Short Poems

America

Posted on by A. Long

Although she feeds me bread of bitterness,
And sinks into my throat her tiger’s tooth,
Stealing my breath of life, I will confess
I love this cultured hell that tests my youth.
Her vigor flows like tides into my blood,
Giving me strength erect against her hate,
Her bigness sweeps my being like a flood.
Yet, as a rebel fronts a king in state,
I stand within her walls with not a shred
Of terror, malice, not a word of jeer.
Darkly I gaze into the days ahead,
And see her might and granite wonders there,
Beneath the touch of Time’s unerring hand,
Like priceless treasures sinking in the sand.

Arthur Ridgewood,M.D.

Posted on by A. Long

He debated whether

as a poet

to have dreams and beans

or as a physician

have a long car and caviar.

Dividing his time between both

he died from a nervous breakdown

caused by worry

from rejection slips

and final notices from the Finance company.

–Frank Marshall Davis

 

My Poetry, Short Poems

Him

Aside | Posted on by A. Long

emery and aloneHim

american woman you’re no good for me

chemical jacoa beans

whispers to me

my cheeks sanguine into a hot headed red

sometimes

i wish i were dead

but here i am living

and on the verge

all I can think of is his last words

playing in his hair while he tries

to write a new poem

to me

Ancestors

Posted on by A. Long

Why are our ancestors

always kings and princes

and never the common people?

Was the Old Country a democracy

where every man was a king?

Or did the slave-catchers

steal only the aristocrats

and leave the fieldhands

laborers

street cleaners

garbage collectors

dish washers

cooks

and maids

behind?

My own ancestor

(research reveals)

was a swineherd

who tended the pigs

in the Royal Pigstye

and slept in the mud

among the hogs.

Yet I’m as proud of him

as of any king or prince

dreamed up in fantasies

of bygone glory.

–Dudley Randall

Memories

Posted on by A. Long

The walls of this house

feel so cold now

The warmth and happiness

held in these

dark colored halls have

been stripped away

like a child peeling a banana

painted over with white

covering and blocking out

making these floors strange to me

everything changed

all old is gone

taking with it my precious memories

Mornings

Posted on by A. Long

Spoiled sick by your curdled fingers

your memory lingers

like milk slipping off the back of my mind

like kids and swings in the summertime

Hold fast, your eyes are far away

Listen close, the sounds darkness makes

When the sun slurps sleep from my cheeks

your eyes and mine meet

again

like chocolate red ribbons beckon

pupils open wide to drink your presence

then escape

as day breaks knuckles on night’s secrets.

The Last Hope

Posted on by A. Long

She doesn’t give a fuck

having stuck

so closely to depression

that she can feel him up against her back sweating

rode in the haul of death’s ship

stopped in hell’s kitchen and licked the pot clean

she’s been pimped, sold

and let the memories jangle around her ankles

She’s your Mother

Sister Friend Neighbor

Girlfriend Grandmother Teacher

She’s so open from centuries of exploitation

that still goes on to this day

Someone grab her, she just got on the A train

Headin downtown with some guy

The embodiment of hope

The last key

If only she cared enough to open the door

Sonnet 116

Posted on by A. Long

Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove.
O no, it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wand’ring bark,
Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken.

― William Shakespeare

Knuckles and Knees: Part Two

Posted on by A. Long

images (18)I fought a door once.

My hands bled for all of five minutes.

I fought a man that same day, and they didn’t feel a thing. The scabs were more interesting to look at. They made my knuckles bulge and harder than before.

Darker too.

Now my knuckles match my knees.