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Long Woman Poems

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

See also: Famous Long Poems

Long Poems
Long poem by Greg Barden | Details

Fairer, Indeed

WOMEN ...

Truly amaze me ...
They possess the super-human

Strength to birth a child - one of
The most painful and demanding
Feats of endurance known to our
Species - yet they have the
Self-confidence to be meek and

Tender, with the gentle and sweet
Fortitude needed for motherhood ...
They have the extraordinary insight
To look into your eyes and know
What you're feeling ... they can be

Completely confident in who they
Are, and yet totally vulnerable in
Who they want to be ... they can
Have the strength of ten men in
Bearing young, and the sexuality to

Bring a hundred men to their knees ...
They are at one moment the most
Simple creatures in their need for
Love, and at the next so complicated
That they are unfathomable ...

They can be the most loving and
Accepting people you've ever
Known, or the most frighteningly
Fierce and formidable foes
Imaginable ... they can lay bare

Their soul before you and give it
Up with passion, or build walls so
Strong that nothing but time can
Bring them down ... they can let
You believe, in their confidence,

That you are the strongest being
Alive, or remind you that the very
Fires of Hell are at their beck-and-call ...
They are EACH and ALL an amazing
Creation of utter perfection and

Grace, and like brittle snowflakes,
Uniquely wondrous and different
In every way, at one moment a
Mystery beyond comprehension,
And at the next, the most delightfully

Familiar soul you've ever encountered ...
Their tears flow as freely as their
Laughter, and they are as spiritual as
They are sensible ... they measure
Their own elegance by how they

Feel INSIDE ... about themselves.
They are at once outspoken and
Demure ... they may need to be
Held and told everything will be
Alright, or they may need to take

The lead and be honored ... they
May want to hear about your
Wildest dreams, or need you to
Really LISTEN to how they feel ...
They may want YOU to take control

And show them your deepest desires,
Or they may need to have their
Every wish fulfilled ... they may want
You to be endlessly mysterious, then
Lay bare your broken spirit on the

Altar of their passion. A woman may
Want to look perfect, with every hair
And detail in place, or she may run wild
Through the rain ... she may share the
Fires of her deepest lust and desires,

Or she may make you feel the cold
Regard of her wrath ... she may want
You to be firm and forward, and then
Desire only tenderness and care ...
She may cry at your funniest joke,

Or laugh at your saddest story, and
Expect you to understand ... she
May howl at the moon in madness,
Yet require you to keep her sane ...
She may endear you with her ferocity,

Then frighten you with her kindness.
She may love you more in her anger
Than she ever could in her joy, or
Adore you for your carelessness,
Yet despise you for your attention.

A woman is the perfect vessel and
The ultimate contradiction, on
The pedestal one moment, and
At your feet the next. Their bodies
Are warm and cold, salty and sweet,

Rough and smooth, with hidden
Wonders and responses all their own,
First trembling at your lightest touch,
Then needing the firm press of flesh,
Every soft inch a sublime adventure,

Every subtle curve a joy ... but
Their minds are keen and as
Sharp-edged as any razor ... they
Can cut you with their words and
Their stare, then leave you bleeding ...

They are elation and anger, vigor
And vulnerability, coyness and
Carnality ... in a moment they
Can drag you through hell, or carry
You to heaven ... they can be angel

Or demon, mother or daughter,
Temptress or torturer ... they can
Make you the king of their heart,
Or remind you of your absolute
Insignificance ... they are told from

Birth that they are inferior to men -
Weaker, softer, more fragile - yet
Despite that they are more determined,
More durable, more wise, more
Diligent, more deft, more caring,

More tenacious, more hard-working,
And more intuitive, than most three
Men put together ... they can be
Great moms or be great boxers ...
They can be successful professionals

Or stay-at-home wives, they can
Do most jobs as well as any man,
And do a hundred other things that
Many men are never even taught!
They can teach, fight, love, paint,

Play drums, be weightlifters,
Ballerinas, truck drivers, nurses,
Army sergeants, cooks, seamstresses,
Basketball players, florists, pharmacists,
Doctors, lawyers ... women can

Wear dresses or they can wear work
Pants, they can wear toe shoes or
They can wear hockey skates,
They can wear ponytails or they
Can wear hard hats, they can wear

Steel-toed boots or they can wear
Stilettos, they can wear overalls
Or miniskirts. I believe that one
Of the primary reasons that they
Have been marginalized for so

Many centuries, is that men knew
That if women ever DID start doing
The things that men have always done,
Everyone would find out that women
Were BETTER at 99% of those things,

And would start demanding equal pay
And equal rights! That is starting to
Come to pass, and I think it scares
Many men ... women are told their
Whole lives what they CAN'T do, yet

They spend their whole lives doing
Things that many men are incapable
Of, things that men don't care to
Do or want to do or have to do ...
Men are intent on making a living,

Yet women are what we live FOR ...
Women have forever lived in the
Shadow of men, but men would
HAVE no shadow without the
Sunlight that women shine on our

Lives ... if Woman really WAS made
After Man, it's because the Creator
Didn't get human beings right the
First time, and perfected the species
With the female version ... and most

Of all, no matter how much you
Learn about them, or how much
You may know of all these things
I've touched on, or how much you
Listen and absorb what they tell

You about themselves, you will
Never, ever, EVER, understand them ...
Yet there is absolutely NOTHING in
Heaven or earth, that is as wonderfully
Sexy and sublime, entertaining and

Enticing, intently intense, or
Imperfectly perfect, as ...

WOMEN. <3

Copyright © Greg Barden | Year Posted 2017

Long poem by Gerald Dillenbeck | Details

Terrorist Deserts Into Bountiful Rivers

I'm continuing to read Jane Anna Gordon's "Creolizing Political Theory"
although now with Antonio Damasio's "Self Comes to Mind: Constructing the [WinWin Creolizing-Bilateral] Conscious Brain."

