Long poem by
Steven Henderson | Details |
Universal elegy grieves and yet embraces shifts of paradigm
New beginnings consciousness initiates comprehends and thus proceeds from
Illusion’s delusion collusions misconceptions in the irritating
Vortex whirlpool immanent void of false containment
Enlightenment modern postmodern retro visionary futuristic aspirations
Resound in dialectical rebirth rejuvenation germinate constructive
Sense meaning reflect serenity’s tentative confidence that the
Agony of climate change greed warfare ignorance destructive apathy
Liberates fusion confusion necessitates Aquarian communication of
Antagonism’s polar opposites contradictions complements
Cycles spheres of influence of grave repression gravitate
Revolve resolve with pushing pulling moons in metaphorical
Orbital mental psychological initiation shape incidences
Synchronicities collateral communal reason feeling responsibility
Transformation of the global madness inhumanity conjoins
Idealism and the darker side’s fallacies of fabrication
Conspiracy of muted spirit silence violation fade away transform to novel script
Communication courses discourses concur in co-operation
Obvious obscurity in the blip of human race’s evolution delimits
Limitations iron cages hopes for new time place of reason beyond
Laissez-faire and hippie psychedelic stream of consciousness afar from
Anarchy self-righteous slavery rebellion mindlessness
Big oppressive bangs big brother’s obliterating over-information with
Onslaught of technology fail and falter when simplicity and esoteric
Rationale comprise enhance encompass the necessary world view shifts
Ascent and ever changing climax revitalizes humanness thus gifts
Truth deriving comprehension from ‘objective’ communal subjectivity with
Intuition insight inclination outside from the rigid boxed conformity
Order may be found again in the chaos of our time of misrepresented bedlam
New Age Aquarius delivers acts upon fresh constellation contemplates the Universe
Celebrating the adventure of Advent this one is written very uniquely.
During this transition Oh, the ubiquity of perception, reception most gratefully
Each new day begins with one’s first thought, amazingly
Though, this thought did not require any forethought, excitingly,
I thought, what if I thought in forethought, demandingly
Boldly I choose, a path of understanding. Then Daringly,
Choosing to forgive myself, then choosing to forgive everyone else. I gratefully
wished upon distant star and my cry did travel far. Vega, amazingly
did answer my call, in a dream from My whispering old cemetery scene . Excitingly
I dashed out of my bed, outside looked to sky, then cried Eternal welcome to Aquarius demandingly.
The Joy of this revelation, thought and manifestation determining one’s destination. So, daringly
I choose to be enlightened by the universal code, which is downloaded to each individual uniquely.
Travel I have far and wide, and gone I have, from high to low. Amazingly
though, I realize know, that I had always been seeking to know. Excitingly
turning each new page, certain and determined to be my own sage. Daringly
I vied, nothing would make me swallow my pride. Demandingly
I had thought, When we get there that all would play fair. Thought I did, uniquely
as most should do. Now, A little Alliteration to say we too are gratefully
The stranger within me does no longer be because know I see. Life does have excitingly
creative individual versatility. Change it does for you, whom call upon it consistent and demandingly.
Remaining keenly observant in search for knowledge and do so daringly.
Questioning what dares seem query logic and reason itself. While never failing to truly uniquely
understand another for having their own uniqueness and being grateful
for be blessed with this, understanding of knowing each individual creation amazingly.
Target destination is fixed after course has been made demandingly.
Each individual soul being has chosen this mission daringly.
Having arrived in this Third dimensional reality to uniquely
instruct in the revolution of Love is a four letter word and do so very thankfully and gratefully
to each and every soul of light that exists. Uplifted into the light I call out amazingly.
Higher Power, The all High and Universal Father of All, whom is the one that is truly exciting.
Inviting all He does whom choosing a star path daringly.
His message has been sent to each and every one of you uniquely
in its own way. We should all give blessing and thanks, while being gratefully
for each and every new amazingly
fantastic and an Emphasis on an excitingly
creative Acrostic man day. After being both commanding humbly and so, demandingly.
Who is excitingly and amazingly, demandingly and
daringly to be uniquely and gratefully Different?
