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Prose Poetry Adventure Poems | Prose Poetry Poems About Adventure

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Details | Prose Poetry | |

Lucila

So I walked into my local supermarket
to buy my weekly shipment of Kit Kat bars,
Cinnamon Toast Crunch,
and Ovaltine powder mix.

As I shake off the snow on my fake Timberland boots,
my skin,
coated in frozen animation,
thaws into warmth’s teardrops from
the supermarket’s 75 degree vents.

This moist sense of happiness was quickly interrupted
when I heard Wilson Phillips, “Hold On”
over the PA system.

Thankfully, the cutlery isle was just to my left. 
So, now, I had plans!

But, before I could commit felony’s song,
I saw her.

A Portuguese goddess
with a strut that can ruin a man’s dignity.

She had Autobahn curves,
dark brown curls of hair & visuals,
and thick flesh meat that even Vegans would envy.

Her face lacked Maybelline coated misapprehension.
Thank God!
Cause I never did like clowns.

After staring longingly at her,
like a crack head with impulsive eyes upon a broken/unlabeled bag of baby powder,
she breezed past my stifled posture and clocked in to work.

She didn’t even get a chance to smell my $500 cologne called “Piece of Me”.

So with new-found urges to grab all my groceries,
like a burglar who really has to pee,
I rush to express checkout. 

There she is.

Her register beeps in coupon lady’s rhapsody,
while my register needs a cleanup on Isle 9.

Now it’s my turn.

With girlish inner-screams of boy-band intensity,
I say, “Hi”.

She scans my apples, while I scan her melons.
The melons that the customer ahead of me didn’t want…
…they were on sale.

Go fig.

As if she read my mind,
she asks,
“Are you feeling warm now?”

“All I want is to be the heat in your moment”,
which I almost said.

But, “Now I am”, is uttered.

As she smiled with seductive demure,
she handed me my receipt
with her phone number on back.

As I left the market,
I began to get cold again.

These winds of change
became gusts of numbness.

I locked myself out of my heart.

I turned around to go back inside.

Only to discover, 
she didn’t have the key.

© Drake J. Eszes

Copyright © Drake Eszes | Year Posted 2010

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Enjoying Love So Undeserving

What sustains Life like water? What is as fresh and welcoming like the countryside? And as sweet as a newly made confectionery baked with honey? I just found one well placed in all corners of your heart. A feeling encompassing the goodness of life. Is it the blissful visitation to the tenants of the deep blue sea? Or a radiant rainbow floating in the moist skies? Is it red roses, milk Sunflowers and other colorful plants in pink, green and yellow? Or the site of a happy set of little quintuplet siblings? Is it the baby chicks peeping out from their nest to spy on the first morning rising sun? They all are no where near the unbelievable goodness of your love. Sweetheart! You are a majestic glamor full of gracious providence. Not even the magneting beauty of the Queen Cleopatra can be compared to the pillars of your virtues which prove to overcome time's curfew eclipsing my heart totally as I soak in the foam of your passions. A natural habitat have I found in the gardens of your affection and a new existence from the deep baptism of your unequaled care. I never believed a star could be as near but here I am; with a being who outshines a galaxy. My soul has lost records of its bountiful happiness from this train of love with the wish its rails are never ending and its journey, everlasting.

Copyright © Funom Makama | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry | |

BOAT ON SALE

its white corlor bright
its wide
has map guild
over ride the tide
good or bad weather
will not fail
flow like a wale
this
BOATS ON SALE

i

Copyright © kurtis scott aka curtis futch jr | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Vase Dream - c'est la vie

       Vase Dream - c'est la vie 

White vase with no design
Dangling there - c'est la vie 
I think somewhere in Center City
Apart from everything
In an apartment rising skyward
Lingering on the edge of ledge
Standing tall atop a railing raw
Languishing over the 20th Floor
Or there about
And more - c'est la vie 
The balcony did its’ best of course
Displaying the fragile curves
Morning sun light danced approval
Around bouncing beams above the surface
But nothing could stop a soft breeze from… 
Poof!.....And off  it went… c'est la vie 
An alert French man
Pastry smile and all
Happened along
With left handed nimble fingers caressing a Beaujolais 42
The other hand stretched out with stress
As if to field an errant football pass
And in that chance encounter…Catch!...
Tumbling to concrete boundaries down
Bottle released in a wincing crash
Ground favored his mortal urgency
Pottery saved - c'est la vie 
Intact
French man’s head cracked
Let’s say opened 
Something like an egg
A natural death ensued - c'est la vie   
A passer-by seized the moment
Lifted vase and fled
Made off down and dirty
An ally
Another fate for vase awaits
Less encumbered
In a land far away
To dream of ledges - c'est la vie 
If so inclined   
Or so designed
 