Right now,
Dr. Gordon is discussing various academic attempts,
and some of them actual RealWorld politically-applied attempts,
to prescribe creolization as a form of ecopolitical therapy
for an under-democratized cooperative WinWin world.

So, here's an excerpt, with my own creolizing BothAnd comments in brackets:

" ...this slippage [into prescriptive rather than the more academic descriptive] has made these creative writers mouthpieces of problematic efforts to [positive-regenerative] operationalize the [democratizing] creolizing spirit, 
particularly in the political projects of the Caribbean independence-era.
For example,
one might consider the Jamaican effort to forge 'one out of many,'
or deliberately to craft a national identity that required emphasizing the multiple origins of the common [constituting-constituent-constitutional languaged and contracted] cultures that would guide and be embodied in process of [Second Generation democratic constitution-planning and writing] nation-building (Bolland 2006, 2). 
In assuming that there was no singular primordial [Elite-Won and Owned] nation to which the emergent state could refer,
they concluded that there was no original purity [and loyalty] that would be endangered by the public recognition of the pluralistic [cooperative-regenerative-matriarchal-creolizing] culture that had [and is] already grown up there [and here]."

"Particularly among anthropologists and sociologists, 
the record of the forgings of national [matriarchal-domestic dominant] creole identities and cultures
is wrought with severe shortcomings.
It has been suggested these projects imitated without inverting aspects of colonial societies that they promised to [constitutionally Original Intent] displace and [EliteWin-NonEliteLose] surpass (Misir, 2006).
What became militant brands of cultural [LeftBrain Patriarchal Dominant] nationalism were seen in [Second Constitution-Drafting] fact to enshrine only one particular form of hybridity [e.g., European-Rooted PostRevolutionary Male Land and/or Creole-NonElite-Slave-Owners and NewNational CoOperative CoInvestors in regenerating democratizing development for health and safety],
that of nationalist leaders at the forefront of efforts to oust white foreigners [and, in more RealTime US current events, to oust nonwhite and nonChristian and nonLeftBrain PatrioticDominant aliens].
Rather than nurturing the [global] social and political [cooperative WinWin] conditions for ongoing [regenerative-healthy ecopolitical] processes
of creolization, in other words,
one ossified [WinElite/Lose-NonElite ownership] instantiation 
was privileged to the exclusion of [WinWin] others
in ways that cultivated [global paranoid competitive WinLose] xenophobia
toward people who failed to exemplify such [WinLose Left Dominant v WinWin Right-suppressed bicameral] mixture,
seeming to justify the continued unequal distribution of societal rewards."
[and ecopolitical WinLose ossified political "wealth" removed from economic cooperative-regenerative ownership health.] (pp. 181-2)

Meanwhile,
taking a more internal psychological-neural view of evolutionary history,
Dr. Damasio prescribes "...a growing understanding of how [creolizing ecosystemic co-empathic regeneration/double-bind degeneration] neuron [mirror-systemic] circuits work.
[Bicameral] Mental states have been linked to the [Positive AND NotNot] firing rates [trends regenerative/degenerative] of neurons and to the [dipolar co-arising WinWin-Left/WinLose-Right] synchronization of neuron circuits by oscillatory [+,+/+,(-,-) (0) spacetime mirror fractal-revolution] activity.
We also know that 
compared to other species 
human brains have a larger number and greater [phylogenic-historical RightBrain embryonic nutritional/digestive] specialization of [normative/notnot] areas, 
especially in the cerebral [bilateral] cortex
(along with those of apes, whales and elephants 
[Win survival synaptic/aptic = notnot grieving personal/familial death and loss])
contains some unusually large neurons known as Von Economo [dipolar co-arising appositional] neurons;
and that the dendritic [bilateral] branches of some prefrontal cortex neurons in [actively creolizing curious and cooperative-mirror communicating] primates
are especially abundant compared to those of other cortical regions
and of other [also bilateral-equivalent embodied DNA/RNA WinWin evolving] species.
Are these newly discovered features sufficient to explain human [evolutionary bilateral revolutions of creole-polypathic] consciousness?
The answer is no.
These features help explain the richness of the human [bicameral WinWin balancing] mind,
the vast [WinWin-LeftThrival OVER WinLose-RightSurvival phylogeny] panorama that we can access when minds become [bilaterally cooperative Yang/Yin creolizing co-incidental co-operative] conscious
as a resut of varied self [/other, Left-Right reiterative and bilateral equivalent WinWin co-mirroring mentoring] processes.
But in themselves
they do not explain how [ego-Left] self and [eco-nutrition/digestive Right] subjectivity are [deductive/inductively co-re]generated,
even if some of these same [neural-ecosystemic] features play a role in self [organic creole-polypathic Left-Right ecopolitical regeneratative] mechanisms [of self/other cooperative democratizing Original Intent governance]." (p. 257)

So Creolizing Political LeftBrain Dominant-Democratizing HealthyWealth Trust Theory
also emerges as How EgoLeft/EcoRight Selves Come to BiLaterally EquiValent PolyPathic Mind. 

Copyright © Gerald Dillenbeck | Year Posted 2017

Long poem by Gerald Dillenbeck | Details

Prodigal Poets

"And when he came to himself"
Luke 15:17

In another millennial time and Chinese/Russian place,
Taoism began as aphorisms and poetry
about political philosophy,
articulating a bicameral tension
between Conservative Yangers,
patriarchal universalist ego empire builders,
and Unitarian Progressive Yinners, WinWinners,
a matriarchal cooperative 
polypathic 
multicultural 
integrative network of nurturers,
(the longer the list of adjectives and adverbs, 
the less important history would prove us to become cooperatively disintegrated)
empty of any sectarian-deductive labeling, 
and supremacist framing, function.