Copyright © Steven Henderson | Year Posted 2016
Long poem by
Cyndi MacMillan | Details |
Ring around the rosie,
A pocket full of posie,
They all fall down.
Petronilla, I be hight, after a saint, long dead;
Pet, Mother clucks as Father growls, willful child,
for I fail to stifle questiuns at the wizened age
of seven. Sooth, I miss Dorsetshire and London
is verray vile. These wretched streets are full of sickness
and corpses pile like fish on a dock, far from graves.
My mind hosts the lost and shall e’er be graven
with their bynames, lite ghosts left behind, all dead.
These ears hold confessions wrung from the sickened,
the curses of goodwives, the wails of stung children-
Ay, there be gruesome hymns sung by all Londoners,
strange lullabies, for e’en newborns shall not age.
A twitching moon brings dreams o’ the sea, days aged
by tidepools as plovers ran from waves, so gravely.
A hundred castles I built of sand, ech a London
tower; fey, too, were those woods filled with deadnettle
flowers. Play and prattle, everich that be childisch
is done for rattles decayed in the fists of the sickly.
I was to be a man’r maid, but that household fell sick,
so we scrounge for crumbs ‘n ole curds, un-aged.
In sleep, Mother quakes as though taken to childbed,
while Father weeps of sons and sin, his thin face, grave,
It is a though the devil his-self reaps a bounty of dead
as pestilence creeps un’er the pocked doors of London.
Ech flaxen brother saved from the muck of London,
tots all, bedridden, while I was unwemmed by sickness.
Aye, they were yet alive when we fled in the dead
o’ night; six, four, three and one were their tender ages,
Wee mites passing, no kin to tuck ‘em into their graves,
hell stilled their ruckus, stole away ech marked child.
Comes, the massacre, comes, again, Childermas,
this plague is naught but the pied piper of London,
Mother and Father unbar the door, eyes like graves
as they forsake me, nay farewells said as minutes age.
See, though bled, I now wear rings o' red, I art sick,
rath, so rath, I shall join the pale line of the dead.
I shall bear no gravestone, certes, angels shall sicken,
as blessèd children fall all o’er black London,
forbeden to axe what ages the heart, leven it deadened...
* Certain words are (mis)spelled in middle English
**Please read my comments below
Middle English Translation
Verray – true
Byname - nickname
Lite – Little
Ech – Each
Everich – every
Unwemmed – undefiled
Childermas- Dec 28th, a day to commerate the infants killed by King Herod
Certes - Certainly
Axe – ask
rath - soon
Copyright © Cyndi MacMillan | Year Posted 2013
Long poem by
Debbie Guzzi | Details |
Enough Angelina, drop the bouquet of harebells.
The flowers wilt as your graying hands stiffen. See, how grave
is our newborn son. We gift him a black crêpe layette.
Say Darling Edward, say, Golubushka, make me come alive.
Leave this chapel, return to his cradle, quicken your deadwood.
Come, rock his sweet little boat, croon, sladkiy bairdark.
Your shade sighs as the mourners trudge into the dark
of All Hallow's Eve. A breeze stirs the hairs on my nape. Bells
toll, the ringer incants “Unto the Church, I do You call, Death
to the grave will summon all.” Freshly turned gravel
rolls from the burial mound, the earth’s answer to life’s
reticence. Our son, whom I cradle, mutely lays.
See, the ground moves. There, there, my boy. Love's only mislaid.
Father, Mother, take the babe, go, shield him from Highgate’s darkness.
I stay. By will alone, I'll not let maggots deface beauty that lives.
My Angel, please, tug the cord housed in your coffin so the bell
will ring, rouse London’s rigor. You will waltz on this grave,
speak of Siberian winters, then scoff, roll eyes at the vigor of death.
Insubstantial lips brush the babe’s forehead, even death
cannot stay her reply. Ed’ard, Mother will take him home to lie.
A chill north wind rises as if to show your sorrow from the grave,
clawing the headstone with twigs and pebbles; clouds darken
the moon. Your shade screams; a bough whips Mother's cheek, the bell
on its gold cord is silent. Wind nigh swallows my howl, Angelina, live!
We are alone, Angel, save for those cemetery ravens which liven
roan weeds. Three nights I've troubled Highgate, plucking deadheads
from your boney wreath. Obstinate wife, revive the grieving bell.
