Not Long Left

Not Long Left Poems

there was once a beautiful butterfly,
it would flutter its perfectly patterned,
wings high in the blue open sky.
every other butterfly would cry out,

in warm oblivious solitude,
night forever came,
fading vibrations dimmed,
our lives would never be the same.

The moon still shines like that of ages old,
holding distant secrets like a tale yet to be told,
The sun in all its blinding beauty continues to lend us its rays,
enriching us with memories of those blisfull youthspent days.

we are born,
we live
a little,
or a lot,

My dad used to say
Back in my distant day,
When we were teenagers
We were being trained to kill

And now the time has come my love
To end this wretched war of change
To cut these restricting choking reigns
To say the words enough is enough.

Distanced by dreams,
of yesteryears life,
Days come and go,
like a waves short life.

Young enough still to hold my fathers
hands, we walked at my pace.

passing stalls selling stencils, crumpled

A broken battered bird
limp winged and misty eyed
Nestled itself in the bed
of the grass.

a single droplet of rain,
trickles freely down my window pane,
stopping for a few frozen seconds,
as if mapping out its next move.

like prisoners finally freed,
the children flee from the school,
restrained minds, tied up tongues,

Always dissapoinment.
nervously smiling, sweating uncomfortably.
bad breath fearing.
together lips entwining.

won, to, free
look at me,
i can count forever.
i know that lions come from the jungle,

sitting on a train,
returning from the home of pain,
there she sat,
as she turned the final page,

Four hundred thousand drops of rain
have fallen since I last blinked.
Seven clouds stretching from one town
to the other have eaten each other.

This is for you my gentle flower
whose petals I stole and crushed
Leaving you naked and exposed.
An act of selish mortal lust.

The gentle rising,
of the sleeping childs chest,
silent in its movement,
smooth velvet skin,

The room was warm
and the lights were bright
fully clothed in designer clad,
I sat at the freshly waxed table

Not one word is worth
the birth upon the paper.
Not one line feels fine
like a quick fix i split,

Among the suffocating weeds
of this overgrown city I found you.
Defiant in your beauty, shielding
yourself from the ever emerging

The Best Poem Of Not Long Left

The Butterfly

there was once a beautiful butterfly,
it would flutter its perfectly patterned,
wings high in the blue open sky.
every other butterfly would cry out,
'how pretty you are'
and even from afar only he was seen,
delicately dancing in the breeze.
yet this poor butterfly was not at ease.
it was lonely for its beauty isolated it,
alone it would fly alone it would cry,
butterfly tears dropping down upon,
the jealous land below.
even with its beauty,
it was not happy,
and craved to return to its original self,
a catterpillar, anomonoyous and free
from natures vanity.
and so one day it flew away from
its little leaf,
to find the forest queen,
and enable its dream of exceptance
come true.
after many miles of blue sky,
the butterfly came to the forests queen tree,
after hearing the butterfly's plea,
the queen grantted its anomonity,
and the butterfly was free,
for it was now a catterpillar,
and as it crawled away,
a beetle said hello,
and a ant said hello,
and the catterpillar cried
catterplillar tears of happiness.

Not Long Left Comments

John Tiong Chunghoo 01 January 2006

some of his poems are great stuff.

0 0 Reply
Amanda Lukas 08 June 2006

Vincent, I must admit that I have recently been skimming through the authors on the new poems list rather than titles. That being said, I've found that your name is one that always sticks out and promises a great read. It's a pleasure to read you. Amanda

0 2 Reply
Mike Finley 25 April 2006

There is a persistent melancholy in your work, Vincent. Siometimes it has a sweetness, and sometimes it seems to be something you are gunning for - a self-punishment perhaps. My prayer for you is to take your talent, which is considerable, and to reroute it toward less destructive, less self-pitying. The mind of a poet is a thicket of tares, but the world is bright and bountiful. Take a walk outside, and open your heart to the possibilities.

0 1 Reply

This poem about the bird that dies in the grass is so so sad. I did cry. When I was young, oh so young, I buried a frozen cat in my back yard. What a poem. I must say you have got it Vincent. Oh yes, it was beautiful also - in death there is beauty. The feather.... michele kostelnik

0 1 Reply
Gina Onyemaechi 30 January 2006

If his date of birth didn't show, you'd think he was twice his actual age. He has overwhelming, mature talent.

0 1 Reply
Joy Vanderhelm 02 January 2006

I'm glad you posted on the forum because then I might have wasted more time hunting for someone with even a smidgen of your ability. You write like I dream, with force, power and emotion that could fill a room. Warm regards, Joy

0 0 Reply

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