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Prose Poetry Child Poems | Prose Poetry Poems About Child

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

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Details | Prose Poetry | |

My God on Earth: My Mother

A heart that cries more than me 
in my pain. 
Whose congenial and benign teachings 
make me sane. 
A warm touch that dispels from me 
the gales of worry. 
Whose proximity ensures me that I'm 
protected by her under furry. 
A helping hand that always hold me 
whenever I'm about to lose. 
& my first teacher who makes me to 
distinguish between donts' and dos'. 
A voice and nothing more, an Angel 
who is entirely mine just after my birth. 
And she is none other but 'My Mother', 
The God on Earth. 
  
Although to define her in words is 
beyond my skill. 
Nevertheless I can say that her pace in 
my life, none can fill. 
She is the one who needs not a single 
word of me to understand. 
In my devastation, she is always there 
to provide effusively her hand. 
In the weariness of my life, with her, 
I may lose to be in link. 
But she ever remembers me whenever I 
breathe or my eyes blink. 
I can say that in search of heaven, 
I needn't to go anywhere. 
I would like to put my head in my 
mother's lap, as its only there.. 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Child's Peace

Tell me of your peace. 
Let it tell your story now
Of trials and tribulations, a tale not of dreams
Weary from a journey of self-discovery
My child, know the comfort in your peace
You feel hope in this familiar place 
As it gently sloughs the pain away 
Tell me of your peace 
In which we all are blessed and free
Search throughout your soul sweet child
Peer not within your cluttered mind 
Look out to rest your tired eyes but do not let them see
Solace found strewn upon daily thoughts is fleeting at it's best
Lasting merely moments, in untouched souls a true peace 
Oh yes! You'll know when you arrive but only you will know 
The world will melt away as a candle left under the blazing sun
Away away, until you feel home again, an unguided familiar scene
An innocence once lost is restored, all sins suddenly forgiven
Soaking this in with relucant ease, 
Breathe it deep with a slow release
Take it in, delight in details you discover
Be calm here child, please have no fear, I am here 
You are safe in this place of yours, no hurt no tears
We share not the same peace, no no
Unique to each of us, yet stranger to none
Trust in more than what you see, know beauty is within reach
We share this unspoken bond of freedom from ourselves
Please young one, listen closer now 
I say, leave it all behind you love, it will only weigh you down
Cleanse yourself of careless words and careful lies 
I know you're weary, let go of all you carry
Don't be afraid, here you are burden free 
Trust in you, blessed one, it's easier than you believe
Sweet child, tell me now if you see
Peace resting deep within 
Waiting for you
For you to let it be


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Armaggedon

Armaggedon is not a place where Divinity
lives war and plunder. Armaggedons' battlefield 
is within our heart and souls.
It is not a remote event in future history but an
actual occasion for the Self to connect more fully 
to the nature of God in he present. 

Armaggedon is not the end of the world or an
upcoming historic deadline for disaster. It is
in the war within the heart and soul of the individual. 
The Self is the creation of God. The serial disasters
that we accumulate in our lives are not about an
All Powerful God handing out retribution.
Revenge is not in the seed of divinty, who
contends that love as primary.It is our own battle
choices. 

Armaggedon is an opportunity to realize the
personality of God within our own lives.
Justice, wisdom, love, knowledge, thoughts,
feelings and behavior etc. are all aspects of
the personality of God who created us. It is
our responsibility to merge with Divinity more
and more to strengthen the relationship
between ourselves, God and all people. This means
battling away that which is adverse to our lives.

Being a child of God means you already have the
inherent qualities of God within you, we all do,
no matter what your religion. Like a mother
who gives birth to a child, the child has aspects
of the mother’s personality within her. Thus, as
God has given birth to all of us, we have attributes 
of Divinity within that we need to grow and 
strengthen. Armaggedon is not a place outside
of us, it is a symbol of our growing faith.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Sand Castles

Upon a beach I came to stand
And watched a child at play. 
He did while playing in the sand
A point of life convey. 

With scoops and buckets he did build 
A structure tall and grand. 
And to the child the beach did yield 
A castle made of sand. 

But as he left, I do recall, 
Away I did not turn. 
And with the coming night would fall
A lesson to be learned. 

The tide came in, with force did strike, 
The castle could not stand. 
And I was shown how life is like
A castle made of sand. 

And man is but a child at play, 
His works they will not last. 
For all he builds within days
Shall be by time surpassed. 

Each thing we do, Each thing we say, 
Each notion we conceive,
They all to soon shall pass away, 
Yes, this I do believe. 

We leave no mark, we leave no trace
That shall forever stand 
Be sure my friend time will erase
Our days however grand.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Sand Castles II

The castle stood with majesty.
The child stood justly proud.
Both night and sea stood patiently,
In hand the castle's shroud.

My thinking now became serene,
Of things small and sublime.
How I saw all played in that scene
Of man, his deeds and time. 

But here I raise a quandary.
I question thee a tad. 
Are we the castle stately?
Or, are we the lad?

Are we the child? Are we the sand?
We're either, can't you see?
Both built and build to pass away
With time our ebbing sea. 

