi | Details

Film Noir

Film Noir

By the lampost at night
with the pale moon shining bright
but obscured by the fog
I saw her in the harbor
standing where my boat lay moored
but she knew that
her azure eyes beckoned me to come
smoke from a cigarette in her hand
trailing upward and blendng with mist
and a gold braid around her wrist
I remembered my gift

I stood there transfixed
if for only a moment
then I walked to her slowly
and tipped my fedora
and the little joke we shared in love
I asked,”Where have been all my life?
Waiting for you, she said
I laughed at her resentfully and said
You left me here from this place
without a note, without a trace
I scoured old haunts, you weren’t there
you left as if you didn’t care

Remember our walks along the shore
your favorite drink, our special place
in a cafe by the window
where the sun would shine on your hair
and leaving a golde glint
as it did on my boat when it was in full sail

Then one day you went away
our love became a mystery
that was never solved
now you’re here and I ask you, why?

There was a war she said
I lost this guy and you came along
to fill the void and share my grief
I loved you, Jake,your silly hat
the way you tipped it, the boat ,the cat
who begged for fish after after every catch
she paused and lit another smoke

Then one day, he showed up, his name was Cilve
the guy I mentioned had survived
and left his tags with a guy who died
and he became an MIA
he was hiding out in Mandalay
involved in something, he wouldn’t say
but he wanted me there, he promised me fame
I was a singer you know
and all the dough that I could want or I could take
I just had to know how to play the game
but I thought of you, Jake
and what we had and I told him ,No

He got mean, Jake
and threatened to expose me 
for what I really was
and I couldn’t bear for you to hear 
my sordid past, my constant fear
We’re both alike you and me, he said
we’ll take what the world has to give
or grab it by the throat
or I’ll expose you if you don’t

As time went by it didn’t take long
to see he was singing a different song
his lies, his schemes, his other dolls
I lost my respect and I didn’t care
I had to get out, I needed a plan
to rid myself of this rotten man

There was this guy, Dwight
who ran the bar, he pitied my plight
that I was in, he hated Clive as much as I 
I told him I watched Clive at the end of each night
the cash he hid in a special place
no doubt to leave in a hurry when things got hot
he would check to see how much was stashed
if it was worth the dare, we would split down the middle 
and make our departure as soon as we could
I knew a Burmese captain of a scow
who asked no questions for a fee
he’d  have some cabins for you and me

Just before closing, I feigned getting ill
and called for Clive to aid me somehow
to stay awhile and give me a pill
and while he was there, Buck went to that spot
took the cash and lit out that night to wait for me
at a pre destined place

My bag was packed in another room
I told Clive I would rest and join him soon
but as soon as he left I slipped out
to the back grabbed a bag and headed
for freedom away from that man
thinking of you and to make things right

She paused for a moment and put out her smoke
and I thought I saw a drop of blood 
form on the corner of her mouth
she quickly wiped her hand across her face
and continued her story at a slower pace

I arrived at the pier where the scow lay docked
took one look behind me and looked at the clock
on the building we were to meet
I checked my watch and matched the time
I saw a jeep and he saw me
two grips in his hand and a smile on his face
he said, I got the dough , I’ll leave the jeep
it’s the least I can do for that miserable creep
I said ,there’s no time to waste, just show me the dough
we’ll split it up now and get ready to go
he said, Oh, I’m ready but the plans have changed
I’ll leave you enough to change your luck
this one’s for you and this one’s for Buck

I suspected as much and I scowed as he grinned
but his mouth formed an O as he looked down below
a knife in his stomach pulsed blood from his guts
too late I saw his gun come up as he fell
I felt a pain in my side and clutched at my coat
I picked up my bags and summoned the strength
to get onto the boat

I said to the captain, there’s double the price
if we get away soon just pick up some steam 
and head for Rangoon
he patched me up as good as he could
with the aid of rum and smoldering wood
to cauterize the wound for awhile

I knew it was wrong to take his life
but I was prepared to kill him 
to end all this strife
as a precautionI took the knife that we cut bait with
a long time ago the knife stirred up memories
that you and I had
that pressed my decision to leave that cad
the wound didn’t heal, the lead stayed inside
i was resigned to my fate to see you once more
before it’s too late…and here you are

She collapsed in my arms and I held her tight
with tears in my eyes , her audible sighs
gasping for breath and leaning toward death

And before she expired her hand on my face, she said
Where have you been all my life?
waiting for you , I cried, waiting for you

*This poem is a tribute to the black and white movies prevalent in the
late 30’s and 40’s ala Humphrey Bogart, Alan Ladd or George Raft and the phrasing had a special charm.There was aways a failed romance, war, misguided loyaties and clandestine 
treachery that separted these lovers. I received an N/A  because it may have not been poetic enough or too long but I tried to portray a dialogue and atmosphere of that time 

