Submit Your Poems
Get Your Premium Membership

Prose Poetry Dark Poems | Prose Poetry Poems About Dark

These Prose Poetry Dark poems are examples of Prose Poetry poems about Dark. These are the best examples of Prose Poetry Dark 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 wrote to me

           She Wrote To Me

My secret lover I left you 5 years ago I could not take it anymore I had 
to fill my emptiness without you since I left I would cut out my heart 
every night & in the morning its full again. 
I got married to a rich noble politician thinking I can forget you I made 
myself well known here in London as a musician playing the piano in 
my own theater every night. 

The theater was full the sound of my piano was known to everybody 
living all over London due to my husbands political involvement in the 
area for many years the whole theater would be booked.

My entrance was always approached with loud voices cheering till I give 
the sign of performing .That specific night i was in a very determined 
mood to involve my audience listen to the sound of my piano around 
and everywhere the lights were on me already but no sign to begin 
waiting for another noble to make his entry in the front row.

I was wearing that long dress in black and white strapless the one I had 
worn on our first date doing my best to belong to my audience tonight 
while craving to catch a glimpse of your existence live standing opposite 
me the way we were your place was empty but not in my heart.

The audience were standing up clapping waiting impatiently to listen to 
what they had already known music from the tip of my fingers will allow a pause through their breathing.

The lights dimmed no introduction was needed I was going to play an old
tune from the 80`s called Feelings remember when we danced to that tune I am dedicating this musical evening to you my love my first lover before we were obliged to be separated due to family upbringing.

That same evening tragedy stole my expectations of living a love to 
perform an absolute change of a physical identity a living spirit awaiting 
to be executed when suddenly I collapsed unconscious on stage my fingers 
were numb my blood betrayed my heart. 

It was a heart attack paralyzing me on the left side cure or no cure 
is still unknown that had left me scarred when witnessing my dreams 
shatter in disrepair.
I have been forced retirement at a prime age left with no choice 
hide behind the shadows of the twilight abdicate my thrown 
to an unknown.

Escape was a forgotten word before this chute as an invalid carcass today 
my escape to the cottage was essential maybe a celestial miracle would prevail.

The cottage by the deep sea will become my quarantine from what was an enlighten world to a world of darkness, my retirement was a runaway from 
the mockery of mankind who might disperse my dissipated soul.

My shutters are unclosed as their usage was worthless brightness 
obscurity made no difference to me in that room.
The ocean view struck me by its calmness, huge waves were 
not prepared to release their passion and splash on the shore to bring 
forth their own melody.

I went for a walk walking like in a dream a dream with no feelings of body 
and soul the moon provided me to detect another lonely shadow of a stranger yet this time it was the shadow of a lost fish wavering on the sand nearly lifeless, our eyes met needed to be rescued I said to myself even not feeling my withered hand I bent down kindly carried it and threw it back to life what a wonderful sensation. You will do that to me my darling, I will wait.

My decision to escape to the un inhibited cottage was a knowledgeable 
step as only seclusion and spiritual wounds would heal to prompt a new attitude that will lessen my sorrow inspire my moral to long for 
a tomorrow differing than a yesterday. 

Stand by me today, my awakening will hoist a sparkling light of recovery 
during this long coming journey. Intentionally I am your free woman.
Here I will sleep now until destiny will allow both of us to cure and leave our fears behind with our past, together venture back to where we belong. 
I loved you and still love you. Me!


Therese Bacha
6/3/2013


Details | Prose Poetry | |

i am sick of love

i am sick of love
such words and such nonsense
when love does not envy
yet its hard to live and not be green,
     (for love is hard to do
and i am sick of losing such hard-time battles
that i can surely lose my mind before my next birthday
those young lovers(that young girl and foolish boy with his side-chick
that is not love, that is nonsense)
oh, i have seen nonsense come and go,
and i have cried my grief and laughed my jealousy
all those girls with broken hearts, i give them a standing ovation
for they are all fools, and i don't give a fly's bum for them.
      (my thoughts have jumped,
       up and down and up and down
       summer autumn winter spring,
   -love is destroying and i am not living a happy life
yet i sat there and took the blows and cigarette burns on flesh
and i smile, yet i sit and smile the nights and days away
and so-called friends say "why that way"
and I say "U and Me aren't friends... I have no friends-"
       long haired beauties come and go,
       chicks and babes and boys with egos bigger than their hot-air heads are floating away,
and back and forth and back and forth
       party after party after party,
kiss after kiss after kiss,
and chests being groped after chests being groped
legs in nylon and high heels all around-
are all gone, cause they don't care anymore themselves

look now the negro and the white girl
walk the night train together
waiting for the first rail car to take them away from all things and all ways that kill them
and do not let them live
and i sit smoking a cigarette with no one and its quiet and i hope that tonight is the last night,
because i am sick of love already,
i am just sick of love already,
i am just sick of the damn games
of broken hearts and broken promises,
blue-eyed death come and take me away
      (but first lets have a drink- a pink of whiskey or two or three or four
and one last cigarette before the night is through,
and i shall tell you before the clock sticks noon
how i am just sick of love
for i am a man out of luck-
kiss me blue-eyed death
      (take me to your dark angel girls- and tell them to kiss me goodnight,
love me tonight,
as mortality has run its last grain of sand out on me-
and take me and take me and take me
too a place where love is just a figment of an imagination
-only a nightmare, a bad dream (too sleep the night away,
       too wake another day, and be in a different place then this
and to know love is gone from me
for i am sick of love already... I'm through-)


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Dark Side of Me

I want to devour you
Make you dance to my tune
Sip my every word
 From my sweet tasting blooded lips
Hypnotized by my presence
Chant my name in your heart’s cavities
Rip out your heart to see 
If I’m still in there, somewhere
Not that I need to know
Just to see you bleed
Twisting the knife
As I lick your blood trickling
From the corner of your mouth 
And for you to beg me
 “Please...”
As I watch you struggle to be free
I want you to drink 
From the essence of who I am
Your existence bound to mine
Here and in the next life
I will be with you in your grave
Until the next full moon
When we will awaken
To have you drink of me
Taste me 
Hunt with me
The unsuspecting falling for our charm 
Fools who choose to follow into these woods
Spend eternity with each other
Feeding on their mortal fear


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Wolf Within Me

As I look up at the sky I see the moon is high

I feel the wolf deep inside he is trying to come alive

As the pain begins to start It feels as through I am being ripped apart

My joints start to bend and break 

Soon the wolf will be fully awake.....



