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Prose Poetry Childhood Poems | Prose Poetry Poems About Childhood

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Details | Prose Poetry | |

She read me Dr Seuss

6:35 A.M.

Sunrise against my neck
that no cheap tan booth could ever match.

I ring the doorbell in anticipation of joy’s injection.

I needed it.

Because I left my cell phone in the car,
as I didn’t want to hear any chimed email
or text annoyances.

And the car just got cleaned,
only for the birds to have their way
on its waxy shine.

Bastards!

Time to grab the flamethrower from my trunk!

But, before I could scream in Braveheart declaration,
there she was.

Her 6 yr old smile,
made of 1/4 inch gaps between innocence enamel,
captured me like no other could.

“Tio”, she preached in angelica sonata.

As she held me,
held me,
with puppy love warmth.

Even the rainbows fell to its knees.

She took off my jacket with ferret-like perkiness and
asked me to sit on the floor with her.

But, not before offering to toast me some Eggo waffles
with a big glass of Ovaltine…
…in her Little Mermaid glass,
proudly made in North Korea.

It even had the dictator’s initials and a bucktooth smiley face stamp, signed in glitter
that said:
“Kid-safe”.

Thank God I just took my online course in Child Safety.
I was ready!

As I sip on Little Mermaid’s curves,
shaped in plastic, swirly straw weirdness,
a sound blasts off from a Barbie radio.

My 2 yr old angel galloped into this heart of mine,
with Tinnitus piercing scream & laughter,
tackling me in Incredible Hulk lunge.

“Hi Tio”, she whispered, before she hopped back upstairs, 
Ninja Turtle-style,
laughing maniacally with rapid head tilts, left to right to left.

Boys will fear her. 
And I couldn’t be more proud.

After two moments of silence, 
my 6 yr old angel places her Dr. Seuss book on my lap,
as she sits in front of me.

“I can r-r-read
with my eye-s
shut.”

She carefully completed the sentence,
as my eyes instantly fill with leaky pride
and an ingrained smile.

10 minutes later, she shut her book and asked me how she did.
“I am so proud of you my angel.”
“You have come so far.”

I had to hold back tears because I didn’t want to throw her off.
Yet I think she knew,
because she kept her head down and smiled with gentle starburst.

Mission accomplished.

And it was then where I heard her say,
“Those who matter don’t mind,
those who mind don’t matter.”

But she was quiet, looking at me with tilted head & smile.

For it was my inner child, 
speaking
clear.

© Drake J. Eszes


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Mama's Song

I wander through my journey, interspersed with joy and pain, always grateful 
Though not by choice, some days are somber; yet others follow with abundant joy
In my solitude, memories come alive with the recall of some old song from another time
When life was carefree in everyway! No worries and not one care!
First heard as a child; the title now lost to me, so I’ll call it "Mama’s Song"
It’d start off soft and slow; its rhythm smooth, graceful, incredibly beautiful!
Then lingering on my mind, gently reviving memories lost somewhere in yesterday
It’d calm my spirit, take me away- away from countless, mundane tasks
All necessary things, but they arrest my days, imposing, threatening, vying for attention

There’s a constant battle that rages within, and I often ask, “Should I lay down this burden  
of joyless pursuits which hinder valid expressions from my heart?  Should I?
And to what profit?  Surely monetary gain is a necessity, but at what cost to my spirit??
Were I guardian only to myself, I’d simply choose to live lean somewhere by the sea
I would cast my net for food, and barter for grain and herbs.  However, the compass is set
So, I escape in the melodies, with my eyes closed, and fly high, above this terrain
Sailing on the massive wings of a Condor, unafraid; over rugged pathways and
Jagged edges of mountains that rise above the seas, far away from this place of constant 
weariness, on my way to a place more tranquil, somewhere in yesterday
I hover over rivers that give life to green valleys below, quite an amazing view to see!
Like black velvet ribbons they meander through the changing landscape
At an angle they shimmer like fine crystal in the afternoon sun, and in one breath,
I am there! At Mama’s feet, studying her as she sews dresses for my sisters and me 
I watch, I listen to her, softly singing; feel her contentment and peace through the song
Never complaining, never too tired to go beyond the call, to love and care for family 
Teaching by example, using less words, her quiet spirit, ever steadfast, strong
Those times when I feel I can not go on, when afraid I'll falter, I still hear the the melody 
and "Mama's Song"!

Note:  For Mama - Thank you for putting us first! For the many lessons learned which we nowteach our children.  RIP w/Papa!!


Details | Prose Poetry | |

7 Gifts of the Holy Spirit Prayer

Lord God,
Stretch our mind/s with deep understanding of Wisdom
To obtain positive understanding with every complications
Counsel us with guidelines in our work

Give us Fortitude, strength, Patience and Tolerance to finish in peace successfully
Deliver knowledge in our mind/s
For us to receive Piety, goodness and devoutness to get satisfaction
With Holy Fear of the Lord-God, I/we ask in the name of Father Christ Jesus to be with us now and forever.

Amen 
09122012

People can change the “our” to “their”, “him” or “his” when praying for others.


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Seaside Memories

Modest swimsuits, bathing boxes
 White-blue flesh ice cold
Scratchy towels, sandy sandwiches
 Pots of tea being sold
Foxford blankets, picnic baskets – 
A donkey ride on the strand
Flowery summer frocks, mischief brimming 
 A practical joke being planned 

Hesitant breast strokes – high pitched laughter
 Terror, delight ‘the cold’! -
Sunburn, windburn, scalded skin – 
‘You’ll remember this when you are old’
 Your mother is calling ‘the picnic is ready’
 ‘I’ll be there in a minute’, you say.
As you dive down again under – 
The sea bed to plunder -
‘There is treasure down there, Mam’ you say!’

Landladies’ rules, pubs with high stools
‘– A large bottle, sir, if you please -
And may be a chaser?’ ‘You are a disgrace, sir -
The night will blow away with the breeze’.
A day at the races, smiles on mens’ faces,
Jingles in pockets, dinner in ‘Rocketts’ -
 A beer and a fag, a joke and a drag – 
‘This is grand, Sir!’
   
Which horse do you fancy – I think Mary Nancy
Called after his missus – and just as delicious
‘A winner for sure, sir
 And what are you bettin’?  Think of what you’ll be gettin’
When you win on the jackpot –
 It is certain, sir!’
 
Sea-side rock plastic,
 Coloured windmills fantastic
Naughty postcards to be hidden
 – Their content forbidden, 
By your mother – 

The day’s nearly over – 
You are tired – you’ll recover
For a night at the amusements – you have one and twopence
Clean clothes, polished shoes and a song.




Details | Prose Poetry | |

Reflections of You

I caress the blooms of the lilac bush and breathe their sweet fragrant breath. Here in my garden where spring has risen from the melting heart of winter’s death. And when a gentle breeze  kisses my face, I am simply blown away, to that magical place, where you wait for me, along the Fundy Bay.

Bare foot, I skip down a Granite paved road, flanked with ditches where morning glories grow, as I move  through a mist of ocean brine, streaked with rainbows that melt in the morning sunshine and drip from the blooms of a every Sea Salt rose.

 The house - its asphalt shingles, sparkling in many shades of grey - stands firmly  on its hardwood pillars buried deep down in the clay,  the same clay I mould  into a tiny earthen vase, that joins the jars of  pollywogs and dandelion garlands, all lined up on the old root- cellar doors, where I play. 

 And in a cloud of purple perfusion, again, I breathe the breath from the lilac bush that grows there, beside the brook, as those white lace curtains flutter out the kitchen window, and  beat against the window frame -  fanning the heat from those fresh baked apple pies - as another tear falls from my eye.


Then,  from a distant pine, I hear the  white throated sparrow singing, her melancholy tune and the clap of the screen door as I step into that room, a child again breathing the breath from a lilac bloom. 


“Mom….. ……………. I’m home!”


Details | Prose Poetry | |

One Day at a Time

When I was young the stress clouds were more reliable, they came and went just like the light of day and the dark of night. As I got older, the stress clouds became more obstinate, seemed more serious, and stayed in my head as permanent residents. Then one day the clouds stopped moving. The dark foreboding clouds just sat there putting pressure on my body like an unattended pot of boiling water. That’s when I got the first message. One of the dark clouds spoke to me in my sleep and said, get your act together; there’s a difference between family and things.

After that, the stress clouds started moving again, changing their position in my head depending on the time of day. The pot of boiling water calmed down and the things got fixed and faded away into the light of day. But the family stress clouds were different. They had more energy and talked to me every day in the language of dying and the language of struggling and the language of trying. The pot of water continued to bubble around the edges making a painful clamor within my spirit.

That’s when I got the second message.  It came from the bubbles and reminded me of an ensemble of singers. The music was warm and inviting and sounded like elegant thinking. Manage the stress clouds one day at a time they sang with an encouraging voice. Manage the stress clouds one day at a time.
 