Copyright © Ralph Sergi | Year Posted 2015

Long poem by Michelle Waters | Details

The Outlander

I am an Outlander
Who lives on a high hill
Overlooking a man-made lake
That once was a rapidly rushing river
Along whose banks the Ozarks Bluff Dwellers and the Osage and then Delaware
Hunted, fished, and created shelter
For their families
Where their children ran freely
While red-tailed foxes sneaked softly
Through the forests and the
Wise Night Owl chatted with the
Whispering Whippoorwill.
I am a child of Outlanders
Who came from the North
To live along the banks of the man-made lake
Where a small fishing resort, built by my father,
Nestled at the base of yet another high hill, and from the crest of that hill
The southern arm of the lake could be viewed unhindered.
Miles of blue and white water danced in the afternoon sun.
Between Table Rock Dam on my right and Long Creek Bridge on my left,
The main channel branched off- broke loose- and formed the cove
Which we shared with Dan and Cuba Norris at their dude ranch
Located by the side of the Devil’s Pool-
That ancient, sacred, cleansing spring of the Osage men.
The back waters of the cove edged our front yard.
The steep, timber and rock strewn slopes cloaked the sides and back of the 80 acres that
Mr. Curbow sold to my father shortly before the dam’s completion.
Perched between the wooded areas, and the cedar glade,
A ledge rock served as my look-out, like
A sentinel standing guard over acres of scrubby plants and limestone that my father
Transformed into grassy green patches and rocked-up retaining walls,
Laboring as the pioneer settlers had a century before-
He and my mother, pioneers themselves, carved out a home where
Dogwood and redbud trees scattered themselves amid the cedar.
In the spring, they checkered the hills in pink and white and green. 
Later, verbena, black-eyed Susan, coneflower, milkweed, and Indian paint-brush
Fashioned a palette of ever-changing tones and hues.
I am an Outlander
Who went to school in a small town that
Once was a humming railroad station where
Farmers marketed fruits and vegetables and wild game,
Shipping their goods out of the land from that
Tiny railroad town, snuggly fit among limestone bluffs, the White River, and Turkey Creek.
They tell me, long years ago,
There by the creek, an old woman lived
Who washed her clothes on a rock each Monday,
While her boy played contentedly in the deeper water nearby.
Generations of children splashed gleefully
In that once glistening, iridescent Granny Hole.
I am an Outlander who continues to live in a growing town whose people
Once, only provisionally, greeted the laughter of holiday makers- those
Wealthy sportsmen and their wives
Who stepped off the train
From far off cities
To camp along the water’s edge or
To lazily float the river with Jim Owen in locally crafted Jon boats
Or, having read Mr. Wright’s celebrated novel,
Trekked the rough and rocky roads in search of
Old Matt and Aunt Molly and the shepherd of the hills.
City-dwellers came to embrace, for a time, the goodness of a fading life-style
When native hill folk families gathered neighborly to
Fill the valleys with songs of long ago troubadours.
Outlanders came, time and time again,
To find balance in themselves within the exquisite Ozark hills, and
As did my parents, and those before them,
Many returned to stay.
Pioneers and Transplanted Outlanders
Forging common values and visions for the future
Mutual conservers of the land
I am an Outlander’s daughter who looks out over
These hills and hollows now choked with highway billboard signs, half-empty theatres,
go-cart tracks, and flashing neon lights,
I find myself mourning deeply the invasion of
Greed-driven, treasure-seeking speculators, whose
Coaxing with cunning words triggered an invasion of outsiders
Seemingly unconcerned about preserving the natural or cultural landscape
I watch family farms transform into cheaply-built, cookie-cutter housing hubs- and
I grieve the loss of the quiet, family-owned fishing resorts.
Time-share vacation condos, signature golf courses, and shopping malls have
Swallowed up centuries -old oak trees
 Today’s visitors, looking for faster-paced amusements and thrills,
Arrive in the “Land of a Million Smiles”
Hell-bent on having manufactured family fun and patriotic fervor.
They rush from venue to venue and shop to shop, then
Leave without ever questioning the cost.
Progress rides across the landscape as did the
Bushwhackers and Baldknobbers of old
Assaulting the environment,
Usurping the ambiance, 
Eroding the ecosystem
Deaf- deaf to the living symphony of nature floating softly in the evening sunset.
I am an Outlander who has lived upon these high hills
For more than a half century
Admittedly sharing in the alteration of the environment, regretfully-
But mindful of the historical richness of the land, the need to preserve its character
As does the doe who brings her speckled twins to the clearing in June and the
Turkey hen her brood of bobbing-headed babies marching in single file across my yard.
I watch my grandchildren
Run and laugh and chase fireflies on this ancient slope.
They swim and fish the same waters that shaped the adjacent hillsides eons ago.
Yes, I am an Outlander who lives on a high hill
Overlooking a man-made lake
That may, in time, again become a rapidly rushing river
Along whose banks other Outlanders may come to
Hunt, fish, and seek shelter
For their families.
Hopefully, their children will run freely
While red-tailed foxes sneak softly
Through the forests and the
Wise Night Owl chats with the
Whispering Whippoorwill.
©2010 Michelle Waters

