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Prose Poetry April Poems | Prose Poetry Poems About April

These Prose Poetry April poems are examples of Prose Poetry poems about April. These are the best examples of Prose Poetry April poems written by international PoetrySoup poets

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Beautiful people

People make me smile the way 
their eyes shine when they talk 
about something they love 
when they feed me food. Or tell 
me how much they love me 
when I look into someone's 
eyes and see it I see that look 
in their eyes I see love in them 
When I see someone laugh and 
have fun in what they do 
The way they cry for there lost 
When they give me a smile and 
tell me how beautiful I am 
People are beautiful well some 
are and I wish someday I can 
find someone who will look at 
me and say "you have that look 
in your eye"    what look?
I want to find someone so 
beautiful in the inside I can't 
stay away they amaze me with 
what they say an do how they 
will dance in the rain and know 
every detail about me
Will bring me Starbucks on a 
rainy day and just talk about 
the stars 
I want someone beautiful

Copyright © brittney lopez | Year Posted 2013

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Nihilist Apathy

The rain pours down on the city. 
A sense of putrid disgust fills the air, 
as trash litters the streets 
and grime grows in every back alley. 

The clouds cast their shadows 
and the lack of saturation sucks the life out of everything 
and everyone. 

The rain adds depth to the highlights and shadows of the world,
making the spray-painted brick walls and cigarette-ridden cracked roads look surreal. 
The rain cleanses the earth of it‘s filth.

It‘s the emptiness that makes me feel, 
the destroyers of my body.
For all the years of coffees, cigarettes,
opiates and alcohol have numbed me.
My insides feel sick, my organs venal.

My body is being held together by a rope of chains,
and the chains are rusting against my skin.

I often find myself in bed with an old fling or an attractive stranger.
Another night of vigorous intercourse, 
makes no difference to me. 
They take more pleasure in it than I do,
for even at the end of the night,
I am still
and truly alone in my mind.

Copyright © Todd Dawson-Cooper | Year Posted 2016

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The Legend of the Louisiana Gypsy

Gentle April showers tapped on a rusty tin roof the four leaf clovers already wet from the morning dew spring forth little one, to a life brand new Possibly you can be delivered today peaceful and true the daises whisper your name saying their “I love you” the cows need milking and the rooster bids you adieu On this peaceful spring is a farm waiting for you blue birds spread their wings singing praises too as a new foal stands near the fence playing peek a boo The ducks in the pond swim happily two by two even the ravens in the field caw waiting for a baby born new come on little girl with scarlet curls show them what you can do Pink blankets are awaiting to swaddle you, not blue the barn is excited for changes even Lucy goose from a little gypsy dancer dancing to cows moos On this grand April day peace abounds with her fruits she will grow up in a barn dancing telling her truth even though she may be but one she knows... "Peace begins with me, but also with you,

Copyright © Danielle Wise Baxter | Year Posted 2012

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The relentless sun burns,
Warming up the sky.
Open the car window and see the children play.
“Where is the rain?,” I wonder,
And try to push the thought out of my head.
Change the radio station.
Later, clouds form.
Could this be it, our release?
Drops fall for a moment,
The sky is important and, they stop short.
And the infernal sun returns.

Copyright © Janice Harris | Year Posted 2015

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Out On The Porch Sunday April 10 2011

The cool dampness of the morn wraps its blanket around me inviting me come 
sit enjoy..The gap in the hedge row calls my name; come into the mist be 
shrouded and walk into the unknown as the rooster crows constantly stirring the 
air with their vocals..The sun with its yellow light of illumination ever getting 
brighter and warmer draws creatures of the sky to fly and sing praises..There is 
beauty all around on this spring morn. .Silly Mocking Bird said Whip-Poor-Will 
and for a second he had me totally confused was I getting up or going to 