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Harmonic Spirits

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


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Grandad's Missing

There's a void, now
Where once a steadfast heart beat time
The soul in perfect harmony with life's uncertain pulse
With those who clambered eagerly in solace or in joy
To scale that mighty pinnacle
The Rock, within the bosom of the family

There's a void, now
But marvel at the structure, the firmness of the ground beneath
The strata richly layered with wisdom of generations past
A fault free seam constructing firm foundations
Binding those within the bosom of the family

There's a void, now
A hollow cavern 
echoing the anger and the pain
Trust time; it has no fear of finite elements
The source of unremitting pain
Within the bosom of the family

There's a void, now
So fill the emptiness and catalogue the memories
Harvesting the richness of their meaning
The fullness of the seed sown long ago
To bloom forever within the bosom of the family


Details | Prose Poetry | |

To Mama

Dedicated to my mother who, in my youth, I did not fully understand.. 


I wish my callings be sweet to thee; 
Abate not Oh lady the tenderness I'd missed 
Prolong thy tenderness and never a dreary; 
Your genteel should I suck from thy breast. 
From being a toddler remember I; 
That not so often I heard thy lullaby. 
And thence I asked Oh whence I came? 
I sought for answer; I didn't think ‘twas fine. 
Then years rolled by I attended school; 
Why art thou the source of my ridicule? 
The boys would laugh by what thou hinted; 
That I didn't fit a sport; I couldn't hit a target. 
It confused me much – yeah it hurt me badly 
The way thou saw me was never comely. 
Mama! Oh mama! I beseech thee 
Tell me the truth in anyway thou tell me 
Thou needest not to be subtle in telling the truth 
Let it be that I can have peace in my youth. 
The future is waiting and thither I goest 
Wish me luck; I don't want to be the lowest. 
Oh Mama, Willful as thou art, bestow in me some courage 
That even in my lowliness, I can live my life the fullest… 


                                    Date & Time of Writing: 
                                    October 4, 1988 
                                    12:03am - 10:10am 



Details | Prose Poetry | |

Perseverance

                     Perseverance: a poem




Long ago or should I say sometime in the past?


I had dreams and now at the age of 31 I have realized most of them.

It’s funny how good luck; joy, pain, rejection, effort and ‘Perseverance’ with a capitol ‘P’ have played a part in my life and sealed my Fate.

I now choose to think more positive thoughts even though this is still hard for me when I hear a negative voice in my head or when I hear people say negative things about me.

Those things hurt me and stay with me until I let it go.
I am self-motivated and I was a star pupil in my memories of my childhood.

My main goal is to be able to take care of myself, be responsible for myself and for the choices I make in life.

I am finishing school next January ’14 with my Bachelor’s degree and I want to find a good Internship.

Then after that I want to have a part-time job working 20 to 25 hours per week and continue doing volunteer work.

Oh and poems, I will keep writing my poems and reading other people’s poetry.  Right now I am reading LIT a memoir by Mary Karr. I also want to write children’s books.



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My One And Only Better Half

Sitting here in the darkness,
To afraid to even speak,
My heart sunk into my chest,
My body felt so weak,
Grabbed by the back of my head,
Thrown down two flights of stairs,
Punch over and over in my stomach,
But still you only see a blank stare,
Nothing but silence,
As I'm dragged acrossed the floor,
The only thing thats going threw my head,
Is what would happen if I try and race to the door,
He grabbed his weight belt,
Hitting me in the back as hard as he could,
I laid there taking the beating,
Just like every other night I would,
But this time it was different,
I was laying in a puddle of blood,
I seen him take off running,
He even slipped in fell in the mud,
I finally got some relief knowing,
that my beating finally ended,
But I didnt know this was going to happen,
This is not what I intended, 
I was rushed to the hospital that night,
Gave birth when I was only fifteen,
7 months old lived for 36 minutes,
His lungs started to crash his breathing was unseen,
The hardest day of my life,
Was holding my child in my arms,
Knowing that he didnt deserve this,
He deserved no harm,
I blamed myself for many years,
Screaming why didn't I fight back?
I guess the thought of not knowing,
It what I really lacked,
I think of him often,
How peaceful  he shall be,
Thats the happiest feeling a mother can have,
To have her son be happy and free.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

BEAUTIFUL THINGS

Some things are lost along the line
Some things, beautiful and fine
Driving down the lone road to the stream in my hamlet
It’s like yesterday; like catching birds from their nest
I giggled as I drove by
Mothers breast feeding babies and singing lullaby
Naked boys rolling condemned tires, and
Ripped virgins with little cloths coverings, as attires

I giggled as I drove by. It’s just like yesterday
I remember Jerome and others as we gathered to play
There was the moonlight rendezvous
Where we all gathered, boys, and girls, all of us
There was the tales by the moonlight,
Ancestral heritages, sacrifices and the Lion’s might
The Lion’s might, yet he falls beneath the crafty tortoise
I still can hear the choruses; I hear my youthful voice
I loved folklore songs. Wars songs for strong sons

Let me try seeing if I can still sing one more;
Yes! I still can sing “Omalingwo”
Omalingwo, Omalingwo tee …… Omalingwo
Omalingwo, Omalingwo nwam…… Omalingwo
Omalingwo, Omalingwo dia …… Omalingwo
Nne nei di na Otutu-aja-o………..Omalingwo
Elikwue ma yu atuna ngwo ji ……Omalingwo
Ngwo, ngwo onye oma………….Omalingwo

My God, I feel new!
I can still sing it! Oh God I knew!
Omalingwo! Story of the child of a deprived mother
Jealous king’s wives over ready for murder
Murder and deprivation if that will give them a son
To sit on the king’s throne and shine forth like the sun
Story of good over evil. Omalingwo!
A deprived mother’s son.

I giggled as I drove along,
Remembering my tiny breasts, when they formed
And more fortunate girls laughing me to scorn
I remember these things till sadness beclouded me
I am fully grown now; nostalgia overshadow me
My age mates, plus me, all gone to the cities
We can’t assemble again, just like broken pot in pieces
Oh! The Eve’s tempting apple of white collar jobs

I heard Jerome lived and then died in Jos
Killed by religious rioters with missions unjust.
I heard Nwasombia is a head dresser is Lagos
At 52 and still searching? Celibacy is obvious
I heard Nosike is in aviation, head of pilots
Even Chima is now in parliament in Cyprus
Chima, who spoke big English like “opprobrious”

My age mates, plus me, all gone to the cities
No more gatherings, just like broken pot in pieces
Still driving along the lone road to the hamlet stream
Still thinking of beautiful things
The beautiful hamlet serene things.


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 | |

Fred the legend A costume was found part 4

A costume was found.

it was that of a clown…

could it be they asked..

the one from our town..

where the little red headed kid disappeared..

on a cold windy night back twenty-two years..

It was found in a field not far from here..

By a farmer of pumpkins...the best far and near..

And each year a winner at the state fair…

This farmer named Pete was very proud of his ware..

It was he that made sure every porch was supplied..

With a pumpkin that showed the towns sorrowful side…

Celebrating the spirits and their one nights’ ride

will go down through the years…even when I am older…

For this special cold night at the end of October…


Details | Prose Poetry | |

BARBARIANS AT THE GATE

Take a look at the picture books,
watch the news.
Read about it in the papers
the are fighting out of the blues.

Children are dying,
mothers are weeping
fathers are fighting
till this day i know not why.

Barbarians at the gate
pull up the draw bridge too much war.

Children are suffering
what happened to farming, making fine wine and chanting?
building fine structures and singing sweet tunes.
We say we are civilized
by making weapons of mass destruction,
we say we are civilized by sending children to war.

Barbarians at the gate
pull up the draw bridge and flood the carnal
we cant let them in
they are causing problems for the children.

Barbarians at the gate
open up your bible and say a prayer
cause we are of he who is greater than he who is in the world.

Barbarians at the gate
we have to give thanks and praises to the king of kings.
He is the conquering lion of the tribe of Judah


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Cold October Night part 2- Legend of Fred

The air was unusually cold that October night..
 as the children set out for a night of fright….
Dressed in their scariest and mysterious garb..
Running over driveways and yard after yard….
There were goblins, pirates, ghosts and a nurse
Werewolves and vampires that gave out a curse..
And of course the aliens of which there were six…
All screaming out for their bag of treats or tricks…
Some of the neighbors had set up a table..
With cookies and hot drinks and punch with a ladel…
For those that grew weary and chilled to the bone..
And knew it would be hours before they got home…
The wind started blowing, lightening lit up the sky…
That’s when they saw it..it was huge and did fly….
What was that they asked..not sure what they saw..
It turned round and round and spun upside down..
When all of a sudden it stopped and just hovered…
That’s when they noticed it opened it’s cover…
Two very large Aliens from outer space did appear…
Come on children it’s time to go home…Bye ya’all…see you all next year….