The tide we face is Father Time.
Aren't we but molded clay?
Just like that castle so sublime
We are not here to stay. 

Yet like that child in spring of life,
His days are numbered still.
Just like the grains of sand it took
To stir this old man's quill.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Message to You

Please dry your eyes, now don’t you cry...
Let me share with you a lullaby....
I used to tuck you into bed....
Back when you were young....and such a sleepy head....
Disappointments are many in this life we lead....
But I know you’re strong and will succeed....
Please trust in me for I have a message to send....
You will never back down or crack and bend....
It is your nature to love and be kind....
Negatives don’t linger in your mind....
You're still that little girl who once sat on my knee....
With those big blue eyes looking up at me....
So I would like to take this opportunity....
When there's not enough sun....and  too much rain....
Lots of happiness, and very little pain....
Just like the moment, when my heart did sing....
With all the joy that you did bring....
To each, and every one of us....
Without any fret and not much fuss....
I am very proud of what you have become....
And all your accomplishments of what you’ve done....
Unconditional love will never go out of style....
When your tears can be replaced.....
With this Grandmothers’ smile....


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Old Soul, Young Heart

This poem has been deleted due to possible publication.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

THE NEW DAWN

   
I’ve seen the dawn above a mountain
Lights up like a child with blue eyes.
I’ve seen the dawn-
I’ve seen the dawn where life well’s up endlessly.

With the beauty of old age and gray headedness,
I can tell the tale of a sunrise and sunset

I am an old lady and wise with times
I’ve challenge many difficulties and come alive
Through the passage of times and seasons,
I can only laugh against the pain.

I know the languages of heartbreaks, panics, struggles and troubles.
I’ve tasted the lost of children, mansions, passions and visions.
I’ve seen great kingdoms rise and watch them helplessly run down through the valley of no return.

I am an old lady now; an old lady with worth of experience
I’ve seen the dawn above a mountain
Lights up like a child with blue eyes.
I’ve seen the dawn-
I’ve seen the dawn where live wells up endlessly.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Christ Child

In eternity past, the Father asks the Son to go down.
Having equal Love for humans the "Yes" comes fast.
When Creation leads to time, the world waits for 4 BC
Marking the start of the end of Satan's long rule at last.

Did Satan laugh at the poor setting for Jesus' birth here?
A cry in a cave for animals pierces the night, changing all.
Shepherds worship; later wise kings give precious gifts.
Mary and Joseph marvel, yet Herod's rage soon gives a call.

A call to leave quickly to Egypt where they'll live as refugees.
Sparing the Christ child a merciless death of those under three.
When Herod finally dies, Jesus' parents head back to Israel.
Still not fully safe from mad rule, Nazareth is their destiny.

Here the child will grow to be a man, following His parents rule.
Surprising the Pharisees with His wisdom at 12, at 30 riling them.
Preaching with authority, healing the incurable, loving the humble.
Women weep repenting at his feet; one's healed by touching his hem.

Zacchaeus risks going into a tree and finds Jesus' salvation so free.
Nicodemus comes at night to ask and ends amazed he's met God's Son
The Woman at the Well gets far more vital water than the usual kind.
And many healed can't but tell others of the miracle God has done.

The babe in the manger now stills the storm and his disciples believe
Even seeing the dead arise, like Lazarus in the tomb for four days.
Foretelling a greater rising coming but not before immense suffering.
The sword Mary was told would pierce her heart is soon on its way.

For most religious leaders cannot tolerate Jesus' lack of respect for them.
Calling them whitewashed tombs and pointing pride out to Pharisees.
Not endearing Himself with the establishment, but following God's way.
Knowing soon He'd be betrayed, arrested, tried and tortured brutally.

Still, he calmly feeds them body bread and blood wine in a final feast.
Tells them the Spirit comes, and prays they'd be one like Father and Son.
Heads to the Garden, prays to His Father for another way if possible.
Your will be done ends and the soldiers come and with Judas kiss it's done.

The most pure, innocent Man who's ever lived is now in hostile hands.
A trial by dark without witness or any rights – and off to Pontius Pilate.
Then Herod then back to Pilate whose wife dreamed Jesus was innocent.
But the people's cries to crucify win over – Jesus caught in intrigue's net.

The child of Bethlehem now hung on a Cross between two criminals.
The Light of the World by darkness and our sins is being slowly slain.
Feeling forsaken by God, but then "Into Your hands I commit my spirit."
Reunited and soon to show the world that this Child was no ordinary one.

Risen as Jesus predicted, for how can death conquer everlasting, perfect life?
From childhood to adult not one sin, not once yielding to Satan's temptations.
Proving we can have life eternal if we confess and believe in Jesus as our Savior.
Calling His followers in risen form to await the Spirit and share Christ to the nations


Details | Prose Poetry | |

An early song-2

I once joined the procession of colors and lost my heart
Till a wave colors distilled through night knocked me down dead.
Besides the mountain,  the midnight festival of colors is on.
Lying in my arms you imagine your blood is burning in my veins
 I am only listening to the chariot of the queen joining the revelry.

I knew you were being vain when you came to see me
I did know when your heart missed a beat. For the air was my friend.
And the tiny bird building its nest in the rafters of my roof
Did  not bring a straw as long as you talked. 

