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Prose Poetry Brother Poems | Prose Poetry Poems About Brother

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

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Details | Prose Poetry | |

Galaxies Came Between

He'd be typing away on his desk
with blueprints for the next big thing,
While I'd be staring off into the azure sky
appreciating the "insignificant" things

You really are a genius
in your field of technicalities,
with which you thoroughly water;
A wife, a place of your own,
and a destination in mind

Me?

You'll find me in the corner
(no not a corner... think rounded edges,
much more safe)
Half past ten, still in bed,
with rolls of cash in a Ziploc bed
(I'm not dealing and I'm sorry if I gave you that
impression... more likely
just a descendant of Scrooge)

Your perfectly organized life
(my just screw it attitude)
Well I must say you are on your way,
but where exactly too?

I solemnly wish
we had, but one thing
in common, dearest brother,
Even with the knowledge
that I wrote this for you
I'm sure deep down
you'd think this quite sappy

And being the person that I am
I'd immediately think of tree metaphors
(now what what rhymes with cedar?)

And being the person you are
you'd probably just go about your day
wondering about the latest Apple product

You live next door
and yet somehow
galaxies came between us,
Practical you gathered sticks and stones
for your shelter here on Earth

(I was too busy daydreaming
on Mars)

From the moment I opened my eyes
and peaked my little head out
from the pool in the backyard,
we were brothers, through and through

... so why do I have this nagging urge
to shake your hand and ask



"Have we met?"


Details | Prose Poetry | |

My Primary Emotion

             ~ My Primary Emotion~

Three days ago I decided to become heartless by
eliminating my Spirit and Soul I could not take
the agony anymore.

I urged my lawyer to come, he looked at me and 
asked, what is wrong? Gazing at him said, 
I don't regret committing that felony against them 
I need to be punished lets go to court. 

Having no reaction, looking disoriented he 
opened the door walked me to his car & drove 
to court.
 
Standing opposite the judge I stared at 
him bluntly, he was reviewing my report 
looked at me ushered to sit in the box 
to be persecuted.

The defense lawyer aware of my crimes 
seemed intrigued and asked, madam 
what caused you to retaliate against your 
Spirit & Soul?.

I needed to disrupt their thoughts which 
turned against me, the chaos in my brain 
became unbearable, exhausted by their 
discussions aggravated my strength 
weakened me, my whole body was 
antagonizing, intentionally forcing my 
thoughts to become heartless, merciless
when I attacked them.

Both profited from my kindness my 
patience, my healing was not responding,
needing some peace to pray for a miracle
as my young brother today is near death, 
cancer of the lungs, he`s getting colder by 
the minute, not eating, not socializing, alone, 
my tears were overflowing beyond control,
when I heard a friendly whisper coming from 
my Heart crying, enough is enough your thoughts 
need to stop to allow yourself recognize wrath is 
unbearable, your sorrow is taking you nowhere, 
wait for the diagnosis.

Out of compassion the judge set me free
my kindness befriended my Spirit & Soul
together we went back home. Waiting. 

I was surrounded by them knowing
ahead of me will be the longest night 
I will ever experience in years, because 
I was determined to stay awake 
for that call.

The echo of the ringer came louder than usual
we heard this message! 
Minutes ago he was wide awake
Minutes ago his heart tore him away
minutes ago his casket was carried astray
minutes ago underground he will lay.
Minutes ago I wished him an endless
goodbye with a sigh.

My friends held me step by step walked
me to bed covered me up stayed until I had 
no more tears to shed. 
Those were my emotions for today. Grieving
over the loss of my young brother. Sadness.

Therese Bacha
2/4/2013                              
Contest of Dan Williams. Primary Emotion Today..
 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Lonely Grave

1

I stood by your graveside this cold winters day.

A heart broken with sorrow that won’t go away.

I called out your name and shed many a tear.

And hoped in my heart that you would appear.

2

God took you from us that fine sunny morning.

Our lives now shattered without any warning.

Your work here on earth has finished this year.

Your books and teachings you spread  far and near.

3

It was a pleasure to know you for sixty odd years.

And when my time comes I will have no fears.

You will be waiting to greet me as oft times before.

When I call to your house and knock on the door.

4

Each night when I lay my head down to sleep.

I will ask the lord your soul to keep.

And if you find any time away from your books.

Look kindly on me as I walk in those woods.