	


Details | Prose Poetry | |

HORROR OF MAN

 
A KID IS NEVER A CHILD ANY MORE
HE HAS TO FACE HIS PARENTS DEMONS
THE FATHER THINKS HE CAN BE SAVED BY HIS SEAMEN AS THE POPULATION RATE INCREASES
SO DO THE ORPHANS OF WHOSE PARENTS ARE KILLED BY DISEASES 
THESE ARE THE REASONS 
OF DEATH'S KILLING SEASONS 
NOW I'M BLEEDING FROM WITHIN
CAUSE LIFE IS KILLIN
THE MEANING OF BELIEVING 
AND SUFFOCATING ME FROM BREATHING
THIS PURE POLLUTED AIR
THEY SAY WE ARE THE FUTURE
BUT DOES FUTURE REALLY CARE?
THEY ONLY SEE THEIR OWN WELFARE
AND I DARE TO ASK
IS THIS THE HORROR OF MAN'S OWN DOING
OR IS THIS TORTURE PROPHESIED BY THE SCRIPTURES 
BEING THE BEGINNING OF THE END
OR THE END OF THE BEGINNING. 
MY HEAD IS SPINNING
IN QUESTIONS AND DOUBTS THAT IS DEATH REALLY WINNING?
THEN FOR GOD SAKES WHY ARE WE LIVING?
OR ARE WE LIVING TO DIE FOR OUR ANCESTORS FORTUNES 
OR MISS-FORTUNE PLAYING THE TUNES THAT WE HAVE TO DANCE TO
IF ALL THESE WERE TRUE
I HOPE THIS BE SEEN BY THE FEW...


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Beginnings

Copyright 2012 by David Archuletta 

    As for this faceless girl of destiny, she wouldn’t need to see this dark-side of irony, but it was to spite the past - when its due had now shown this girll every worldly right to present her life’s history as the same awaited future of other children as well. Now, standing there on stage, nervous was she; this teenage girl now suddenly struck uneasy to speak ill of those who would try to haunt these new beginnings…
Once upon a midnight’s clear…
   Yet, nevermore, would destiny itself put her in this position to administer such repayment in kind. A requiting long overdue and witnessed by many, including some who would soon feel as if cited by an Edgar Allan Poe incarnate of the cruelest kind; all finding themselves ill-equipped to deal with her soon spoken words!


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Education is Power

Who is in charge of our children's education?
What happens when parents don't do their job?
When children have no sense of reading, writing,
till they hit that school room head on?

Who is responsible to initiate, ingratiate, the word,
so language is understood from infancy and
not suddenly at five years old when
communication receives the attention it deserves?

Parents stand up and take notice
schools do not provide the only source
You are your child's first teacher
You are the one who gives him voice.

From you he will learn expression
From you he will learn who he is
From you he will learn his roots
Give him your love and attention.

Provide an environment filled with books
A place where reading takes precedence
Instill in him a joy for learning
With gentle hand and loving looks.

Model the love of learning
read on your own or with
till without even knowing
he'll develop a yearning
to know, to explore, to evaluate
all there is and more.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

I'm a Survivor

One step further
Two steps back
I’m going to hold my head up
And not show any lack
Yeah, I’m a survivor
And I finish what I start
And I am a very strong person
With a very big heart
I trust too easy
Always get hurt in the end
But I still manage
To let my heart unbend
I never had a childhood
Was put through hell every day
But if it wasn’t for my past
I wouldn’t be who I am today
My mom was an alcoholic
My dad was in jail
I guess having a bad childhood
Is one of the reasons I won’t let myself fail
But after all the obstacles I have been through
And everything I have had to face
I still manage to achieve
And put a smile on my face
I graduate this year
I get to walk across the stage
I can start my new adventure
And create a brand new page
I am proud of myself
For how far I have come
When all these people
Said it couldn’t be done
I am a survivor
And I finish what I start
So I have to figure out the next step
And follow my own heart


Details | Prose Poetry | |

QUANDARY

Opening the window for a breeze… Dogs are barking!  My mind is only on me.  Relaxing…  As my story of the day unfolds, someone knocks.  Startling me, I hurry to the front door.  There stands an image of long-ago.  We hug and I let him in.  I begin to remember how deeply in love I was with this man.  But our destinies had to part and I left with my heart.  We talked for hours.  No intimacy transpired between us because we knew our lives was not fair to us and therefore, we did not desire any closeness.  Just reminiscence of tragedy we had went through for healing purposes on this three-year Anniversary.

***

What happen?  You may ask.  This is the tale as is.

***

His mother desired to be me.  So she set out to steal my identity.  In darkness she laid in our bed waiting on Ted.  A man entered the room and she presumed her man had come home.  Voicing that she was there, my stalker shot her three times in the head.  The bullets were for me.  In irony, she had really stolen my identity.  He shot himself as well ending my dilemma.

The police came on the screen afraid that it was me.  Ted and I played it off.  He had told me his ordeal with his mother as a teenager.  He was the star athlete at our high school.  His mother was unstable and desired him for her sex tool.  She will explain that this would keep them close but he could not tell anyone.  His grandmother, on his father side, had filled Ted in on his mother family history of incest.  Ted figured he did not want any part of that mess.  So he asked his father could he live with him but he also keep in contact with his mother because of his sister and brother.  His father said yes to Ted and asked his other kids did they want to live with him as well.  It so happen that his sister was close to their mother and his brother was also.  So they said no.

Ted graduated from high school as valedictorian of his class and his body was explosive.  Ted was fine as he could be.  He now could communicate with his mother without her approaching him for sex.  He had not told his father of this instead he kept this to himself.  Nevertheless, his mother, in secret, still desired her son.

Ted and I started dating in high school.  I was familiar with his family through us living in the same metropolitan city; however, not in the same community.  We end up going to the same university in the city we lived in and our relationship flourished.

We moved into our apartment while we were in college and his mother use to come over.  And now, three years later, we remember the tragedy.  Ted cries out to me and I answered.  We are bonded by our relationship but not by marriage.  He has successfully conquered his demons and mine's disappear on that night of my stalker death.

Ted mother was wealthy and I knew that she only was nice to  me because of Ted.  The police discovered she had paid my stalker to pursue me as his prey.  Ted has been told this as well and he stated that is why his mother is dead in which he says quietly to himself, “This ends this horrid tale.”

[Queasy Queen Beings and they do not know anything of it. Ted is Queasy Queen’s son and he has her powers. He would have acquired his mother’s powers without help, which would have been through incest before forty (40). However, incest did not happen between Ted and his mother, Queasy Queen; therefore, he will acquire her powers at the age of forty (40) via other means.  His sister and brother have theirs but did not divulge because there mother had explain theirs to them when she bestowed.  Telling Ted’s sister, Harmony, at ten (10) years of age what she was doing as she assisted her in getting dressed. she kissed her neck. Telling Ted’s brother, Destine, at fifteen (15) years of age, when he was leaving why she kissed him.  Incest was only for Ted because he was the oldest and her first born.  His grandmother on his father side knew nothing of this because she was human and disagreed with incest openly.  More so, this was unheard of through entities of the government.]


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Childs Concept

There was a little girl 
barely more than three.
She went for a ride
to the country one Sunday
with her family.

She laughed and laughed
with glee
at all the animals
that she could see.

Then she spotted
something that before
She had not seen.

Now from the back seat
came the cry
UTS DAT  MOMMIE !!
UTS DAT !

There in the field was 
a tractor and a wagon.
Her mother told her what 
it was and all fell quiet.

Being that it was about nap time
and she was quiet for so long
they thought her asleep.

Suddenly     
a cry rang out 
from the back seat.

aaahh !!!  A Twagon !











Details | Prose Poetry | |

EasterEggOne

 EasterEggOne 
EasterEggOne 
 
TheFalconeEGGPoemI 
  
For EWE Easter Sunday 
IN a series of three egg poems it stormed. It rained ICE into the desert there is still ICE 
there on the hill side in mye distance the stuff pelted my covers all night forcing me into a 
fighting crouch to stay alive eye resembled nothing lest except a baby falcone inside her egg 
before She hatches eye waited for the daylight coming trying to accept the fate of all 
homeless people when then the sun arose all around me long enought to let me dry mye 
things before putting toys away when the falcone come she sat her distance preening drying 
feathers twisting head just giving me theye theye theye she turns her head this way and that 
sort of drinking eye with heart and sight so nice it was to see mye falcone scrye. It cleaned 
mye heart of hate and once again renewed eye faced this Easter Sunday day. Iff this were 
not enought an added ancedoted ed.note.ed see charlaxfabels the falcon cry fable number 
one then continue on to egg poem too and thence to number three or egg poem thrice. 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Tender Years

Wet snow just for packing they say
Friends all hyped, full of grins, on a cold day
Four buddies daring one another to take aim
The smallest one made the first throw
Dodging and ducking trying not to be hit
Snowballs bombarding each other in play
Four rosy cheek boys all covered in white
Within laughter, a sound of great pain
The smallest one screamed a very loud cry
A snowball hit him squarely in the eye
Tears flowing, freezing on red streaked cheeks
His glasses were broken, a nose bleed had he
A snowball truce ended our wintry play
All three of us walked him home, chattering away

Today we sit together, thinner hair and a bit gray
Watching snowballs flying by our children at play
A memory we share, friends we'll always be


By Connie Gildersleeve
For Gail Angel's contest, "Tender Years"


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Magic of High Tide and Butterfly Wings.