You never said bye.  For you wanted me to do that. But I had no time 
And kept riding on the wave. The storm is not away. What if I fall.
 Tomorrow I will be lying in these shores caressed to sleep by a smiling sun.

 I don’t have the time to forget you in the endless expanse of this blank night. 
Last night’s sun was but a spot hewn out of the tragedy of the heavens.
A tragedy that  survived the ages to live in my heart in fire and smoke.

You keep away while I create my pieces in these desert sands. When I proceed
 To give them the finishing touches, you shriek in despair. For you think
 I am going to spoil the lovely piece of some great master with my clumsy hands.
                                           -2-
Tomorrow is the illegal child of today abandoned in the dark.
I end up at night  and my child is born at night, having passed 
Through  the summer that seared my skin and heart.
The cup of sorrow is never full, so there is no overflowing.
Yesterday we witnessed the winter night breathing its last.
Winter was in lament for the little bird that went up but never returned.

I bear no gifts for you. I know not your names. I know not who you are
But I recognize you without mistake against this backdrop of misery.
I come here with my empty bag to gather the drops of your sobs
And consign them to the flame in my mind leaving your smiles behind.





For: Catie Lindsey's Free Verse contest



Details | Prose Poetry | |

Rain

 The clouds gathered dark and wide, 
All in the sky high above the trees,
With the breeze in its natural form,
Refreshing, relieving and pleasing to seek.

Gazing at the sky i began to think,
Deeper in thoughts, i started to sink,
As the droplets fell on my palm,
And it started to shower all over in calm.

Just then, it struck me so sudden, 
Somewhere in my mind and heart,
Is this the same rain i found joy in?
Just like the child inside of me hidden?

Building boats from paper to play,
And winning races in little streams all the way,
''YES! I WON! " i always cheered happily,
Like the noble prize in my custody. 

The splashing of water was too much fun,
Especially in muddy water and sand,
And clothes went even more dirty and bad,
To wear clean again would make me so glad. 

The drinking of water from the rains,
Opening mouth to collect sum large,
And spitting it out in a spree again,
And win competition to spit too far.

The broken bicycle chains and spokes,
And the heavily punctured tyres,
Same old excuses to get wet in rain,
And never ever used to get tired. 

All of these memories came in a flash,
Making me teary eyed,
Sitting inside the office and wondering why,
Why did childhood flashed so fast by?
The old games and lovely friends,
The silly chats and stupid blames,
Did childhood faded much too early? 
While our hearts are till date so young,
Is this the same rain i used to find in?
Is this the same rain i used to had fun!


Details | Prose Poetry | |

some words against the gun

keeping full trust on the fulia-handloom some words may be uttered now some words against the gun an winter … some fallen leaves … some cold wind … and a big vacuum in mind … with all those adornments i’m sitting now on the terrace of a shiva-temple in front of me in a pond covered with hyacinth the water-play of the ducks in its water the shadow of the sky the shadow of the trees along the side of the pond a little child is running alone with a toy-ball in hand i don’t wish to know now whether there is any compares to that run i’m only sitting and staring at it may not be known to others but i myself know well that by speaking those words I try to hide my sadness… my loneliness… Oh… instead of gun-powder … if i could put inside the quartos any translation of this joy of the child … those who rule rely on guns those who want to break the rule also rely on guns today when my pen wants to tell something against the gun i don’t know whether it will go in favour or against the sky… the birds… the trees… mankind …


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Soldier

I sat in my truck in Hue City....
Little kids were everywhere....
Hungry.

One little girl I saw...
So pretty....
Maybe six or so
I didn't know....

Every morning
Our convoy would go
To Hue....
And she would be there
Looking for me...

A street child lost and hungry
I knew....
We never shared a word...
but I knew her smile..

I always had some food to share
Each day...It was my way...
I looked forward to seeing her
laugh and smiling every day...

Then came the next day...
In the morning...
Where was my darling
Little Vietnamese girl?

A boy...filthy dirty..
Maybe five years old,
Made the sign of death...
The NVA had killed Her.....
For wanting to be fed....by
The Americans....

I know that I am haunted
From things you cannot know
Or share...
A beautiful child died because
I gave her a piece of bread.....

PTSD has no bounds..........


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Fallen from Grace

Fallen from grace, 
no longer do I sit high upon the pedestal that you had once put me 
No longer am I seen as idol or mentor
Nor wanted as provider or protector 
But now looked upon as an outcast and banished from your heart. 

Betrayed by the one who now blinds you 
With a veil of lies and deceit that weighs on your young fragile heart 
With heavy words of animosity and abhorrence
 
You have been trapped in a malevolent web of hatred and retribution 
Used as an unwitting pawn in a game of emotional chess. 

Your words of respect and adoration 
Have been replaced by venomous accusations of brutality and oppression 
Taught to you by the on who now holds the chains that bind your heart. 

But I will not be vanquished or deterred 
By these attempts to falsify or dilute my love for you 
I will be strong in my resolve and true to myself
 
I will not let these misguided asseveration's destroy my confidence 
In knowing that my spirit is pure and that one day 
You will be able to break free from your restraints 
And uncover your eyes so you can distinguish the truth from the lies. 