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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Big Brother

“Big Brother”

Brother I grew up in front of your eyes
I have seen you tear in silence
You don’t have to hide your pain
For I understand
Why you can’t meet your mother’s gaze
You have been brave
Roaming the streets late at night
We prayed for your safe return 
Each time you felt the need to be alone

She broke your spirit
Made you feel less than a man
She convinced you that you were insane
She broke you down 
Isolated you from family and friends
Made you to sit and wait while she sleeps the day away
Your soft nature in her eyes a weakness
She knew how to pull your strings
And have you dance to her tune
You have endured her physical and mental abuse
Silently loosing yourself
Your business and dreams took second place
Dancing to her every tune
Waiting on her hand and foot
Withholding herself 
Whilst having affairs at work
The Great career woman
She broke you totally
Drove you over the edge
Working late nights to support her shopping sprees
Exhaustion drove you to crystal meth
Introduced by a friend
She boasting to her friends
Her raised voice your submission
Belittling and insulting you in front of your staff

You know what, Yahya
You have come a long way
Finally you have made it back
You have conquered all the hurt
Your future bright
Success in the palms of your hands
Rise above it all 
Show what you are made of
You were once a self made man
You can do it again
The family believes in you


23:02:13


Details | Prose Poetry | |

MAY OUR WILL BE DONE

Personally, we clash because we want to be different. becomes indifferent. We have a chip on our shoulders as individuals. We want to be innate; in which one must be the greater person. Personally, we confront each other about dumb things when it is not business structured. Our conflict becomes that of jealousy. Non-bias to gender this is which cause differentiation. We are the people of the cosmos. Our brotherly and sisterly love is what unites us. Let us learn each other through the structure formed and join for a greater focus. The reality of today states life is a place in time. Formed by animal and by humankind, our living determines our destinies. Strength empowers! A common cause unites! We are all God’s people. We must bond in some shape, form, or fashion. This is for certain and ascertains a more meaningful existence. Our personality clashes should not stop us as individuals. The multitude is what matters and we are in that configuration. Inasmuch, integrity integrates. Amour-proper allows us to become more diverse. A greater determination brings forth application. Therefore, we must concentrate within these thoughts. Our single-mindedness plus our constructive efforts manifests destiny. This is our world our universe. Let us not asunder. MAY OUR WILL BE DONE! _____________________________| Sponsor Chris D. Aechtner Contest Name Anything Goes Entry Date March 08, 2014 ~Please read About This Poem~


Details | Prose Poetry | |

BE A FRIEND

you don't them
or him
you see  someone bad
looking kind of sad
do it if you can
help them stand
do it from within
BE A FRIEND


Details | Prose Poetry | |

My brother's hand

My brother’s hand regarded not my words for, they go unheard, as the silence grows my brother’s hand clinches cold and my last words fall to the ground pooling, congealing into an unsatisfied thirst. The devils on horseback are led to the water, but never drinking, as the blackened house lies in ruin. I wonder about the tree in the forest and the forest without ears to hear and the tree never seen, but alas and alas every man. How does a machete make more noise and fire be heard on the other side of the world? It may have been bearable, but I am not alone and I know their words will never be heard for they are in my brother’s hand. 11/5/2014


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Paying the Piper The Great War

A fist clenched, face muscles flexed on pinched cheeks, huge sinews appeared on his neck,
The veins in his arms were like twisted lengths of blue rope and his eyes bulged in his anger,
His brother lay face down in a rancid pool, a lifeless corpse, another name in a very long book,
Ghosts in a grey dawn, moving then disappearing, then boom as mighty cannons fire into the sky.

Turning the body over, wretched wounds had ripped his face, ripped his youth, ripped away his life,
A gray morning, the same as other mornings, cold grey twilight, but this day will never be forgotten,
The strong brave man, who had seem so much, cried uncontrollably and his hot tears fell bitterly,
He knelt in filth, to cradle his younger brother and rocked backwards and forwards, unbelieving.

Once they played on long sultry hot days and when the rain fell it refreshed scents in the warm air,
They ran through fallow fields, pretty meadows scythed clear of hay, into a fine wild flower garden,
In days where the air slumbered lazily, they climbed thick leafy masses of high, ancient oak trees,
Always watching and warning his happy little brother, never climb too high nor stand on dead wood.

Laying down and looking up into autumn skies, warm, soaring winds shaping passing fluffy clouds,
Rising early as the sun once more shines, on those brilliant days, the calmest most impressive beauty,
Watching from afar in school looking after him, chasing bullies away, enriching his early days,
Beneath these warm shimmering suns, running, over to hedgerows picking sweet ripe black berries.

But those days are gone, gone forever, replaced by fear and hate, nobody will ever be the same,
Every day staring at death's grinning sated face, trying not to be caught in its cold red eyes,
And we all know the piper must be paid on these killing fields, but his wages are far too high,
Today on this early grey morning, shadows disappearing, a young man and his brother paid in full.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

I WILL ALWAYS

I wish you were here by my side
But a million miles away

I guess you never think of me
Or you would at least call
But I guess your just too busy with your other family

I've searched for you for so long
But I still have no clue where you might be

You will always be a part of me 
Even if you don't care

I want you to know
There is always a place in my heart for you
And that you'll always be a part of my family
I will always miss you.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Mom's Death

I will always recall the day
my mom died.