On wings and above oceans, in the days where it rained to the left while the sun peeked
from the right, and underneath magical dewdrop butterfly breezes, she stood in the wind,
in the freedom of imagination where windows were doorways to heaven, and fairy dust fell
from the ceilings that contained her heart...

above the roaring of high tide and next to the balcony where the winds untied the braids
her mother had placed carefully in her hair, her tiny hands lifted, up, towards storm
clouds and hidden suns...

and she blew, exacting her breath to dandelion seed releasing, and counted made~up nursery
rhymes, as she fluttered her heart...

and out of her mouth flew a butterfly, wings beating in the rhythm of love, her eyes
opened and she reached her palms to the ceiling, watched drapes fall from wings and....

fairy dust...

take flight, and she whispered in a voice intelligent enough to only belong to a little girl,

“Goodbye, my heart, flutter your wings to the sky, then find me one day, sprinkle me with
smiles, find me and take me...

home.”


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Wildflowers In A Diary

Once or twice
On some black and white day
Blurry images grow.
Of a childhood,
Distant and shallow,
Of strangers, one by one
Peeping out of my window,
Closed, you know.


Of the mythical ages
Of teary-eyed me,
Clutching her hand
And not letting go.
I remember one smiling face
Of a boy somewhat like you,
Who laughed
At my stupidity.
And took me by hand
To that quaint ancient house
Of joy and sorrow,
Right,
You, a stranger now,
I wouldn't ever know.

Of the children's game
And a mellow afternoon,
Of that crowd,
In our old palace
And you, another face,
Playful and loud.
You, the sharp-eyed one,
The evil grin,
That seemed marshmallow like.
And that room,
You wouldn't let me in.
The days flow,
Like wine, smooth and slow,
Right,
You, a stranger now,
I wouldn't ever know.

Of all the madness
That drowned my sadness,
For years,
Of the friendship,
That never happened,
For the sake of my small cuts
Wounds and tears,
I convey here,
That you existed once,
Intense and clear,

For the sprawling sky
Outside the window
Of our class, nearby,
Of the days
Of Harry and Cho,
Of the Room of Requirement,
We know.

Of slow-moving tides, time-slices,
Counting the minutes before it rang,
To end probability and dices.
And the worlds in us, sprang
When the boughs of orange-red
And yellow
Of that Poinciana, o'er my balcony,
Stooped low,
The permutations I made,
I would never show-

Right,
You were all strangers,
I wouldn't ever know.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Wood Carving

            Wood Carving


He sits there, not quite motionless, for
even the comfortable must alter their
perception occasionally, frozen stare
upon a craggy visage, tiny fox-like predator
eyes peering into your soul.  “What are his
origins?” ask the bespectacled intellectuals.
“Who is he?” and “Why has he taken up
his unwelcome residence here?”  The buses
pass carrying workers, students, captains
of industry. They look at him but they do
not see him.  The children see him.
Wonder in their dreams how he came
to be.  Some want to be rid of him.
They have no reason, no justification
for alarm, nothing to warrant their
uneasiness.  One daring young lady
sat beside him, whispered a secret to
him, both shook with laughter.
Passersby were startled to see the
interaction and summoned the
the childs mother.  “What have you
taught her that makes her think that
she can do such things?”  They asked.
The young lady tried to speak but was
hushed by the serious looks she was
getting from the adults.  That evening at
bed time the young lady’s mother asked
her: “What did you say to him?”.  “I said:
‘You look like grandpa.”.  The mother sat
back, quieting a tear, and reminded the
young lady that her Grandpa was no
longer here.  “I know, Mommy”.  She said.
Well then, what did “he” say to you?”
The young lady sat up in bed and smiled
“He said that he was there every day,
and any time I wished to sit with him
and read to him it would be fine.”
“Mommy”, she said, “do you remember
grandpa”?  “You know …how his face was
all rough, and his hands hard and
spidery, and how he would like it when
I sat with him and read?”  The tear that
had been held “quiet” made a sound,
ran down the mother’s face as she
hugged her daughter and put her
to bed.  The next day mother and daughter
walked to the old tree, felt the roughness
of his face, touched his spidery thin
branches, sat with him – and read.
Soon others came to visit, sitting and
whispering, laughing and reading.
for they know who he is, what his
origins are, why “he” waits so patiently.


John G. Lawless
9/27/2014

For PD's WHATEVER - Poetry Contest


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 | |

The Seventh Fable

 The Seventh Fable 
The Seventh Fable 
 
Charlaxes Fables 
 
Mental Prefabrications 
 


People have preconceived ideas from Religion and Television 

combine these two ideas and no wonder everyone is mental. 

The Eye is just now thankful that the computer was not mine at age 14. The TV 
was enough to ruin me for life. It is no wonder that eye still don't have a life. 
Falling into cracks made just for me. Living in the NEW AGE causes so much 
uncertainty and problems we avoided in our past come back as daily necessities 
of the mass of useless protoplasmic mice eye once saw a man on the highway 
with a sign he was begging for more money to get some more useless wine so 
the people went zigging past avoiding him until he fell down on the ground it 
seemed to me he was passed out perhaps he died and no one buried him 
sounds like an episode of Twilight Zone. There was episodes eye will never 
forget the NOSE throbbing on the stairs inside the house the girl tried to leave the 
shelter of the fence once out she turned to dust the man with the wires in his arm 
seeing the oven where he was born the little airforce people in the GIANT 
woman's kitchen getting swept. 

It just occurred to me the ins and outs of celebrity imagine all the casting calls to 
make the episodes. AND the fact that Charlax was never chosen for even one of 
them seems sort of some kind of twisted justice the actors used were just the 
best of all the crème de le crème of all the hollywooded jest. Webseries Pilot 
casting call: 
The Charlax would be excellent at this OH wait look at that ethnic face. Male, 
open ethnicity, early to mid 30's - JG. Federal Agency Detective.  Good at his job, 
but fresh enough to still want to make a difference. Oh if eye were only Twenty 
Years different. A Twilight Zoned Detecative with the name Rick Roll selected and 
elected to be the actor of the myllineum. 
   


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Cottons Southern Man

More than a man, the south made.
Black and white, south one started, 
great oaks refused no man a child
to hang about it, call dark christmas.
Hallow was a name, old now hollow.
Stigma inside wears grey cotton
memories, alive die uncompensated.
Here, electricity has that sick sweet  
smell about it, as if it were once alive.
While morality, debates in pockets 
of isolated votes packed together.

Is It Poetry


Details | Prose Poetry | |

PINKY

Smiles, Hope, Dreams
Joy, Anxiety, Hushed voices
The thrill of the unknown
I lay in wait…….

Opening my heart, ripping apart my sadness
Tugging and lifting my happiness
I know it’s finally here……..

Forgive me if I do not spare you time
Understand me when I smile brightly
The cloud of uncertainty is no more
The rain is gone and the SUN has come

I smile, she smiles
I coo, she coos
I now know she is mine and will always be

She fills my days with untold pleasures and joys
An angel redefined
A pinky in her own shade
The treasure that fits the dig….

She hopes, she smiles
She cries, she sighs
She dreams

“My hand will be your grip,
My feet will be your path,
My eyes will be your sight”
That is my promise.

Arise now!
For your day has come to ascend to occasion
Wear your crown with honor, MY FRIEND!!

Today I pass the challenge over; so you may be finer as:-
A woman, daughter, sister
And someday, Mother…….


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Dancing in the Rain

DANCING IN THE RAIN


Watching by the window
Of moth spattered cobwebbed glass.
In grass long fine and seeding
Two children, dancing in the rain.

Across the weathered grey verandah
In the pale light, of summer’s afternoon.
Dance through the muddy puddles
And the soft misty falling rain.

Two brightly coloured figures
Whirling with the wind.
Shrill, high laughing voices
Brown wet shiny skin.

One tall and fair, one small and dark
Kicking high and muddy.
Flying now on wings of dreams
Lost in childhood’s timeless journey.



Jenny Magrath
Mt. Timbeerwah 1992


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Tater Sack Annie

On a raft in the river tied to a tree, lived in an old woman of whom most folks made fun. She didn't talk much, most thought she was dumb. Kids being curious, and the summer being hot, the cool of the river drew our disobedient lot. We kids soon discovered the crude raft and the tent. We oddly made friends with its strange occupant. Tried as we might to find out her name. All we got was a smile from the toothless old dame. One thing for certain we kids soon found out. Social graces she lacked, but her kindness made up for that fact. Times being tough and money being tight, often we kids confided our plight. She didn't care if we were dirty or poor. She loved her little friends all the more. We didn't mind her fashion was lack. She wore a dress made from and old "tater sack." What troubled us was she didn't have a name. We didn't care from where she came. One day as we sat on the bank, a thought came to mind. We were disgusted with folks being unkind. "Everybody's got a name," said one. "Let's call her 'Tater Sack Annie'", said another, so it was done. Annie smiled at us. She liked her new name. She didn't say much, just smiled again. She motioned for us kids to her camp for lunch. She always fed our whole bunch. Fried taters, catfish and greens. All of us believed she was a woman of means. Several summers went by. One year the fall came. A saturday night, folks out for a lark. Didn't see Annie walking home in the dark. Somebody sent, and a somber Sherriff came, "Anybody her know her name?" He spoke to the group. Two boys stepped forward, both knelt to a stoop. "That's our 'Tater Sack Annie'", they spoke in a low tone. Both their faces ashen and as white as bone. Today in a churchyard no monument gleams. Only a simple stone reads, "Annie a lady of means."