To understand the choices that need to be made in life 
Through your own mistakes and life experiences 

Until that day comes I shall be waiting, 
Ready to stand next to you as opposed to being on that pedestal 
And walk down a new road with you as your friend and equal.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Too Much There

My mother was a life-long keeper of photo albums. 
She had several of them saved from her youth 
filled with black and white faded to yellowy-grey 
family photos of long-dead relatives 
posed around a new grave or 
an infant in a tiny coffin,   
in horse-drawn buggies on the way to church, 
my grandmother in the chicken yard.
The albums had faded brown covers, 
crumbling black paper pages, 
photos held in place with paste-on corners. 
As a child I spent many hours looking at them, 
asking who the faces were. Some she could recall; 
many were lost to her.

There was one photo, taken in 1957, 
according to the date printed on the edge of the photo, 
which seemed odd to me, a puzzle.
In it I was a child of twelve, 
dressed in what must have been 
a borrowed boy’s suit and tie. 
I stood next to my mother 
on the front porch of our little house in Dallas. 
The image was taken looking slightly upwards towards us
(the photographer was on the bottom step), 
perspective exaggerating our facial features. 

It occurred to me when I was older 
that there was a paradox in the photo: 
I was smiling and squinting into the sun;
my mother’s shoulders were stooped, 
her face twisted in something internal
that I couldn’t see.

Perhaps it was the growing awareness 
of my own mortality 
that led me not long ago to look again,
to decode the message: 
the photo was taken the day of my father’s funeral. 
My mother was compressed by the agony of my father’s death, 
a weight and loss almost impossible for her to bear. 
But what was happening with the child me? 
I suppose it could be called denial, 
but I had moved into the now-familiar space of not-knowing. 
Perhaps this blankness contributed 
to my taking so many years to understand. 
Whatever the cause, I wasn’t there; 
my mother was too much there.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

EYES SHUT TIGHT

EYES SHUT TIGHT

Afraid to look, eyes shut tight
l am a child in the
DARK seeing shadows
in a room all alone.
I pray for a brother
or a sister,to laugh
in the dark with me.
We could play
until day break, and
then fall asleep.
Shadows bouncing off walls
lights from the passing cars causing  
reflections to dance in my mirror.
The music is not sweet,
loudly it booms
scares me I cannot sleep.
No one to tell me stories
no one to chase away
the boogie man.
I hit the floor on my knees..
I pray to the lord."
"God please" I need a friend to be
here in the dark with me"
I am not picky a sister or
a brother will do,
I will be brave.
I shall shield them
from these shadows;
I will hold them and comfort them,
I will open my eyes for them..
and no longer be afraid.
I do not want to be,an
"Only Child.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Six People

The poet leaves his winter study and roams around mountains and deep woods,
The painter sold his pictures and is off to sketch on heath and highlands,
The child runs through sun kissed meadows and across dusty golden commons,
The lovers walk down country lanes and wander about each other, on mead's,
The man of the road smiles as he knows the night will not be bitterly cold,
The nightingale sings a haunting melody bringing tears to the lovers eyes,
The trees swaying in a breeze an oak drops acorns, the child collects them,
The mountains capped with snow unleashes a stream of fine words from the poet,
The heath and highlands glow with beautiful greenery and the painter paints,
The birds swoop from bough to bough the poet sees and he writes some prose,
The man of the road listens to bird song his eyes mist bringing sad memories
The evening sun falls behind the horizon a beautiful sunset the lovers kiss,
The poet sees the sunset and writes about dark golden evenings and warm nights,
The painter mixes yellow and black and that captures this wonderful picture,
The boy leaves the woods to go home as it is nearly time for his evening meal,
The man of the road lays down deep in the woods his overcoat is his blanket,
The lovers walk arm in arm as the day darkens they make their way home slowly,
The painter cleans his brushes and carefully lays down his canvas in the dark,
The poet is happy he has written beautiful words he lays in his bed reflecting,
The boy is fast asleep dreaming of the fantastic day he enjoyed in the woods,
The six unconnected people that were unknowingly were connected sleep soundly.

 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Treasure

Working from morning till the noon,
Outside the house under the sky blue,
To earn the leisure and comforts of life,
With friends, family and beloved wife.

Is this the real world We always dreamt of?
Or the trending lifestyle we want to get on? 
Is earning more money the only way?
For happiness in life all the way?

Mother's and father's day and night,
In offices and meetings tedious yet alright,
Children's care is postponed in this,
On '' tomorrow ''  that is always amiss. 

Everyone is always in such a hurry, 
No time for proper&healthy food,
A sudden sneeze and off to bed,
With pills and tablets no good.

Who really cares about the old?
The one who brought us up,
"Admitted" in some old-age home,
Because now they always "interrupt". 

What happened to the family time? 
The togetherness of the siblings?
Busy schedule ate all of it,
The fun and the bonding with it! 

Is promotion so important?
Or the ranks that we obtain?
Is post everything that matters?
And position with it we gain?