Modified on 10/21/14 for - c'est la vie - Poetry Contest
 

Copyright © Earl Schumacker | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Bell's Blues

Staring, vapor locked, at my Hammond B-3 console organ, which dominates my 
kitchen.  Surely a symbol of my madness.  I can't help, but think, if the keys were 
the days of my life, and the black ones represented the bad days, are there 
enough black keys??  Fighting petulance, self-pity...losing...
     Wondering if I can stand another minute alone.  Atop my organ, music books, 
and the complete works of Edgar Allan Poe, another mad poet.
     Plagued by physical agonies that merely complete a perfect circle of anguish 
and distress.  Even to worrying of misspelling a word again.  Pure lunacy.
     Remembrance of my 1863 death at Missionary Ridge, something I became 
aware of as a young child before I'd ever heard of reincarnation.  Or just an early 
sign of the madness to come??
     I am lost in a befouling miasma of deep despair.  My life's hopes down to 2 
desires;  one last music band, and taking my son to Disneyworld.  Money is 
meaningless to me.
     I am well aware that death is as natural as life.  And I would venture to guess 
that the loss of my father, my young cousin Billy, my dear friend Mark Trotiner, and 
too many others, are "Business As Usual" in this universe.  But not for me.
     Being terminally ill myself is something I have long since come to terms with.  
And what a reunion it will be!!  But I must continue to go on surviving as though I 
cherish this long and barren life.
     My writing, especially my poetry, my poet friends, my music, my musician 
friends, and a few relatives and others; these are the meds that work for me; not 
the 30 or so pills I must deal with everyday.  So thank you all.
And now an addendum, one which brightened my day:
     Mark Trotiner long maintained that he gave Mark Knoffler (Dire Straights) the 
idea for his hit song "Money For Nothing", when Mark Knoffler came into the 
appliance chain store he worked in way back then, where he bought, and drove 
off with several T.V.s, singing the prototype words he'd gotten from Mark Trotiner.  
Over the years, I tested him repeatedly, looking for the tale-tell deviation in the 
story one finds in a false tale.  He never faltered, he never failed.
    Continued.....

Copyright © tom bell | Year Posted 2007

Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Tarnished Knight And His Unicorn Named Dream

I am a Tarnished Knight 
Dragons do I slay, 
With my trusty sword 
I hold then all at bay. 

  
I have a trusted steed, 
A Unicorn named Dream. 
When we ride together 
We make a mighty team. 

  
Nary is a dragon. 
That will look us in the eye. 
They just turn and fly away, 
As we chase them thru the sky. 

  
For I am fearless warrior, 
Will do battle anywhere. 
Fight that dreaded dragon, 
In your heart or in the air. 

  
So if you have a dragon, 
No matter where he be. 
Maybe flying in the sky, 
Or lives deep inside of thee

 
Call the Tarnished Knight,
And his Unicorn named Dream.
We will come and rescue you,
For we are a potent team.

 
A reward is not required.
Our service is for free
Just to slay your dragon
Will be our only fee.

 
A fire breathing dragon,
Sometimes is hard slay.
With out an open mind
He may never go away.

 
So take this little fairy tale,
That I did write for you.
Please let me in your heart
So I can do the things I do.

 
I will slay your dreaded dragon
Then you can ride upon my dream.
I promise to take you places
That few have ever seen.

 
So let me come inside you,
In your body and your soul.
Let me slay that dragon
That has such an evil hold.

Copyright © Donald Eissler | Year Posted 2012

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Egyptian Pharaohs

Your mysticism captivates my world today

Covered in gold and ruins

We try to decode

What you left behind for us so long

Its been five thousand years

And we still feel so lost without you

Let your sun god Ra

Show us the path you took

The pyramids were the keys to your afterlives

Show us how to live our lives

I live in a world covered in blame

With people constantly finding someone else to blame

No boy king in Tut in our day

No Cleopatra ruling any day

Just a lot of villains called politicians

Oh great Egyptian Pharaohs

Show us how you brought prosperity and peace

To your once unstable land

Copyright © Jorge Toro | Year Posted 2011

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Mr Bravery

Mr. Bravery
By Curtis Johnson

There once lived a very decent and brave man who was promised three keys.
“One of these three keys, said the key holder, will unlock the door to happiness”.
The man bowed his head and prayed silently, “Please Lord, allow me to pick the right key”.
As he raised his head from prayer, the key man said, “There is more that I must tell you”.
He proceeded to tell the brave man that there were also three roads from which he must choose.  He was also informed that all the roads would lead to ‘a door’, and all the keys would open ‘a door’, but only one thing would lead to ‘the door’ that would bring him true happiness.  That one thing would be understood when he arrives at the door.  “One thing, one door, three keys, and three roads?”,  the decent and brave man questioned to himself.