Details | Prose Poetry | |

Dreamer

Close your eyes for awhile my friend, I heard there lies a moon far behind the black sky, I heard lovers were dancing beneath, can you hear them singing? I can feel their tipsy steps making rhymes on floor, and smell of perfumes filling the air, I heard a sun rises to brighten up their world, and birds do sing them charming melodies at morning, they say they have roses in colors and beautiful trees in the streets, and have they told you about the sea yet? They say it smells so wonderful and the delicate air of seas caresses their cheeks with soft wet breezes, oh my friend, what have we seen in the dark but the fragile ghosts that we are!

“Hush” whispered to me, “I lighted up a moon inside my heart and I smell lilies and jasmine in my nose, my dreams play tunes my heart dance on, they speak to me all night and there I see a starry night floats above, I feel the warmth of a sun in my soul as it hugs tight, whispering to me hymns of love and joy, lightening candles for hopes which had accompanied me amongst the dark, why have you closed your eyes my friend? Look through the colorful roses I painted for you with eyes wide open, let the lights off so you would see clearer, let the lights off so you can brighten up the world that hides with you, for my friend, what have we seen in the dark but the free spirits that we have become!


* If you enjoyed this piece, follow the link and share your thoughts
http://echoes19.wordpress.com/2013/01/22/dreamer-2/


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The sunrise of your sacred love

the sunrise of your sacred love,
paints the hollow desert in my mind,
scattered grains of windblown thoughts,  
frozen remnants from another time,
your liquid brush scrape shards of pain,
from deep within my dark terrain,
and like a scarlet phoenix I rise again,
I climb your thighs,
and stroke your breasts,
I kiss your luscious, tender lips,
drink your luminescent eyes,
and dive right in,
such a surprise.
I didn't realize, 
that your love would be like this,
you've raised me from a dark abyss,
and placed me deep within your heart,
I'm warm, content and gently smiling,
lost forever,
in your love beguiling.

(from the chapter "Divinity of Woman" in Love's True Home, now available online in
hardcover, paperback, and as an e-book)
http://srigawntufahr.com/


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Thread of Hope

As all I’d ever termed wondrous bliss unexpectedly died -
As my fantasy of a reality with destruction did collide -
My hopes shattered around me like glass in countless pieces,
Fragments suspended in mocking beauty as time freezes…

The clock hand ticks forward and it all crashes to the floor
My knees hit rock-bottom when I could take no more
All I now see is blackness where once there was color
Gone appears the light from the sun and its fervor…

I begin to walk away from the pond of shattered dreams
But the glass is in my clothes and cutting through my heart, it seems
Perhaps I am too close, the smoke is clouding my full view-
Glance up at the tower, instinctively know what to do…

Run up the steps; one, two,three hundred endless stairs
And I barely catch my breath, or have time to fill lungs with air -
Before the ground beneath my feet crumbles into sand
Loud thunder above me rumbles as I fall back down on land…

And I hit rock-bottom again
Thinking this must be the end
For surely no human can go through this pain
And still see rainbows through the rain…

The whole world seems gray and black tonight
With not a speck of pure, identifiable white in sight
Nothing is untouched, gone is everything -
Then how do I glimpse in that crack a thin white string?

Among the dirt, surely this uncorrupted clean string is not real
But just to verify the hopeless doubts, I reach out a hand to feel
And to my electric surprise, it’s most tangible indeed
I yank it out attached to a note, uncrumple it and read:

“Verily, with every hardship comes ease” [Quran 94:6]

That white thread...
Of hope.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Thoughts from the Mind of a Blogger


It was a chilly morning in paradise...

Autumn was already here...

A time for strange things to happen, as it is that time of year...

She was up most of the night, doing a write....

Regarding some hubs and her series titled "Legend of Fred "

Ahh the questions she had... rolling around in her head..

Were “where were her readers, her followers “ her Hubbers...?

They had all seemed to like what she wrote in the past..

But lately her hubs were falling so fast....

She had written articles on health and life..

perhaps she had targeted too much strife...

Maybe they wanted to read about food..

But when you're not a cook, that would be kinda rude..

Oh, will wonders never cease ?

So she decided she'd get some zzzzz's

She lay in her bed, not moving at all...

but breathing quite deeply, as I saw the covers fall...

So I stretched my muscles and walked ever so slow..

So as not to wake her , then I spied her big toe..

Sticking out from the blanket..it was such a temptation..

And with me having such a" foot fixation".. however...

She needed the rest , so she can finish her quest..

I have some thoughts of my own...

that I would like to share in a poem..

And I would be happy to help her.. but..

I don’t think the world is ready for me...

as I am a BLOGGING CAT.. you see

So I will close for now...everyone have a great week...as

I'm off to seek something that has a tweak and a squeak..