Hence, everyone knows the principles of InterdependentYang and EmptyYin,
and usually metaphorically associate them with Male and Female,
and Positive and Negative,
yet few have economically and/or politically defined 
the governing power of Tao.
We have the Tao of most everything,
without necessarily being clear about what the label Tao
adds to most anything.

In another millennial time and New England and Baltimore place,
Reverend Channing proposed to replace the Holy Trinity
with God the LeftBrain Dominant patriarchal EgoFather[Mother],
with universalist regenerative credentials of deduced historic effectiveness,
and the RightBrain Unitarian matriarchal OverSoul
of Grace
and Flow
and Karma
and Princess (0)-Sum Prime Relational Energy
of ecoconscious integrative potential,
all four nondual sisters co-arising cooperatively together
in ecopolitical health
and bicameral safety Paradise
of DNA with RNA Solidarity in fractal-nutritional seasons
with reasons of regenerative health, 
Original Tao Intent.

Or, something LeftBrain Universal God
and RightBrain OverSoul EcoConscious Unitarian
like Yang Ego discontinuous competitions
with Yintegral EcoIntegrity CoOperative Networking
and WinLose evolutionary model of mutual degeneration
with WinWin ecological model of regenerativity.

It is this Unitarian 0-sum RightBrainBody OverSoul
that Reverend Julian Jaynes explores
as how we are prodigal son and daughter and transgender Egos,
and OverSoul Atman PolyPaths of EcoConsciousness,
Prodigal Unitarians
progressing Ego health and safety Conservationism,
played WinWin with LeftBrain ego-centric 
ecological discernment of optimally cooperative evolution
rather than BusinessAsUsual LeftBrain idolatry
of competitive capitalistic revolutions,
and concomitant WinLose violence
in the name of peacemaking,
and pathological lack of long-term consciousness
in the name of climates and landscapes of and for healthy freedom,
optimally self-liberating safety,
nurturance,
regenerativity,
polypathic integrity.

"...[T]here is something else to be observed
as you study your own [prodigal bicameral] nature.
It is a something of supreme importance....
Suppose you observe [several of ego-you] in your daily consciousness,
now one,
now the other
asserting itself in thought and behavior;
who is it,
let us ask,
who is it
or what is it
that does the observing?"

Polypathic ecoconsciousness
of time's flow,
regenerative and too often chaotically Left-Right dissonant.

"Are you not conscious of still another [Elder RightBrain] self,
larger and more inclusive than the others,
that seems to be standing outside watching them,
counting them,
criticizing them,
applauding them?"

OverSoul,
Atman,
holonic matriarchally cooperative face
of Father Patriarch LeftBrain.
Brahma is Tao of Gaia.

"Who is it that wonders?"

Which God and/or Goddess do you most idolize
as RightBrain BiCameral OverSoul?

"There are times when you fall so completely into the possession of one of these smaller selves [Ego-ideals],
that you lose all consciousness of the one [Earth-Matriarchal ReGenerator] watching outside.
It is only afterward that the presence of the [Gaia-Climate OverSoul] watcher
is seen and felt.
There are other times
when the [ecoconscious] watcher
seems to be on the guard [silent defensive-dissonant-repressed] all the time,
and while the lesser personalities [LeftBrain Dominant ego-idols] are having their way,
is continually sounding the word of [condemning patriarchal] rebuke
or [matriarchal health and safety nurturing] encouragement....
You may call it [prodigal] conscience,
or moral [polypathic] sentiment--
anything you please.
I like to give it the name I have already used
and call it the real
or the larger [OverSoul, RightBrain EmBodied NonDual CoArising] self."

A rational matriarchal Gaia theistic belief
in an Original ReGenerative Source
could be both theologically universalist
with regard to root source of divine intelligent ecopolitical empowerment,
and teleologically secular-unitarian
with regard to evolutionary Omega Point
of humane polypathic healthy,
wealthy, 
and rationally co-mentoring abundance.

Both history and science,
our own eyes and ears,
remind us phylogeny is polypathic
across both DNA and RNA branches
of our regenerative tree of life.

So it is our Earth's systemic ecology is polyculturally progressing
across all economic/political nutritionally positive/positronic relationships.

In this post-millennial time in Gaia's growing climate pathology,
Tao means Conserve/Progress ecopolitical healthy climates
of positive cooperative regenerativity,
resonantly inside as reiteratively outside,
below as above
before Space as after Time
positive as double-binding negative
Yang as YinYin 
WinWin (0)-sum PolyPathic Prodigality.







Copyright © Gerald Dillenbeck | Year Posted 2017

Long poem by Jack Scott | Details

Monofilamania

It is so hard to let go of love,
lovingly.

It sharks, 
unpeels more gut more quickly
than reel or reeler ever lost
in all those years of lazy inches
in and out:
casting,
winding in and playing out,
hardly fishing, rarely catching
anything
from the deepness out of sight,
hardly ever losing . . .
anything.

Blisters lust into the greedy thumb.
Impatient,
sore,
the startled brake lets go.

It dives full length into the never,
finds the limit of its leash,
pounds against its half-round prison,
demands unknot
at end of end of rope -
Let go!

Got you, shrieks the reel and reeler
cranking in the give and take.
The line is taut,
the weight upon it heavy, 
throbbing,
not docile,
numb, 
and waiting . . . 

. . .waiting for adrenaline:
explosion
against the angry, smoldering thumb.
Caught to catcher,
fish to fisher:
let me go!

It tries too hard to turn to something else: away.
Away and bottom still beyond the knot,
the creature climbs toward the light, 
the something.
Easy,
free,
her leap, an alchemy:
silver unto gold.