The man was still determined to find happiness; so he continued listening to the ‘key man’.
The key man then led him to the end of a Southbound roadway that broke off into three separate roads.  One was a paved and winning road toward the West; another was a graveled  uphill road pointing East; and the third road was a very rugged and dusty road heading Southwest.  He was left with the task of choosing  which thing, which key, and which road would lead him to the door that opened to true happiness.

He soon came to know all too well that his challenge was beyond any he had faced before.
Nevertheless, with ‘the one thing’ on his mind, three keys in his hand, three roads just ahead, and a locked door to happiness visualized in his heart, he bravely launched ahead with never a complaint.

His driving experience was equal to the task of either of the roads; but for reasons forever unknown, he chose the graveled uphill road going East.  Mr. Bravery drove a path of gradual elevation for about six hours.  The sun was beginning to set behind him as he noticed a building a couple of miles ahead.  He was elated when he arrived, and without hesitation, he exited his vehicle.  Slowly, and with eager anticipation, he approached the door.  At the door he realized that he had yet another important task.  He had to decide which key to pick.

Mr. Bravery then remembered his first prayer that God would allow him to pick the right key.  He looked to the sky and took confidence.  He chose a key, and bingo, the door opened!  There was a large mirror right in the doorway, and all that he could see was an image of himself.  In the mirror at the area of his heart was written these words: “True happiness is to be found, not with keys to a door at the end of a road, nor in or from another human being, but within yourself.”  

Within minutes the key man arrived with a smile and commended  Mr. Bravery for his courage and determination to complete the task.  He informed Mr. Bravery that either key would have unlocked the door, and either road would have led him to the door to happiness.  In an instant!  In a flash!!  Mr. Bravery realized that his personal relationship with God had already given him True and Eternal Happiness.  His heart within him had made the choice to be happy.
07042016 cj PS

Copyright © curtis johnson | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry | |

PASSION SEX ON THE FLOOR

it was  at my place
we sit face to face
hug and muggs
warp in arms
it was romance charms
should seen up go
we  roll on the door
IT WAS
PASSION SEX ON THE FLOOR

Copyright © kurtis scott aka curtis futch jr | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Royal Changeling

Deep in the dungeon in the back left corner 
Was a mere shell of what was once a man.
He was shackled to the wall of his own design
By the love of his lady so fair, and divine
 
The queen of a land so far away in time
With a king who held her ever so dear
Locking them away alone from peasant's view
None of his subjects gazed upon this mentally ill king
 
He had a smothering love for his queen, 
Abusing her in every way
Never there for love, but only in his mind
She hadn't felt his touch in years, other than abuse
 
Then one day her knight came in on his white steed
They loved under moonlight each night in secrecy
Hiding their treasonous affair from the evil king
Until one night he caught them
 
The knight dueled injuring the king's ability to speak
The queen fearing their treasonous death
Plotted and schemed as not to be beheaded 
To the knight's chamber they carried him
 
Dousing the room in oil laying him on the floor
Dropping the lantern the knight held
Flames rose in the chamber, consuming him
The queen screamed to the subjects for help
 
All the court came running to douse the fire out
The knight and queen really started 
The true king was unrecognizable and couldn't even whisper 
The knight came forward as her husband the king
 
The queen burst into tears, 
Explaining how the knight attacked her,
Setting the room ablaze
All his subjects bowed before the knight, the changeling
 
I am sorry dear king, the subjects said 
As the knight pulled the queen to him, 
Ushering them to take him away, to the dungeon below,
Shackled, and chained, in his own kingdom 
 
In the dungeon the king waited, to be beheaded
The knight secretly became the king instantly
Taking his spot next to the love of his life, the queen
No one suspected a single thing 
 
She visited the king one last time before he died
Telling him how she loved him, stroking his cheek
Watching the next day as they beheaded him, 
Hiding her head in her knight unknown
 
Her dark side she displayed
The day her knight became her king 
And her king became some subhuman thing
He had truly always been
 
The knight now the king with his lovely queen
Ruled for many years, having ten children 
Of tainted royal blood, but no one ever knew 
Their secret love and darkest treason ever committed. 