Copyright © Michelle Waters | Year Posted 2017

Long poem by Robert Candler | Details

Legend of the Red October Run

Dedicated to the 2000 National College Football Champions, the Oklahoma Sooners 


Over fifty years, boy and man, I’ve been a Sooners fan
Watched and reveled in their glories, every one;
But there’s no more glorious “Sooner Magic” 
Than the Red October Run.

The new millennium's first football season,
Excited Sooners fans’ hopes did soar.
They had tasted victory in Bob Stoops’ first year;
Now, they wanted - no, expected - even more.

There was a glint of promise in Bob’s eyes,
Strength and confidence in his every word.
“Our Team has shown improvement”, is what he said;
“We’ll win!” is what fans heard.

By September’s end, the Sooners were 4 and O,
A “cupcake schedule” some anxious fans would say;
Twenty-two days in October would rule their destiny.
Texas, K-State, Nebraska, the teams they’d have to play.

“OU’s October is a gauntlet”, said ESPN;
“Play #10 and #2 and #1…and win”?
So, on a rainy Saturday morning in Dallas,
The Red October Run would begin.

The Texas State Fair at the Cotton Bowl,
Fans were welcomed by Big Tex.
They screamed, “Go OU!” and “Hook’em Horns!”;
But none could imagine what happened next.

Heupel was a dominating General;
The Sooners Offense, his relentless troops.
Calmus and the Defense assured a total rout,
The Coach of the Day was Bob Stoops.

Sooners fans were wild, delirious with glee;
But Bob seemed focused and sedate.
“We’ll enjoy this victory Sunday;
Then Monday, we’ll prepare for Kansas State”.

No time to revel in the Glory, #2 was tough.
Better than the Huskers?  The possibility was real.
The road to #1 went through Manhattan,
And the Sooners would have to win it on the field.

The sportscasters had a field day.
Last year’s “coaching coup” was news again.
Beasley versus Heupel was “The Match-up”.
Could Heupel evade K-State’s awesome defense 
   and find a way to win? 

Again, Heupel and his troops met the challenge;
And as the Sooners “D” assured a hard fought win,
Every Sooners fan’s heart was stirred.
Could our Sooners be “Big Red” again?

Mighty Nebraska, #1, was coming to Owen Field.
“Biggest OU - Nebraska game in years!” Corso said.
It would be 1 versus 2, a heralded gridiron epic
For the coveted title of…”Big Red”.

It was OU’s biggest home game ever.
The campus was alive with vendors and would-be 
   ticket buyers.
Every Sooners Fan’s heart was pounding.
Could the smell of #1 stoke the Sooners' fires?

The Huskers struck so quickly.
At 14 to nothing, Sooners fans were stunned.
It was shaping up to be a long, long day;
And it wasn’t going to be fun.

Quickly tho’, Heupel rallied his Sooners troops.
They scored and scored and scored again.
The Sooners “D” built a Wall at the 50,
And would not let the Huskers in.

Winners, the Sooners ran and jumped with glee.
Fans flooded Owen Field, milling all around,
Praising and hugging their Sooners Heroes.
They even tore the goal post down.

Now #1, the Sooners had won it on the field.
Their preparation had been well taught.
Bob Stoops, all his great coaches and assistants,
Took pride in how the Sooners fought.

Someone once said, “Everyone loves a winner.”
Everywhere you looked confirmed it’s true.
OU flags fluttered.  Decals, hats, and clothes abound.
Come November, the Sooners and their Fans
    had been renewed,

There’s no slighting the importance of Red October.
The Sooners came together as a Team.
No doubt too, without “The Red October Run”
Their National Championship would still be just a dream.

For the next five games, it was simply unacceptable
For the Sooners to even think that they could fail;
And, tho’ Heupel played injured, they won the Big 12 Championship;
Great Sooners Defense had prevailed.

But no one gave these Big 12 Champs the slightest chance to win
Against the mighty Seminoles of Florida State.
The Heisman Trophy Winner was their quarterback
And their defense was touted to be great.

At the coin toss, Team Captain Torrance Marshall
Said to their quarterback in words most serious and sure,
“You took our boy’s trophy”.  Then he smiled,
“Now we’re gonna take yours”.