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The moon, a golden doubloon buried in the midnight sky

The moon, a golden doubloon buried in the midnight sky, amongst a billion diamond 
speckles, shimmers in the warm summer night’s air, as it slowly climbs to its zenith. The 
lake reflects the scene back a thousands times on a thousand different ripples as oars 
silently part the dark waters leaving star trails in their wake. In the small boat a girl lies 
on the bottom, her long dark tresses hidden beneath a dark woolen cloak. Her sparkling 
green eyes squeezed closed tight. Her full lips hold no emotion in them only lay still, 
betraying nothing. Her delicate hands clasped behind her back bound there by a coarse 
rope which winds its way around her small soft breasts and makes its way down to her 
bare tender feet, trussing her up as neatly as a pig on its way to market. Yet there is no 
fear in her eyes. No tears running down her smooth pale cheeks. No breath quickening in 
her chest. Yet when she opens her bright green eyes, out emits what can only be called 
faith and hope, like sunbeams through holes in the clouds, as if she knows someone is 
waiting for her just on the other side of this moment, waiting to rescue her from a peril 
she knows not what. Yet no one does. She is now laying on a cold gray beach. The girl 
turns away. Not caring about the pain that tears through her hands and feet. Tears run 
down her cheeks in torrents. Her body convulses silently. And there in the first of the 
morning light, lying on the pale white sand, she fills utterly alone for the first time in her 
life. And as the waves crash on the shore, the suns rays burst forth filling the world, she 
lets herself go. Her hair is plastered to her face, she doesn’t notice. Someone has undone 
her bound legs. She didn’t even feel it. Slowly a strong calloused hand pulls her to her 
feet. She lets it. Empty now she lets them gently push her along a narrow trail that leads  
farther away from the place that use to be her home. She sags to the ground. Let them 
kill her. She would welcome it. She would beg for it if she could only find her voice, but 
she lost that when she lost her heart. Her heart, somewhere back on the sands, at the 
edge of the lake. Somewhere where the waves are crashing down on top of it, crushing it, 
slowly dragging it out to a dark watery grave, where it wont have to bare the light of day 
again, where it can dwell in the darkness that it so desperately wants to consume it.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

In my summer meadow

In my summer meadow

Lavender colored milkweeds, growing between dark  purple butterfly peas, are 
perfuming the warm air. 
The color combination is especially pleasing to me; I love purple.
Perfectly round globes of milkweed are a magnet for bees, butterflies and a variety 
of other insects. I see lightening bugs among them. 
The buzzing of bumblebees, wasps and honeybees is accompanied by the chirping 
of crickets and the happy twittering of the meadow birds. 
Yellow Sweet Clover lends it's perfume to the summer symphony of soothing scents.
Tall spikes of blooming Johnson grass sways dreamily in the bright sunlight.
Right in the middle of a soft pink wild rose bush, a bright red butterfly weed is the 
center of activity for many species of colorful butterflies. A brilliant blue"Two-barred 
Flasher”  flaps it's wings as fast as a hummingbird, while the orange-brown Buckeye 
rests peacefully.
Next to the roses, a blackberry bush is promising juicy, dark berries soon, while the 
Mulberry trees are already providing a welcome sweet snack for birds, deer and 
bunnies. 
A patch of wide- open orange daylillies is a cheerful spot over at the edge of the 
trees and an emerald- green hummingbird enjoys their offerings.
There is so much life and beauty in a small patch of meadow! 
I love it!


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Evil Inside Me

When Man is run by his ego,

He will never be satisfied.

When our minds perverse our souls,

We will never be happy.

When we surpress our hurt, our hurt becomes Evil.

When we do not forgive each other we break away from each other.

This beast inside me wants to control me,

But my heart tries to protect me.

In the end who will win,

I will fight to turn toward the light,

and allow love to touch my soul.

If I can forgive, and just live in the moment,

Then in the end Evil can never win.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Ousted by None but the Night

===================
Ousted by None but the Night   
Arabic Poem by: Adnan Abu Andalus*
Translated by:
Inaam Al-Hashimi (Gold_n_silk)
===============

The dusty street is bare 
Darkness there and the horizon  
As if, the night was sprinkling fear
Nothing there
But a policeman followed like a ghost
A street cat  
A wailing ambulance 
All where time is open for running
 Endlessly

Who would stroll in the range of bullets?
To come back in the morrow like a spinning top
Without a head?
 
 Who would walk alone?
 And fly off with the meekness of the past
 In Baghdad’s night?

Who would believe that AlZawraa held her lungs 
And ousted the breath of her patrons?
And that “Abu Nawas” replaced  
His last glass of wine
With a cup of black coffee?

Shahriar uttered it 
To protest shampoo ads!
Scheherazade wore the veil 
Bad boys of the night 
Shunned flirting with girls
In the Girls Street.
______
Translated December, 2012
 By: Em. Prof. Inam Al-Hashimi
USA
* Adnan Abu Andalus is a poet from Iraq
from his poetry collection  “The Smell of Doomsday”

________________________________________
 1 Knowing some of the history of ancient Baghdad may be helpful in facilitating better understanding of the poem. Baghdad was famous as the center place of the “Arabian nights” or the "Thousand and One Nights Tales" where Scheherazade, night after night, told the king Shahryar a different tale of romance and adventure to keep him from killing her in the morning.. Ancient Baghdad, nicknamed "AlZawra’a", was known for receiving, with open arms. night-patrons in joy and without fear. The poem refers to the glamorous past of Baghdad in comparison with the grim and gloomy nights of modern Baghdad after the war. In doing so, the poem mentions some symbols of the past and historical figures from old Baghdad and the Golden Age of the caliph Haroun al-Rashid (died 809 AD), and presents them in images contrary to their characters. Such figures include the licentious poet “Abu Nuwas" who wouldn’t recite poetry without being drunk. And the afore mentioned Scheherazade and Shahryar.
 ___________________________________


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Mind's Labyrinth

 The Human Mind is a treacherous labyrinth, and it is only through the sinister pathways of these dark tunnels that are hidden insidious agendas can be found.  
Love is Madness.
Lust is Envy.
Romance is Jealously.
When our hearts beat green, our hands drip red with blood.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The North Pole Journey

As we approached the ice bergs our ship seemed tiny
they towered high above us as we crept into the bay
we could see the Eskimo's and their sleigh's waiting
now we would complete the next few legs with them

Our goal is to reach and set up camp at the North Pole
loading our supplies onto the sleigh's and getting on
soon we were speeding along, the ground very bumpy
clinging on, ducking  branches as they whip  back and forth

A wonder world of pristine white and hues of various blues
only broken up by the line of trees glinting brightly green
large ravines off to the side, one slip and you would be gone 
to a cold icy grave buried forever in this lost icy world of snow

Onwards over the harsh landscape, we need to reach camp 
before its dark, to unpack what's needed for overnight stay
light a campfire settle and feed the husky's waiting patiently
cook and eat our food as we share a few beers and some jokes