Sun shining.
Sea smiling,
crinkled all about.

Sad,
slow motion 
flight
of glints 
and droplets,
arcs,
returns,
displaces,
splashes;
gone, 
the yesses.

Million mile amnesia.
Buddha flashback:
a flash of tooth,
then placid lips close over any sign of youth . . .

. . . as if the fish had never been.
Gone?
-the fisher wonders:
gone?
gone forever?
Gone?

The line is limp
as if . . .
for all the years of it,
nothing at its other end.

A flash of recognition:
she leaps another time, 
not knowing if what held her holds.
Silver fish scales golden ladder
a sunbeam at a time,
and all the rungs of memory -
so slow,
breaks air an instant.

The line has held
and as she leaps, it claims her,
a thunder clap.
Arrested in her flight,
and broken,
she drops deadweight into the bucket sea-
fish to air to gold to water,
too bad.

Of the gold,
an afterglow centered in the thumb.
Did it happen?
Was she really there?
Was I?

Air turns to air once more, 
the fisherman to memory,
pig-a-back the job at hand,
because-
one slender monofilament insisting: no! 
Monofilamania,
and memory, another plastic,
refusing to let go.

Another time:
Kite,
my pretty lovely,
so flying and so softly spun,
you seemed the air to me.
So high and free,
so very near the sun,
my tears dissolve the earth’s connection.
The line my hands are holding:
to limit freedom at its height,
impossible without restraint-
the line between us,
  	subtle and so gossamer.
 		There, it glinted,
there! So very real.

Real . . .
The hook is realer.
Tangerine transfusion from the fastened lip,
transfuse dilution
bleeds unreckoned into the larger blue.
The sea - as wide as weakness -
sucks the strength without a hunger.
Tired, the hooked,
and tiring even more,
the line grows stronger, 
shortening toward the bobber boat.
I’ve got her, cries the fisherman,
orgasmic,
raping at dead weight,
dragging mystery toward the kitchen
-on his mind is steak.
Slaughter, separate from supper,
passion with a knife, 
the knife . . .


. . . the knife is ready
held tight between the skinless thumb,
and vendetta fingers -
five Sicilian brothers 
waiting for their sister to come home.

The other hand around the rod
is closing on the lover’s throat.
The rod’s erect,
the reel is angry.
Come, my dear, come, come.

She hears the music of the end,
the bowstring whine of gut
still lean and taut from her weight alone,
hears the rhythm of the reel
and tries to run once more
-provoking lust to snatch still harder-

but can’t . . .
. . . is free at last
of strength
surrendered with the last of blood:
quicksilver nearing zero-
and two dollars worth of ice.

Maiden fish,
(a virgin: never dead before)
betrayed and penetrated,
(it’s time now to give in, enjoy)
rests her weight upon the line,
sinks upward,
drowning,
unrebelling
toward the bottom of the boat.

The whore! I see her in the water!
She gave me quite a fight.

The captain, ready with the gaff,
the lover, in his rented swivel chair,
seize her from the water.
The maiden’s heartbeat
is faint and futile as a final cry of rape.
Her breath is fear, yet sounds like passion
at the very end.
Her swoon is now complete.

Her swain is prickled with his heat.
His blood pounds within his thumb.
He gloats,
is left alone with her.
He ponders . . .
. . . while he does,
she pales and sheds her rainbow.
Her eyes turn glassy from the air,
and death.
She’s turned to meat.

He lusts at memory for a moment,
then dries the little sweat
and goes forward for a beer,
and band aids.

The captain’s seen it all before,
surgically removes the hook
and tidies up the gear.
He and the mate carry her to the ice 
and lay her out within the cold.
The mate disinfects the deck
with sea water and a stiff brush.

Returning with his second beer,
a badge of gauze and Vaseline upon his thumb,
the lover is confused.
The deck, shipshape,
so bare 
of scales and blood
it all might not have happened.
Then there would be hope.

The mate calls him to the ice chest
for the viewing,
opens it . . 
I’ve lost her. There she is.

The smell . . . it must wash off !
Time to go home.
The sea is empty.
It is over.
Done.
My thumb!

Copyright © Jack Scott | Year Posted 2013

Long poem by Just That Archaic Poet | Details

Bionic Betty: Another True Tale from the Mental Ward

Betty was bonafide crazy. She had shot her husband after a night of drunken quarreling, and was in the state mental hospital instead of being in the slammer. She'd shot the louse in the stomach and he had lived, fortunately for her. I never tired of hearing about Betty's attempted escape and eluding of the police in the aftermath. Over the river and through the woods she ran, but not to grandmother's house, sadly; she didn't know where she was going; all she knew was that she HAD to get the hell outta there.

Down a steep embankment she had tumbled, right next to the highway. As she attempted to orient herself, a car slowed down, it's lights blinding her as she tried to pick off the brush, debris and twigs that clung like glue to her hair and muddy nightgown. The car stopped, two cops sprang forth and yelled, "FREEZE!". The jig being up, Betty did as instructed, was cuffed and read her Miranda rights. She never bothered to elaborate how she wound up in the loony bin instead of staying in the pokey, but I can only imagine it was due to her obvious derangement.

Betty was a hoot; funny as could be and an excellent card player. She had long, shaggy salt and pepper frizzy tresses that looked more like a Halloween wig than an actual coiffure. She was well into her fifties but seemed much older with her deep smoker's wrinkles and heavy, sunken eyes, like a soul that's known too much wear, tear, pain and heartache and aged prematurely. On more than one occasion I questioned her actual insanity, but on one night, when the moon was full and all the crazies were, admittedly, much more maniacal than normal, my doubts about Betty's "playing possum" dissolved. It's true, you know, what they say about a full moon and the impact it has over the mind; I've witnessed it first-hand too many times in different psych wards to discount it as "old-wives" folklore. Nurses never fail to mention when there is a full moon; they know it to be true as well.