She was in recovery for 
congestive heart surgery.
The work itself had gone well 
but brought on massive clots 
to the lungs.

I was an hour and a half away
and when I arrived, 
Mom was talking to the doctor.
He had tears in his eyes,
apologizing for getting hopes up 
where there was no hope now.
She looked him straight in the eye
and told him that she didn’t want to die.
But, if the Lord was ready 
the doctor didn’t need to cry.
“I know you did everything in your power 
to make me well”, she said. “So don’t you feel bad, 
don’t apologize for trying to help me.  
God is the one to have the final say.
I will resist going until my absolutely final breath. 
Because, I think that is what he expects of me.  
When I know it’s time I will be with him.”
The doctor left, I don’t know if he felt better. 
Probably not. He had promised her five more years.

I stayed and talked to mom for a while, 
before my brother came back in.
“Now Bunky, you know your brothers
are not as strong as you.  
You will have to help them through this.  
That is what I know you will do.”  
I said “yes Momma,” 
no longer fighting the wetness profusely rolling down my cheeks.
“Where’s Carolyn” she said of my wife. 
“I called her and she is on the way shortly. 
She will get here as soon as she can.” 
My brother came back in 
and I went out to the doctor again.

He said her lungs were completely clogged 
and she would slowly suffocate.  
But, it would be painless because she could breathe.  
She just couldn’t process the air.
She would simply go to sleep.
And that is the way the next four hours went,
with Mom going little by little.  
She napped, 
and woke up once in a while 
to ask about my younger brother 
and his wife and my wife. 
Telling all how much she loved them. 
She slept a little longer each
time she closed her eyes
and finally the only one not 
there was my wife.  
We thought a couple of times she had passed.  
But the nurse said she just wouldn’t give up. 
She sunk so low they couldn't find a pulse
or read blood pressure. 
I don’t remember how they knew she was not gone.  
Finally just before my wife
came in they actually didn’t know 
if she was still alive.
My wife came in and Mom spoke.
“Carolyn, Carolyn", very weakly and 
they talked softly for a while and Mom died. 
She had held on beyond a readable pulse.  
Beyond blood pressure. 
To tell my wife good bye. 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Missing the Man in the Hat

It was early one morning, when you arrived..
You entered the restaurant and I noticed your stride..
Your manner of dress was quite elegant.. and ..
It appeared you were having breakfast...
With a very important guest..
Seated at the table, and I couldn’t help but notice,
The strange thing you did , when you removed from your purse..  
An old and tattered faded hat..
You took it lovingly in your hands and..
Proceeded to give it a kiss..
As you placed it across from where you sat...
I knew it belonged to someone you missed..
Then you did something strange...
You did a smile and a wink.. 
Poured two cups and I began to think....
Perhaps the car was being parked,
And soon your friend would join you..
As I sat and watched you seemed to be...
Engrossed in a conversation...
The twinkle in your eyes and the smile on your face..
Sent the message you were in a happy place...
Then you got out of your chair...and hugged the air..
And left the same way you came...but ..
I heard you say as you walked away..
Same time..same place next year ?




Details | Prose Poetry | |

For Jamie

My cigarette was nearly out, 
and I exhaled smoke that whispered 
death in my ears. I had an itch.
 It called my hand toward my forearm, 
and I let a finger run across it’s inside.
 I could see the blood flow out of his flesh,
 tears soaked his skin, 
and it rained in my mind. 
I miss him so much, my brother of rage.
 He was a whirlwind, a torrent of a man 
that blew across this world like a storm. 
Now the only lightning he can offer are 
strikes of memories of people that loved him, 
I am one of them. 
When people saw that burly viking like creature,
 they gaped in fearful judgment. 
I pity them, he was a book with a heavy cover,
 with pages of loyalty and adventure inside.
 A true friend, 
it burns to think of the afflictions he kept
 within that made such a strong soul give in. 
I take one more breath of smoke, 
and throw the butt of that fading fire 
toward the sky and let it die. 

” I miss you.”

-James Kelley 2013, All rights reserved.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Scrambled Clues

Scrambled Clues…

Night has fallen
The fog settles over the land
Only in closeness
Can you see the faces
The eyes closed, windows against torrid rain
While ideas flash and beat the mind

Helplessly watching
Waiting for the escalator to reach the top
So you may step into daylight

But in daylight
The fog drifts to the water
Always a step ahead
Blinding me to the depths
Through which I am falling

Please someone
Help me
I am losing my mind
And as of yet not certain,
Even faintly aware,
  Of when night will fall again
  Bringing with it,
  The soothing rain of darkness


For my brother Gregory.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

SECOND BIRTH

What can I do? I’m helpless
Witches are stuffing my brain with straw
Pernicious thoughts raining spurious angels-
Sons of bloodsheds, their beautiful faces
Wait for a cab sailing to perdition.