Copyright © Danielle Wise Baxter | Year Posted 2012

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Alone

Tickets are not easy to get at the Royal Circle. 
A lady does not wish to get a seat by currying favor; 
the flavor will eventually turn rancid and ruin her day. 
The scent of expensive perfume pervades the warm air.
A packed house of coiffed women in evening frown
and men who wear success like a badge; she is here alone 

in full regalia: pinned-up auburn hair, porcelain skin 
in a buttoned-up dress.  White opera gloves, her nod to 
convention.  Several eyebrows raise when she comes 
unescorted. There is not much legroom and it cramps her style, 
yet, she bears the discomfort one hundred feet above the ground. 
She doesn’t get to see clearly the emotions on the actor’s face. 

The rest of humanity looks like buzzing bees and butterflies 
hiding gossiping lips on pale faces behind colorful fluttering fans. 
She assumes the look; men have no monopoly on the stoic face. 
An evening out unescorted teaches her the world will always 
judge not just the melodrama she is watching onstage. 
There is more to life than The Salon; a woman has a choice. 



After:  Theater by Mary Cassatte 1879


For Debbie Guzzi's Ten Pictures, Ten Poems, Ten Days - Painting 6 
Kim Patrice Nunez
13 January 2016

* Published by Ekphrastic: Writing and Art on Art and Writing

Copyright © KP Nunez | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry | |

DRUNK AND IGNORANT

A noble story one that ought to be our good host laughed and swore the games begun. Come match the knights tale if you can sir monk. To bellow arms and blood and bones he swore. A noble one I'll pay off the knights tale lets do this right. You tell yours by and by either I'll speak or go on my own way. Everyone listen but first i will propound that i am drunk i know it by my sound. For I'll tell a golden legend and a lie. Forget your ignorant drunken bawdiness it is a sin and great foolishness. Tell us of other things you'll find to lack i see you are angry with my tale but why. cuz you are a fool your head is overpowered by the wine. If you are not enjoying yourselves then cut off my head but as i drink my wine and ale. Whoever won't accept what i decide will pay for everything we spend along the ride. So hold up your hand if you accept my speech reflect a little and don't hold me to blame if you choose wrong don't lay it on my head. And both of them had bawdy tales to tell theirs no sense making earnest out of game.

Copyright © craig schaber | Year Posted 2011

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Stygian Doubts-The Catacombs of Saint Francis, Lima, Peru

The rottenness of it all is no less foul for having been bleached white. This is the conclusion I come to. I walk with a scarf covering my mouth through the dimly lit catacombs of the faithful. The arched ceiling holds a dangling string of incandescent bulbs which cast a sickly yellow glow on my shoes and the cavities full of thighbones. “Why are all the bones the same,” I ask. The guide smiles. “Tens of thousands of heaven seekers wish to be buried here. There’s only so much room,” he said. “Even today people pay for holy ground.” Ghostly, armless, rib-less, headless, specters seem to rise un-braced, oh the indignity of it all. I picture them searching for the missing parts of themselves. I sneeze through my paisley scarf, stumble back; back, following the arrows in reverse, seeking the way out; just as frantically as they had sought the way in. The rest of the group trudges on; after all, they had paid their coin to Charon.



First Published in Inwood Indiana January 2014

Copyright © Debbie Guzzi | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Harmonic Spirits

Harmonic Spirits In a time of past; so far away just beyond where night meets the day two little children were born and raised in the deepest part of the forest, a mystery their father never saw their innocent faces Ancient spirits of woodland graves they became royalty of trolls, and trees the only two whom were human beings they lived out life happily some say they could even hear them singing in perfect harmony They ruled and were protected, by nymphs, fairies, elves, and of creatures of life and grave the trees fulfilled all of their needs The forest and it's wonder a family they became Mother Nature in loving ways came with the birds and bees She lifted them up hugging them, giving immortality in a world with so much pain yet they knew only harmony all of their days the legend of the forest royalty they became healing the creatures that go unseen saying hello and goodbye for many years the little boy and girl left beside an old oak tree one dark February harmonic spirits they are now, running wild and free...
About my children who are passed

Copyright © Danielle Wise Baxter | Year Posted 2012

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Sweet River Man

Let's wait for the sunset one summer's day
down by the river where I always liked to play
we can kick off our shoes and bury our feet in the sand
come on please be my sweet river man
We can call the wild geese up with a little dab of feed
or jump in the water a little too deep
in that old Red River we can laugh and sing
take me by the hand, make that leap