Written by my grandmother Sandra Burch


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Audacity

My elementary school was a box full of broken crayons. 
You know, the kind that no one likes to use because they fit inside your hands like a hug that lasts three seconds too long. 
Me and my classmates wore 
hand-me-down smiles. 
They were too big for our faces. We figured that eventually we would somehow grow into the sound of our own laughter, put on our happiness like gloves and wear our skin as if our bodies were made by Louie Vuitton, just hoping to be more than tattered pages ripped from the torso of coloring books.
More than the aftermath of two runaway trains headed to the same direction. Our parents drove their affection without insurance, and we are just head on collisions with no coverage. We got shattered windshields for eyes, and tongues made out of safely glass held together by super glue. It’s no wonder we spoke broken English. 
With an entire orchestra drowning inside our throats, veins like guitar strings, our voices cracked like the self esteem of single mothers who carried us in their wombs like Molotov cocktails, and prayed that we would somehow find a way to mature into land mines
exploding underneath the feet that have trampled them for too long. These women, they dream in a language only fully understood by the tiles of an abortion clinic on a busy afternoon.
They raised us on top of broken promises made by men with grape jelly in their spines who were too busy jamming to their own 
two-cent mix tape that they chose over their priceless women.
We didn’t come with a screwdriver. There is no picture on our box to show you what we should look like when this all is over.
We were just put into this world with a note that read 
“Some assembly required.”
We were built inside of a neighborhood that looked as though it was slowly loosing a fist fight to cancer and kemotherapy claimed all of it’s dreams.
You see at a young age I was told that no matter how much furniture you move with a Honda Civic, it’ll never be a pick up truck 
but have you ever wanted to be more than what you were made for?
Was there ever moment in your life when all you wanted was to be more than the wounded options that circumstance has nailed to your shoulders? 
People question why we even have the audacity to breathe. That’s why when we walk it looks as though we are apologizing for our lungs.
But we ate not sorry for living this loudly.
It’s the only way we know how.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

KIDS AND FUN GAMES

they love the ropes
jump like a doke
they love the swing
its there thing
love park to play
some do it everyday
to them its happy fame
KIDS AND 
FUN GAMES


Details | Prose Poetry | |

"The Snakes"

The Snakes are moving to Washington,
where they'll buy real estate and visit
the Smithsonian,
They'll set up a residence next to the President,
trying very hard to be his best friend,
Mrs. Snake will befriend the children and the First Lady,
but their motives will be quite shady,

The Snakes are getting ready to make their move,
with their spyware and smoothe grooves,
part of their plan is to win over Capitol Hill
so they can make their "Big Kill",

The Snakes are coming!
slithering slowly,
when their cover gets exposed,
things are going to get ugly!

They will sneak in the nooks and crannies,
They may even try to upset Granny,
but they are coming in disguise,
while their daggers are traveling behind in the skies.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Did Ya See it Mama

Yep!
I ist ain't gonna do it
I said I'm not
and you cin hold me to it
don't put it in ma dish 
It stinkes a lot like fish
I said mama 
I ain't eat'n it
For human consumption
welp mama 
it ain't fit.
It rolls round and round
and yep it's done off ma plate
Yep fur sure,  now it's to late
it hit the ground.
with out even a sound
did ya see that mama
that smelly old 
brussel sprout.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Soul Incarnate

(shiver) (blink) whiteness…light? 
form? the blinding? whiteness moves BACK
eyes? form? (shiver) (blink) the atmosphere moves over her
her consciousness is contained (shiver) (blink)…skin?
sound ? startles her and she moves…….
So awkward, so clumsy. SHE must coerce movement
no bright quick flow (blink) Her world becomes the world
of sound EVE….Yahweh’s sound…

In the beginning there was the Word and the word was God.
“You are the wholeness of all that is to be, Eve….
Here a companion made for you to guard and protect
your seed……….You shall bloom a world Eve.”
The arms? hands which had covered her ears? drop.
The wet warm air stirs. Color bleeds into her,
sun and sky and earth, so, they are named by Yahweh.
(flinch) a large branch from what ..He, who is all, calls TREE
moves…Eyes, arms, hands limbs appear, as she, but not she?

The daylight sky crackles with the energy of Yahweh 
"ADAM….. " Yahweh’s sound. “Companion, seed bearer,
protector you will be, Eve shall be mother and thee father
for you are the wholeness of all that is to be…
"SPEAK now!"......And Eve turned slowly to Adam
and he to her…the WIND, as it was called, stirrs.
“And so it shall be” said Eve to Adam “And so it shall be.”
said Adam to Eve. Their eyes meet, their hands clasped.
The primordial forest stirs and each new creature created by 
Yahweh comes forth and are named for Eve and Adam.
The trees and fruit and insects and birds all that was made
was named and it was good. 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Dying Dreams

The young dream their dreams away at night

Hoping they come true

A doctor,policemen,veterinarian and other dreams are developed by the young

Too naive to understand the ways of the world

Determined as ever to achieve their dreams

The old regret the dreams they could never accomplish

They had dreams but unknowingly never came true

You go from living a world full of dreams

To living the reality that is life

Why do we let our dreams die

We were so excited as young kids

At the foot step of our dreams

Were we haunted by the mountain we had to climb

To make our dreams come true

Did we simply quit

Because of society’s pressure

Did money deter our dreams away while we slept at night

Did we let doubt creepy into our hearts

Silently killing all of our dreams without realizing it

Why do dreams die so quickly

When we spent years of our youth

Hoping that we could get an opportunity

To make them come true

Dream big, chase your dreams and never let them die


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Goodbye Fishies

Fishing was a joy 
A way to let time float by 
Every weekend with his St. Croix in hand 
He would take a leisurely walk to the lake 
And as he did for over fifty years 
Fly fish 

It was always the act 
Not the catch 
That was his way of letting the world 
Fade magically away 

Still… these last several years 
The lake had been quiet and still 
And try as he did 
All the fish seemed to be… gone 

There were times as a boy 
When bite by bite 
The crowded lake, filled with fish 
Would grab the hook 
Until forced to stop by the weight of the load 
He would lie on the cool green grass 
And enjoy the summer sun 

But those were the days of youth and fish 
When the earth was still warmed by the sun 
We’ve taken so much and given back less 
Those days are long since gone


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Femininity Unbounded

By Stanley Collymore

If words are the trumpets of the mind and the 
eyes the telescope of the heart could it be 
that silent thoughts, transmitted yet not 
openly disclosed, are the engine to 
provide the start of what we 
hope to find? 

Like an elegant goddess borne loftily 
on the stalwart wings of chance 
you swept in unexpectedly 
but oh so majestically 
in a unique, feminine 
ballet de dance – 
your welcomed presence creating a 
charming and exciting situation
replete with its own magical
and tempting expectations.

© Stanley V. Collymore
20 June 2001. 



 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

SMALL TOWN MEMORIES

Swimming in an outdoor pool, 
drinking from  a fountain,cool;

Swings and slides in childish fun ,
summer picnics in the sun;

A Sunday Brassband trumpet call,
in open spaces enjoyed by all;

Bowls and putting on the green,
in the Vale Park 'the 'place to be seen;

Leisurely strolls and chat,
forties style,now so very 'old hat'.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Bedford

With childhood eyes, reflecting
Clear mountain day, remembering
Fresh cut hay, reviving
Together we’d play, etching 
Memories never to be forgotten

The morning crisp, awakening
Aromas hint, of baking
Small morning eyes, awaiting
The wrinkled chef, creating
The delicacies of home-made art

Calloused hands, observing
A rugged land, preserving
Unwilling souls, still learning
Dust and heat for hours, shaping
Young men soon to face the world

Cool mountain shadow, approaching
The weathered rancher, nodding
Nightly ventures, seeking
The crystal streams, providing
All a boy could ever want

The dinner table, calling
The cold night gently, falling
The glow from window, beaming
Through which family is seen, praying 
Thanking God for what He’s given

The warm fire softly, crackling
The elder folk, chatting
While childhood eyes slip, drifting
Off to pleasant dreams, forever
Calling my heart back home to Bedford


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 | |

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 | |

Congratulations

CONGRATULATIONS
Isn’t it exciting?
How this event
Can make you feel
You know it’s heaven sent

Graduating from Middle School
Is the beginning of your life 
You know to keep your cool
And must forever strife

For going on to High School
Is a wish we parents have
So you can get the knowledge
We as parents wish we had

To succeed with a good foundation
Is what it’s all about 
Because an education 
Is something you can’t do without

That knowledge that you’ll get
Will forever replace
The inexperience and seclusion
And make you someone in this place