The Sooners “D” was everywhere and completely shut them down;
And, when Quentin Griffin’s touchdown closed the door,
Their quarterback knew that Marshall’s words rang true;
The not-so-mighty ‘Noles had not been allowed to score.

Yes, Bob Stoops and his Sooners knew the challenge:
To win Each game ‘til Every game’s been won;
Win for Sooners and their Fans the unchallenged right
To revel in the Glory of being #1.

Yes, my Sooners Team goes on and on,
Different faces, different names;
But these Sooners Champions will be well remembered
For the Season they won Every game.

Undefeated National Champions!
Before October, who would have ever dreamed?
Why, just last year, we didn’t even know the players' names;
And now, they’re College Football’s Greatest Team.

To overcome all adversity and rise to every challenge,
The reward for such a feat is being #1;
Their path to Glory born of a Sooners Legend
Called The Red October Run.


Copyright © Robert Candler | Year Posted 2014

Long poem by Mark Massey | Details

The Redemption - Part 2

The Procession

With love they make the passage into light,
in gardens lush each mourner stood abreast.
Then hand in hand they walked up to the site
she chose to be her final place of rest.
They all had gathered 'round the open ground
to sprinkle petals on the coffer tomb.
Cold silence seemed to be the only sound
as bearers placed it in its earthly womb.
And far behind the mourners stood a pair
of men in whisper as they viewed in grace.
One spoke about his life now in despair
and other days that brought him to this place.
  “No god of love would leave me in such pain,
   alas my faith in thee could be in vain”.

Faith in Vain

Alas my faith in thee could be in vain.
I’d called on you to give me strength to fare
the tragedies that fell on me like rain
and in that hour I could not find you there.
My son and wife are now three years deceased.
Malignancy has filled my mind with fear.
I’ve given up my search for inner peace.
Now only manic demons harbor there.
I still aspire that one day soon I’ll be
released from mortal shackles that I wear
and seek to find in heaven my relief.
Through faith in thee I hope to find them there.
  I wonder why the god of grace contends
  to test the mortal circumstance of men?

The Cancer

To test the mortal circumstance of men
my body fights a battle from within;
the cure too strong for many to defend
with poisons meant to make you whole again.
My ravaged state had left me but a shell
and made me wonder why I even tried. 
And as I drifted deeper into hell
my life was saved but for it faith had died.
My guiding light had been my family,
in darkest moments there to lead me on.
I realized that he watched over me,
providing strength in them to keep me strong.
  To know my loving family sustains,
  In death a living memory remains.

The Death of a Son

In death a living memory remains,
the patriarchal heir shall carry on.
In vain I walk because there is no name
to call a father who has lost his son.
He stood by me when I was in despair
and as those hopeless visions filled my head;
so futile my request that life be fair
or pray for death to take me in his stead.
My grandchild's birth, his son, shall free this pain;
too young to know his father could not stay
reminding us the best of him remains.
But sorrow won and death soon claimed its prey.
  With family we can conquer life’s demands;
  one man cannot secure such futile ends.

The Widower

One man cannot secure such futile ends
to ever mend a mother’s broken soul.
She was my lover and my cherished friend,
the anguish finally took its mortal toll.
We placed her in the ground atop her pride.
This single grave now binds me to this ground.
And soon our bodies will be placed aside
with fleeting hopes our spirits can be bound.
I called to Him, “Have mercy on me lord,
in my surrender, I’m a broken man.”
I knew it was his judgement I abhorred.
But who was I to doubt his holy plan?
  A granite stone engraved for evermore;
  the only way that memories endure. 

The Emptiness 

The only way that memories endure
when all my hopes have withered into dust
and everything in life I once adored
is gone and now in nothing will I trust.
My shredded faith I’ve cast into the air
in pieces I may never find again.
With you my friend these memories I share
so in my sorrow you may understand.
The friend just stood in silence for a spell
and turned to look into the mourner's eyes
then spoke of this great gift that had befell
upon him just before his son had died.
  Your faith in life and love you can restore;
  they live within the hearts of those so pure.

The Child

They live within the hearts of those so pure.
Each mourner grieves the passing of this friend.
The life and death for all is to insure
that everything that ends begins again.
A child is such a blessing to receive,
so filled with love it heals our earthly pains.
Just take this child to heart and you’ll receive
the blessing of the love he has ordained.
All those gathered stood for one last prayer.
With silence broken each then found their way
along the paths where others shared despair
among the stones where mortal remnants lay.
  The soul will find its way to Heaven’s door
  A stone shall mark all those that came before.