My organs are atrophied as head swells
Like a big bug, spreading its wings and ejecting
Bad fumes on the inebriate city malls, and
 Levitates between yes and no
Sorry, from today, on principle, I’m your foe
Sorry, I must kill you, my chips dictate so.

I ‘m duped by Macbeth’s witches, I have
Killed Banquo on a barren heath to fulfill their
Prophesies; strange delusions release their
Sperms in my innards to fructify evil plan
To stop the future coming on the earth-face
To stop the riverflow, to stop the human grace.

 I am barren, nothing restricts me to kill
Grenades command me, bullets demand dues
Missiles fall like crackers at the wedding
I have sinned, nukes cry wolf, battalions move
I have sinned, birds lose nest, babies mother
I have to shoot the first shadow of my father
I have sinned; I have to blast my twin brother.

What can I do? I’m helpless
Girls are ravaged by squiggling worms 
Widowed Cats are seeking hearth
I have sinned, world waits a second birth.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Apart From Me







Somber silly little Setter, English; painting trapped himself in the side yard whimpering, howling away wildly. 


Sunscreen-on, moseying on over, in His tenderness He offers a helping hand. Hot Summers cool vapors the blessings found  here, there to and fro leaning midst the still lulling; gentle calling of the Rains. 


Yes the Grace of God, in His joy humming, arriving just in time, and so is Patience the greater venture I suppose the eminent virtue. 


His Love always; Honest, Open... Willing already beholden... . Far beyond the wreck I make for myself and others... chains stretched bounded securing me yes, my freedom in kind stripped away from me given in the effort this provisional very prominence preceding me when in denial of these facts.     







Details | Prose Poetry | |

My Brother

You left my brother
Came back a man
Should hear our proud father
Speak of you
How you’ve done him
And momma proud
Sister Jane and Katherine
Down the block
Never seem to have anything
But you to talk about
Oh if you only knew the loving
All the girls around here
Say you’ve missed
It’s a good bet
You’d never have left
But leave you did
Nothing can change that now
In a way it’s good to know
Exactly where you are
We need never again worry
If that old truck of yours broke down
Leaving you to walk home in the rain
It’s a good thing really
Now we can all get some sleep
Granted, not as much as you
But we will in our due time
Just want you to know
These tags of yours
Will never leave my neck
You, will never leave my heart
For no matter why you left
Or how you came back
You still are
And will always be
My brother


Details | Prose Poetry | |

what fools are we

To delay the inevitable 
We attempt to engineer longevity
Unable to bear the burden
Of a transient
uncontrollable existence
We make ourselves gods over nature 

We will live
Then die
and be forgotten
A cycle that will never 
Outlive nature or time 
 
Our advancement has been rapid
Our hopes have been triumphed
By our energetic abilities
We can we feel conquer all 

Self-grandeur
Soldered to a psyche that
Seeks out any weaknesses to destroy
Makes man bold
He traduces all
Never understanding the unique balance
That is life

Our anxiety regarding our significance
Harangues our thoughts
We seek out answers on earth
And from the galaxy
We cannot rest until we
Know how time began

Must we be so selfish
Treating our brother and the environment
With no love
Condemning all with a granite heart?
Must we pretend
That we are self-created
That we sprung from the big bang?

To be occasional masters of our world
Is a responsibility we must
Not take lightly
Each stake holder has his role to play
In shaping our world

Time may be our friend 
And our understanding may become complete
But will we find what we seek?



Details | Prose Poetry | |

Walking through a Victorian Cemetery

Passing a cemetery gate I walked in I could see all the epitaphs chronicling deaths,
The dates were all times and seasons and there were little graves for little babies,
Daisies mark children's resting places their small hands used to make them into chains,
Other huge graves showed people struck down in the prime and evening of their lives.

As time passed the sun's last setting beams a smile on the mounds and shadows stretch,
The evening wind began to sigh among the branches of the many Yew trees very near by,
Death awaits all so we should try to understand that and look death calmly in the face,
His bony knuckles will be heard very loudly as they rattle our doors and beacon us away.

The grim reaper will be the forerunner of the next searching ordeal that is the judgment,
We look into our souls watching the compass of our lives to which way the needle trembles,
As the evening wore on I could see a lonely figure limping along jingling keys to lock up,
A tired old man in the December of his life waiting for a bony finger to show him the way.