Do we ever ask ourselves?
What is the treasure of life?
Money, status, luxuries?
Or happiness and sharing alike?
Have we forgotten our own jewels?
The love of family and friends?
Have we lost the precious parents?
In our relatively living trends? 

We have to know the truth now, 
About what we are to become,
A money crazed machine? 
Or a caring dad, husband and son?
Open yourself from the blindfold,
And take a step to pace,
To recognize the treasure we already have,
And make world a better place! 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Streetlight

You were a child,
without the hindrance
of responsibility
or doubt of what tomorrow
would bring.
A beast on the kickball
field, and yet a whining
baby when the streetlights
went off. Always fighting
sleep like it was the
neighborhood bully. 
You were a clown,
dressed like your 
daddy. Trying to
make your mother 
laugh like he did.
You got better at 
it every day.
You were a gift,
at least that’s what
your mother said.
And now she sits 
outside, on the porch
looking out toward the
streetlight. Waiting for
it to go dark, knowing
you won’t be coming 
home.
But,
You’re already there,
shining down from
a streetlight in the 
sky. Waiting for when
it’s her turn to come 
home.
-James Kelley, All rights reserved.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Wishing you could love me too

You mean so much to me, more then you'll ever know. 
More then ill ever be able to describe.
But I'll try.
Voice of a angel, touch ever so soft you would think its a feather.
Eyes so beautiful seeing them on a sunset day, medusa stare ever so hypnotizing locking eyes can't look away.
Baby in the tummy, heart just started beating giving me a rush that I really needed.
Love so old I feel defeated.
Even though I do everything for you, I'm looking out for me just keeping a close over view upon you.
How can I fix your life if mine isn't alright, but i don't know where id ever be with out you by my side.
And I thought I'd never know but as of now I'm pushing through. 
Now that your gone, I miss you every night.
But I gotta be strong.
Cause if not you'll be gone and ill be with a baby missing its mom.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Ghost of Bayou Cannot

Some folks believe it. Others do not. The legend told in the Bayou Cannot. The only witness who can swear that it's true, are the creatures who live in the bayou. The owl told the gator, the gator told the frog, about the horror filled night that changed their home in the bog. Far off on the mainland, miles from the marsh, in a large city, where living is harsh. A man's world invention sprang into life. A breath of fresh air to man's world of strife. A new deisel engine, queen of the line, would make it run for the very first time. The sunset limited it was aptly named. Gleamed in the station waiting its moment of fame. Boarded by folks going south, some headed out west, none mindful of anything, but each's own quest. New York to L.A. via the southern run. So it was, the trip had begun. Back in the bog, things were happening too. A barge made its way north with its captain and crew. The day had been hot. The night had turned cool. The fog roiled in, with its blanket of dew. The captain steered his tug, painfully slow, caution was key to safely deliver the tow. All of a sudden there was a scrape and a jolt the barge floated free, not held by a bolt. Panic seized the crew! "We've lost the tow!" "MAYDAY!" screamed the captain over the radio. Amid the chaos and moans of disdain, another great jar, "We've got it again!". Back on land not far down the track the Limited sped with a clickety-clack. Approaching the tressel no one noticed the shake. Who could blame the poor folks; the hour was late. Midway over the bayou came the tressels demise. A great shiver another great quake, tons of speeding steel, folks met their sad fate. Days went by weary and sad. Rescuers agreed none worked a wreck this bad. Twisted and bent the engine was pulled from the muck and the slime. "102" came the final count, the coroner spoke and noted the time. A weary voice shouted "Wait!" "Sir, I disagree!" Tired eyes turned, what did they see? A weary man held in his arms a child about three. Today believers say "an angel wanders." "A tiny spirit" Others agree. On foggy nights when no moon can be. A tiny light flickers so you will see. "It's a firefly!" Say the skeptics of haunt. The creatures disagree and murmur their taunt. They know the spirit of the child now lives in their swamp.

Written by my grandmother Sandra Burch


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Memories June 9 1999

The touches, tears and cries for help, a child living in fear.
Being told never to tell a soul, to ashamed to look in the mirror.
Not being able to trust anyone, because of being betrayed.
Now haunted by what has been done, praying the memories will fade.
Surrounded by many shattered dreams and all hope taken away.
Drowning in fear of being violated again, their eyes plead the words they can not say.
The memories will always stay with a child buried deep into the mind.
A permanent barrier now built within, keeping anything from getting inside.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

fingers and toes: lol

She called hiding under a blanket
with her mommy’s cellphone, in the same
room as if her parents couldn't hear.
Jan, was coffee brewing my phone,
turning 5 was a big deal. I had completed
5 years of love evolved and she became
a whole hand, preplanning parties for
the second. 

Still wanting me to catch a shark with
my hands, Mc Donald's fake meat is disgusting, 
and on her birthday she
REFUSES to watch her Lil sister, and
like a good Papa, I told her, "she should
not have to”.

"Papa, I'm seriously tryna figure out
how many hands you are...."

I explain, "kid, I'm both of your hands
and feet, plus Nani-bugg's hand and feet,
plus her Lil sister's right or left hand."

She paused and then said, "hmmm, we
shouldn't have to worry about you
catching dat shark then, Papa".