Copyright © Sara Kendrick | Year Posted 2011

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Titanic The Unsinkable Ship

What people believed in 1912.
Was a myth in the truth, placed on a shelf.
Was the unthinkable, unsinkable..
The fourty six thousand gross tons of steal.
Would never kneel or break its bow.
The ship could never sink or rust.
Was rumor going round, we all could trust.
The crowd showd up to celebrate.
As the ship was Christened to show its fate.
But The White Star Line was cruising fine.
When it hit a berg, under a darkened sky.
There it lie, with many to cry.
At the bottom of the sea she'll die.
They said the Titanic could never sink.
Their opinion a myth, now she's on the brink.
With fourty six thousand gross tons of steal.
The voyagers finished their final meal.
To the bottom of the ocean they went.
A many to cry, while she made her descent.
The Titanic was a ship in trouble.
But now a myth, and a pile of rubble.
At the bottom's where she made her grave.
A sigh of relief, for the lives they saved.
To the rescue, and on the double.
Titanic was a ship in trouble..
Her maiden voyage, now turn the page.
Thousand of people, in a fit of rage.
The news it read that we all should mourn.
The Titanic's passengers, their lives were torn.
A myth of truth placed in the news.
The unsinkable ship..Would never lose.

Titanic-Poetry by Kim Robin Edwards
Copyright 2009,2014..
ALL rights reserved.. 

Copyright © Kim Robin Edwards | Year Posted 2014

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April Loves

She worships her western horizon
toward rippling river, sparkling, hinting of lightning pasts and futures.

Leonardo is wrong.
This seems unlikely, perhaps judgmental,
even so, his God clearly reconstructed in his well-owned glorious image,
universal God of Creative Majestic Architecture.

But, for her, as she watches bruised red wilt into painfully pale lavender, 
over black night's forest line,
cerebrally alone,
sacredly uniting
nature speaks through Gaia's rich-timed EcoLogos Voice,
sometimes in pastel skies and meadows,
sometimes in relentlessly lavish vibrant green,
sometimes Full Moon, New Moon,... 
Rain, Wind, 
sometimes sublime on her tin roof, 
whistling through worn-out window frames. 

If God were made in her image,
creation would speak in reasoned fertile seasons of shadow dark, and lightning bright,
synapses of climax, echoing down river valleys
rolling out grand majesty of thundering EcoLogos,
perfect rhythms,
rain beating Earth's enlightening future.

It would have been more revolutionary
and probably therapeutic,
most certainly lovelier, had Leonardo portrayed God as Earth's logos voice
swirling light as surf,
tidal river waters gleaming wide at dusk,
narrower in dawn's first light,
a ribbon flowing light emerging west
reflecting waters greeting eastern sky new again dawning,
Gaia's morning river of emergent logos
translating Sun's architectural might.

Copyright © Gerald Dillenbeck | Year Posted 2016

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 Is tomorrow the end of March or the beginning of April April one or March 32 the 
way to approach the online scenario is to make it seem to be true. Associated 
Press AP: The Government in a brief memo enacted a new presidential law 
bringing the March 32 a new day into the light of day. The President of the United 
States declared leap year over null and voided. Here is the words of the transcript 
from the Whitehouse: This is President Bush talking "Eye am certain all we ever 
had to do was add a day on the end of a month when we need to in the year they 
used to all call leap year year. March now has the end of the month the April 
starts after the March 32 has come." End of quotation. The Democrats in Georgia 
have declared WAR upon the United States "we believe it to be wrong to take 
away leap year is bad enough but to add a day to MARCH is madness." The 
press corp at the Whitehouse is for once speechless. The day of the end of 
March will be celebrated all over the nation with the observnace of the Marching 
Bands of America. Send money via PayPal to Box 666 Mountain Verne 
Washingtonia, D.C. For the hearing impaired we have prepared a phonetic 
version of this message. March 32. Mahrrch Thirtee Twuu. In DRY counties of 
Arkansas this day will fall on April 1, 2008. The subdivisions housing in the 
Indian Reservations in Oklahoma will be left out. No one in Central Asia may 
observe it. Lets go LIVE to the White house to ask a question of Mrs. Bush. What 
will you do Barbara? The First Lady is unavaliable for comment. This is highly 
unusual. We remain speechless. The new day falls on a Tuesday this year and 
April 1, 2008 is on this Wednesday. All of you are April fools.