I don't know what set her off. I was enjoying a game of rummy with Angela, a paranoid schizophrenic with a penchant for identifying supposed conspiracies within the hospital, when I heard Betty screaming furiously and cussing up a hurricane. Well, something didn't suit her, obviously, and she was having none of it. This is when I began to wonder if Betty was not part "Bionic Woman". Next thing I knew, she wailed like a banshee, took off sprinting down the hall at incredible, breakneck speed that defied her rather plump figure and stubby legs, and drop-kicked the heavy, locked steel door that barred the exit of ward "Grag". Nurses hit the panic button and made urgent phone calls which signaled the goons and heavy muscle to race toward our ward to subdue the unsubduable. Soon as Angela heard the nurses all in a frenzy, she yelled, "CONSPIRACY LEVEL UP! TOP FLOOR!" ("Top Floor" being the ward that housed the most violent or dangerous loons.) Paranoid schizophrenics are such a suspicious bunch!

As Betty raced by, Angela immediately stood up, cheering her along, chanting "GRAG STYLE, BABY; YEAH!". In total astonishment I watched this Wonder Woman drop-kick this barricade (which was most definitely designed to keep us confined) in total kung-fu, samurai, ninja style with such force that it burst wide open! Talk about jaw-dropped incredulous! By the time Betty the She-Hulk nearly drop-kicked her way to freedom, the goons (as the big orderlies were dubbed) descended upon her, but she fought with such ferocity that for just an instant I thought she might break free, given that she had picked up a nearby chair and was using it to fend them off with the skill of a lion-tamer (or so I mused). But poor Betty was helplessly and hopelessly outnumbered and the whole incident must have happened in the span of maybe two minutes, but time has a funny way of slowing down and stretching in instances such as these, when the eyes and mind are trying to comprehend the incomprehensible. She was tackled on all sides, but not before one of the stooges took a whack upside his empty head. Nurses rushed forth, syringes in hand, and gave Betty the usual knock-out serum of hefty doses of Haldol and Benadryl (don't ask me how I know this!). Then, as was the procedure in all such cases, Betty was strapped down on a gurney and wheeled away to the "Quiet Room" where she was to be closely monitored by some muscle.

As one of the orderlies passed, carting the drowsy Betty past us, Angela barked one of her customary insults of, "YOU SMELL LIKE ASS AND NACHOS!" which never failed to tickle me to no end. The excitement over, Angela and I went back to our game of rummy and she accused me of cheating when I won, flipped over the table, and stormed off (but she always did this whenever she lost.) Ah, Angela; what I'd give to play rummy with you again! 

A few days later, after a two week stint, I was finally released and never saw or heard from Betty (or Angela) again. Whenever I see someone fly into a rage, I am often happily reminded of Betty, Super-Woman of ward "Grag". Why was I there? I'll never tell!

Copyright © Just That Archaic Poet | Year Posted 2014

Long poem by Nii-Ayi Solomon | Details

My First Love Experience

It was in the early days of our lives
We met
She was so beautiful 
My eyes could not stop admiring
My heart kept racing 
Every time it sensed
her good-looking approaching
But we were too young 
To give full meaning 
To the love language

Years passed
Time kept flying
We lost contact 
But the memory of our past
We lugged with us

Someway, somehow,
Fate found us
And brought us together

We have now grown 
So big and sweet
We both glitter
At each other’s presence
We were ready to do a recap 
of where we left off

We laughed and joked about our past
We talked about our hey days at the National Theatre
We remembered the beautiful past that reflects our true self
We both haven’t changed after all

At that moment my heart spoke 
The love language again
I knew I was in love with her
It wasn’t today
It started from when we were kids

Man must gather confidence
And speak out his feelings

Thoughts,
Thoughts of what she would say;

Don’t laugh at me,
We all do it sometimes


We were sweet friends
But now, I want to take 
The friendship a step further

My heart in full swing 
Of abnormal beating,
It beat faster
It spoke two different languages
Say it; and keep it
Don’t know which of these to believe 
I was shy
I was afraid
I was confused
I was happy
I was sad
I felt insane

There she was,
Standing in front me
In their house 
Beaming with smiles

Nii, she said tenderly,
‘I thought you said you had something to tell me,
Come on, I can’t wait any longer
My ears are itching’

My heart just jumped out
And now I want to escape from her presence
I wish I could vanish into thin air

Stop laughing at me
I’m not mouth lazy

I was just afraid of the outcome 
What if she said NO?
What if I lose her as a friend?
What if she vanishes into thin air?

And the what if’s continued …

Once in a man’s life time
He must draw together courage
To speak out his feelings

After all, I would not have violated any law
For telling a sweet scented woman 
Gorgeous, attractive and stunning 
About what I feel for her
So my nerves were clamed

This was how I started…

Esther, I mean, Naa Adjeley

The confusion has started

Errrmmm, you see,

Still didn’t know what to say

Hmmm, hope you are doing great?

Still confused…

‘I guess your brother, Thomas,
Is doing fine?’

She stared at me intently 
The smiles on her face kept 
My hopes alive 
And my heart awake 
I knew she was expecting 
Something more than making those comical remarks

It’s was now time to speak

Naa Adjeley, I travelled from Cape Coast 
To Accra to come see you
To tell you I miss you
and errmmm…

Please let it out
The small voice inside me whispered

I left campus to Accra just to let you know that
I AM IN LOVE WITH YOU

She laughed aloud and said
‘’are you serious!’’