I hear them calling Ed’ard, Come. I am torn from your stone: waylaid,
outnumbered, locked in our bedchamber. At the next darkening,
the babe's rattle rings, calling your name. I escape to your grave.
Nightclothes drenched and shoeless, I topple onto the grave.
Yea though I walk … ring, damn you, bell, ring! Curse this life!
The sky cracks open, sheet lightning pierces the craven darkness
as if in answer a mother oak’s limb shatters. The deadweight
crushes me against the granite angel where you lay.
At sunrise, church bells rang Angelus prayer from the chapel’s belfry.
Angelina, Angelina, our grown son visits our grave to honor the dead.
He is our true afterlife; all my fears have been allayed.
All is too calm and well 'til his eyes darken as he batters your bell.
A collaboration by Debbie Guzzi and Cyndi MacMillan,
Copyright © Debbie Guzzi | Year Posted 2014
Long poem by
Graphite Drug | Details |
In the Congolese Jungle three men are training for a mission.
They train to detain and disarm poachers.
They hope this will be the conclusion of their efforts.
They also train for a formidable alternative.
Poachers are opportunistic and have only self interest.
Poaching of an entire species will break ancient circle of life.
Congolese rangers are armed to protect the circle of life.
Supporting generations of all species is their mission.
They invest their lives in an important and altruistic interest.
For them there is no tolerance of poachers.
Killing fields of wasted animal carcasses is no alternative.
A better world for all species depends on their efforts.
Intensity shows on their faces because of their efforts.
There is anger and determination expressed for defense of life.
They seek surrender from poachers, but prepare for alternative.
African rangers prepare for their dangerous mission.
Rifles raised, knee on ground, they are ready for poachers.
There will be hands tied or bloodshed to defend their interest.
Rangers and humanity have a shared interest.
There is need for pressuring greater and continued efforts
to stop any extinction of species by poachers.
The rangers’ trainer shouts and points as if saving life.
It is important to emphasize dangers during a mission.
If anything goes wrong there may be no alternative.
As long as species have breeding populations there is an alternative.
Continuing our circle of life must not be a debated interest.
Keeping our circle unbroken must be everybody’s mission.
More rangers and training are needed to improve efforts.
In blue fatigues and camouflage hats rangers defend life.
Their appearance is forceful and their gaze threatens poachers.
It is difficult to find, stop, and educate poachers.
But these undaunted rangers press and carry on our only alternative.
They crouch in jungles and pursue takers of life.
They grasp their rifles and nothing deters their interest.
An unrecognized, unseen enemy resides among them and their efforts.
In the grasses and leaves of jungles rangers take their mission.
Poachers and their self interest can no longer be tolerated.
Efforts to remove poachers’ damage to our circle of life,
depends on the mission of rangers to give species an alternative.
If you are intrigued by this work read and review G. D. Master’s book, “Interpretations,” free in PDF format on SmashWords.com. Simply enter “gd master” or “interpretations” in the search bar of SmashWords to find it.
Copyright © Graphite Drug | Year Posted 2016
Long poem by
Adriana Thompson | Details |
THE POET’S SESTINA
The poet put the pen to his head and killed himself;
he shot the leftovers of an ideal in a second of no-thought.
His girlfriend found him rolled in a splash of ink
with his legs and hands wrapped in political correctness.
His room in its emptiness, a vacuum sucking rhymes,
had musical scales carved into the plastered walls.
His girlfriend layered beds of marigolds against the walls,
she took care of his meals as if he couldn’t cook for himself.
He was too busy with obsessed words to cluster into rhymes.
His words crumbled like grains streamed along the thoughts
poured in a bottomless basket not concerned with correctness,
but he tried to build anonymous legends rippling the surface of the ink.
He sold his words – like a cheap whore – in books with fresh ink,
he ripped off pages of re-lived dogmas banging against the walls,
he used an hourglass as a symbol of human tragedy’s correctness,
and he tried to grab a crumb of eternity without being himself.
A notebook with crippled verses extracted from et cetera was a thought,
but they were all put together in knots and then broken with rhymes.