Copyright © charles hice | Year Posted 2008

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April And The Lost Stamina Sussex County I

-Honey go to the Dr
-April I don't know Am I still alive?
-Do it for Us, ours strive
-And the watcher what I should say?
-Tell him the all system was hacked 
-The all system was hacked William (Blush)
-we going to do some tests now 

"this guy is one in a million"

Two weeks 
1000 Doc critiques 
Deliberation: -Not going.
April goes to the office, -so Easy going how is he?
Good so far The CPU is Ok, Keyboard and Screen Alright 
The power A-L-W-A-Y-S in save E mode 
See this <| ...
He will never again hit the road with full load 

Copyright © PEDROS FERNANDES | Year Posted 2013

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January's Wishes Spoken Through the Dishonesty of April.

Her eyes amused me, slices of January that held April tightly....

she could rain in snow, drop from upside-down skies, and we held tightly to the tears that
only appeared on the opposite side of closet doors as we marked our claim on unusual with
hand prints that never saw the sun.

Two days could have passed underneath us before we blinked, my windows whispered glorious
promises but we kept them closed for safety, for the opposition of who we could be, and
she knew the secret of every season, she knew how to laugh when bedroom doors...


I drew her behind the mirror and we created October across December stars, we became
disobedient underneath the glorious names we sang that night for lips speak magic when
they pretend to lie and dishonesty was but a kiss away from sunrise.

Time stung me come August, come March, come the age of thirty-two, her eyes had been shut
for years now and she sunk beneath flowers I am positive would be beautiful enough to
photograph had I the courage to glance, but my feet have never crossed the grass that
blankets her and roots her promises...

tangled beneath tomorrow with a tight grasp on yesterday, and I wonder if the days have
yet to fade the color of her hair.

It rained in January when I existed miles away, teardrops of memories that fell as softly
as the whispers of her name, I closed the bedroom door tightly and listened intensely for
the echoes of dishonesty, for she remained there, somewhere, behind mirrors that painted
her and the lies that bit my tongue, that reassured me...

our hand prints would hide from summer...

covered in ice-cream secrets that screamed her pain from a smile, from a foolish wish that
spoke us inseparable.

Her eyes, blue as October, slapped me, that day, as they painted themselves the secrets
girls are never supposed to witness, as they refused to allow April to fall but declared


with the beauty that she

could never see.

Copyright © JeanMarie Marchese | Year Posted 2007

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How Cold is the April Breeze


My nocturne is a mighty wind
 blowing across fragrant skin
the world relentless in its struggle
she is an etude, I know that now
it comes along in whispers
between strangers who share the feeling
of what it is to love the April breeze
so many of us acknowledge virtue
in the shining disc of the sun
with all its unique perfections
nothing seems too onerous
with a little sunlight dashed upon it.

Wait till you feel the strangeness
of a cold summer day, I tell myself
April is not through yet, still my heart remembers
the warm summers of laughter 
and the imperfect world making its way
along with the seasons
like a romantic bride off to see the whole of Europe
on her exciting honeymoon.

Copyright © Jonathan Elliott | Year Posted 2013

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Melancholic Born

Why is thy doth of perfectionism?
Melancholic's bore her not
Emeralds, sapphires, diamonds in a row
In April prime, lives her through
Her amulet sparkled like Indian's birthstone
To the glory of her, her alone
She's demure sometimes arduous
You cannnot fetter her like chain of Troy's barbaric men
By Helen's cry and things subside
One, two, three, and deep she carrying the stone
And twa's doomed
She asked, How do I live and die?
For my God, I live in thine.

Copyright © Amor Otong | Year Posted 2015

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it was in my mind
need it this time
i  could sit
so i got it quick
i was a hot sun gun
it was

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

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Clapper of the Bird Boy

The laugh like cry of the April woodpecker happy in the early spring,
And the dry harsh note of the Jay, awaken the forests and everything,
The dusky wings of rook’s glance in the sun, they are so timid and coy,
Chased off from sown fields and hedges by the clapper of the bird boy.

Bees soon will be seen again diving for nectar in the bells of flowers,
Making a sunshiny hum of renewed happiness so contented for hours,
Men, women and children on the landscape working hard with spring,
Ploughing, harrowing, picking up stones listening to nightingales sing.

Others rolling, bush-harrowing or cleaning the drilled wheat for bread,
Breaking the caked crust on the surface with light harrows the clay red,
Shepherds, shifting hurdles giving the flock pastures the greenest of all,
People working in gardens hoeing, sweeping leaves from last year’s fall.