The Redeemed

A stone shall mark all those that came before,
the solitary soul shall reign unbound.
With mortal flesh interned forevermore,
we pray the soul is now eternal bound.
Through faith we seek an everlasting life,
we hope our prayers are heard in heaven's heights.
A fragile son cannot escape the strife,
with love they make the passage into light.
Alas my faith in thee could be in vain
to test the mortal circumstance of men.
In death a living memory remains,
one man cannot secure such futile ends.
  The only way that memories endure;
  they live within the hearts of those so pure.

                        Heroic Crown of Sonnets
                                        A. Mark Massey

Copyright © Mark Massey | Year Posted 2016

Long poem by Eileen Manassian | Details

I See You Looking at Me- Collab with DM

I see you looking at me
There is an old pang in my chest
there where your hands used to caress
where your lips loved to roam
there where you called your home
There is an old flutter now
What is that in your eyes?
Is it real or just a disguise?
I see you looking at me
That way….


No, it can’t be
And in that instant your memory consumes me
   A roaring fire lighting the room
   Shadows dancing on the walls 
   We are drunk on desire
    .....breathing you
    .....holding you
    .....caressing your breasts
    .....kissing your body
    .....tasting your love upon my tongue

Unbelievable . . . panic seizes me
Don’t look at her -- flee
But in that moment my shattered heart
Leaps with joy 
I see your eyes 
    ....and I feel the earth
    ....moan with delight


I wish the world would go away
How can this be?
It must be a dream...
I turn away from your stare
Look down at my shaking hands
I'm breathless...overwhelmed
I need to think....
Why now? Why here?
Out of nowhere…you appear
Oh, but....I want you
I sneak another peak
As my mind brings to my eyes the memories
It seems just yesterday
you looked at me that way
    ....when you undressed me
    ....when you caressed me
    ....when you made me understand
how a body can speak
the language of love
Never before
Never since....
has my body spoken
with the same eloquence
That language I first learned with you
I want you
But....the pain won't go away
you were too proud to say,
"I'm sorry"
Oh....but my lips are getting moist
hungering for your kiss
I look your way
My heart will give me away
Thundering in joy
It won’t be still!
    .....Let me think
    .....Let me THINK!
Oh...Oh...but....I want you
Here you are….
You’ve made it over to me
Here you stand
Looking down at me…
Reaching for me….


Taking you into my arms – lifting 
Your eyes -- dark pools of honey
Your lips – full . . . moist . . . inviting 
Our bodies embrace – I am home
My prayers for another chance – answered by your kiss
Our words tumble over each other
Tears, laughter, kisses . . . relief
My beautiful darling – I’ve missed you
   ....Your smile
   ....your touch
   ....the way you look at me
Making love until the dawn
Our bodies intertwined 
My head resting upon your breasts
Listing to the rhythm of your heart – my heart
How beautiful you are my darling – 
Your love is fragrant and radiant
Filling my heart with light  . . . 
Look – I am glowing from within . . . 
But…wait…what’s this?
I feel a stiffness creeping into your body
WHAT –  fear seizes me – I can’t breath
My darling – abandon the hurt, the pain I have caused . .
I am on my knees begging 
   your forgiveness
   your love
How can I prove my love – 
   earn your trust?
I won’t leave – never again!
I love you
need you
you . . . 

What if you hurt me again?
This time....I won't recover
This time….I won’t survive
It has taken so long
for this heart to mend
Down on your knees
Your eyes plead
I see the tears gather
Can I risk it?
Can I?
But then again
Can I risk going back to the emptiness
that you left behind
A life without you
was only days and nights
of longing...for you
My fingers reach
For those unruly strands of hair
You turn your face into my palm
Planting a kiss
Your arms go around my waist
as you rest your head against my body
We're lost to the world
Our moment
Our truth
You're finally home
I bend down to whisper
"Stand up and walk me home
There is a language….
I want to hear your speak to me.”


And that night
In our hungry bed
The eloquence of our shared language
The body syllables of desire
The sound units of passion
The language of our love
Was heard by the world