Making my way to an inn I ordered a glass of port the gas mantles, dimmed into half light,
Thinking about my day an image of my lost brother came to mind and the pain still dug deep,
I could see him playing with toys in his room, dark shadows under his eyes still haunt me,
Maybe one day I will see the boney finger of my lost brother beaconing me to join him.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

ANUTHER DAY

this is the good thing
what god loves bring
there' is a change
we have gain
from raceist pain
from that old way
this is
ANUTHER DAY


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Card Game

The Queen of Spades trumps all
In our game of hearts
And other organs
Tangled in Greek and Latinate names
Ependymoma
Epinephrine
Endymion
Wake up, Shepherd!
The Black and the Red
Call you
Kings and Queens battle
The rules don’t allow for discarding
Draw from the deck,
Choking the progress with wheeling lights and coloured geometric shapes
Hearts
Spades
Diamonds
Like crystals
Crystal methamphetamine to make the cards fly faster
Clubs
Club the senses 
Introduce new shades, purple kush
Orange and yellow sunrise
Swirling blue and gold
Smoke goes up and enter the kaleidoscope.
Your kaleidoscope is white 
Fluorescent light
Perfect background to lay the tricks
Deal the hands
And take your pick 
Buy? Fold? Try again?
And when we’re done
We’ll pick them up, one by one
Put them in order again
And lay them away in the dark.
Sleep, Endymion.
The Queen with the black eyes is your sign
In dreams, everything is fine.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Without The Box

So, there you are
Returned from fighting another mans war
Heard you’re quite the hero
Good for you my friend
Twenty years young
Couldn’t wait
To kick some terrorist ass
And so you did
So very well indeed I hear
Now you’re back
Nothing more to kick
What are you to do with yourself
Lying there as you are
Look at all of us here
To welcome you back
Can you not hear the joy
Can you not see the happiness
Or is it all hidden behind the tears
So here you are returned
In a flawless uniform
Lying there all smug and confident
With a peaceful look
Here you are returned
Fresh off the plane
In a nice tight package
Here you are returned
To never leave again
Good to have you back my friend
Only wish it could have been
Without the box


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Home at Last

(1)

It was a bright sunny day in two thousand and seven.

September twenty first at quarter to eleven.

In a coma you lay without even a stir.

With our eyes full of tears it just never occurred.

(2)

That this was the last time we would see you alive.

At your bedside your family, children, and wife.

We watched you all night and part of the morning.

Then you sighed your last breath without any warning.

(3)

We hoped  before you parted to your home up above.

We could  take you in our arms and give you a hug.

Your body all broken and ruptured with pain.

All our hopes and desires were all in vain.

(4)

For God had decided it was your time to go.

To that place they call heaven that we all know.

You left us your poetry , teachings and books.

So let us make use of your wonderful works.

(5)

When we visit your grave now we know your not there.

You are up in that College without any care.

So look kindly on all that are left here a mourning.

And please God tomorrow we all have a bright morning.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

BHAI PHONTA

Bhai Phonta is a Bengali Hindu festival, usually celebrated two days after the Kali Puja or Sakti Puja where the sisters mark the foreheads of their brothers with sandalwood paste and pray for their safety, well being and success. 
According to Rig Veda, Yama and Yamuna(or Yami) were twins (brother and sister) born to Surya. In their earthly incarnations, Yamuna(Yami) once longed to see her brother and invited Yama to her house. When Yama, the god of death visited his sister, his sister prayed for his well being.
However, according to folklorist and social historians, due to various societal changes with the advent of agriculture, the sisters began to pray for their brothers' safety, well being, and success. The Bhai Phonta festival is rooted in that social practice.According to the Bengali Hindu lunar calendar, the festival is celebrated on the second day of the Shukla paksha of the month of Kartik ( Oct-Nov) in late autumn. Sometimes it is also celebrated on the first day of the Shukla paksha.
The sister puts a mark of sandalwood paste mixed with curd on her brother's forehead with her left hand little finger thrice, while reciting a traditional rhyme:

THE POEM: BHAI PHONTA  (n-nasal)
"I dot my bother's forehead
Let there be thorns before the door of Yama, the death
My brother lives long, for ages
And be dotted by his sister
Let my bother be happy
Let my bother be safe
Let my brother be rich
Let my brother be pious
O Lord, make my brother divine
O Lord , make his life sweet"


The sister then offers sweet to her brother. Brother touches her feet if she is elder and gives blessings if sister is younger. The gifts are exchanged. The ritual ends with feast and special sweets as desserts.

The brother-sister relationship is considered one of the most sacred relationships in Hindu Culture. From ancient times down to the present day there are stories a legion where a bother sacrifices his life in the battlefield to defend honour of his sister.
We have observed this ritual today, 25th October. My sisters came and dotted me. They prayed for my well-being and health.

NOTE: On a special spot of forehead. The spot is at the root of the nose and between the eyebrows. In Yoga tradition it is called "Kutastha"" Kutastha Chaitanya". They are synonymous to Christ Consciousness. We feel the presence of Lord here first. Hence the ritual of Bhai Phonta is closely related to Yoga , the way of life.


