Submit Poems
Get Your Premium Membership

Prose Poetry Childhood Poems | Prose Poetry Poems About Childhood

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

If you don't find the poem you want here, try our incredible, super duper, all-knowing, advanced poem search engine.

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

Copyright © Drake Eszes | Year Posted 2011

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

Copyright © John lawless | Year Posted 2014

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!!

Copyright © Annalise a.k.a. Audrey Haick | Year Posted 2010

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.

Copyright © Jacqueline R. Mendoza | Year Posted 2012

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!”

Copyright © Elaine George | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Harmonic Spirits

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

Copyright © Danielle Wise Baxter | Year Posted 2012

Details | Prose Poetry | |

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.



Copyright © Liz Walsh | Year Posted 2010

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.
 

Copyright © Howard Dion | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The failing education system

the Indian education system is the worst
because the parents and students aim for first
this is because education is turning out to money
but this is not funny
each individual has a dream
but sometimes the light does not beam
because of the society
and the parents anxiety
every parent wants their child to get education stardom
and snatch away the child's freedom
the parents doesn't want their child to gain knowledge
and they want their child to put their effort till the edge
no one can understand that marks are just numbers
and they make us climbers
how can numbers be a mark of our thinking capacity in our brain
the sentences we read from our book will vanish like rain
the disaster is the television publicity for the topper
and everyone thinks the toppers are sharper
but most of the topper are just blind fold in mugging up each line
without understanding, but everyone thinks its fine
because of this attitude of Indians we are down
and other country treat us like clown
and mold us according to their wish
like their favorite dish
memory is just a skill
it cannot lead us to the top of the hill
in depth knowledge will lead us to great height
like wright brothers who found flight
whenever this situation changes our country will shine
and other countries will wait back in line
India should make leaders
and not workers 

Copyright © yashika ramesh | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Bookcase

In the sitting room by the wall stands
Great Grandfather's pride and joy
The glass fronted mahogany bookcase
Scratched and worn, but still majestic
Housing beautiful old books
The choices of generations past
A set of Shakespeare Plays, leather bound
'Great Short Stories of the World' and
'The Lost World of the Kalahari'
Books on Botany and even Hypnosis
With Classics to improve the mind
Much thumbed dictionaries and a big red Atlas
Pictures of exotic places
Preserved
Stale smell add to the magic
For the curious child.

Copyright © Liz Walsh | Year Posted 2011

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Mastermind

Mastermind

String bean of a youth because of an eating disorder
Found a cure for that ailment called Mary Jane
Grown a little bit south of the Tijuana border
Fleet of both feet and wit, Oop’s I forgot about the tongue
And a magnet for lots of chicks both old and young
Speaking quite softly yet carrying a very big stick at all times
A quick grasp of the English language both written
And spoken with the sweetness of rhymes
Became an object of more senseless violence not just
To the mother of step but also bullies, racist and wanna be thugs, 
Rejected the life of a loser being involved in crime and drugs
More interested in science, the stars and history that was past, 
They hated me even more each day for the A's I scored in every class
Evolution’s calling that puberty heralds were the same for him as all others
Cupid's onslaught of bows and arrows went over my head 
Years of mistreatment were turned around from foe to friend
Finally he could distinguish the difference between love and lust
And eventually learned of those who knew of honor that were worthy of trust
Elevation of status from nerd and geek to the conquering lord of hood boys and girls
Showed the masses of lost children treasure, not of diamonds, rubies and pearls
Taught them pente, mahjong, backgammon, and chess
Opened in their eyes many new worlds limited by the world not thought
In the hopes that one more spirit such as he had been rises from the mire
And is destined for a place of ascension in the azure skies