Remember, for you to see the world
Education is your ticket
Because with education 
You will have a wealth of knowledge, mind, and sound

So today CONGRATULATIONS
And know 
That with education 
You are honor bound


					Love: Mrs. Enriquez
                 				RHMS Teacher


Details | Prose Poetry | |

WHAT WOUND DID EVER HEAL

“What wound did ever heal, 
But by degrees”
…Shakespeare
Except my mother was dear
…Very dear

Count me among men
Who can read and write
Count me among them
Who finds book a delight
No!
Not about intelligence
Mother taught me diligence
Scrapped for a living
So I could get learning
I am a dead woman’s sweat
My worries cracked her chest
My mother was my literacy
My literacy is my treasure
My treasure…is you
I wrote what you can read
She was its measure.
I never paid back 
Never gave thanks.
Prodigal son playing pranks

On me,
She had learned to hope
Then died
In last breath still in hope
That I lose not hope
But what hope lies there 
For a drawing man to hope
Last straw, just sank in
Wide Sea without and within

Wounds heal by degrees
But some can’t heal
Only permitted to blurred
My tears blur my view
Soaks the ink in papers
Forcing me to rewrite and renew
She will not want me to cry
Rather that I sit up and try
Dab my eyes, let the tears dry.
“I know who you are my son”
You are awesome”
Mama, you always tell me that
But am breaking down.
Your lose never healed
Shakespeare said its by degrees
Said the pain will decrease
But I detest full healing
You were so appealing.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Mutiny

Blue chips stared - boring
Appraising. 'Do you have anything 
to say?'
I stare back. Bristling. 
Eyes streaming.Of course I had opinions to 
offer -
I look around: solemn masks tinged with 
dissidence. My 
comrades - are we faulted?
I am the Head; I must speak.
Deep breaths. I conjure my favourite fantasy
'We offer our apology - and hope 
we are still in your good books -'
Pontificates. Obnoxious man; I chew my lips
'Oh, if you were out of my good 
books we wouldn't be having this 
conversation.'
I stare at the faces flanking him. 
Baboons before their master. 
Nose spasms; eyes twitching:
I get the message but ignore.
Deafening silence stretches 
into impudence.
Sweet relish at his petulance.
You know not what you are 
dealing with -
Haven't you heard of the notorious village 
boys?


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Damage Will Always Be There

The Damage Will Always Be There


I cried,I bleed,And now my heart longer beats the same way it did before I meet you.My heart feel broken,i feel like a rag doll played with over and over again only to be thrown away.I miss your love but now your gone and my hearts ache the most it has ever.There are time's I wonder if  I have been lying to myself,I must be because my heart should fee lighter it should feel like a free winged bird but it not.The damage the cuts the sores they shall be with my from happy time to sad time because you put them there.You who I looked up to you never promised I know but it aches from every thought of you.How come how come I must be alone in this world? It sound selfish but I only want you back to be here beside me and tell me you love me and I'm doing a great job with everything.Why does it hurt to think of you?why does it pain me to want to be lose to anyone?why does everyone leave me behind when I need them the most?why am I so closed up with a stone wall full of hate surrounding my heart?I know it shouldn't be there but do you? In time the cut will heal and the sores shall vanish.But what about the feelings and the damage inflicted upon them will never leave.Yes it sounds so cliche yes you've heard it all before.But really and this is know this is said this is everything I know.The damage is there no matter how much it seems to have healed.

For my grandmother who i lost now 5 years ago Granny i miss you i wish you would have fought for us a little longer then you did.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

My Pa







Had a dream about my Pa tonight, We all went out with them to Lake Loral Nancy His wife cooking up a good ol' Chicken Pot Stew slow-cooked set way up high atop the hickory us loading up the Bayliner for our afternoon fishing trip. We reminisced, Canoe in toe as we used to do just in case, yes just as we did back then; you-know if either would wished to float to one or more sides with the Canoe tied to the railings of the boat, or more or less to widen the chance at a greater spot to cast a gander upon our luck... . My Father by adoption; having-stated many times early on in-all of our teenier all together, God being-in-charge of all good-Blessings and if-you will--luck... we'll always catch some albeit one Yes I began to see through this statement he mentioned often God is always presenting always providing this-His Honest Hope, for us both--as I believe like my Pa, for any one yes everyone who is patient remains-open... ! Our woes, and Peace abiding... uncertainty grievances questions yes laughter were our main recollections as we dropped our first lines as we cast them... . I tell you I truly did love Him, still love Him, will always I figure... yes I know Some folk are so defined never wish to grow any further their Character divorced by Cancer, Nary did my Father allow it. On the day he passed He told Nancy, "I love my life. My Family Children. Love all those close to me.... but I'm tiered just plain wore out." the Lord took Him that night, the next day forthcoming I was told and O how I cried — But then realized as I saw he lived the greater life - He worked on this purpose until the day he died, and so for all he work for this final reprieve — it was for all of the ones he loved, because I feel for all whom he loved, he'd prayed for all to do the same... Yes a suffering in kind the same I'm seeing now - All-of-it I'm-finding; because he taught me the greater of his Faith nary a day apart from Him, and me... his youngest Son two Others older Sons if you will, yes I feel his family and friends still have this eminent belief to boast; Yes, in-the Company--Comfort... of Jesus' Peace... !


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Finding My Pure Heart

All the violence on TV was probably not good for me
All the decapitated corpses on video games not the brightest idea for me
Life’s real dramas just frustrate me
All the fabricated television dramas annoy me
We all love a happy ending yet we consume the misery and pain of others
Haunted by life changing events
At times I just simply need to vent
Why be educated and humble when being ignorant and shallow brings you fame
Why save your virginity for marriage, when society’s sluts take all the good guys that a girl covets
Why be a nice guy, when all the respectable women settle for assholes yet are surprised when they are mistreated and cheated on
Why live a life down the correct path, when the wrong path is glorified and admired by society
Beneath the darkness and rubble of life exist the flickering white light of my once pure heart


Find more of my writings and poems at jorgesouthkorea.com


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Mama Calling Me

Poet: Ken Jordan
Poem: Mama Calling Me
Edited by: Sparkle Jordan
written: June/2014


        My mama calling me:

  Kennnnn   ny!
                Kennnnn  ny!
Kenny!?
          Kenny!    
                   KENNETH!!

Get choo little ass in this 
house!

Boy, 
I know you heard me call'n
you.....

Don't have me call you
again..... mama get worried -

Now if I have to call you again, 
mama gon whup yo little ass -

Now tell yo sweet mama, what 
I said:

"You said, mama gon whup my 
little ass if you call me again."

That's right baby, mama don't 
play that.....you know me, 
alright?!

mama didn't mean to scream 
at you baby, but, mama got to
know where you are.

Okay mama -

baby, now  gon out and
play -

I love you mama -

I love you to baby,  that's 
mama's little good boy -

Remembering those good old
days -

My mama calling me.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Christmas with You



I remember going out and chopping
the old big green spruce years ago.
You’re frosting cookies they were the best
and not jest coz ya was my Grandma.

I remember the antique bulbs all glass and
sparkling too.
How Grandpa let me hang the angel one year
and I fell into the tree.

My spirit is not so free this Christmas 
as' it was in the past.
not a little girl no more Grandma.

And this is the first time you will celebrate
it in your new home.
With The Lord and angels, I just know you
will have the best Christmas of all.

You finally will spend it with Grandpa once
again and that’s so nice.
For me this Christmas I am going to spend
it with you like years long ago.
Even if only in my heart.

Merry Christmas Both of you.

Peggy Jo


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Mother

Mother shot father and I don’t see
How this came to be
Mother shot father and I can't hear
The sound of gunfire ringing in my ear

In my room I sit 
A cigarette in my hand, asking to be lit
Mother shot father and I don’t know why
I can't seem to find the tears to cry

Mother shot father
Bam bam bam
Mother shot father
Bam bam bam

A bullet straight to the head
And now daddy is dead
Two more shots, just to be sure
Its all a blur

Mother shot father 
And then mother shot mother 
Here I sit, in my room alone
The words in my head an endless drone

Mother shot father
Mother shot mother
If I shoot myself 
Will all the blame lie with mother?


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Womans Touch

The gates of hell have been violently open. The world begins to rumble and scatter in fear. Earth’s volcanoes spew magma and ash from its core. The clouds quickly gather as the thunder and lightning signal the wrath to come. Earth’s crust opens its mouth ready to swallow cities and nation’s whole. Suddenly a white and peaceful light emerges from the horizon. This elegant and stunning figure seems not all frightened by all the chaos. She gingerly kisses and hugs the tormented man. All of this madness was inside the man’s mind. The stress and pressure of life almost got to the man. Drugs and alcohol never gave him relief but all it took was a woman’s touch.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Egyptian Pharaohs

Your mysticism captivates my world today

Covered in gold and ruins

We try to decode

What you left behind for us so long

Its been five thousand years

And we still feel so lost without you

Let your sun god Ra

Show us the path you took

The pyramids were the keys to your afterlives

Show us how to live our lives

I live in a world covered in blame

With people constantly finding someone else to blame

No boy king in Tut in our day

No Cleopatra ruling any day

Just a lot of villains called politicians

Oh great Egyptian Pharaohs

Show us how you brought prosperity and peace

To your once unstable land


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Stay

Stay

Stay a little while because I don’t want you to go.
Will you stay a little while.  please don’t tell me no.