Write our names in a heart in the sand
you can be my sweet river man
and I'll be your sweet lady river friend
we can hold on for life and scare the catfish twice
anything’s possible that time of day
my white sundress is a little bit dirty
from that red water that always stays so murky

I wouldn't want to be any other place
than down by the river where I always liked to play
and when the moon comes out tonight
and the stars shine bright
your sweet river lady
is going to sing to her sweet river man under the moonlight

watch those stars shooting in the dark as you hold me tight
until we see the sun start to rise
yeah down on the river where I always liked to play
nothing’s changed much since I was just a babe
but now I share with my sweet river man, my favorite place to play

Copyright © Danielle Wise Baxter | Year Posted 2012

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Come by the Sword Die by the Sword

The Bard of the Norseman
A warrior’s fame and for glory all Norseman live worthy of life
Worthy the Norseman with warring axe to victory and spilt Saxon blood
For spoils of the serpent’s lair lie across the whale’s road
Far from the girls in the houses they love
Seeking a quest these warriors of Oden -always the dream for a bard’s song
Now set sail upon a journey –a glorious adventure- a hunting do they go
Do steer the battered sea-steed adorned by dragon’s head and tail
Endure the breaker of trees from artic northern hail
Skid the waves and endure towards a foreign mystical shore
Below a pallid sky-candle and darkening gray dim light
Nebulous rains doth hinder the rudderman’s  impeded sight
Till at last the first oarsman peers across the misty horizon 
Mystical panorama- calls acclamation unto Oden- makes call of reached land
These feeders of ravens rave honor into Oden
Lord of the gallows hath made the glory of the elves to shine
Down upon warriors the sun makes glisten- their metal horn helmets and shields
Set afoot to feed the eagles-prey on either Christian or druid-with a wounding-hoe
Seeking untold fame and glory and carry back a dragon’s hoard load
To brighten the battle-sweat of those made conquered 
And sing unto Oden- tell their tales- make legends of victors
Believing Valhella's glory to come thus hunting they do go  
Doth all Norseman perform deeds of valor with axe victory and slaughter-dew
So did live the Vikings Danes Anglo Saxons who wore warded blue

Copyright © Mark Goodson | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry | |

KIDS AND BASEBALL SEASON

its there time
to get in line
listen to to band
the hogdog stand
catch from the wall
the water fall
this is the reason
KIDS AND BASEBALL SEASON

Copyright © kurtis scott aka curtis futch jr | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry | |

TRUCK STOP

there gold
to drop off a load
they go city and town
no one around
need to eat and sleep
so they hop  on a cot
at nearest
TRUCK STOP

Copyright © kurtis scott aka curtis futch jr | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry | |

LOVE

if it fits
you know it
it has on kit
it a shower
that come from above
LOVE

Copyright © kurtis scott aka curtis futch jr | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Message Of Hope

Life’s tortures seem a part of my biological design absorbing pain, a phenotype and solutions, seemingly advancing in a slow motion ten hands all over, tearing my blouse hundred long nails shredding my skin down to the dermis The waters have turned salty and all edibles-decayed with maggots I’m roasted by hunger and fried with thirst pressed by two rocks and the valley of escape filled with thorns and reptiles I’ve been tied to the Earth for even animals to trample upon escaping from a dangerous path lands me on a slippery ground sliding down, having a free fall with no help But! The same life which once passes urine on me has now provided a fresh stream for a deep bath the same sky, once filled with pregnant dark clouds shines the light of hope and freedom I’ve been hit but not crushed, bruised but not bleeding heated but not burnt and swallowed but not chewed I’m out! I’ve overcomed and now I’m free!

Copyright © Funom Makama | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Farewell Old Friend

 I take a dose of my own medicine and gage on my pride. Bitter sweet truth, leaves a bad taste in my mouth. Realization that it's time for me to move on. Admitting defeat, accepting the truth. You are my best friend, as a matter of fact, you have been my only friend for years now. I've been leaning on your crutches and using you as an excuse. Enabled by your constant presence, my loneliness has become my personal sanctuary. Practically giving up hope on everyone else, we hid from our fear. Hiding in our room, where our beds were always made to our liking. Obsessing over solitude; avoiding the entire world. Putting up emotional walls that are only identifiable through our actions. Afraid to open up to people, I limited my emotional availability. Giving it only to you. Being Just a little off, just enough to keep people away. You constantly make me feel inadequate. It's hard to hold my head up high, when you are consistently putting me down. Please understand that it's not you, it's me. I am my own best friend and it's time for me to move on. It won't be easy getting over myself. It's been a blast and I'll never forget you. I'm going to move on and never look back. Reality is only a phone call away and my own head can be a tough place to be. I'm dropping you like a bad habit. This chapter of my life is coming to a close. Farewell old friend. 