The story of a chance encounter between two old lovers
~~~~~~~~~Love lost and love found~~~~~~~~~~
A Collaboration by David Meade and Eileen Manassian

Copyright © Eileen Manassian | Year Posted 2015

Long poem by William Masonis | Details

The Ghost Dance Part V

                             The Ending at Wounded Knee

This is what happened:
Two worlds collided,
And the elder one died.

Pony soldiers and Indian police,
Triggerhappy and jumping at shadows,
Killed Sitting Bull at Pine Ridge;
     His horse pawed the muddy ground and danced
     To the thunder of the shots as they rolled over the plain and back,
     Shuddering through the grey empty space
     To toll the birth of another memory.

When change rolls through, things happen fast.
Reason gives way to confusion,
In the manner of beginnings and endings.
This is how the dancing ended
And the Spirits evaporated into silence.

Leaderless, his people wandered
In the cold of The Moon When The Deer Shed Their Horns,
They set out for the Badlands
To join their brethren in the New Faith.

Searching for Bigfoot's camp on Cherry Creek,
Unaware that he was to be arrested, as a "formentor of disturbances."

He and his were en route to Pine Ridge
To seek protection under Red Cloud.
Chief Bigfoot traveled a dying man, chest rattling with the wood of his wagon.

He ran up the white flag,
Parlayed with the pony soldiers who stopped them.
Major Whiteside said to go to the cavalry camp at Wounded Knee Creek.
Chief Bigfoot nodded,
Red drops raining from his nose
To make red flower stains on the snow.

They arrived in the twilight,
With pony soldiers all 'round in the frozen glow,
Ice crystals flashing in the air like Winter fireflies.

     Somewhere nearby, the Dancers all knew,
     The heart of Crazy Horse lay buried in a secret place
     Somewhere his Spirit walked, in converse with the winds.

Major Whiteside posted his men about the camp,
Placed cannon on a rise,
Sent his surgeon to see to the Chief.

     In the deep, bitter darkness
     The new 7th Cavalry arrived,
     Set up 2 more guns
     Spent the night drinking whiskey.

Came dawn, the prisoners were assembled and told to disarm.
Unsatisfied, the soldier chiefs had the teepees searched,
Then, finally, the warriors' blankets as well.

Their Shaman, Yellow Bird, had had enough.
Strong in his faith, he stamped the Ghost Dance steps into the snow,
Singing a Sacred Song.
"The bullets will not go towards you;
The Bullets will lose their way."

What followed might yet have been avoided,
But at last the soldiers found a gun.

Black Coyote, who was deaf, resisted,
And somehow, it went off.

     With that, the killing ensued.

In the chaos that followed
Carbine fire made death;
White smoke rolled like fog over the fallen.
The guns on the hills roared like Heaven and Earth
Being torn asunder;
Shreds of teepees, women and children
Blew like scattering leaves
And blood fell to frost like hot rain.

     And what of the magic Ghost Shirts?
     - Back to buffalo hides; the Great God had changed sides again.

The Shades of the Ancestors stood by in silence
Robbed of Faith's power
As the dying stared into the slate sky
That heralded a coming blizzard on its descending breath.
It was the End, All knew it was so.

In madness' aftermath
Pony soldiers collected the wounded,
Piled them on open carts like cordwood,
And rode on back to Pine Ridge.

Their caravan arrived in the velvet darkness.

Their dead lay where they fell,
Contorting into strange frozen shapes
Beneath the snow that fell all night to bury them,
Holding a great Counsel with the Ancestors
Full of such questions and answers as only the Gone-Before conceive.

The Pine Ridge barracks were full,
So the wounded were left out in the bite of the wind
While other accommodation was sought.
At last the Episcopal Mission was opened,
And the broken and bleeding brought in and lain on hay.

     'Twas 4 days past Christmas,
     Year of the Christ, 1890.
     Festive greenery yet hung about,
     And by candlelight those mothers who could read,
     As they lay groaning in this rough Nativity
     Could scan the words writ large
     On a banner above the pulpit:

"Why, oh Why," they must have thought,
"Fathers, were we yet forsaken again?
Was it too little Faith, or too much?

Copyright © William Masonis | Year Posted 2016

Long poem by Dave Collins | Details

As I watch myself unfold without love

He/I/they/all/we/none knowing sit/sats he/she thoughts he/she witnessed he/she held a behold as to what the hell a corporeal ring of things once unbeknowinest to him/her was about,: thought provoking, yet undeterminate in any reason with confusion and actions to be taken latitude aforementioned. Realm provocative, nature unrevealed, discourses unknown, he/she levitates into a past/present/future/never neural pattern of once both visited/nonvisited rerun renouns. Here? How?Why? When/Where?/There? Somewhere? Duh?WTFDIM??? In past times, I was you/you were me/we were someone else and back again hopelessly compliant in multiple diverse deeds aplenty aprised?  