RAJAT KANTI CHAKRABARTY
(c) rajat kanti chakrabarty 25/10/2014


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Tragedy---for Jon

Lost? 
Found. 
Never has life's cruel temper dealt its deceiving hand as this day 
Lost-found in a place, living know not. 
Kinship friendship - words, verbiage to describe mortal bonds 
While those of the soul grasp bonds endless and dimensionless 
Youth is but a stage of dying 
Time cruel to its very essence. Time blows through us all as our sight through glass 
Its dark fingers paint our walls and carry us to our HOLMES 
Its cruelty is its existence. Defining agony, depriving experience 
Youth felt emotion lost through existence 
Found youth soul existence beyond comprehension 
Youth to us all? Youth has been lost but found where else 
But where time confronts us all. 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Seven-O-Two

I like to listen to Seven O Two at night
We can always count on Kiemo for a fight
If he was President for a day
He would insist on his own way

We could all be taking drugs
And the teacher could flog the thugs
White women he would send abroad
And pay himself if they could not afford

He brushes his teeth and sharpens his tongue
Then runs five miles to expand his lungs
There is no doubt that he can talk
But can he bring his taught to walk

Kiemo knows his constitutional law
Economics and politics without a flaw
Now all he has to learn to do
Tolerate the views of the dissenting few


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Mans Man

Man’s Man

WLM
Wildncrazy555
April 18, 2011
To the gay population in the world

He is quite a man
And he will make his stand
For he will always stay
In his mind his own way
To most in the world it is a sin
But to him it is his place to begin
He is not sappy
He is continually always happy
For the love he has to give
Makes his life so great to live
In life we always change things and arrange
To most in life they think we are strange
We will sit and feel the simple breeze
Knowing ??????’s heart is at ease
In this world we will not desist
For millions of others exist
We must always give them their own space
Since they will always win their race
And they exist in their own place
Which is full of God’s wonderful grace

Written for a friend of mine
Who will always be a friend
Regardless of his lifestyle
William Lewis Moore
Bill


Details | Prose Poetry | |

August Eighth

Chapter One 
Boy into the West 

Dawn upon my cloak 
Urged and so converged were the guns 
Seeding myself with the rest 

I broke in the eye of the Sun 
Settling my mind on the heartless rapist. Time 
Rasterize the faces 

So thumb through the annals 
Purged and so emerged fleshy etchings of this child
Breast wheels churn uncertainly 

Moistened embers dance to the deafening drum 
Tidal ducts offer piquant waters of the Pacific coffer 
I arrive on the sands 

Chapter Two 
Hole in the Wall 

Deserted in this mind 
Hover in and now behind 
Stare blank up through the ceiling stucco 

Gathering in the stench of ghastly breath of wine 
The New Year clothes itself topside 
Unfashionable walls crush youthful spirit I drink alone, until morning 

Demons of mine in lethargy 
Gnawed and sluggish slivers bond my illness
Horizons of hues of shapes the girl knowing 

Waking sweat cools slyly treats itself to my tongue 
Warmth of girl takes my breath save the end of I prepare 
God, are you there? 

Chapter Three
Erosion 

All in the deflection 
Though his reflection isn't mine 
Blood in kind of brotherly loving spiteful me 
We close our doors of aid restraining love I have

For angry boys reject the angry drudge 
Slave to a toilsome loving grudge 
It is raining erosion 

Blinding contortion 
Why in my hands I can't see you yet 
My rock there I can’t see her stand 

These matters wash away too comfortably 
I the destined rock 
To erode on as grain of sand 

Chapter Four 
Facing the Crow 

Give to the death 
Long confronting his road 
Gurge open those words she once clung on 

Hung from the rope he dove to the end 
I die decay per diem death 
Metaling her heart on his mindless last breath 

I survive only by his hand... 

T.R.Sevrens


Details | Prose Poetry | |

for the childrens sake

Sep 4 2007 
  
Deep pain and misery
 Shuts among the little ones
 They cry for help
 No one to understand
 Mother is always out drinking 
Father is abusing them 
Big sister and brother are at school 
Just only wanting to be loved 
But the family does not want to
 As the children grew older 
The hate sunk in 
Their mother was dying
 Father was in jail 
Big sister lived on the streets
 Brother was following his father's steps 
The children did not care
 They grew up not knowing what a family was like 
When they finally became parents 
The cycle began


Details | Prose Poetry | |

LETS JINGEL ROCK THIS YEAR IN

lets bang
lets sing
do all kings of thing
come lets bring
it in none stop
lets rock
dress like a bear
make friends
LETS JINGEL ROCK THIS
YEAR IN


Details | Prose Poetry | |

LETS JINGEL ROCK THIS YEAR IN

lets bang
lets sing
do all kings of thing
come lets bring
it in none stop
lets rock
dress like a bear
make friends
LETS JINGEL ROCK THIS
YEAR IN