When he was with his girlfriend between her breasts he found rhymes;
her white large forehead was sweating bubbles of vivacious ink,
he caressed her neck pulsing with life, “green life”, he thought,
and the procreation restrained him in her vagina’s walls.
She wasn’t all that, so he used a condom to please himself
because he wasn’t what he thought he was. Finally he was correct.
The mourners viewed his peaceful body laying in its correctness,
moving slowly, in orderly fashion, as if themselves became rhymes.
They were a confused herd of black sheep when they had to face him.
A few giggles and chuckles hidden shyly behind spots of ink,
reading the ribbons on the mortuary wreaths that hanged on the walls,
they gathered in the corners with grandiose eulogies in their thoughts.
His poetry wasn’t to be in the eulogy (but it was a thought),
because they tried hard to find a line to please their own correctness
and they talked some more, bounced ideas against the walls
trying to understand the dead poet’s scheme of rhymes,
but all they could see in front of their eyes was wasted ink,
and they decided that none of them could understand him.
“He was old, and he was bald. (This is a thought that might rhyme.)
Everyday he drank at least a gallon of that incorrect ink,
and because he isn’t Christ we don’t put his pictures on the walls.”
Copyright © Adriana Thompson | Year Posted 2016
Long poem by
Andrew Crisci | Details |
Choosing that faithful woman to fulfill this fate,
she'll conceive a healthy baby with a loud scream,
a sweet cry so innocent piercing air and soul,
touch him tenderly, he is the fruit of our seed,
may his faith shed light on doubt and darkness,
let's hope that his deeds and words will be fine!
Growing up learning the right ways, he'll do fine,
these parents with their love will brighten his fate,
he'll experience loneliness conjured up by darkness;
none of our arguments he must hear when we scream,
let's assure him that we are proud of this gentle seed:
he'll understand what satisfies a man's empty soul!
Some will try to convince that life is separated from the very soul,
putting doubts aside, he must persuade himself that all is fine;
he'll remember who lifted him up at birth: the hands of his seed
and he'll thank his mother for being born despite an uncertain fate.
A lot of wisdom in everything is needed to survive and not scream,
never straying from those words that he must avoid all darkness.
And he immensely influenced by our righteous ways, will not know darkness,
even being tempted, he wouldn't allow a little disgrace stain his clean soul;
if nightmares replace dreams, nothing will have to make him fret and scream.
Our hope in him is greater than any opposing force that implies is not quite fine,
but he'll stare at these two smiles that give him a brightness so denied by fate;
isn't it such a triumphant joy to have grown and tendered a perfect seed?
How can uncaring hearts abandon and not nourish a promising seed,
letting shadows surround him with scary images of lethal darkness?
Even at fourteen, he is too are fragile to fight the forces of fate,
he may look mature, but he seeks adventure without fearing any soul;
we watch what he does and we are certain his day will be really fine,
and perhaps with our understanding, he will have no reason to scream.
To bear a child every woman must feel a great pain followed by a final scream,
than she will hold that tiny creature who tries to smile as she cuddles her first seed;
before he was in her womb with little room to move, now he's being fed and feels fine.
Wouldn't a mother call him by name and he' would respond even in darkness;
her voice and touch will leave that feel of tenderness, he'll keep them in his soul,
and like us, he'll teach his children to grow in love despite the unfairness of fate.
Joy was heard in your scream, a lightning through darkness;
you touched him softly, cherishing the beauty of your seed...
this will effect his deeds, he'll be very wise in dealing with fate.
Copyright © Andrew Crisci | Year Posted 2014
Long poem by
Dorian Petersen Potter | Details |
~In His Grace~
I'm absolutely certain that it's only by God's grace
That I could climb if I have to...that very high.. wall
God give us life all thru His loving care and fresh air
My God is really awesome, and He's loving and so very kind
And my heart with pride with all His love just swells
Because knowing and accepting His salvation makes me so happy.
In God's loving care I am always happy
Because I can depend always on His grace
God protects us and shields us from ocean's swells
And with Him we can ascend and descend any wall
He's in control of everything and the very same air
And my God is so loving forgiving and kind.