All too soon its dawn, temperature is -20% we have to break
things free from the ice, before we can eat and pack up
husky's are linked up and ready, what a din they are making
so excited to get going, this is now the final stage before the pole

We fly down barely noticeable trails that twist and wind slurry
left behind us, half a days travel left not too far to go now
some we leave the tree line behind, in front nothing but snow
ice bergs so big you could lose a couple of houses inside them

At last we see the buildings ahead and people pouring out 
they will return to their own lands until it is time to relieve us
six months we will be here recording data about weather
and other things, watching polar bears and noting their habits

All this just for some insight and some data that will get buried
as for us well we have the open space, the freezing cold
each other to help past the long nights, day is only 6 hours
18 hours of dark, and fearsome storms that will be our lot    

Cut off now until spring returns and the reindeer return
they have wintered far to the south now coming back
they will give birth here on the icy plains of endless snow
and we will return to so called civillization until next year


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Skyping with Satan


Me: Since Samhain I have been chatting with Satan on Skype..On this date he celebrates his fall from grace..

Satan: Thank you Ken..You look marvelous today..What is your routine? You haven't aged in years...Is it diet and gym, the ladies and your erotic poetry?

Me: You are way too kind..(blushing)

Satan: Really, I enjoy your sense of eroticism, you have a fondness for the ladies I see..You should read "Justine" by my friend the Marquis de Sade..In order to know virtue, we must first acquaint ourselves with vice...

Me: Are you saying it is only through pain one can arrive at pleasure?

Satan: I'm saying you are unhappy because you desire things that cannot be..That's what desire IS, the need for what we cannot have..It's called greed...

Me: I have nothing to fear here..

Satan: Well Ken, there's always the truth..Maybe peace is acquired by the currency of loss..You are in love with perception..I have many friends here in hell with me you may have heard of, Anton Lavey, Aleister Crowley, Adolf Hitler among others..You should meet them..

Me: No thank you, I prefer to "Fear and Tremble" like Kierkegaard..I was taught your greatest truth was convincing the world there was only only one of you..

Satan: You know God loves you..

Me: Is that why you take interest?

Satan: You seek a measure of comfort from Women..Don't you know that love is the laziest theory for the meaning of life?

Me: But was not Faust saved in the end by the love of a woman?

Satan: I will not elaborate on your misconceptions..

Me: I'm just an ordinary human being with flesh, blood and bones..Nothing hard to decipher.. I wish for women and have needs..

Satan: They say the road to hell is paved with good intentions..Charming saying really..I say it is paved with intriguing questions...

Me: It is late, I have to go Mr. Satan...What time is it?

Satan: How much time do you need?

Me: No thanks..lol I have to go....
~ ~ ~ ~ ~


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Demon Inside Me

I feel it stirring deep inside

Ready for it's chance to come alive

I try and try to get away

But it's hold on me I can not sway

I try to hold the demon deep inside

But it's ugly head I can not hide

I hope for some peace when I sleep 

But even there it haunts me

It's ripping and tearing my soul apart

I know one day it will stop my heart

It whispers in my ear

It tells me things that I fear

It's eating me slowly from inside

Just to laugh when I cry 

I can't chase the demon away

So I just sit and wait until the day I fade away......


Details | Prose Poetry | |

In the Eye of the Storm

As young people, we feel we are in fact immortal,
 like the pits of death will never cut the breathe of our pharynx short,
 until tragedy strikes and reveals to us that death and sorrow have no respectable persons
 regardless of race,gender,nor age, my revelation came in the form of a massive ef-5 tornado,
 as I sat in the hall along side my mother, we could feel such uneasiness and vexation,
 as if we were a two time felon in the courtroom during sentencing, then the mallet drops,
 wind consuming us,debris flying overhead,I heard the house I resided in being ripped to shreds,
 I felt my body rising off of the floor, I just knew I was dead,
 wish I could tell my family bye, I love you deeply within,
 then I begin to cry out Lord please forgive my unspoken sins,
 dirt circulating everywhere, I could not open my eyes,
 then I felt someone tightly clinch me, I guess he heard my cries,
 after the storm it was such a unique calmness, 
like a mother after she conceives, 
suddenly I heard people crying out, trapped under debris, 
I continued to ponder where did the hands come from that saved me...
 it was my mother, she told me she would die for me, because ill always be her baby..


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Dear Poe

Dear Poe,

I have never "dreamed a dream within a dream" nor have I ever shut myself into a kingdom by the sea.

Nor have I ever known a girl by the name of "Annabel Lee",

But the eyes of a "Raven" do burn like a demon deep within me.

And the "Bells" do remind me that I am "alone" as I lie by myself wishing I had a beautiful bride which Poe named "Annabel Lee."

Nevermore, shall I endure a life that is but a dream.

Nevermore, shall I pray to a God we both adore if he refuses to answer me,

And this is the reason as Poe well knows that love remains but a Dream.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The clock

The clock

Tick, tock , tick, tock,
The clock bellowed resounding through my mind, like so many wood peckers drilling into a tree.

This infuriating clock my mother had given me

It began tick, tick, ticking away
The very day it entered my home
The very wrong dings and the dongs well,
It would surely drive my wife mad

She would rant and rave and I would say
It's a gift from my mother
Then it would once again be saved

Oh but that maddening ticking that, tick ,tock, tick, tock

This infuriating gift from my mother, this clock.

Tock , tock, tocking as it began stealing a face. Well I am not mad, I swear it to be, a copy was made but i swear it undeniably was my mother,
with mocking eyes as it continued the ticking and the tocking I had grown to despise

My mother's infuriating gift, this clock.

It gave me no peace that infernal machine even when outside her tick, tick, ticking was inside of me.

I decided then and there to stop the tock, my mother, with unbalanced levels of dopamine her pills could be switched the death quick and clean.

Still the ticking and tocking as she was taken away the clock displaying a fresh new face.