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Day After Your Brithday

THE DAY AFTER YOUR BIRTHDAY,
YOU LOOK IN THE MIRROR TO SEE:
A) YOU'VE GOT A ZIT FROM EATING ALL THAT CAKE;
B) YOUR LOVE HANDLES HAVE EXPANDED A HALF INCH;
C) YOU SINGED YOUR EYEBROWS BLOWING OUT THE CANDLES.
THE DAY AFTER YOUR BIRTHDAY,
A) YOU REQUIRE SIX EXTRA HOURS OF SLEEP;
B) YOU CAN'T FIND YOUR LIVING ROOM UNDER THE BIRTHDAY DEBRIS;
C) YOU WONDER HOW YOU COULD POSSIBLY HAVE DONE THAT.
THE DAY AFTER YOUR BIRTHDAY, IT'S TIME TO:
A) RETURN SOME GIFTS (WHAT IS THAT, ANYWAY?);
B) CALL YOUR FRIENDS AND APOLOGIZE FOR YESTERDAY;
C) GET OUT OF THE COUNTRY, FAST.
THE DAY AFTER YOUR BIRTHDAY...
WE SHOULD ALL LOOK SO GREAT
AND HAVE IT SO GOOD!
HAPPY BIRTHDAY!
APPRECIATE YOURSELF AND YOUR LIFE!



Details | Prose Poetry | |

FIFTY6FABELSOFCHARLAX

 FIFTY6FABELSOFCHARLAX 
FIFTY6FABELSOFCHARLAX 
 
 
CHARLAX 
 
The Arizona Kidd 
 
PART ONE 
 
 
The Path Of The Wind 

The Arizona Kidd hung up his spurs the day the tree split into crosses from the 
lightning bolt surmising that his LORD was not well pleased with him that day 
the Sherriff made his play. The Kidd wears a Jean Vest and spurs his boots are 
always black and shiny his Hat is leather with a nickel band no feather his Indian 
friends one day took his Rodeo hat and stuck a feather in it and laughed so now 
he avoids his Indian friends. The Holsters on his web belt are reversed for his 
quick draws the one on the left is his Silver plater hanggun. The holster on the 
right has a Gold Plated thumb gun the trigger is tied back to shoot the bullits one 
by one in a quick lethal manner he is shooting at the son of man to warn them to 
be left alone at sunrise come. He used to use the silver bullits but the leaded 
ones are nicer and the cost is so much cheaper and the Golden bullits on the 
belt are costly and not cheep palaver is not his forte. Listen as this tale is 
fabeled. He was drinking whiskey the Sherriff swore he would arrest him or die 
with his boots on trying to uphold the lawman looked like he had never missed a 
meal his bald headed visage in a grimace climbing up that hill to get a look down 
on that killer's camped out near the tree was tall and filled with wormwood and 
on that fatefull day the wind made a mourning noise and came near to watch the 
Sheriffs' play with the Arizona Kidd. He could not see into the sun. This was the 
Sherriff's thinking some people call it cheating. 



Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Three

She sails on wings of the holy dove
He rides on a chariot of gold
The sun and the moon
Leading us on our way
But who shall they have to guide them
Through the three choices
But the one

Only one path on which we all tread
Which we all must pass
And this is the road that is so hard to follow
For with each step we take it hurts
For as we walk through life we love
And love, 
True love hurts the most
Hurts the greatest

And it is a good thing
For, 
Walking down the path without it
Walking down the road never knowing it
Never accepting it
Is never to have walked at all
And this is the road that is so hard to follow


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The 'Happy' Porn Star

  
 
  The 'Happy' Porn Star.
Grew up in poverty, 
on a farm,deep down in the south.
With too many brothers 
and many her cousins.
She had not the time to love them all..
Except for her pet pink pig.
She had no use for a cork screw.
Most of the house looked like there's.
Not her room, 
full of lace and silk, they yurned.
She burned and burned wanting more.
She has her own pony.
Nice little pony and friends.
By the time she was grown and tall.
Every thing of value she owned.
Old gold coins and silver in a box
southern confederate money, 
yellowed with age.
She packed it all up, 
while her pony and she rode away. 

Is It Poetry 
 
 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

FabelFifty6parttwo

Real Name: David "Davy" Laramee 
Identity/Class: Normal human 
Occupation: Captain in the Texas Rangers 
  
Enemies: Sherriff 
Known Relatives: None 
Aliases: None 
Base of Operations: Texas, c.1830s 
The Whiskey made the Kidd fighting mad and he swore he would gun the Sherriff 
down 
And then a funny thing began to happen to the Kidd he frowned for at that 
moment when the Sheriff neared to him the wind began to howl and all along the 
watchtower for a mile or more the people howled like Indians always do. Then 
the lightening came out of a clear blue sky and split the tree in two making the 
Sheriff cry and holler and dance on one foot like fat people always do. The Kidd 
tossed both his guns into the dust at the Sherriff's feet. Eye am threw he said 
with yew. The whiskey may have addled him is what the Sherriff always thought 
but the Kidd knew that it was a sign from his Lord the GOD the JESUS up above. 



Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Victorian Cemetary

Passing a cemetery gate I walked in I could see all the epitaphs chronicling deaths,
The dates were all times and seasons and there were little graves for little babies,
Daisies mark children's resting places their small hands used to make them into chains,
Other huge graves showed people struck down in the prime and evening of their lives.

As time passed the sun's last setting beams a smile on the mounds and shadows stretch,
The evening wind began to sigh among the branches of the many Yew trees very near by,
Death awaits all so we should try to understand that and look death calmly in the face,
His bony knuckles will be heard very loudly as they rattle our doors and beacon us away.

The grim reaper will be the forerunner of the next searching ordeal that is the judgment,
We look into our souls watching the compass of our lives to which way the needle trembles,
As the evening wore on I could see a lonely figure limping along jingling keys to lock up,
A tired old man in the December of his life waiting for a bony finger to show him the way.

Making my way to an inn I ordered a glass of port the gas mantles, dimmed into half light,
Thinking about my day an image of my lost brother came to mind and the pain still dug deep,
I could see him playing with toys in his room, dark shadows under his eyes still haunt me,
Maybe one day I will see the boney finger of my lost brother beaconing me to join him.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

THE POWER OF FRIENDS

when your blue
you  need too
from wthin
have a ture blend
and you win 
there 's repect
you won't regret
won't run to the wind
thats
THE POWER OF FRIENDS


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Family

It all began in the summer of 1876, in which Brother Clive Werthings had returned from 
feeding the sow.  He walked through the kitchen door and into the morning light shining in from the window.  With great distress he uttered the following:

	“The eyes of the pigs came alive!
	Their dead eyes and ordinary pig faces
	We’re preaching to me! Squealing
	Away with you, away with you! They shouted!
	I swatted them with my hands
	And as my hand swung towards their pinkish flesh
	My fingers turned to hooves!
	My arms shrunk to the size of their front legs!
	It was blurry, muddy, and I could not think straight
	And so I started to pray and I forgave God for all the things 
	I swore against him if he’d just release me now…

Brother Werthings took a deep sigh as his family of on-lookers watched breathlessly.  
He had been to the asylum once, his mother thought in communal privacy with the others. 
And now this, she thought.  She watched him finish:

	“And then he did. He released me.
	The next moment I was on my feet
	Staring at the stupid pigs.
	I simply turned around and 
	Walked back into the house.
	A new man.

Brother Werthings took a profound step forward, consequently out of the ray of sunlight coming in from the window.  He then repeated in the shadow:

	“I am a new man now.”

The family lived on, living out their lives:  a proud ship, slowly rotting in the vast sea.  And years from now, one looking out, or looking in, could never know the full truth regarding the validity of Brother Werthings’ statements.  

Though on his deathbed, struck by tuberculosis, he demanded on his 
tombstone be chiseled:

	Clive Werthings
	1847-1897
	The Eyes Of The Pigs Came Alive!


Details | Prose Poetry | |

seeking the spirit of man

          “Seeking the Spirit of Man”
By my side and kept at my desk are the two books.
The dictionary which I expand my vocabulary with;
The other is a bible where I do my research.
 The bible for me is a philosophy for the survival of mankind.
  While it saddens me to admit it;
  With out guidance it seems ever apparent;
  Mans inhumanity to man in his deeds are his ultimate downfalls.
  It is not religion per say I search for its definitive truth.
People cast aspersions endlessly prattle;
They contend and recommend all manner of intrinsic concepts;
But there is a light that comes with truth.
It’s there for all to see if only one pays attention.
   The building is not the church, the people are.
   The sect is by far not the ultimate means;
   And religion is a from of practice sometimes needed,
   For those of who are lost and need specific daily directions.
If you tell me there is not a God I ask of you to explain;
From where has the emotion called love come from?
Am I to believe it is a delusion construed by humankind?
That has no common denominator and therefore is most likely untrue.
   I love my brother and my sisters; 
   I must; else I obtain no conceptual continuity.
   Though there are some who have succumbed to pain and have become lost;
   I seek the keeper of truth to ask for their release from there burdens.
No my brother man is not yet ready to broach the unknown alone.
And criticize not the slow pace at which they may travel their road;
But instead aid us all against the pit falls;
And the twisted turns in life that can lead us into darkness.
    These are the teachings given to us by Him the truth;
    And we as a species are not equal to his conceptualism.