‘Oh! Yes I am’
I said confidently,

Her face suddenly darkened
The smiles misplaced 
I wanted to fade away from her presence
After all I’ve let my feelings out
That was what mattered to me
But I did not have that special magic



How long have you felt this way towards me?
The next question to answer
‘When we were kids,
But it was revamped quite recently’
I replied

I could see the confusion on her face
She needed some more time 
To think things through
I was excited let it out
But she was confused

Days passed,
I went back to school,
We enjoyed chit chatting on the phone
But the answer to my request was still hanging

She mentioned in one of our conversations
She might be travelling
But didn’t say when
She was a nursing student
I was a tourism student
The beauty of having a friend 
You know and love
kept my mind awake in school

School was on recess
I arrived in Accra
Left my things unpacked
Borrowed money from my old girl
Picked a cab to Banana Inn
To see the woman 
That has taken my heart hostage

I kept bagging at their gate
Agoo! agoo! agooo! 

Waiting in anticipation to see
Her fine looking face
And present her with my first gift
Her brother, Thomas opened up

‘Hey! Where have you been?
It’s been a while’
Was the first question 
He asked

The only interest I had was to see her face
I wanted to see the woman 
That makes my heart beat
She was all I cared about

Where is Naa Adjeley?
I enquired from Thomas

I saw the shock on his face
My breathe was not catching up 
with me properly
I knew something was wrong

‘Where is she’,
I asked again
‘Didn’t she tell you
She was travelling?’
My face dropped dead at once
I felt a sharp heart ache
I almost fainted

She left for the U.K
Without even saying bye bye
Was that why, she didn’t give any reply
to my proposal?
Why did she keep my heart awake?

I left her house, depressed
Her gift was a bonus for the cab driver
My face drenched in pool of tears

I know it hurts
But I felt more relieved

Why?

My feelings had been made lucid to her
I now walk with my chest out
Ready to move on
Ready to open myself up to happiness

I still remember
Her looks
Her smiles
Her beauty
Her mannerism

My first love story
The one I have kept furtive
Over the years

Naa Adjeley
My old time love.

Copyright © Nii-Ayi Solomon | Year Posted 2012

Long poem by matthew harris | Details

Letter to taeljejohn

uncomfortableness, and hesitation arose that you might reassess a possibility for friendship or.... whatever with me.

A disappointment set in place in the event that based on some facet of my being (inexplicable flaws within this corporeal human male), forecast that an about face (booked on charges inherent in this googly eyed, earth-linked, kool hotmail of a yahoo) would be un liked!

Juno what i mean? 

In retrospect, no matter that this average boyish chap desires enjoyment, he admits that ordinary punctuating various stages of development difficulty coping found him msn (miss sin, missin, missing, et cetera) on ordinary interpersonal experiences!

No matter yours truly usually finds me each morning, noon or night conjuring up maximizing temporary residence on this planet earth versus bemoaning those futile and essentially counterproductive mind games sans could a, might a, should a, would a...

today = the moment to cherish, enjoy, help others, ponder the remaining years
since fruitless to expend tears
for suppressed emotional, financial, grammatical, hormonal, physical, and spiritual angst
 that roiled mine inner sanctum - mainly from decades in the past
   which unseen scars with humor this fellow (who by the way likes you) wears!

Notice the sly inclusion of my comment per -- affinity, desirability, rhapsody for you
although just but a mere inkling prevails about an ye taelje john thru
a rather contrived manner - albeit an online adult oriented website - amongst a slew
which yields to this bipedal hominid a scant few
initial responses - as if a ghost app paired in the recipient email - going boo
which unwittingly seems to turn the ivy blue!

So...no matter a constancy of follow-up electronic communiques occurs from ye
bringing tears of joy, that nobody can see
while simultaneously delivering digital glee
a reality check restrains proclivity and predilection to let thoughts run wild and free!

Immense and immeasurable mounts in moi little rock
inducing an electric arc for myself to kin neck embedded in all this schlock
for a sixth sense arises that this holme body strongly suspects yar self 
 to generate sunny watts as an s spy she lee Sherlock

but, reticence to gush with ebullience reins in a cascade
of utter delight washing o'er this less than satisfactory mwm 
 who as a boy and youth happened to b a frayed
of his own shadow - while walking along the boulevard of broken dreams
 listening to the sounds of silence on a green-day.

Thus => the following from one 

Cerebral being ™ in the am and pm
 
This ordinary human
Finds himself a mystery
Within the terrestrial
Firmament and frequently
Feels in a feverish pitch
At his existence
That seers the temple
Mounted upon this slender
Frame - wrought by the
Combination of genetics
In tandem with exercise
Which latter helps to
Sublimate the coiled 
Tension wound tightly 
Like an indestructible spring 
Without a healthy medium at large 
To channel emotions fraught within
Me might find demise
That would rent asunder literate fellow 
And thus annihilate without a trace
One true valued father of two us special
Lovely lasses as just another statistic among 
The obituaries!
 
As the world turns (indiscriminately oblivious of the harrowing days per one simian), an agreeable, amiable, edible, immeasurable, likeable, pleasurable, sensible woman (such as yourself - predicated on a gut level intuition) goads more seriousness to share

Plaintive unheard heart strings o mine that wail
Displeased with this marriage fraught with travail
As if in a maelstrom whip-lashed vessel without a sail
Yet - averse to lambaste or rail
Against abby (whereby we pass like two ships in the night) who married this male
When each of us happened to seem more similar 
   And thought each ourselves to fail
At any endeavor, though now confidence 
   Buoys my heart while she doth ail

And exemplifies attitudes, beliefs, efforts, 
   Idiosyncrasies, pathos that life does rot
Ill suited to Matthew Scott, 
   Whose bon vivant manifesting faith in him
   Perhaps from herself deferring many domestic 
   And child rearing tasks not
Of course being boasting - even when scissoring the umbilical cord
   As a now beaming papa, whose daughters 
   Blithely ignore "mother" a lot
Thus necessitating this quest 
   For a counterpart to offer succor 
   To eden (age 16) and shana (14 on february 4th, 2013) 
   Yet accepts that i must dispel any dreamy fantasy even this ours - a mere jot
At this juncture knowing full well how unwise to set myself up for disappointment
   By thinking and rushing like a fool, 
   Where angels fear to tread
   Though "chutzpah" i got!