Stay a little while because your strength makes me calm
Please protect me from the world.  Protect me from the harm.

When your gone im always scared
I want to see your face

When your gone im all alone
I want your warm embrace.

Ive cried a million tears 
Ive died a million deaths

And now your gone, im here again
Lonely on my own.






Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Little Boy

Wolf! The little boy cried
No one listened and he died
How could we miss
Such a dark abyss?

Sharp teeth
Hidden behind the mask of a sheep
"Daddy why must you hurt me so?
How could they not know?"

Every night while we slept
That little boy wept
"Stop Daddy, why must you hurt me?
Why can't they see?"

He called Wolf, no one would look
Such horrors can only exist in a book
We were oh so wrong
And now he is gone


Details | Prose Poetry | |

LET THE SNOW BEGAN

its white
its bright
lights up the nighti 
i dress  right
to blend\LET THE SNOW
BEGAN


Details | Prose Poetry | |

ERIE

The house wasn't much to look at,
Although it was grand in its day.
But we never got tired of visiting,
Or seeing the family on Sunday.

The floors were old and creaky,
The walls were strong and tall.
The yard was ever the smallest,
Yet, we still found a way to play ball.

The clock in the kitchen kept pendulum time,
Its gentle gongs...as the hours were to go.
The louder sounds were of plinking from the front room,
As we banged the keys of the old piano.

The sweet aromas from the bakery next door,
Wafted over us, and the neighborhood in the air.
Always reminding one of that pleasant place,
Filled with caked and cookies and eclairs.

We didn't understand the words,
That our grandparents' were to say.
That "Polish" banter between them and our parents,
Have kept their secrets even today.

While our moms were helping Grandma in the kitchen,
Our dad were on the porch playing cards.
As for us...we ran our little games,
More and more noise from the yard.

Only memories now remain,
And sometimes after a day of aching hands and weary feet,
My mind turns to those more pleasant days,
As I remember the times, spent on Erie Street.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Way Down South

Poet: Ken Jordan
Poem: Way Down South           
Edited by: Sparkle Jordan
written: June/2014


Growing up
way 
down south 
in
Florida -

was like
a 
fiesta -

We would
go to
the
beach,

swim, run,
and 
play

in 
the white 
sand -

and
soon as 
we
get home,

It was 
time 
to raid 

the 
sugarcane 
farm -

Life
was sweet,

in
the
Sunshine
State -

Each day
was 
better than
the
day before -

We 
had good
fun
times -

pushing
our
box cars,

made
from old
veggie crate's -

And

Roller 
Scooters, 

made
from scrap
wood -

We had
roller skates,

the
metal one's,

with metal
wheels.......

We made
Kites,

from 
brown paper 
bags,

(using a little 
flour,)

and water
for glue -

Kids 
would shoot 
arrows 
out 
in the fields, 

with
bow's

made from 
bamboo - 

We picked
berry's

from
the Chinaberry 
tree,

to use
as
ammunition,

in
our
homemade
Pop-guns -

We played
hide and seek,
and
hopscotch,

spinning top,
and
marbles 
too -

We even
tried to
DoubleDutch,

just to flirt 
with
the girls -

We had
fun
playing,

to see
who
whistled
the loudest,

and 
the one
who won,

would
get
a free
icy cup,

from
snow cone
man.....

We
would blow
into our
hands,

making
horn-like
sounds,

pretending
that

we played
in 
the band -

And
we would
play,

Rock, Paper,
Scissors.....

saying:
"HotDog!"
after each
win -

And
just before
dusk,

we
would run
down
the 
dirt road,

at
the corner
of 

Tunis
and
Miller street,

to hear 
older boys,

harmonize 
do-wop
songs,

under the
lamp light -

Growing up
in
Florida,

was
the best
time
of my
life -

We had:

No Internet,
No iPhone,
No iPad,
No Tablet
or
Lap Top -

Play Station,
Wee,
or
XBox -

We were 
humble,

and
grateful 
for 
what we had -

I remember 
when
gas stations,

were called
filling
stations,

where
the attendant 
came out,

and
cleaned
your car
windows,

checked
the 
oil level,

and put 
air 
in your tires 
if 
needed -

When we
got sick

from 
a 
cold or fever -

we rarely
seen
a doctor -

Big Mama's
old folk
medicine
remedy 

was the 
cure
all 

for
unfavorable
health - 

My 
Grandfather,
was a
business 
man -

he sold
candy, cookies,
and
frozen cups -

And
rode a
bicycle,

through
town,

with 
a 
big basket
on the
handle bars -

He
picked up 
clothes

to 
wash,
and 
iron  -

He also,
rented
apartments,

six
that 
he built

on his
own -

Life
was good

way back
then -

I can still
hear
Peanut man,

walking down
the gravelled 
road
on
Carver street
in
Pensacola,

with his 
back sack
full of
peanuts,.....

yelling,
"Peanuts!..."

"Get your
roasted 
peanuts here!"

So did
watermelon man,
ice cream man -
milk man
and
Ice man -

They
all came
through
the
neighbourhood,

singing out
what
they had 
to sell -

Those 
were the 
days,

that want
come
again,

Way down
south
in
Florida -
 






Details | Prose Poetry | |

and 'Ladies'

 
  and 'Ladies' young and old
do you even know
when i go into the grocery store
and how they come all around me
and i
not even paying attention
as they watch me squeeze this and
squeeze that
and they being all that you are
some what more and some few less
and they
take my hand and place it there
and in my hand they squeeze it
they squeeze it harder than they should
but i'm not paying attention 
and as i'm thinking about squeezing
that which needs to be squeezed
in my mind i am squeezing it more
and watching some become flushed
there faces grow dark and pink
so many
and so many my head spins around 
looking down as i feel
all of that juice run free
through my hands
and all of my critical thinking
has left me it's gone. 

Is It Poetry 
 
 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

What The Hell { Strong Language} Prose Poetry

Hey! You little c___ sucker Get the hell out of there
 Wish you were born dead Go get me a tree branch
Going to whip the s______out of you better yet come and
Get at my feet and start picking the dead skin off them
And when your done start picking 1000 grey hairs off my head
So you want to upset your mother huh I got something for you a________
Stand up you little f and give me 1000 squats
 Then you can get locked up in basement for a few days
And if you ask to come out you can stay down there longer
I see you like to tease your brothers about their haircuts
Mom get the shaver and shave the girls hairs too that will teach em
And show them little b_____ whats going to happen if they runaway too
Was not pleasant to see my sister tied to own bed with head shaven to scalp
So we have a little pee ant in the family huh I'll teach ya a good lesson
Going to make you wear your wet pants to school so kids can laugh at you
I tell you folks does any child deserve this from a sicko From growing up in a 
abuse home I always wonder when will the pain ever stop But with God standing 
by my side I knew I still had a chance to survive I was only 5 when this happened 
to me but the abuse scared only the outter edges and not what beauty was to 
unfolded by God and given to me like a rose unfurling petals on a new day



     Tribute To
 Abused Children



Remember words hurt
So think before you speak !


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Mr. Belvedere Doesn't Live Here............

Parents are so busy and pre-occupied with their 
own lives,
They never flinch when the doorbell rings twice,
They yell for the children to open the door,
Chastising them forevermore.......
Yet, parents get upset when the children disappear,
When they vanish into thin air,
They blame everyone except themselves
for not doing their due diligence,
If parents really cared they wouldn't
throw their children to the wolves,
Who knows what lurks behind the doors,
Sometimes vagrants, up to no good!
If parents aren't able to handle their tasks
and have responsibilty for the kids,
They should seek a Mr. Belvedere
whose only task would be to bow and scrape,
and opening the doors so the children won't vanish
or escape.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Swift Red Furred Little Creature

He was a little red furred devil
	Into this, into that
He was a little red ball of fun
	Into this, into that


He was a tiny red speed demon
	Bouncing ball, spinning twister
The felines loved my little demon
	Swift four-legged creature
The K-9’s did not comprehend my little devil
	Taunting little musical laughter


He died of a broken heart
	Bouncing ball, spinning twister
He tried to fly but Herbie had no wings
	Falling down, crashing down
Herbie the hamster will be sadly missed
	Swift red furred little creature


Today momma’s buying a little red furred devil
	Herbie ΙΙ shall spin again
	Bouncing ball, spinning twister
	Swift red furred little creature