Pissed-offed wet/wild catagories counting the numerous soundsicksocimages that revealed a justintime divine palate of cool round reverberates; then we whistled down a done did musical miracle of musical intude/interludes that carry nary a long winding road to all that matters is love to my/your entrailed sense sensibilities disembowled; to a good note neglienet/never everpresent; earial with a deaf donating dull dance to the all good nestled nill nap noises in that dogmatic/schematic/pragmatic/bombastic revive a vacant vestibule redundant reverence of a oneself/yourself/themseself/no/knowself in gathered gonadal grimaced givenances, hereto presents a solosexual splentitude/quietude/attitude of exstatic nomenclatural compassionates, that ever endure coital/copious coagulating mind/mendful miracle moments mildly monitoring/mentoring mystical memories deep in neural notices that speak to their theoritical thematic throngs tipping tormentally tragic transit times tailored to typical trinsic tactile truamatic tintilating tantilizing tractic trips dildo done in their intrepid individual love licenses pushing plush intensities all/none to be too painful/passionate yeilding a no/nonsense copious clitorial connection of forlorn flesh facets and spiritual spit hopeless unwindings the present a postulate past/present/future/never/love/love unaffair. Where did it go? How does Love die? Disenegrate? Degredate? Postulate?Uncopulate? Insulate? In another world years spent co/everything that matters in life/death/bills/emotions/children and even dependence in an ugly frame of reference; we cursor live unaccompanied by each other in a post anti political/socio/viagara/cialis dual bathtub inconsequential; thank all the concrete idiots who push any/allpharamaco/disasters of semen seguing to a liqid lifetime of sexual sanctioned answers, yet vocally viable and vice visible though weatherworn, release a torrent of illaged multi-wrinkled wasted wonkas on the surface deep of us boomers that make the ultimate sociodomestico difference a generational anti compliant an establishment indifference idiocracy indescent, (My soul remains intact thinking youthful of myself and my sons and the time given to their welfare and the love that shapes my heart whenever I thin k of them.) but old in it's alter/inner/outer significance of the somewhat unreliant, unrealized coutenance of youth vs the powers of then, adults personnified from their generation of war, social impotence and the forgotten wishful wisdoms of ages beyond measure gleam with their intrepid experiences of ageless living. No one asks or are interested in the elements of a putrid existance and yr confession to date neither saves your stripped soul from it's life's ill ignorance; that your alter ego/egos  with their/its incredible heretofores, spout any real man/woman wisdom heralded of any pre/post pro/announced inheritance to climb spiritually to the next human level by and large minus the youth, their waste of thought, time and ill for a rememberance/prevelance of moments gone/yet by, but given to the prowess that future envises, unless u r from our loins to be boomer blessed. Time tells the crapworn tale and makes liars/creeps of us all. We are all the same size lying down ma'am. Take it to court, counselor. Guility/not guility.

Copyright © Dave Collins | Year Posted 2017

Long poem by William Masonis | Details

A Hospital Stay - Part V


                                                        The In-Between

     There, in the In-Between,
     No trumpets sound
     No beings clad in gold celestial fire
     Arrive as guides to the heart's desire,
          Only silence falls
     Throughout the velvet deep profound.
     At the In-Between,
          No Savior calls
     For there is naught but nothingness;
     An emptiness entire.

Strangely, I sensed myself suspended
In a nevertime of not-quite-being.

Such was the In-Between, where now I wandered.

As though it had always been,
I felt myself afloat, adrift
Upon some frigid river full of ice
Which had no source and knew no end,
That traveled 'round and 'round and back again upon itself
Rising and falling over distant hills and bearing me with it
- Or rather, what was left of me -
Along in its meaningless, endless circuit.

Nor dark nor light intruded.
Vision compassed only what might be envisioned,
Images forming and fading
Within the little cavern of my skull.

Voices without discernable words.
Murmmerings within the waters.

Something like a sword
Was lodged down my throat.
I gagged upon it, over and over;
Unseen hands would withdraw it, then shove it down again.

The main thought flickering in my head
As I lay in this place
Was of how I seemed to have become some frail remnant
Of whatever I once was.
No longer did I have that sense of flesh
Containing the shape of me,
Nor the feel of muscle, nor the bone beneath.
I felt I had somehow been rendered
Some modern scientific wonder,
A creature flayed alive yet living
In some embryonic form, possessed of such shape as it could claim
By virtue of a remaining mass of nervous tissue;
A minimalist miracle
Preserved in a nutrient bath by the power and will
Of a conclave of white smocked High Priests of medicine.

Strangest of all, perhaps
Was that this perception of my fate
Occasioned in me not horror, 
But rather a regretful sadness.
"What will they tell my wife?" I sighed in my mind.

     Yet, by slow degrees the feel of the outward world
     Stole in upon my little hell of shapelessness.
     The throbbing thing I seemed to have become
     Refleshed itself somehow,
     Though the sword in its throat remained.

Distant voices resolved into speech again,
And as they did I felt myself begin moving again
'Round and 'round as before, still on circuit