[2-28-15]
10th Place in SKAT A Contest

Copyright © Ir0nic ZiNk | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Another scary Story

You make your move
Up the stairs
a cool breeze
Makes you flare

You shiver
like a duck on a river

You stay still
Stoned for death
White as a ghost
Fleet like a pest

You race
Like a cow flowing on the upper side of space

You make your move
Down the stairs
A cool breeze
Leaves the air

Copyright © sajdah al-riyami | Year Posted 2009

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Life is Like Baseball final post

Focus means everything!!!....  


                              Effort.                            Courage.       

                                   

In times of our lives we strike out but it is a team sport.    
                      

Think about when you hit that home run!!!!!!!   


It really doesn`t matter at that MOMENT who was there and who wasn`t.

Who applauded and who didn`t.      

      

Moments are all we have, when "time" itself was calculated by the stars and man; 
therefore i fail to believe it truly exists.   

           

Love and The Fight For Survival  continues on............






(Let's play ball!!!!!!!!~incidently my all time favorite sport to play, watch, and 
burn 'em, every chance I get!) 

Spring is here!!!     WoooooooHooooo!!!




Life is just that way. 

Thanks to all for allowing me to openly express myself here at 
this soup, where there is no norm in form, it's just poetryman.
 No right, no wrong... 
Let's shake hands because it sure has been an exciting game that at times I didn't 
realize I was even playing...! 
All in all life is sweet and short. 
May you be blessed in your lives and your creatitity.

                                                   *~THE END~*
Sincerely,  

Lucinda

Copyright © Lucinda Bulger | Year Posted 2011

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Graduate

The names of success spoken slowly, enunciated with near perfection.
Begetters delighted while warriors of knowledge even prouder.

Frame the object with that pride, etched in bold colors of quested victory.
Intended to render focus where future awaits with her breath of betterment.

Render the mortar board square, keeping the gown smooth as the silk it resembles.
Shutterbugs will capture that smile of a thousand future memories.

A feastful celebration shared in public display, consuming all thoughts of ineptness.
Success is now official along with all cheers for you - the graduate.

......................................................
Written: 5/18/2016
Type: Prose Poetry
Contest: Any Poem You Ever Penned
Contest Sponsor: Broken Wings
Placement: 10th Place

Copyright © Jesse Day | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Twinkling eyes

Twinkling eyes that sparks, funny how emotions can takes over the heart
Impossible words that is hard to find, thinking one movement and he might cross
the line.  He wore his pride like a badge, but the wounds in his heart is deep,
and for him to love again is just a broken dream.

Even through loneliness scream when he’s under his sheet,
He rather succumb to its sting, other than listened to the silence song his
Heart had to sing. Known his heart is a self made wall,
And he’s not the type of man she should tell how much she loved afterall.

Thoughts kept running through his mind when he recall
how profound he looked her in the eyes. Making him feelings so awkward that
 he could not control all he knew is having her besides him daily, his love will grows.
He realize that her tender care is the only thing that keeps him alive, yet he 
Settled with routine and afraid go beyond the boundaries.

She reaches out to feel his touch, but somehow had not get enough
Thinking of going her way, but she knew her mind will suffer in everyway
He took her in his arms, where she found security. Hands in hands 
She looked in her lover eyes and saw the love inside and
Made him show the feelings, he always had to hide
Tears fell down his face as emotions takes over
his body language says everything and there things became clear.

Copyright © kelleyana junique | Year Posted 2011

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Sacred Mother Earth- Colors Of Nature

Oh Great Woman of all Nature
  Mother of our Divinely blessed, sacred Earth
Your beauty has kissed my lips
  with the splendor of your clear, sapphire skies
 

The golden, moon bathed Sands
  that are gently caressed
 by your crystal blue clear flowing rivers
Your gentle rain that ascends from the Heavens above
  to delicately soothe and blend
with tears that flow from the broken hearted
 

Your moist, emerald green hills 
 filled with enchanting, lovely flowers 
of every elegant shade and hue
I have beheld the splendid beauty…
 of your green weeping willow's gracious bows and limbs
of iridescent greens and golds
that whisper gently in your swaying, languid winds
 