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Armaggedon

#1. Armaggedon is not a geographical
location. The battle goes on within us
between the will or ego and the spirit. 
Divinity lives within this battlefield in 
our heart and souls. 

#2. Armaggedon is not a remote event in history 
but an occasion for the Self to connect more fully 
to the nature of Divinity which  resides both within
and beyond the self in three different ways.

#3. Armaggedon. The Self is the creation of God. 
The serial disasters that humanity accumulates
in our lives are not from an All Powerful God 
handing out retribution or revenge or indifference. 
Divinity promotes that love is primary. 

#4. Armaggedon is an opportunity to realize the
personality of God within our own lives.
Justice, wisdom, love, knowledge, thoughts,
feelings and behavior, except for evil, are aspects 
of the personality of God. It is our responsibility 
to merge with Divinity more fully to strengthen
those aspects of divinity within ourselves.

#5. Armaggedon is not a place outside of us, 
it is a symbol of our faith. Being a child of God
means you already have the inherent qualities 
of God within you, we all do, no matter what 
religion. Like a mother who gives birth to a child, 
the child has aspects of the mother’s personality
within her. Thus, as God has given birth to us all, 
we have attributes of Divinity within that we 
need to grow and strengthen. 

#6. Armaggedon. The fever is already raging.
in a war that surpasses all wars and that is
alive within us on a daily basis. This war
holds the souls weight of my loyalty
toward or away from love, the primary aspect
of God.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Pitter Patter

The grey boy wrinkles in the hands of greater things, wrinkles up like paper, Hands on 
knees and knees on chin, the wrinkled boy trembles in the hand of his mind. The room is 
dark, there is no light, and all he sees are shades of grey, his body of grey, the curtains 
grey, the wooden door dripping grey, and then he notices: the red water beneath him. And 
it makes him shiver. He hears them. Outside; He hears the pitter patter, the barefoot 
running, the echoing laughter, and the feel of a cold breeze rushing down a hall. They 
remind him of his past, running down the hall to his father’s room, and when the pitter 
patter of feet stops he knows the child has fallen, the laughter is the father, the breeze is the 
swinging of the child in the air, the whimper is his own, in this dark grey room;  He lifts his 
knees higher. Uncomfortable as the red pool grows around him, He knows it shouldn’t 
grow, he wonders why, whimpers in the dark, and wonders why.

The cold creeps up and he shivers, his teeth chatter away at the night and his knees 
knock heads in comfort; The pitter patter of feet comes closer, the wrinkled boy sways to the 
ground, A grey feather stained in red. Wracking sobs pump grey into his once rosy 
cheeks; The pitter patter turns to thunder. It rumbles down the hall, rumbles to his room; 
It rumbles and he shivers and the growing pool of red ripples; He sees his distorted 
reflection in the red: “Why am I grey?” He shivers again, he whimpers, tired of shivering 
and the cold and the grey and wanting the red to go away. And yet he waits, shivers and 
dreads, and the thunder grows louder yet. His gaze fixes on the door as the thunder comes 
churning through. His eyes shut down, his knees lock up, and he trembles in the moment. 
But as he yields open his eyes, the grey world melts away to the thunder of light, and he 
forgets all colors dark or red. All he sees is a little boy, in his father’s arms, and he 
remembers the car and the road, the sirens and the screams, and he smiles, thinking of 
the laughing and racing of the pitter patter, and wonders why he was so afraid.

© Samir Georges
2010


Details | Prose Poetry | |

SEX ON THE RUN

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
SEX ON THE RUN




Details | Prose Poetry | |

Daisies and the Way to Undress Summer.

“Dress me in daises,” I said, as if flowers could cover my skin in respectable ways, and
he smiled as my shoe boxes of paint tipped over, as the floor became art and the way I
walked towards him smeared my heart at his feet.


We captured laughter this way, drawing insensibilities in between us, and there was an
element of beauty in the grin of a child when it appeared to dance across his grown up
cheeks, an attraction to Peter Pan, and blond hair in the summer, as I thought I could
capture July...


The month used to sit beside my bed, fluttering night lights to save me from dreams, stars
danced in mason jars and fairytales were whispered beyond moonlight as I wrote them in my
dreams, as I watched seasons disappear into morning light.


I arrested kisses with a word and slipped them in my pockets, he commented on the rips
that always decorated the hems of my blue jeans, I played with the brown flowered
patches at me knees, I looked at him and told him my secrets, I whispered content beneath
the spring as we watched summer rise, as the sky became a canvas and I wished my hands
were more capable...


“Show me the way beyond you,” he requested, as my glance became puzzled, “Show me who you
are.”


He handed me a daisy, he told me to undress, I studied the petals as they fell to my feet,
my toes became blanketed...

and I walked towards him...


the decoration of spring mapping out my heart, and he smiled with a mouth that grinned
when he spoke my name, when he laughed in the fashion of a child and held me under
moonlight when spring faded and summer came.