My mother the infuriating clock

It was my wife staring at me, amused over my torment, my mother was gone and yet she jested as she tick, tock, tick, tocked

I tore the clock from the wall and dumped it in the waste bin but the ticking remained tick, tock, tick, tock

It was in my study the following morn
Her face was neither tattered nor worn
My wife grinned at me her smile wide with trickery
She continued tick, tick, ticking, tick, tick, ticking

My wife the infuriating clock

We were upstairs one eve
A debate would ensue she began to tick, tick, tick
The stairs were so sharp, the floor so slick

I heard the gears shatter but there was no longer a clock, I wept as it resounded
Tick, tock, tick, tock, tick, tock

I raced to the study but the face was replaced,
By a familiar tortured creature
Lost in time and space

The infuriating clock that I owned.

The ticking and tocking ebbed
Then a resounding click, then a tock, then a tick
The powder ignited as I lifted my gaze

My wife the infuriating clock, that my mother gave me, that held my true face

Tick tock tick tock tick tock
The blood runs down the clock
The clock strikes twelve
The ticking ends
Tick tock tick tock tick tock.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

hunting in january

 
January 

White of sky
like the surface
of a frozen lake
mirroring the snow
covered lands,
shadowless,
as orange weaves
in and out of trees
the color of dark
cutting into the thin
stillness of winter air.

Each footprint covered,
Again. 

Next day, light
brims at the horizon
and splashes yellow gold
upon deep maroon,
brown seeped into the barren trails
of this vanilla earth.		 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Nightmare

I dreamed I was on board a ship; the night was absolute darkness, I could only hear the massive body of water than engulfed this visitor.  On board the ship there were many rooms; the diner was full of old friends from my past sitting in the deepest corners of the room beckoning to me, I run through the room.

The next room is small and welcoming, there is the sound of an all too familiar hypnotic music playing, there is a couch with a human figure facing away from me wrapped almost entirely in a blanket looking at the dead fireplace, I walk up to the figure, the face is still and life-less, I recognize the person of that of an old loved one who passed away many years ago. In the corner of the room I see my Father grinning at me, my body and soul tremble, then he starts to chase me, I run through the room.

I am lead to a small empty cathedral, I am tempted to walk up and peer inside the casket in the center of the chapel, but I feel my Father close behind me, I run through the room and I am back in the small welcoming room with the dead fireplace, but now my dear lost loved one is turned, and looking me right in the eyes, grinning. The music is very loud now, and my father is very near, I run through the room.
I enter a new room and slam the door shut behind me, the sound of my Father’s footsteps and panting fades away, the music stops.  I am in a long dimly light hallway, that seems infinitely empty, near the end, to the right, there is an entrance that leads to a glow of red with chanting emanating from it, I take a step forward…


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Block This Pain

critical, cynical an slightly off put
likely awkward and writhing tortured 
pinning up a smile and I'm dying for it
frozen with a touch that's lightly morbid
fights be roaring there's nightly storming
I used to be happy it was nice before this
life a lively forest trial drives detours
smile snide these sores fly on by see snores
riled rightly boards hide a broken heart
little clues of me that are shown with art
if you ain't ready for a journey then don't embark
before I'm not the only one with a broken heart
not a threat odd as it may seem
I'm living in a nightmare with a plain theme
longing for love man I'm so far past it
never saw the lies as they spoke sarcastic
there ain't any answers so don't start asking
they came up with cancer and dosed our asses
stowed rope to choke both our factions
made us fiends for fire then soaked our matches
it's a dirty game with a lot to gain
hidden loop holes that are not disclaimed
and valuable property people want to claim
we do what we can and just block this pain

~Rolphy


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 | |

Lucy

 

I find the red light
On a corner of a field of stone.
Lucy something – was she just thirteen?
Or maybe that century was a carved eighteen?
I ponder what she lived in stories I will never know.
Dropped by the hands of ghosts and demons,
Choking on Forever’s bread crumbs
Into always another tomorrow.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Trip to Heaven

Sitting working in my private room a grandfather clock ticks and tocks so very loudly,
Like a metronome tuned into my mind my eyes become heavy my lids slowly begin to close,
My mind drifts into very dark places, jet black places with a tiny white dot way off,
I walk towards the dot and after miles and miles it started to grow so much brighter.

Looking behind to see where I started there was nothing just the darkest of dark black,
I have no choice but to keep on walking towards the white dot now confused and scared,
After hours and hours I reach the dot but it is not a dot now it is a new bright world,
There were green fields greener than I have ever seen the trees had heavy velvet leaves.

People walked towards me they were smiling they were happy I wanted to shake their hands,
But they hugged me and held me and talked so kindly my troubles and worries disappeared,
Young children skipping, my new friends laughing it seemed I had known them all my life,
Being with these people was pure happiness we walked up to a white mansion we went inside.

A beautiful girl came running out to meet us she stood in front of me and gave me a rose,
It was the reddest rose I have ever seen it was frosted and gilded and drops of dew fell,
A man with grey hair and a white suit sat by a piano and began to play the sweetest tune,
I leaned on it's shiny surface and could feel the beat of soft hammers on wire, pure music.

All smiled and clapped when this maestro had finished my friends giggled as they saw my joy,
They asked lovely questions nice questions I enjoyed answering as they made me feel good,
We got up and began to walk back to the place where I had first met my wonderful friends,
We talked we laughed everything was about nice things I could feel the smile on my face.

Then the man with grey hair and the white suit said it was time that I made my way home,
Still smiling I desperately wanted to stay forever he saw this and said to have patience,
They stood in line by the entrance each person hugged and kissed me tears ran down my face,
The next thing I knew I was in my private room the grandfather clock still going tick tock.

I thought about my wonderful dream those wonderful people and still felt very warm inside,
It was all so very real and was very disappointed knowing it was just a lovely sweet dream,
Those people in that beautiful garden blessed with such loveliness they seemed so very real,
Standing up and stretching I saw something by the door it was a beautiful rose frosted and dewy,
It was the reddest rose I have ever seen.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Beast

Rage is in me it's alive
It's like a beast tearing from inside
The beast is me it's time to die
I am fighting to survive
The beast haunts me in my dreams it's in the shadows taunting me
He is tearing me apart it has hollowed out my heart
My voice is screaming in my head it does no good for I soon will be dead
Vengeance is tasteful it raises it's head
It's eyes are yellow and full of the dead
I am falling and there is no end
The time now has come for me to part
It has ripped out my lonely heart
Down and down and down I go at least i got to keep my soul....