U r slowly filling my mindscape with joy
Thank you so much - for accepting without complaint how atypically words this writer wannabe 
   Named Matthew Scott Harris dozen ploy.


Copyright © matthew harris | Year Posted 2013

Long poem by Elaine George | Details

PART 2 - Earthbound Angels Made of Stone - An Epic


Those evil thorns of bitterness
That couldn't bear to see
This child so loved and so adored
By their father
Captain Lee

Until one day in early May
When she went out to play
In  fields drenched in morning  dew
Above a wind swept Bay
While standing there
Out on a ledge
Above a sea of green 
With eyes cast down
In deep reflection
Upon that ship of dreams

T'was then 
Her brothers 
Only half
Stepped out beyond the pale
And took the life of Amber 
As her father's ship set sail

The child of Rose
And Captain lee
So cherished and adored
Her lifeless body
Found that morning 
On the Ocean floor 
Forever laid to rest in death
Beneath her mother's breast 
Her named refrained for years in vain
Cried through her father's pain

So many times in life
This Rose 
Had dealt with tragedy 
But this time 
She was dealt
A lifetime 
Sentence
Of grief 
Without reprieve

So...now alone with 
Hope and faith 
Nowhere in her sight
She drifted  in a fog of
Endless days 
And endless nights

A broken soul 
With only yearnings
For her little girl
A broken soul
Drifting
Through a cruel 
And lonely world

A soul so deeply steeped in
Endless grief and
Endless  sorrow
Chained to that tragic day 
With no wish
To see tomorrow

Until one day
When Rose laid down
Upon the brink of death
And watched those green leaves
Turn to amber
Kissed by autumn's breath
A breath that set a blazing fire
Deep within her soul
When that mighty tree
Found the strength
To finally let her children go

And...standing there
Before her now
Rose saw a tree 
With empty boughs
And in that moment realized
Those we love 
Will never die

That tree would bear
The cruel sting
That winter's breath 
Of ice would bring
To once again
Give birth
In spring 

So with faith and hope
Now at her side
She found again the will
To rise
To spread her wings again
And fly

~~~

For two more score
Rose closed the door
On that devil Tragedy
Reborn again
Found inner-peace
In spirituality

Loyal companion
And caregiver to
The ailing
Captain Lee
Who no longer had the 
Will to sail
Upon the endless sea 

He died a sad and broken man
Who finally came to understand
It was his son's 
Who bore the thorns
That left his heart and mind so torn
When they with
Greed and  jealousy 
Killed
The sweetest child
Ever born

But... Justice 
In its own strange way  
Had indeed 
The final say
When the sons of  Captain Lee
Went to the bottom
Of the sea
Downed by a fierce
Raging storm
That finally killed
Those bitter thorns
The day their father
Died

Coin and land 
And hearth and home
The Captain had bequeathed  
For she had stayed there
By his side
Long after she was free
In his final 
Will and testament
His one  good parting deed
Signed with a long repenting quill
And by the legal powers that be
He did in deed
In deep repose
Give it all to Rose

Rose now walked 
The streets of town
With grace and dignity
The richest women in the land
Thanks to Captain Lee

For two more score
With open door
Rose lived in tranquility
Her house dedicated 
To the legacy 
Of Captain Cannon Lee
Providing shelter to the poor
Abandoned women
And their babes
So grateful for the many lives
With the grace of God 
She saved

She died one day in autumn
When amber leaves fell from the tree
And was laid to rest
Beside her daughter
And the Captain Cannon Lee
Dubbed the Rose of Savannah
By those who knew her well
They came by the hundreds
To say their last farewell
Rose petals 
In shades of ebony
Were laid upon her grave
Each one in loving memory
For all the lives she 
Helped  to save

 ~~~

We dwell in quiet places
Where mortals sleep eternally
We earthbound angels made of stone
Keeping vigil for thee

Stone angels carved by human hands
In honor of the dead
Giving meaning to the path
Where mortals dare to tread

Written:  June, 2016
Author:  Elaine C. George of Canada
































Copyright © Elaine George | Year Posted 2016

Long poem by Stanley Collymore | Details

Gone and hopefully permanently forgotten

By Stanley Collymore

Never speak ill of the dead we’re constantly and solemnly
exhorted regardless of who they are or the life that
they freely chose to live, as they’re no longer
around, is the lame and unconvincing excuse
that’s often and dishonestly given in explanation, to rebut or
defend their name, any accusations or adverse criticisms,
however concrete or valid they might be, being made
against them; and in those circumstances therefore
to then embark on such a plan would in itself be
quite unbecoming while serving as nothing
more than a cheap and cowardly way of
attempting to exact one’s own revenge.

But hang on a moment, how truly valid is this
simplistic and supposedly moral exhortation; and why
should the intervention of death, distinct from any
other known phenomenon, be the sole exculpation for
someone’s life-long sins and premeditated wrongdoings
that disparagingly have callously, schemingly,
perniciously, quite methodically and comprehensively
destroyed the lives of so many who were
exclusively picked on and especially targeted for
reasons of dogmatic political ideology, or
those specifically and illogically
associated with their race
or ethnicity.