But no longer floating on ice.
Now, instead, I seemed lain on some unseen track
Circling through a low-roofed sandstone cavern.

When I passed the band of light 
That marked the faroff entrance of this cave,
I would hear the voice of that Boy Who Would Be Our King
Exhorting the Disunited Nations
To join his crusade to punish his chosen scapegoat
For an evil he had helped loose upon the world.
The long silences that followed his harangues
Revealed the skepticism of his audience.

     I could sense that a long roll call of the dead
     Would soon be scrolling past the world's collective eyes,
     Be his call accepted or no;
     This was for show, decisions had already been made.

I regained perception of how dangerous things were becoming out there,
Out there where I'd lost my way, to stumble into this place,
How long ago I could no longer recall.

I knew this to be its nature, though
And as well that this was where I belonged, Out There
Where the only source of peace or peace of mind
Was the hope we wove between ourselves
With threads of unstoppable possibilities
The human way spins for itself.

I knew where I belonged, and reached out for it.

     I came back to be within
     The folds of all I love
     To seek the mystic shine of life
     Expressed in friends, relations, wife
     Awaiting my return.
     I began to climb Above
     Back to where all hopes begin
     To where desires brightly burn
     Until their ash shines whiter than
     The purer feathers of the dove.

Copyright © William Masonis | Year Posted 2013

Long poem by Robert Candler | Details

Went Fishin'

Submitted to the "Gone Fishin" contest

Trollin’ the islands at Texoma,
It was April, 1964.
New rod and reel in hand,
I’d NEVER been fishing before.

A Garcia 2510T casting rod.
The reel, a Mitchell 301,
Plus hand-selected worms and lures…
I was ready to have some fun.

My teacher, a master fisherman,
Had fished all over the earth...
From trout in Austrian mountain streams
To sea bass just west of Perth.

He showed me all the basics,
Including how to tie a lure.
“No snaps. They’re no good.
Tie’em on…just to be sure.”

He made me practice casting.
“Take aim with your rod’s tip 
Take her back - ten, eleven, twelve, one;
Smoothly return to ten… with just a little flip.”

While I practiced the casting motion,
He said, “Large Mouths will be jumpin’ bugs.
Water’s bubblin’ with Sand Bass spawnin’.
You’ll know the difference if one gives you a tug.”

As we drifted around the islands,
He said, “I think you’re ready.”
So, I picked a lure, a pretty Heddon;
And tied her on.  My hands were steady.

Yellow with black dots and a weed guard. 
A streamer tail and double treble hooks.
Who knew if she would do the job,
But I liked the way she looked.

As I tied her on, I looked around
For a likely place for my first cast.
Magazine pictures always showed weeds
In the background of a striking Bass.

So, I picked a reed bed in the shallows;
Threw my first cast, watched her fly.
What happened next was the stuff of dreams.
We couldn’t believe our eyes. 

About eighteen inches before she lit,
A monstrous Large Mouth erupted from the water.
My teacher screamed, “Holy Mary, Mother of God!  
Kiss O’Reilly’s Ugly Daughter!”

When the Bass broke water, it scared me. 
My whole body jerked and shook.
So sudden, so silent, it seemed like slow motion.
Until I heard him screaming, “Set the hook!  Set the hook!”

When the big Bass scared me,
I must have set the hook.
The tussle was on, long and hard.
This fish didn’t want to be cooked.

My lack of skills prevailed, however,
As I finally reeled him in;
I grabbed him by the lower lip,
Like I’d seen Don Wallace do, time and time again.

“Oh, my God”, he murmured as he weighed the Bass;
“Jeez.  Over thirteen pounds....Thirteen pounds, two.”
He took out his Polaroid and laughed, 
“I’ll take a picture of this fish... holdin' you.”

He snapped the picture of me holding the Bass;
On the back wrote the date, the length and weight.
As he turned to put the camera away……
Get ready.  This is the part that’s great.

I’d watched Don Wallace ‘catch and release’.
He always did that on his show.
“This fish put up a good fight.” he’d say;
“Now it’s time to let him go.”

Yes, as my teacher put away the camera,
I held the big Bass by the lower lip and tail
And ‘swished’ him in the water,
Making sure his gills would not fail.

My teacher turned and saw what I was doing
Just as I let the big Bass go.
This, too, was like slow motion
As I heard him screaming, “NOOOOOOO!”

“Why would you do that, Lad?
Do ya know nothin’ at all?
A fish like that... on your very first cast?
Well...Lad, that fish goes on the wall.”

“Well…he’ll be here next year.” I said with a smile,
“And even bigger, I’ll bet.”
He said, ”You’ll make a fisherman, Lad.
It’s not for the fish that we fish…

but for the great stories we get.” 

I still have that lure…and the rod and reel.
Still in their bags and boxes, just like new.
I thought about selling them on eBay,
But 50 years later, they have sentimental value.

You see…I’ve been invited to go fishin’ several times
By golfin’ buddies and other friends;
But for some reason…I really don’t know why…
I’ve never gone fishin’ again.

They say, “Truth is stranger than fiction.”
And I believe that is a fact.
I hope you enjoyed this bit of truth and,
In the meantime…..”Ya’ll come back!”

Copyright © Robert Candler | Year Posted 2014

Long Poems