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Mr sadist

God gave me life
a family and a smile
but after he took my dad
didn't know why
maybe it was part of his plan
but it broke my heart
so the smile had to fly
then theft, violence and lie
took my entire life
Next i guess is the dealine
I've been beaten to death but i survived
Mum says i'm a deadman
others says tomorrow i'll die
For real every night i pray to jesus
but every time i act like the demon
i hurt my family and friends
Worst! i hurt my own self
in a mirror i can't recognise myself
all i see is a dark man, with a dark past
with a dak future, with a bad pass
i don't blame any body
i'm the architect of my own defeat
i think i want to die now
while writting this
maybe i'll already be dead when you'll be reading this
oh! suicide! suicide! come take me
NO! Jesus is Alive, Alleluha!!


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Under the Moon and Stars

Camping in a beautiful green glade on a warm June night the darkness was total,
Every place and scene on this still and thoughtful night unlocked it's essence,
Every spot has its own sentiment and each one with a rich and peculiar perfume,
The leafy scent of trees the smell of forest turf an earthy odor  deep and rich.

Caught on a light breeze was the fragrant breath of sweetbrier natures perfume,
We had the delicious effusion from a clover or bean-field a lingering fragrance, 
At our canvas tent we had the warm rich smell of peat on a red glowing wood fire,
A smell that tells you that it is the end of the day so just rest, talk and enjoy,

We could hear crickets that singing in the hedge surrounding the dark leafy glade,
A night thrush in an old elm that over canopies our tent, silhouetted by the moon,
There is a balmy softness in the air and the other trees stand in shadowy masses,
These shadowy masses seem to listen to the still and musing black skies above them.

Near is a soft gloom beneath umbrageous hedges, how soft, beautiful is a June night,
What can equal this pleasant feeling in this dark camp the smell of burning meths's,
The moon beams down like a celestial creature the evening stars burns with radiance,
As I lay in my sleeping bag and shut my weary old eyes this moment will last forever.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

be so kind to me

be so kind to me
for i was so kind to you
love me
as i loved you,
(...but you never loved me...
you never saw my love for you-

-for you were blind and still are-

my heart trembles and takes me out of this place-
yet nothing seems real without you...
never did i think i went on without you
(see me now with gold
  hear me roar like a lion- but surely pride shall die out...
and i shall walk along the gutter
with a weak mind set back on you and only you

only wish that you'd be so kind to me
for i was so kind to you
and love me
as i loved you

(but it is hard to love a rock
and its hard to water stone- and watch it bloom into a rose-
just be kind
and i shall smile another day
and keep away from the garden of the dead

.12.28.2013.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Sweet Lucy part-1

I was in the coffee house, sipping from that old cup.
I was in New York; winter had never felt so cold,
Yet fitting for such a cold hearted city as this
It was at mid-night, just me and the bar keeper.
He must have gotten a cold, for he kept on rubbing his nose

I drank my last cup of coffee for the road, and made my way,
With a 2 dollar dip in the jar; it was dark and yet another scream
From the dark alley, it all seems normal for the lost of life.
It was snowing, like the snow angel herself was here in this city.

As I walked across the alley, 
As that alley was a shortcut to my apartment
Maybe I was cheap to take a taxi!
Too cheap to even consider using my own car
But, hay, saving fuel is saving environment or something.
I heard a noise or was it my imagination, 
A little puppy, shivering, loss, hungry and cold
She had cute round eyes and stared at me,
With brown hair, alone with spotted white fur around her neck
And long ears, I just couldn't ignore her.

I looked around and saw no one looking for her,
What was I thinking? Surely nobody would care if i just took this puppy in.
I took off my coat and warp the sweet little thing;
"The city that doesn't care, life is a strange thing."
As I made my way to my apartment, 
I wondered, of what I should call her;
'Lucy sounds nice, don't you think", as I pet her.

My apartment is too big for me, just a lonely place for my head to rest.
I fed her some of the leftovers. She just kept on munching
Police sirens and helicopters, "ah…the sound of the concrete jungle"
Count your blessings the priest says, count your money the city says.
Fortunate or not I was lucky to cross path with Lucy, sweet little thing. 
She kept on barking, with her tail shaking, 
She seemed excited to be in her new home.

Gave her a good hot bath, she made quiet a messed!
She was playful, I slept on my couch in front of the fireplace,
Nothing new, on my television screen;
The same old news, gags, game shows, you know... excreta!
Lucy was something new though, she slept on my belly, 
She looked so innocent and peaceful, Lucy…sweet little thing in my life.
I gently pet her, and slowly played my saxophone.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Immortal Snare

The clock stopped ticking,
my ears are ringing 
Tale, tale signs that something is wrong here 
Everything looks normal,  
nothing out of place 
Then I looked in the mantel mirror 
And seen that horrid face. 
Not the reflection of a man, 
or anything I've ever seen 
His eyes were so hypnotic 
They seemed to lock onto me. 
He only spoke two words 
but they were loud and clear 
They will haunt my soul all my days 
He looked at me and said “Just You”
with a blackened tooth grin               
He wants me as his princes 
His spoils of war so to speak 
To make me his blushing human bride 
And the queen of all lost souls 
This was way more than I could bear 
I tried to say no 
Each one bringing a crushing blow 
Rebuffing his every attempt 
each time his anger grew 
And my will was becoming spent. 
With my final exhausted breaths 
I begged NO let me go 
And he laughs and swore to kill all I love unless I stayed 
I gave myself over 
so that no one feels the pain of this immortal snare 
So to save all else I gave in 
I miss who I use to be 
once so happy and care free 
Now on fear and hatred is how I feed 
  
I gave myself over so that no one feels the pain of this immortal snare


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Ferguson

Poet: Ken Jordan
Poem:  Ferguson 
Edited by: Sparkle Jordan
written: August/2014


America,

Hands Up
Don't Shoot!