Copyright © Edward Ford | Year Posted 2010

Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Softer Way To Die

A Softer Way to Die

We live and study life
We pray that somehow
God changes his rules. 
No one wants to die
No one wants to follow
Those complicated laws;
I mean no lie-ing - no steal-ing
no sex - before marriage no
Fornicate-ing, no kill-ing
No lust-greed or defil-ing the earth.
Amen.
All we can do now is try to find
" A softer way to die".
Pick your battles... 
There are many ways to die.
I asked, God why?
When mom threw a 
"Monkey wrench" in my world
Answering - "We all have to die"
I immediately winked at God... 
Thinking to myself ( not I) .
Gave him a little nudge;
Sidebar God : I said to God 
Adamantly "I do not want to die"
"Can you change the rules "?
I never heard back from him
On that subject..
I went to him again
God "Can you at least
Keep me with a mom- 
I said "So that I won't be an
Orphan like Shirley Temple" ?
He did get back to me on that
And Mom is Alive and well
Plan A. ( living forever) 
Still not executed. 
Once again contemplating
Thoughts on how I want to die.
I could not think of a pleasant way 
To die, none that seemed appealing.
Nor any options that would be fun.
hmmm, eat myself to death. 
Playing chicken with the train, 
Might prove thrilling. 
As time grew nigh
My thoughts continued 
....On a softer way to die.
Childhood gone, middle age gone'
Old age approaching fast and furious
Destroying me like a sudden
Approaching hurricane... 
This storm knocked out my lights
Memory gone now..
Forgetting my life- my loved ones
Forgetting my friends, 
Children,and foes alike
Forgetting my wrongs - my sins
and accomplishments all.
Everything's gone. So now 
What do I do ?... How can 
I rewrite my life,Take account..
Of that which I remember not.
The realities if my existence
Has been wiped out from 
The Forest Fires burning
In my minds eye. 
Have no recordings of 
Who loved me or of who 
I shall never forgive.
How will I know that I ever even lived.
Taking my dark blank pages into 
The after life- My shadowy 
Existence ends. I feel no pain 
I Have no thoughts, 
Have nothing to contemplate.
For I have asked to live forever
Or that I die a,softer way
Forgetting to eat 
Forgetting to drink- 
Forgetting to swallow
Forgetting to breath... 
Forgetting this life-
I close my eyes and fade away.
painlessly
© Vicki Acquah

Copyright © Vicki Acquah | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Train / Lali Tsipi Michaeli

Train

At the age of 7 I left Georgia as an immigrant to Israel with my parents and two brothers. 
We arrived at the train-station with the feeling of a one-way ticket. We travelled until Moscow 
and before passing one whole day and night in a magnificent hotel we took another train to 
Vienna from there we took a plane to Israel. We landed on another planet. It was mid-
January 1972. Since then from my point of view trains have been symbols of departure. Of 
self-analysis. Of new life. Of loss. Not to mention the Jewish DNA that runs on the collective 
memory of the train-tracks or vice-versa. There is nothing for me that symbolizes so 
strongly the wandering the displacement and human sadness like the train. Even if it's a new 
train racing along tracks raised on columns to allow the world's other creatures non-stop 
transport. When I want to bring these things to light in my memory everything changes to a 
collage of the trains I've seen in my life, in reality as well as in films, documentaries or art-
house. The train has turned into trainness and I don't know to whom I belong.

 
translated from Hebrew by:
Alexa Christopher-Daniels



in English
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Pw16nGcLfHE

in Hebrew (my voice)
http://www.ynet.co.il/articles/0,7340,L-3923511,00.html

Copyright © Lali Tsipi Michaeli | Year Posted 2010

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.

Copyright © Isioma Esemene | Year Posted 2011

Details | Prose Poetry | |

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

Copyright © CAROL ROBINSON | Year Posted 2007

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!

Copyright © Suraj Grover | Year Posted 2014

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

Copyright © melvin beckley | Year Posted 2009

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 


Copyright © Jecon B. Nadela | Year Posted 2013

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…

Copyright © kj force | Year Posted 2013

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….

	

Copyright © kj force | Year Posted 2013

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 -
 





Copyright © Ken Jordan | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Freedom of a Child

When life was easy 
Because you knew it all
Rainy days weren't a hindrance,
It was just the ocean's way of sending a postcard.

Instead of treading through sludgy puddles like it's a minefield 
Happily splashing through them, 
Because the wetter the better.

And when the sun comes out 
And a vibrant rainbow pierces the clouds
It's not the refraction of sunlight through raindrops,
It's simply magic.

As the sun gradually disappears into the endless horizon,
It's not time to mourn over the passing sun,
Because now it's the stars' turn to dance.

As those moments of puddles and rainbows grow more limited 
Make sure to catch the moment
To live free
With freedom only a child can possess.

Copyright © Danita Windy | Year Posted 2015

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.]

Copyright © Verlena S. Walker | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The End

So this is to be the end of our friendship, huh?

I hope you didn't end it only because I said we should.

It seems the very thing that brought us together is now tearing us apart;
Such a dramatic ending yet imperceptible to everyone but us.
You wrap everything in a neat little package
Something to be discarded?

We didn't know it then but the moment we admitted it to each other was the moment it all ended. You told me you were gay and I said I was too.
Should we have kept it inside then, should we never have acknowledged it?
You told me you loved me but I said no, we can only ever be friends.

Why end it now?
On the eve of us venturing out into the world to leave our mark.
Sometimes this feels more like the beginning rather than the end
I hope that's why I feel so numb.
A single tear is yet to be shed for something that lasted nine years
But I am angry; I know you could tell. This causes me such ineffable pain.