I was never a miner viewed as the country’s low-life and
thusmalevolently castigated as the enemy within, but
I am and have longstandingly been a proud trade
unionist whose movement just as
viciously by this self-centred,
venal and privileged elite was likewise tarred
with the same condemnatory brush and
scandalously branded the same.

Similarly, I was an anti-apartheid activist firmly
committed, as I always will be, to the noble concept
globally of the universality of human rights, equality
for all human beings and the ultimate eradication
of racism, tirelessly working also in tandem
for freedom of expression by everyone,
genuine democracy and the lawful and
moral right to withhold one’s labour,
and particularly so in manufactured industrial
disputes specifically designed to disrupt the cohesion,
deliberately break-up and ruthlessly destroy the
bargaining rights of all trade unions. 

So why would I, or anyone else for that matter
with a social conscience, want to actually
eulogize and not rightly despise someone who,
while together with their husband was
profiting massively financially from South Africa’s
apartheid system, none the less perversely saw fit
to label Nelson Mandela a terrorist and roundly
vilify the ANC as a terrorist organization, while
astonishingly and without a modicum of regret
laud the architects of apartheid and the
ardent supporters of institutionalized
racism as the veritable champions of
what they deem as democracy?

Unless, of course, such individuals have short or convenient
memories and are themselves a complete abomination of what
society, which we were told by this woman doesn’t exist,
or come to that humanity should actually represent!
So I’ve no apologies to make or will I relent from
the stance I’ve taken because Death, inevitable
to us all, has finally, and some would
justifiably say, long-sufferingly and somewhat
kindly stepped in and brought the life of yet
another tyrant to its end. So feel free those of you
who want to eulogize or even dress yourself up
in sackcloth and ashes if you wish amidst your contrived beating
of chests and sorrowful refrains; but in doing so, I’d like for
you in your unrestrained orgy of engineered anguish
and false grief to jointly entreat you to abstain
from ever doing any of this in my name.

© Stanley V. Collymore
12 April 2013.

In the midst of life there is death the great leveller of us all. We brought nothing into this world, and it is certain we can carry nothing out. So what doth it profit a man or woman if in their life time they gain all the riches of the world yet lose their soul for eternity? The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the Name of the Lord.

Copyright © Stanley Collymore | Year Posted 2013

Long poem by Scribbler Of Verses | Details

A Story My Mother Told Me

someone always told me this with tears in her eyes...


(for Lata Sethi's late-mother, who was my mother’s ‘sister’ and who took us all into her heart, and for Lata and Ravi Sethi of Defence Colony, New Delhi)


a wife left South Africa in the 1960’s to join her husband 
who was in exile at the time...

in 1970 the husband was sent by the African National Congress to India to be its representative there...

the husband and wife spent two years in Bombay...

one afternoon the husband fell and broke his leg...

the wife knocked on their neighbour’s door, in an apartment complex in Bombay

the neighbour was an old Punjabi lady...

the wife asked the neighbour for a doctor to see to the injured husband...

a Parsi ‘Bone-Setter’ was promptly summoned...

the husband still recalls his anxiety of seeing ‘Bone-Setter’ written on the Parsi gentleman’s bag...

by the way, the ‘Bone-Setter’ worked his ancient craft and surprisingly for the husband, his broken leg healed quite soon...

but still on that day, while the ‘Bone-Setter’ was seeing to the husband...

the wife and the old Punjabi lady from next door got to talking about this and that and where these new Indian-looking wife and husband were from as their accents were clearly not local...

the wife told the elderly Punjabi lady that the husband worked for the African National Congress of South Africa and had left to serve the ANC from exile...

and that they had left their two children behind in South Africa and that they were now essentially political refugees...

the Punjabi lady broke down and wept uncontrollably...

she told the foreign woman that she too had had to leave her home in Lahore in 1947 and flee to India with only the clothes on her back when the partition of the subcontinent took place and Pakistan was formed and at a time when Hindus from Pakistan fled to India and vice versa...

the Punjabi lady then asked the foreign woman her name...

‘Zubeida’, but you can call me ‘Zubie’...

the Punjabi woman hugged Zubie some more, and the two women, seperated by age and geography, wept, sharing a shared pain...

the Punjabi woman told Zubie that she was her ‘sister’ from that day on, and that she felt that pain of exile and forced migration and what being a refugee felt like...

Zubie and her husband Mosie became the closest of friends with the Hindu Punjabi neighbours who were kicked out of Pakistan by Muslims...

then came the time for Mosie and Zubie to leave for Delhi where the African National Congress office was based...

the elderly Punjabi lady and Mosie and Zubie said their goodbyes...

a year or two later, the elderly Punjabi lady’s daughter Lata married Ravi Sethi and the couple moved to Delhi...

the elderly Punjabi lady called Zubie and told her that her daughter was coming to Delhi to live and that she had told Lata, her daughter that she had a ‘sister’ in Delhi...

Lata and Ravi Sethi then moved to Delhi...

This was in the mid-1970’s...

Lata and Zubie became the closest of friends and that bond stayed true, and stays true till today, though Zubie is no more, and the elderly Punjabi lady is no more...

the son and the husband still have a bond with Lata and Ravi Sethi...

a bond that was forged between Hindu and Muslim and between two continents across the barriers of creed and time...

a bond strong and resilient, forged by the pain and trauma of a shared experience...

and that is why, and I shall never stop believing this, that hope shines still, for with all the talk of this and of that, and of that and of this, there will always be a simple woman, somewhere, anywhere, who would take the ‘other’ in as a sister, a fellow human...

and that is why there will always be hope...
hope in the midst of this and of that and of that and of this...

hope...


(for Lata Sethi's late-mother, who was my mother’s ‘sister’ and who took us all into her heart, and for Lata and Ravi Sethi of Defence Colony, New Delhi)

Copyright © Scribbler Of Verses | Year Posted 2013

Long Poems