Young
 black males
are dying,

faster than
seconds
on a
clock,

and
nothing is done

Just
another
young brother
GONE -

They killed Pac, 
In Vegas
nothing was done

They killed Biggie
In LA
nothing was done

They killed Oscar Grant,
In Oakland,
(at Fruitvale station)
nothing was done

They killed, Trayvon 
In Sanford, Florida
nothing was done

Hands Up
Don't Shoot!

Wake up
America!

Open 
your eyes,

see the
pattern 
here?

Hands Up 
Don't Shoot!

Young  black males
are 
being murdered
and 
their cases run  cold -

While
the  killer lives another
day,

to murder another
young
black male -

Hands Up
Don't Shoot!

They killed Michael Brown,
In Ferguson
Will something be done?

They killed Kajieme Powell,
In St. Louis 
Will something be done?

Their
is a 
pattern here -

and
it's Vile
as 
Vomit,

across 
the Red, 
White, and Blue -

Hands Up
Don't Shoot!

They killed Sean Bell
In Queens
nothing was done

They killed Mac Dre
In Kansas City
nothing was done

Hands Up
Don't Shoot!

America,

We Want Justice -



Details | Prose Poetry | |

Never Felt Like A Criminal

I never felt like a criminal
For being a girl
Who got A's in her classes
And not for being a great shag. 
I never felt like a criminal 
For being born the way I am
A female with a big bust
Breasts don't mean she's a good shag
I never felt like a criminal 
For not wanting to let him in
For not wanting him to take away
The last of my innocence.
The last of my childhood
I never felt like a criminal
For denying a man sex
Or rejecting him multiple times.
I never felt like a criminal
Until the policeman looked me in the eyes
And asked me what I was wearing
Saying my shirt was too low
My shorts were too short
My boobs are too big.
I never felt like a criminal 
Until the policeman let the man free
The man who almost took my innocence
The man who could and would do it again
Because girls dress like they WANT to be raped. 
We provoke it by wearing clothes we like.
It's wrong
It's disgusting
I never felt like a criminal 
Until this very moment ...


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Calling You

Through the darkest of dark forests
Where the spiring snake-like sprouts
Fasten you,
And piercing the spooky blackness
That pervades all of your space,
Shoots the sound 
Of a gushing stream,
The ethereal smell 
Of a fire,
The intangible ashes,
The wet earth,
The rains,
And life,
Carried over to you.
 
 
Breaking away from
The binding shoots
That stake you,
Crossing the barrier
Of tapering stems,
That pain you,
If you dare to look at
The tiny source of light,
The small fire, the water,
At the very end of 
Your eternally dark forest,
Where the blue sky 
Extends to infinity,
On the other side
Of that stream of life,
 
I would be standing.
Always.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Dark Man Cometh.

The Dark Man Cometh. 
Georgia on my mind, rock n roll hell, 


The Dark Man Cometh. 
Can"t you feel the coolness in the breeze 
See that grayness in the light summer sky, 
Have that feeling of slight unease you just 
Can"t put your Sticky finger on . 

The Dark Man Cometh, 
The world is once again receptive 
To 'you've got your troubles'
Troubles ready to escalate . 

Bad Moons are ready to break on through, 
The Doors suddenly have a Credence 
To open wide on an Eve of Destruction. 

There is Thunder on the Mountains 
And no Sympathy for a Devil who 
May be Born in the USA. 

The Shadows of the Night 
Became darker, Back in Black. 

True Colors, Because the Night 
Became Raw Power signifying 
A Bad Dangerous Thriller 
Of a confrontation. 
That could mean an Exodus. 

The world holds its breadth 
As we are drawn Back in the U.S.S.R . 

No one wants a Bullet in the Bible 
Or to be a Soul Survivor. 

Are we Experienced? 

The Dark Man Cometh, 
Let us not Barrack him yet, 
Hey Joe, 'Whatcha Gonna Do About It' 
          


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Corner Room

In the space adjunct to a corner room; I left the light on and walked to the dark end of the hallway that was quiet.  Peace intruded upon the chaos that crept up on me loudly down there and swirling into mist I saw a figure.  A figure that once knew me, and I he, hurriedly I ran from the dark corner and leaped into the air, out the window, spiraling below.  Could I have been any more right, or was I dead?  

Never knew it, just walked on the spirits train and kept rolling up this funny white hill till we reached a large station in starry skies.  Much to my surprise those around me (yes they were here now) did not seem alarmed at the nature of it all.  Van Gogh himself had seemingly cut this little doorway into it and now we were there.  Accepting did not come easy for me, I stepped off the train and stared inwards to only get a view from the outside.  You see, the spectral ether that had become me was not yet cognizant and was unaware of my presence.

Ethereal scents and visions obscured everything and nothing came to me readily.  I was thinking that maybe, just maybe, this place was pansophy.  No one else seemed to know anything either though, so I just left and went back to the room with the light on, that lonely adjunct space to a corner room.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Death Calls Out to Us

What does death want with us? Why does it laugh viciously when it takes another? Why do we cry so when we loose yet another? When will we realize that the end an end is near? How can we, be ready, in every moment? How can we, stand, when all around us falls? How can we carry on when everything emits death? How can we continue on, brushing death aside? What gives us that false sense of pride? Oh, that which we try to hide, That, That which we try to hide… How long will it take until the tide washes over??When will it wash over our lines in the sand? Will you and I then run hand in hand? Or, will the waves wash away our names? IS it all these silly games? All the silly things that I call fame. How simple is it, that the sand simply returns? Never the same as it was, but washed away. Like time in a bottle, Dripping away. Dripping, slowly, quickly away. How will I face the entire onslaught of the waves? When the water is rushing in, will I sink or swim? How can I blame the water, When I never learned to swim? How can I blame the air? The air I never learned to breathe. How can I blame the water that drags me down? What does it do? Nothing… Can’t I still breathe? Aren’t my lungs filling with water? How can I blame this feeling, so painful, for how I feel? Don’t I have myself? Myself and only I? Am I truly the reason? The reason why waves crash and pour from my eyes? Am I the reason they fill my lungs? Am I the reason death’s pain still stung?


