Foreword
Stephen Long’s poems possess the intensity to question or to idealise, they create a sense of longing, and act as a moment for reflection.
In these poems Stephen examines his role that he plays in society. He asks how love and faith, the past and these thoughts have an effect on how he views the world.
Brilliant reminisces of the profound changes in life, struggle to become.
Roma Desai
Author of Ways to Stay Miserable.
United Kingdom
In the stillness of the night
To live a life of indifference
feeds but half of your hunger.
Sorrow so deep carves into your soul
until it becomes a poison of anger.
You rebuilt your life in twilight
the wanderer in you ever distant.
Dreamless in the stillness of the night.
With a fragrance of fear in your garments.
Often times you seem a stranger to yourself.
An intruder upon this sacred land.
When the wicked is all that's left
then the righteous are not innocent men.
You cannot weep when the soul summons
lost in the darkness pour forth delight.
The abundance has befallen too temple ruins.
Dreamless... in the stillness, of the night.
Dreamless, in the stillness of the night.
Stephen Charles Long © 2006
Little one
You dance in moonbeams
on the carpet of stars.
You sing like an angel
is that who you are?
Yet still I see no wings
but I know you can fly.
I look in your eyes
it makes me want to try.
Little one your soul glows
you sparkle in the dark.
You must be from heaven
on my heart you left a mark.
Stardust on your finger tips
feet never touch the ground
you move like a gentle wind
slowly twirling around.
Stephen Charles Long © 2006
My song of wine
My song of wine
and yesterday.
The lady who sang so well.
She was mine
but for a short time.
She heard wedding bells.
My song of wine
in the glass I see.
A little better deal.
My song of wine
comes to an end
with an empty bottle.
S.C.Long copyright 2006
Riparian Forest
They say there is a place
by the riparian forest.
Where necromancy
is still in practice.
Faeries in the glen
Sprite in the shadows
having their fun.
Undine where water is shallow.
Comes the hob, imp and elf
the pixies fly away.
The gnome had left
without anything to say.
Stephen Charles Long © 2006