I have witnessed golden eagles fly so gracious and free
  in your pictorial, periwinkle blue skies
I've feasted my eyes on the sublime splendor
  of your enchanting, golden harvest moon
as its elegant beauty paints a rose, gold, splendid image 
  so deep within my mind
 

All your violet-blue endless horizons
  Your smoky, gray mountains so grand
in the rose blue cool light of dawn
  Your chattering bird songs in skies of azure blue
The fragrant scent of amber gold pinecones
   in the sparkle of the crystal clear early morning dew
 

I pay Ode’ to you Great Mother Nature
  for every golden ray of sun that warmed my skin
that hangs brilliant and dazzling...
   in your glorious skies of cerulean blue

Copyright © anne p. murray | Year Posted 2012

Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Bird in Flight

Sitting there late last night! 
I took everything in with my deepest breath about me.
I could quiver feeling the warmth sinking slowly in, 
I was covered over distances which I could now see.
I had left myself. 
I was gone again.
I was above and beyond the clouds,  
Soaring deeply with every one of my though,
Higher and higher I rose, 
Reaching loftiness’ I have never once felt. 
I was a bird in flight! 
Stunning with privilege I had brought.
Feeling myself from deep within!
Standing there that night, 
The radiance beamed all around me so I took this in.
And lo and behold, there I went again.
I could feel myself while locked deep with my thoughts.
I was absorbed inside by everything surrounding me.
I felt the depth that my eyes could never ever once see.
Loosing all truth of myself, every sensation my soul had caught.
Further and further I rose, reaching capacities I had never felt.
I’m a feather in the air, 
Gathering sensations inside of myself.
I lay there that night, mind, body, and soul with me.
I was calm with the breeze, 
Inside of myself,
Feeling myself!
And once again I was a bird in flight soaring so high and much too free.
I was locked sound with my deepest thoughts.
More and more I rose and impact for impact I felt.
Feathers of a bird in flight and one of me I have surely got.
Ever since that night, many, many things have come to me.
One by one, gathered by the sensations carried all over me.
Touching inside of myself, again, again, and again!
Higher and higher I climb to reach the very tipsy top.
Gathering it all, I am more of me when more of me can be felt.
I am the breeze in the air touching the many feathers these birds have brought.
Many feathers just from sitting here, but each the soar of the wind has surely caught.
I’m a bird in flight gathering all that is real or not and all that is captured in of my-self.
I am surely the feather that fell from the very top, 
Because I am now what then I surely was not!
I am simply that feather in the air falling loose and free inside of myself.

®Registered: 1997 Ann Rich

Copyright © Ann Rich | Year Posted 2010

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The color of love

Without him beside me, my future seems so bleak, being naïve, 
i was told he was not meant for me. Ignoring this world of cruelty
and its power tear our world apart. Now sitting i ponder why I being so naïve from the very start

My tomorrow will never come, for I will forever live in his yesterday. Turning my back on the one who loved me in every single way.
Not even time can heal a shattered heart, but I guess somewhere in his heart he loved me after all

Many times I’ve dreamt of him and unable to hide my tears,
As I reminisce that sad day I decide we go our separate ways,
I pinch myself, as in a dream, knowing it is not true,
How could I let go of such a man, no woman would ever do.

I remember the look in his eyes when he dropped by and found my note. Pain crippled on his face leaving such a heart in pain, as he read along “My heart is with you but I will forever be alone, never will you and I share a place of our own. Rejected by all to cross the color line thinking my love is blind".

 If again such a love should come my way, I’d break free of those dark days I’d confess my true heart and reject the rest and  break through this racial barrier and fallow my lovers path wherever he lead to ease this heart that beat to grieve.