Like God's love there's no other because God is perfect and kind
And when I obey His Word and follow Him I feel very happy
God renews my heart and my lungs each day with clean air
He does it all for you and me because of His love and grace
With God by our side we can never lose but win and climb that wall
And living for God is better and my heart with all His love just swells.
With God's tender love and care I can forever live and my heart swells
Because I know without a doubt that His sweet love is one of its kind
And with God by my side I can climb or descend any high wall
Because God cares for you and me and that makes me really happy
Just knowing I can enjoy forever His most wonderful grace
I praise Him everyday for all the things I see,the sky, the sea... the air.
I see God's love manifested all over the earth the sea... the air
And all the creatures' hearts with God's shining love just swells
And the stars and the moon sing praises for His Mighty Creation and grace
Because of God's Love there's still Love Hopes and Dreams of every kind
Thinking of His love makes my heart day and night happy
Because God is my rock and to protect me He can build a wall.
And with God by my side I can climb and descend any high wall
He gives life to each of us everyday with tons of clean air
And when I choose to obey His Ten Commandments that makes me happy
Because with joy and serene peace my heart for God full of love swells
Knowing that God is so real, true forgiving and kind
And that I can always trust Him and enjoy forever His Blessed Grace!
With God's Grace I can descend and climb any tall wall
God fills my lungs with fresh air because He's so loving and kind
And my heart swells with all His love which makes me always so happy.
Dorian Petersen Potter
Copyright © Dorian Petersen Potter | Year Posted 2015
Long poem by
Andrew Crisci | Details |
No mother would fill up her eyes with tears of woman...
if it weren't for God performing a miracle at dawn,
as she cried out in joy and held her baby in trembling arms
but shed many sweet tears hearing his laughter so loud;
oh, he couldn't see her mommy's face through his tiny eyes,
and it will be long before he'll will utter the first word, " Mom."
Now that baby sleeps under the attentive look of his mom,
who's too young to become a mature woman;
many visions of this birth crossed her gleeful eyes
she dreamed of the very same words whispered at each dawn,
repeating them in her silly head as if they sounded too loud...
while cradling a pretty doll in her folded arms.
Will she be welcomed home by her parents opening their arms?
Will they reprimand her and not consider her a legal mom?
Perhaps they will not be angry and speak not so loud:
girls are supposed to be girls, not suddenly turn into woman...
So this innocent girl, deceived by a bad boy, must wake up at dawn
when her baby cries and feed him with scary, childish eyes?
Nights seem longer for her, trying to stay awake rubbing her eyes,
what she beheld in those exciting eyes, now it's a burden in her weary arms;
she remembers that pain was too unbearable, but joy more sublime at dawn...
how will she learn how to care for the infant by watching her mom?
She must have seen a nursery or read a book how to think like a real woman,
and can anyone imagine how she keeps that secret instead of revealing it loud?
She must gather enough courage inside to feed her baby who can't cry loud,
but for now she must carry that baby without sighs of distress into her bright eyes;
and her parents can see the changes making her a loving person already woman;
they may ask questions to why she has gained weight and holds dolls in her arms...
no, they aren't anticipating great news and in doubt, they await a splendid dawn.
Mother and daughter closely together amazed by the coming dawn,
any concealed secret can be easily spoken...somewhat joyful and loud;
they imagine the infant's futures will be part of grandma and mom!
Their reunited hearts come together to show love in their delighted eyes,
and they'll take turns feeding the new-born, tenderly lulling him in their arms;
what if forgiveness hadn't been there to deny her all of the joys of woman?
Would a mother deny her daughter compassion as a good woman?
Even God hurried dawn to offer that gift into her gracious, tender arms...
and those arms accepted it with the gentleness and kindness of mom.
Copyright © Andrew Crisci | Year Posted 2010
Long poem by
Debbie Guzzi | Details |
The summer sun was high. The heat was oppressive.
The whalebone corset dug into the body's tender parts.
Peering from the shop, my hand touching the pane
of dearly brought glass, I feel the vibration of the incoming riders.
The weak blue sky pales, and clouds over with the dust.
Children playing at hoop, let it drop with an unheard clatter.
Inside Fort Laramie’s provisioner, Mrs. Dreary’s dropped plate clatters.
Outside the general store, a thunder of hoofs race pell-mell through heat oppressive.