Details | Prose Poetry | |

Childhoods End

I have tried
As the years have gone by
To keep the child within me
Alive 
But each year that passes
Tiny bits and peaces
Fall away

You look so young
My friends all say
And as I thank them
I know 
It because the child in me
Still laughed and played

But these days
My life has changed
Now
In my old age years
I have searched myself
Looked everywhere 
In my mind
In my heart
And in my soul
But the child I once knew
Has gone

Late at night
I look at the photographs
That are the stories
Of my life
Each one makes me smile
And for the briefest of moments
The child within smiles
Before vanishing away

You look so young
My friends all say
And as I thank them
I find myself yearning
For those younger years
With but a single wish

Dear God
Help me remember
What it is like
To be a child
Again


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Wanted Child

Alone and forgotten I've forever been.
A wanted child neglected, left to entertain his sad romances.
Why don't I fade and perish since I've only been a whim.
A walking ghost and spirit seldom welcomed in.
My birth was nothing special, a selfish, childish muse,
a lame experiment gone wrong, only to amuse.
Tormented has my life been, a mangled, twisted maze
of memories, tales and fancies in which an only child can gaze.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Families: The Most Important Social Unit

Families are the most important social unit in existence on earth today.  For it is out of the 
family that every worker, teacher, preacher, agnostic, librarian, construction worker, mason, 
mayor, Senator, Congressman, President, World Leader, mothers, fathers, and yes, every 
man and woman who fills an occupation (or not) grow to be the individual that they are.

Families are important because the beginning of all feelings originate right there in the 
home.  A newborn child may feel the love and affection of adorning parents.  Or, if the 
parent is a drug addict or mentally challenged, the child will have a different experience, an 
unpleasant one that no child deserves.  We are what we choose.  And our choices teach the 
young ones. 

There are a myriad of variables that influence an individuals feelings of self-worth, good or 
bad.  The family is the place where love and care are learned and shared.  Anger 
management, good or bad, is taught by example.  Manners, good or bad are taught or not…it 
depends.  Everything that a man or woman becomes has its roots in the family.

So, given this, let us all work together as parents, siblings, aunts, uncles, grandparents, 
nieces, nephews, cousins, and even friends to become the best possible individuals within our 
families that we can.  Let each of us strive for peace in the heart, the home, the city, the 
nations, the world.  Because we are all God’s children.  And we deserve the best possible 
life.  A little bit of heaven on earth can happen if everyone does their part to live, love, 
forgive, and enjoy what God has given them.

Written for the Rambling Poet's Narrative Contest.
Copyright 2-8-10  © Dane Smith-Johnsen


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Waldorf Child That's Me

WALDORF CHILD THAT’s ME

Waldorf child that's me
imagination run free
on a playground swing

A sunny blue sky
flying as high as can be
A red birdie sings

dream, dream, dare to dream
factories of passion made
process not product

and the earth below
the roots of your feat growing
nothing you can't overcome

-By Susan Mills


Details | Prose Poetry | |

AM NOT A GAME

am know play thing
am what love bring
am not insane
am just me plain
help is my name
AM NOT  A GAME


Details | Prose Poetry | |

KIDS TODAY

some just stare
not aware
of the games
its ashame
so many just plain
need  a guild not strret wise
have some say
help and show a
KIDS TODAY


Details | Prose Poetry | |

BIRTH FANTASY FAIRY CATS AND EVENINGS

THE CHOICE

HE WAS asleep
Between space and time
The first light on the world
Floated idly
On him
He was just born.

His folded hands
Glowed a pale pink
To keep the fire of life
He wondered if he was really awake.
Is it the true world?
Is it the true village?
Is it the true nest?
He kept kicking
And cried like a scared owl.

God trod to the next village.



COUNTLESS

Oh said the voice
Let me kiss you
Let me go in the fairy way
Let me love you earth
Overly cautious she crouched
Over a street strewn with splinters
S o confusing for a fairy
She approached a dark alley 
Full of vermin and dead
So confusing for her noble nose
We call it miscarriage in our land
She said and picked up intruder’s naked smell
Leftover of yesterday’s predation 
She did not move
She was crippled in an unknown fear
The emotion alien to a fairy
I want to love you
But you will kill me
That she said and flew all the way
Across hellhole and slammed into a tree
Still young, bright, full of promises
Though clawed by vampire birds
She moved in sense of rekindling 
I’m glad, I’m sure I’m glad,
I am in the fairy way
Because I came down to love


EVENING
Evening slipped out of the cave
Crossed the rock wall
And buried the city in soft kisses
Sun god‘s dripping soup
Gave her child a sunset glow
She went back to her cave
To sleep, to grow

 HATES
Hates were slipping through my fingers
Little ones burning like midday sun
When they cooled made garnets for my sisters.


ANCIENT CAT GOD
An ancient cat god
Slammed down to my house
Went out with a sperm-whale
Harpooned by the mouse

A GRUFF FISH
Tara, I liked her so much
As a fish and as a friend
So in the Sunday night supper
 She had made a double-end.
She was gruff fish after all
In night-supper it took its toll
Tara, I liked her so much
So I wrote this story on the bark of Birch
I gave a tabby cat one ounce  of gold
That’s the way the story was told

 








Details | Prose Poetry | |

Here I Stand

Here I stand
With no shoulder to cry on
Staring into empty space
At an unrecognizable face
After feeling so much
Why do I feel nothing now
All I tried to do was laugh and play
Tried to love and please
Did everything I could
So much more than was asked
And yet, I failed
Now I see you walking away
While here I stand
With no shoulder to cry on
I hear your footsteps and fading voice
The screams and the anger still attached
What was it I did so wrong
To make you feel so much
Why do I feel nothing now
And can’t even reach out to touch
I no longer feel my breath
I no longer feel my heart
I was just a child
As I watch you walk away
Why do I feel nothing now
Why are we both left
With no shoulder to cry on


NOTE*** Death should never be seen through the eyes of a child as you walk away… Child 
Abuse… let’s stop it! Not tomorrow, not today, but now!!!