Copyright © kelleyana junique | Year Posted 2011

Details | Prose Poetry | |

MegOHBlister

MegOHBlister
They built the underground chamber well reinforced with concrete to the depth of 
three miles into the center of the earth. NO steel girders were used. They did not 
wish to be trapped when the atomics started dropping from the sky. They putt three 
tons of food within reach for everyone to survive. Radiation suits with water in 
drums to be used only in the event of the end of the world. They even used double 
doors like saloon doors which could not lock them inside. But they forgot what could 
happen iff Murphy is in charge. The SILO for this is the right title of this thing the 
SILO for this is the designation of this thing the SILO drifted above them only 17 feet 
away but it could not have been worse it could have been 17 miles for there were 
no equipment down there for them to tunnel up or out. The spokesman for the 
group turned out to be the worst the nerves evident in the strain of her voice there 
is no reason left to us. So now we will die here entombed no one could foresee this 
problem the concrete silo above us has drifted into the earth trapping us 
underground for the rest of our lives. Which recourse will not be much longer now. 
The lifer PFC Hice stepped up to the dirt floor roof just above them he took his 
shovel from his pack then he began to dig slowly at first then faster faster he pulled 
the dirt from the opening letting it fall behind him uncaring he begins to turn the 
tunnel to the west to begin his task of getting to the concrete Wall of the silo. 
NOTHING else matters now to most of them they sought out ways to help him. He 
turned over here he is to sleep then wakes to begin the shovel urging the others 
taking turns to come up behind him with the bucket then drop the dirt into the 
kitchen or the stove they filled up every free spot in the effort to conserve room they 
intended to win this fight for survival now. For where there is one free Man there is 
hope for the others. It took too long to get the concrete tower open. They found 
them there one September. They held open the tower door for the Prime Minister of 
the world. He took one look to the Man on the tunnel floor. He smiled. It is my son. 
He died he gave his life upp here down here trying to get them out he was trying to 
save them. He brought him out into the light only to bury him further. Such is the 
power of men. Such is there intelligence. One huge MegOHBlister.

Copyright © charles hice | Year Posted 2011

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The BegInDing

(Door bell rings)
 The damn dog barks and a voice is heard. Arms stretch, forming a letter Y. A head shakes. Dimples become this smooth cheek; lips form a letter O... Exhaled respiration sighs; the break of yawn verifies new horizons; official. Time refers to the handbook of rules. Rip threw page after page; crumpled up waste basket balls rim out off yawning lips. Illusive sleep hysteria dreams, that flicker on and off stroboscopic memories. Unconscious thoughts fill in gaps with a given assumption. Personal stead-fast conviction driving miss daisy; otherwise terrified by reverse psychological roles. Hole punched tickets admit one day: beginning with a letter D; memory recalls it ending with a big Y... Negative voices echo through lightless minds; laid flat in a bed between soiled linings. Poor children are told how; begging to find out why. Sit down, shut up, do what they tell you to do; innocent belief. Criminals will steal their hope; they will turn around and become them. Again and again this pattern seams stitched into fabricated existence. Rock bands form guitar heroes; creating descriptive music that we listen too. Lyrically guided by spoken words: this music takes us into journeys and out of mind. We release our inhibitions; momentarily vulnerable. At times we stay up all night; carrying one day into another. Two days still end with the same letter Y. Reality then gets associated with a drag; that's just life... Is it really though? How does this make you feel? Why is life as such? Apparently nothing changes if nothing changes; whatever that means... Nothing is what nobody does. Who is nobody? Nobody isn't even a person so... It is an it? It is a vaguely indicator word. Open ended like our speech tendency; along it goes on... What do you think is closer from truth? Closer to what and where is its origination? No-bodies language sighs lettered lips O and right arms wonder Y this really is... Left arms think nobody's looking and carry(s) on with, that's life... Somebody knows nobody.  Both of you know. Some... No... Any... Everybody includes anybody, but somebody overlooks nobody. Nobody's look like somebody in mirror’s image. You become nobody when you wear somebody's look. Anybody can change the outlook of everybody. Nobody has this ability... That's a matter of fact because nobody doesn't even exist. Everybody is somebody and this can be anybody; even you. (Door bell rings)  Two hands make two fists that rub two eyes. A new yawn gathers what is left to be salvaged of puzzled peace. Yesterday’s left over memory forgot its closure. Carried on with a letter Y; personal resolve unsettled by such a disregarded end. Time remains constant; utterly unbiased. How can I make the most out of my limited time? What have the messages of my instructors truly been intending? Make your time count rather than count all your time. End each day with clean linings free from soiled letter Y. Begin each new venture following a righteous close. It's not actually a fresh start if begun prior to such (a) just ending... Fret not for the dog is merely communicating to the best of its ability; most likely just saying hello. It is what it is but what may that be? Let it be but as simple as it truly is intended to be... Anything and everything comes to an eventual end. Followed by an unbiased time shaped beginning. Be somebody! Someone who doesn't know how to be nobody anymore. Count yourself in; everybody's included. Horizons scarlet colored reality sends its hopeful rays to signal the beginning. Only to use the same sign for the end. Embrace each exceptional end and embark new beginnings with hope filled wide eyes. Close the door on yesterday and open up for today.      (Door bell rings)                          The BegInDing--   Ironic Zinc  10-10-15

Copyright © Ir0nic ZiNk | Year Posted 2016