Peacock and tortoiseshell butterflies amid flowers they don’t have a care,
Settling on warm grounds or hovering high above in the still country air,
Such is April with variable wind and rain with a touch of very early frost,
Nightingales around calthas or kingcups near river places they love most.

A coltsfoot shows it’s yellow flowers on cold bare lands without any leaf,
Violets both blue and white are found as sweet as ever on their own heath,
A cardamine stretches up from the margin of a moist green little hollows,
Again the clapper of the bird boy can be heard chasing off hungry swallows.

Copyright © Terry Trainor | Year Posted 2012

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April In Minnesota

Still a bit cool out tonight. I drove to my boomfield anticipatin' gentle winds
 and sweet returns. All my booms impress and amaze me, 'cept for a
couple of 'em, which I know always takes me a few tosses to figure 'em out.
   The air is sweet with the promise of Spring....colorful ducks and geese fill 
the sky. Quickly, sundown approaches, winds abate and peepers from the
creek at the edge of my field begin their harmonies.
    Suddenly! in a dead-calm wind.... I feel it, only in Spring at sundown!
a cool creek breeze, waist-high, slowly waves over me....redolent with
moisture-filled Spring perfumes released from their winter slumber, while
the air above my waist stays warm!.... a sensation unlike anything I've ever
felt or smelled before!
    Then it comes to me.... hmmmm.....stationary warm thermal
air below.... MTA time! ( a special 'rang shaped like a small hockey-stick, called 
maximum time aloft) ... I begin tossing sweet flights (for me!) and eagerly
 catch 'em low, reveling in the different temperatures, odors and sensations as 
I reach to bring 'em in near the ground. An overwhelming sense of well-being
 floods my mind.... as I thank my boomerangs for taking me deep into 
April.... in Minnesota.

Copyright © James Marshall Goff | Year Posted 2009

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F51Part Two

Show me what eye must do now? Just believe in Jesus and see the miracle of 
life. Eye took Hitler in the air with me flying is not hard when made of Titanium 
steel and brass rod. There is a small town in Arkansas and eye took the Fuhrer 
there and placed him with a Family the woman and the boys. He lived there until 
1963 and was buried in the cemetery south of town near Morrilton and the five 
mile creek. The grave stone says Milton Stone upon it and Mrs. Stone was never 
home she always worked three shifts at the cotton gin to make a house into a 
home for her boys and her strang guest. Eye chose to call him Milton Stone. He 
sat most days upon the porch and rocked there back and forth like any self 
appointed guardian of boys. He was so thankful to escape the Air Patrol. The bits 
and pieces of the parts of Hitler that they found was only just a long stray dog eye 
found and let him follow me into the pit the bombers hit the android eye was 
rocked a bit and the poor stray looked up at me in wounded horror but the teeth 
looked enough like the Hitler to fool the German Officers. Jesus saves one hard 
hearted android and the Fuhrer from a early grave. Adolf Hitler is Born - April 20, 
1889 Milton Stone was buried April 20, 1965. He stared hard at me one day when 
eye rode down the highway in a car in my human form he did not wave but he 
knew that it was eye. He was full of lemonade and fish the day he died he was 

Copyright © charles hice | Year Posted 2008

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How alive the light appears--
bending with the water--
sliding from points of crests;
making one wonder
if light is only above
or somewhere in depth of sea
a spirit spark swells
until it can do but one thing-surface!

This is not morning sun rising;
or moon or starlight
tempting one to dream--
it is the light that men follow...
even onto the cross...

Copyright © Joe DiMino | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry | |


If the wind changes and the showers fall heavily on meadows and glades April is Green,
Buds and leaves grow quickly on these green days everyone can see that there is a sun,
Walk through villages, commons and steep lands, the sun reflects off the thick grass,
Larks sing as they twist and wrestle with warm air watched by blackbirds in old trees,
Across the commons large flocks of goslings the same shade of green as a willow catkin,
And gorse in bloom right along the hedge sides in dells and woods lying in the sunshine,
Their faint scented perfume and scented wood anemones are in their thousands over fields,
The turf is sown with violets while cowslips grow buds over the meadows and flower early.

Copyright © Terry Trainor | Year Posted 2013