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Only Fools Tell the Truth

When I was a child I spoke as a child my intelligence was distorted and disjointed,
I spoke about anything that came into my head and spoke it loud little did I care,
Taught by a wise old grandfather who would tell me, better to be a fool than a thief,
Truthful myself, I never expect deceit form others, tell me a story and I will believe.

As I grew older my trustfulness of human nature was hidden guilelessness of thought.
These days I am never deceived because I suspect of all hypocrisy in all that I meet,
I have a stake in the general universal in life and have a cut-throat part to play,
There are those in this world who are out of place in it they overpay and trust many.

These good people are treated with laughter and a supreme contempt in this mad world,
How can some be ridiculed and what supreme contempt is able to conceive towards them,
We pity all men that will believe anything, these men can be turned round any finger,
This too pliable disposition may have arrived from an over pitched standard of honesty.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Help Me To Be

Looking down on the new born child
Our Father gave to us
I quickly looked to the years we have ahead
And asked Him, help me to be
The kind of father I should be
Lead me through the restless night
When our child lies awake
And the times she’ll need a change
Be with me through her younger years
And help me to calm her fears
Give me the words to say
When she comes for advice
That I might lead her
The straight and narrow way
When I’m about to show my anger
Over something she’s said or done
Please remind me
Of all I’ve said and done against Your will
And the love You show me still
But most of all enable me
To be a bright and shining light
So when it comes time to choose
Between what’s wrong or right
Our child will know
And want to share
In Your never ending love
God, help me to be
The kind of father I should be

NOTE*** This is from my CD A Father’s Love Letters
To listen to the CD please visit
http://www.reverbnation.com/#/mikehamill


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Flower

I stood amidst a green field of grass
Around me the wind breathed . . . softly
Above the world a sun watched over me
Below, amid a pond scintillating with light
My family, my friends swam and laughter sang to us all
I stood apart as always I did in the past before this day
Yet this time I did not feel apart, nor alone, no more the outsider
For I was there swimming and laughing with them, in spirit I was there
And from behind me I listened to soft footfalls approaching
But I did not turn around instead I awaited his voice
For I knew he had come to speak, to learn so I would listen
Together we stood watching my family laughing and swimming
Until at last he spoke to bring forth the beginning
“Hey, you’re one of those guys aren’t you?”
He asked and I felt his frown upon me
So I turned to him and withdrew my shades
There before me I saw a child standing
Who had much to live, much to experience
So much to learn and so I smiled
A soft smile with gentleness
And this I said to him
“No, I am not one of those guys,
I am one man, nothing more
Nothing less, just a man
Like you I am a man.”
His brow creased as he thought about my words
And so I put my hand upon his shoulder and I spoke again
“Come, let us join them.”
And together the child and I, the man, walked down to my family
And when I arrived my family, my friends, greeted me and said
“Hello Patches, come and swim with us, laugh with us.”
So I did and as I did I felt the child sleep peacefully
And I knew, I knew that it was alright
For I am just a man, one man
Like you


Details | Prose Poetry | |

LET ME LIVE!

An unborn child comes to the realization that his Mother is contemplating having an abortion. 
Using Biblical Reason, he speaks to her through The Spirit, pleading that she change her mind
and allow him to be born.


"IS THIS WHAT GOD WOULD HAVE YOU DO:
TAKE AWAY A LIFE ITS RIGHT TO LIVE...
PREVENT A BIRTH INTO A WORLD,
WHEN HE HAS SO MUCH TO LOVE AND GIVE?

I KNOW THE SORROW YOU WILL FEEL.
OH CHOOSE THE GIFT OF LIFE NOT TO DESTROY!
HOLD ME IN YOUR ARMS FOR JUST A WHILE
AND SOON YOUR PAIN WILL TURN TO JOY!

DID YOU NOT KNOW THAT ALL MY DAYS
WERE WRITTEN IN GOD'S GREAT MASTER PLAN?
I WAS WOVEN TOGETHER FROM THE DEPTHS OF EARTH
LONG BEFORE THE WORLD EVER BEGAN.

AS A CHILD YOU MUST ENTER THE KINGDOM OF GOD.
AS A CHILD HE WAS WORSHIPPED AND ADORED.
TO THE WISE THE WONDERS OF HEAVEN ARE CONCEALED,
BUT TO ITS CHILDREN THE GLORY REVEALED.

YES TO THE CHILDREN THE GLORY IS REVEALED





By Milton L. Delgado
Inspired by Proverbs 8:23
Psalm 139: 13-16
March 14, 1997