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Flight of Fancy

We were lionhearted
We imagined bullets, pinecones
Swords, sticks
We couldn't be cut
By any sharpened edge
We were invulnerable
Our heels wrapped in Nikes
Climbing hills, Everest
No concern for when
We will talk about-
"When we were young"
Only concern
For our King's men dying
And the fair lady weeping

www.nostroviatowriting.com


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Mother's Worst Nightmare

There you were

I held you in my hands

You were my gift

After nine months of care

I wished for you hopes and dreams to come true

You were my dream come true

I guess my prayers weren’t listened to

But someone took you away from me much too soon

I said hello to you

But I never said goodbye

I still can’t believe you died

My soul and heart forever broken

Nothing to make it better or fix it

I laid you to rest on many nights

Knowing you would wake up

Unfortunately,today I laid you to rest

Asking god to love and protect you

In heaven you wait for me

To resume our relationship of mother and son


Details | Prose Poetry | |

In The Eyes Of The Young

Not fully sixteen
Her vision limited
By the steps she takes
With a bouncing gait
And an impish smile
That could only be found
On one so young
The world is so very new
With all its troubles
And problems so far ahead
It has not found her
Quite yet


Details | Prose Poetry | |

It Wasn't

Well, one could not call it a church for it was not white, pure, or religious nor could it be 
called a Police Department or Sheriff Department with the attached jail for it was not that 
bad or evil.  This place was unpainted, bare wood, and with four rock chimneys which 
sometimes smoked no matter how old or young they were but the smoke only appeared in 
the early morn and late afternoon for the occupants were about life or should I say survival. 
Making it from pay check to pay check barely getting by with nothing to spare.  Inside was 
emotional barreness, loneliness, and inferiority at the max for love and hope had died so 
long ago.  Isolation of the soul with preditory instincts to encapsulate all with the preditory 
instincts of a wild animal this being done to one so young rightly separates this place from a 
church but yet it is not a prison.  Permanently emotionally destroys the child......



(Is this prose poetry or do I need to work on it.  Be honest.  I need to know where to go with 
it.)


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 | |

ONE WHOLE YEAR!

Birthdays are special, indeed!
Children love to have big parties
with themes,
Parents are mesmerized by their
joy and the light in their eyes that gleam,
When toddlers turn ONE YEAR OLD!
Parents can't get a hold of themselves,
It seems,
Being a Year Old is synonymous to leaving the pee-wee
fold,
Parents have to give them space to roam,
The little tykes' autonomy take control,
The First Year will never come again,
For mothers it's bitter sweet relief,
The years creep up in the night like thieves,
Before they know it, the wee ones will be off on their 
own,
Taking charge of entire towns.



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 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 | |

Divine Intervention

Beautiful little girl
Devastatingly beautiful
The birds would start chirping when she walked past
Her mother’s daughter they all said
A mirror image
 
And suddenly she was shocked by love
5 years old being undressed like a doll
Caressed and bathed so lovingly
Such gentle touches
That no one suspected
 
Mother found a new piece to her heart
Wedding bells chimed
And a new father was born
5 years old she was…just 5
 
This beautiful little girl found love in her “new” father’s arms
He held her close, sometimes too close
But no one suspected
She didn’t know this love was pain wearing a mask
She learned that love was…
Shielded from the eyes of her mother
Night visits to her room from her father
Year after year
For 15 years this was the love she knew
 
She felt invaded, alone and abused
She told her mother
About her new father…the man her mother loved
She didn’t acknowledge, wouldn’t bring herself to see
What the water so clearly replayed in her view
The mother knew, just knew
That her husband would, couldn’t ever
Never…bring pain to his daughter, never
 
Little girl, what does it feel like to be loved?
It feels warm, and wrong but gentle
Strong hands unclothing you
Caressing your body as if you are a grown woman
With a glorified body to worshipped and pillaged over
Little girl, what does pain feel like?
Closed doors…darkness…my father…naked
Hopeless
 
Beautiful little girl
Devastatingly beautiful
Pain paraded as love
Molestation masked for discipline
When your daughter cries out
When she cowers in corners
And doesn’t trust the dark
When she says love is just another word
Just another synonym to let him abuse her
Trust what she has to say…
 
I was that beautiful little girl and now I am a woman plagued with fears
Some nightmares you cannot outrun
And some memories only God can wipe away
The blood of all my pain is on my mother’s hands
"I forgive you"
Beautiful they say…
It’s a mask for something more


Details | Prose Poetry | |

CharlaXFabels PARTONE LEADVILLE

 CharlaXFabels 
CharlaXFabels 
 
 
FabelFifty 
 
Poorboy 
 
Eye was fine until the rain came down. The blanket seeped. The CharlaX wept. 
The wonder of a dry warm place replaced with cold wet water on my ankle. The 
blanket caught the water for it's a comforter with many little triangular pockets 
made to simulate a quilt. Eye was trying to have a play a day time dream and 
when eye was almost there it came the water dumped inside the thing and 
cascaded on to foot. CharlaX almost cried again but long interment in the 
camping zone has warned me to be always ready on the go. 
Everything eye have belongs to me no thief am eye eye gather all eye need a dry 
coat and a shoe on foot these things belong to me the socks so dry on toes. 
When eye decide to eat some meat eye twist it up and in it goes the meat is mine 
not taken from a car or from the backseat of the bus unless its left for all of us to 
have the many people leave a mess sometimes and so the CharlaX is a 
scrounge rhymes with clown but the rhythm is so wrong the oversize clothes the 
hats made all of wool and so many they seem like a hive upon the hill when rain 
comes down the head is dry the hands in gloves the feet so dry in layers of 
sockings from the night before the rain eye get my things the old fashioned way 
eye work my hands in every trash can in this city trying to pull jewels and 
diamonds from the dirty bags of tossed decay. Eye ate some onion grass when 
eye was smaller than the now the version of my youth was hungry now and then 
eye placed the grass in mouth and eye did chew and the day came when eye 
finally saw the grass come up and it was not an onion but a flower all the time 
eye had been daintily chewing upon the flowers calling them onion grass its true 
no ewe don't laugh its true ewe so very true. Stop the Press. Leadville is turning 
into Muddville in John Denver Colorado. This just came in over the wire,' 
 DENVER -


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 | |

Riddles and Fiddles

Ya, Shar, there are still open ones- will update later and add a new one.
Lilacs- we had a ton in our yard- on Mother's day me and my brother would
go down to the corner and sell bunches for 50 cents.  A good deal, and a fortune 
for us.  Lotsa' time for title search! PS- my friend John and I spoke earlier this 
morn, and I asked him to e-mail me copies of my TV Guises.  Easily the funniest 
and most creative thing I ever did.  From the seventies- one each year for my 
father for his birthday.  My originals somewhere in storage.  They will be E-mailed 
to me, with cc to you... I even did the ads and columns.  They were long a family 
favorite.  I was lookin' at 70's TV Guides as I did them, so the shows are so 
dated.. there are quite a few.  We should have them in a day or two.  I wouldn't 
know how, or even if, they could be ever communicated in this medium.  Got 
some semi- good news a few minutes ago...will talk to ya later.  Have a good day!
Love, Tom...


Details | Prose Poetry | |

THE HALF CROWN

In the cornfield the horse drawn reaper stood steady,the vacation crew were up 
and ready.The days were long,recent clouds had gone.Yellow beams on heavy 
harvest food,the lark departing with her second brood.Field mice scattered ,their 
nests torn and forlorn .Our stooked up sheaves midst  growing clover,
unbalanced and toppling over.The clock ticked slow,the field seemed to 
grow,eleveneses a dim distant view.A working break ,to seek a half  crown for the 
week,somewhere sunny and sublime...seemed  good idea at the time.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

AN AYLESBURY DUCK

There's a duck of high renown,bred and reared in my county town.With orange 
feet and plumage light,of culinary fame,this bird snowy-white.Neck so fine and 
feathered crown,kept in cottages now tumble down.Reared in hovels and 
shack,a deep breasted duck.with ample back.An early layer,ready for 
spring,plucking feathers so tiring,boxed in flats on Lodon-bound carts,each 
Saturday as clockwork did depart.A  Victorian food luxury,the main product of rural 
Aylesbury.A duck of worldwide renown,a noted product of my home town.


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 | |

NEEDED CHILD

theyer here and there
time to share
not just stare
and look down
apon them like a clown
give a toy
help them enjoy
the christmas sprit
with a smil
help a 
NEEDED CHILD


Details | Prose Poetry | |

JOY

its words for the small
and the tall
go out have a ball
its holiday eva
to a good deed
give gift to little girls
a  young boy
so theyer have holiday
JOY


Details | Prose Poetry | |

911

                          
"911, what is the emergency?"

"Police here. An accident at The Hill.  Jack was hurt.  Send the EMS immediately."

"EMS. May I help you?"

"911 here. There was an accident at The Hill.  A man injured."

"EMS here. How bad was he hurt?

"911 here.  I'll check with the police."

"911 here. Police,  how bad was he hurt?"

"Police here. All I could get out of Jill  was he fell down and broke his crown.  I 
didn't know we had Kings in this country."

"911.  EMS here at the scene of the accident.  There is no one here.  Did the man 
that called in give any more details?"

"911, here.  No I'll check with the police, EMS."

"911 here.  The police report they had a call reporting Dame Dodd was seen 
practicing medicine without a license.  They arrested her.  Seems she was 
applying vinegar and brown paper to the head of someone that fell down and 
broke his crown.  Sorry I couldn't be of any more help, EMS.   911 out."