“Indians,” the children scream, running through the miasma of dust.
Folks in wagons and on horseback flee for other parts.
“Sioux,” I nod. Gunshots ring through the air savaging the riders.
The shopkeeper’s wife runs up the back stairs. Her baby screams in pain.
Arrow flights buzz by shattering shop window panes.
The indians leap from horse back to tile roof raising a clatter.
Mr. Dreary reaches for his Sharp shooter and aims at the riders.
A cat’s eye marble falls from the toy display, a mundane oppression.
Dreary slams shut the door. The shards of glass scatter, bullet parted.
“Mame, git away from that window now! Gener’l Connor’ll kill me if y’ur dusted.”
My eyes, now black and hollow as a barn owls, tear, full of dust.
“Damn heathens” Mr. Dreary cusses. Bullets clip through the broken pane.
Pulling me behind, opening the useless glass door. “Thop” an arrow parts
his scalp. He falls backward, landing beside me, spurs clattering.
The wee baby screams again and I turn to see Mrs. Dreary's oppressive
grip on the child. “He’s dead.” She says grabbing the Sharp. She kills a rider.
The arriving soldiers chase the mongrel band of heathen riders.
Mrs. Dreary, babe in one arm, Sharp in the other, kicks the fallen marble in the dust.
She walks through the door, out of one carnage into another type of oppression,
the soldiers are executing the Sioux braves. Children watch in pain.
Across the street a lone warrior perches. A roof tile clatters
to the dirt. His arrow flies and a soul is parted.
Falling with blind numbness, forward, down, parting
the water in the horse trough left for the incoming riders.
My brass buttons and flint arrowhead scrape the tub clattering,
no one in the street notices my departing in the days dust.
My open mouth fills with the rancid, taste of pain.
“How improper,” was my last lucid thought, oppressive.
The clatter of hoofs rocks my parting
The oppression of man against man leaves with the riders.
Only dust and the pain of the living remains.
Poet: Debbie Guzzi
Copyright © Debbie Guzzi | Year Posted 2010
Long poem by
Andrew Crisci | Details |
Past the grain fields clanks the old train,
and it goes beyond the fertile valley;
then it vanishes amid the swaying hills,
not too far from the massive castle
built by the Normans, and it's pelted by rain,
washing the pollen off the golden yarrows.
I saw many wild kids playing with the yarrows,
laughing and hurling them at the passing train;
these rascals weren't intimidated by the rain
as the scorching sun reappeared in the valley...
reaching the steaming walls of the massive castle,
all robins were happy to take flight over the hills.
Somehow the lilacs survived on the eastern hills,
and quick relief eased the discontented appearance of the yarrows,
their drooping stems struggle to stand erect by the stately castle
only to be brought back to life by the whistling train;
but many were taken away by the flood straight to the valley...
they were too feeble to challenge the fury of the rain.
Some occasianal sunray invited the quails to defy the rain,
as if harmony had a chance to return to the misty hills;
and they fluttered their wet wings and departed from the valley.
By instinct, throngs of butterflies flocked to the joyful yarrows;
people returning from the big city saw that spectacle from the train,
dreaming of a quiter past life inside the protective walls of the castle.
Falcons were the quickest and safest messangers of the castle,
they carried letters in their strong beaks despite of the rain;
and they never were distracted by anything, but they were faster than a train...
the journey was long...many days not soaring over the andulating hills,
or watching the dames of many charms picking up lovely yarrows;
and those gentry faces missed their adored falcons gone to the remote valley.
The early-risers, peasants with callous hands, left the semi-dark valley;
and climbing the rocky slopes abundant with olive groves that led to the castle,
and walking they captured meadows swarming with awakening, gleeful yarrows...
remembering how sad and miserable they were being soaked by the pouring rain!
They sought shelter, but no tree stretched their brenches like they protected the hills;
oh, they didn't mind the whistling and the clink-clank of the early morning train!
Valley subsidized to darkness, finally clears of the boring rain;
castle guarded by the falcons disappears in the tenebrous hills...
yarrows fall asleep and cannot hear the whistle the distant train.
Entered in Jared Pickett's contest, " The Sestina "
Copyright © Andrew Crisci | Year Posted 2010