Not for the reasons you think.
I could never resent our friendship
But you labeled it all a waste

You sit, confident that what you're doing is right and that everyone else is somehow wrong.
I'm not so confident however.
There are a few things that I know to be right, incontrovertible truths, and this is one of them.
Why can't you see that I'm hurting too?

Copyright © Kemar Edwards | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry | |

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.

Copyright © Raven Carda | Year Posted 2012

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...

Copyright © siza sibiya | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry | |

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.

Copyright © Natala Orobello | Year Posted 2011

Details | Prose Poetry | |

What My Grandma Said

What My Grandma Said
By Curtis Johnson

I never knew her as a big talker
She was to me a great listener
She was also a great observer

I have always remembered  8 words she always said
She’d often say, “Go in a haste; come in a pace”.

As a kid at the time, I never questioned what she meant
Like my siblings, I simply listened to her, and away I went

I didn’t know if she was trying to be poetic;
But now I know that she was a great teacher

To me, those 8 words have taught lessons in life
I have always heard that “Haste makes waste”
So grandma wasn’t telling  me to hurry up

In my departure, she was saying,                                                              “Get on with it; get it done”.
And upon my return, she was saying,                                                       “Have a sense of order and precision as you return”.

I must say that as I look back over my life, I can say,
“Thank you grandma, I did what you said in the way you told me to”.
“I had initiative to pursue my dreams; and with a sense of timing,order, and organization, I got things done”.
cj07182015

Copyright © curtis johnson | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Angels Of Newtown

December 14, 2012
The day began like any other.
Parents took their children to school
and they greeted "Good morning"
to one another.

The smiles and laughter,
the hugs and goodbyes-
the season's Christmas joy was near!
Beautiful children 
and their caring teachers
were happy with no sense of fear.

Eighteen little people
were in their class-
a new day of learning had arrived.
Eighteen wonderful
curious little minds,
growing together and alive!

Wonder to a child
though not understood
is God's gift-
He gives it to all.
He makes no distinction
nor cares who the child is-
we are all God's children when small!

Young sprout children
breaking through life's soil
growing upward for all to see-
like the mighty oak
that starts as an acorn
and then grows to a 
strong sturdy tree!

"What do you want for Christmas?"
the teacher probably asked
and eighteen little faces went aglow.
"I want a bike!"..."I want a doll!"
"I want a game!"...and she smiled
when one child said-
"I don't know!"

And then in an instant
the innocence of childhood
was changed on this very same day.
Left in it's place
are holes in our hearts-
this pain will never go away!

Why? Why? Why?
How? How? How?
Those are questions with 
no answers right now.
Our nation must grieve-
we must all say a prayer
and help their loved ones 
get through this somehow!

As is the case in a time
such as this we question-
"God-What was your plan?"
Eighteen little rosebuds,
their teacher and a mother
are now all cupped in Your hand!

It has always been said 
that time heals all wounds
but this time 
there is no guarantee.
This wound is deep 
and has cut to the soul-
we'll never be the same-
you nor me!

As we try to wipe tears
that flow like a stream,
flooding and burning our eyes-
please remember this
when you happen to see
another day's sunny blue skies!

Eighteen little cherubs, 
their teacher and a mother
are in Heaven with high spirits
and smiling down.
They are now all ok,
they are smiling and they say-
"We love you from 
The Angels Of Newtown!"


*Submitted for "It shouldn't hurt to be a child"
contest by Becca Teagan   4/7/2016

Copyright © Walter T. Ashe | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Two things you don't want

Two things you don't want		9.1.15

If I appeared slightly under the weather
     or if he just wanted a little fun, 	
my dad would ask if I had
     the cholerie morbus*.
If not that
     maybe the heebie jeebies.

Neither sounded like 
     a real ailment.	
I thought he'd conjured up	
     the maladies – "Oh, Daddy."

Do you suppose he knew?

Had he read that President Zachary Taylor 
     died suddenly of cholera morbus in 1850.

Maybe he picked the term 'heebie jeebies'
     from the 1926 Louis Armstrong song of the same title.

We'll never know.
     After he asked I felt better
He made my little bouts brief.	

I think my dad, the finest of men,
     simply enjoyed the sound of 'cholerie morbus'
and 'heebie jeebies'.
     He loved to gently tease and was full of good humor.


*My dad always said "cholerie morbus", not "cholera morbus", which is "acute gastroenteritis occurring in summer and autumn and marked by severe cramps, diarrhea, and vomiting. No longer in scientific use." Sounds too awful for him to have known what it was.

Copyright © Gay Stuntzner | Year Posted 2015