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Has Spring Sprung

Can't seem to get off to sleep tonight, thoughts buzzing around my old head,
It's dark and quiet, the cat has gone out and the street lights have gone out too,
The odd car passes by maybe coming home from friends or a night on the town,
Could be on the way back from a restaurant a Chinese, or picking up family?

Looking at the calender I see we are getting into mid March and days are longer,
Could it be that the winter has lost its sharp teeth and the might of frosts gone,
A thousand welcomes to Spring but it cannot bring back youth or thicken my hair,
Or enable us to offer the first gathered violets to dear souls in their heavens.

The fowled of the farm yard lay, the pheasants crow in the copse the ring dove coos,
The linnet and the gold finch sing while man looks to fences and drains and water levels,
Next is ploughing and sowing, pruning and planting and talking of good years gone,
Spring stirs all with her mighty influence from the depths of the soil and heart.

So spring is with us and she will throw off one dark and gloomy coat after another,
And spring will chase away winter with his hardly wrinkled face and keen eye for beauty,
It is march rough yet pleasant, vigorous and strong with hope and strength and lovely voice,
His gales will come rushing and sounding over forest and lea and shake nature wide awake.

The tacamahac shows off its long furry green catkins, the mezereon its clustered blossoms,
Then the splendid red China rose unfolds itself to the fresh air, and green pastures return,
Coltsfoot and cardamine embellish old fallows and the star of Bethlehem gleams in the woods,
Crocus spreads around like a purple flood over the old established meadows, spring is sprung.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

On Verge

Have you ever jumped in and out of your skin?
Found yourself on top of a hill with no shade to stand under, the skin around your lips and eyes starts to crack and peel.  Don’t you wish for one moment you could simply have a hand to cover the glare and give you a screen, to sooth them for just one instant and feel a breath of relief.

Have you ever bled without pain?
You are soiled red but the gates of pain are simply numb. You simply watch the drops stain. If only a hand could compress the hurt and brake the flow of this rouge river game.

Have you ever spat words of scorn? Only to discover it was a feeble attempt that bounced the daggers back at your wall of ice. They simply echo back, the acid splatters in your face. You regret what you said; you wish you were dead.

Have you ever defied your own line of fire? You’ve broken down your walls of guard and allowed trespassers to rape your morals. If only a hand could pull you back and tug you in, the rules you made would still be in.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Harlan's Holler

~ Harlan’s Holler ~
Dean Kuch ©2014
The locals say, in the light of day one can visit Harlan’s Holler, stay on the path don't incite the wrath of the man who lost his daughter. The townsfolk say, to this very day, you can hear poor Charlotte cryin.' Beneath silv'ry moon, where young lovers swoon, as she lay there, slowly dyin'... In the August heat, with tiny unshod feet, Charlotte ventured into the Holler. She soon lost her way when the light of day Gave way to midnights squalor. Ripe berries sweet for her mom to eat she'd gone there for the pickin', her bucket now full, twirling locks a' crull, the creeping darkness began to thicken. She wandered for days, to the towns dismay, poor little Charlotte could not be found. Old man Harlan yelled; damned them all to hell— then placed a curse upon the ground. No crops will grow on the ground you sow, all your livestock will surely die, you'll toil endlessly, in the end, you'll be just the same as my Charlotte lie. You'll burn in hell, you'll see, in the end, you'll be just the same as my Charlotte lie... The days dragged on under the summer sun as the child withered to dust. Fred Harlan died, Bible at his side, felled by his curse and vengeful lust. Down on Harlan's Hill you can hear them still, mournful sobs by Pa and daughter, when the moon's just right, in the dead of night, stay away from Harlan's Holler. Lest you tarry there— 'neath the moon, beware, of the curse of Harlan's Holler...


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Pitter Patter

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

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

© Samir Georges
2010


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Drifting Through Time

 
A veil of mist blankets the river, slowly drifting over its banks as the moon ghosts silently 
behind thin dark clouds.  A frog croaks and after awhile a cricket answers. A soft ker-plunk 
echoes across the water  as something breaks the surface for a split second, than vanishes 
into its murky depths.  And far away a mid night bird cries out to the darkness. Than all is 
still.  High above the river  I sit naked in a hot tub, a disembodied head floating silently on 
top of  black steaming waters.  My head is leaned back.  My eyes closed as beads of sweat 
run down my face.  My ears are open though,  as sound fills them, mixes with thought  and  
takes me to far away places.   Places that perhaps only exist in dreams.  The pool, 
illuminated by dark blue lights, reflect off the steam rising up, casting an eerie glow and 
dancing shadows about the night.  It is a Saturday night and I’m alone trapped in paradises 
prison.   Alone in a town that is known for its elderly.  A town buried amidst the lagoons of 
Florida.  But for awhile my mind is free to wonder.  And it does, over forests and endless 
deserts , over oceans and mountains, rivers and canyons.  Drifting through time like a H. G. 
Wells machine.  From past to  present to future and back again, in a blink.    Through 
cultures and civilizations.  Hovering over cities with names so ancient and alive they stir up 
your very being. Cities like Shanghai, Bombay, Casablanca, Istanbul,  Athens, and Paris.  
Cities with so much history locked into one name.  Then there are cities that are myths that 
may or may not have been alive  yet the name is a wonder to behold, like Alantis and El 
Dorado.  But time wears them away to nothing.  A rock wiped away by wind.  Cities that had 
once been so alive now empty shells of their former glory.   Slowly my mind is pulled back 
into reality.  The time is late, and the new day awaits.  Dripping I regretfully clamber out of 
the hot tub swirl a towel around my bare skin and head for the bed where unimaginable 
worlds and stories will play out as I sleep.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

These Salty Waves Pt 1

What am I supposed to think? What am I supposed to say? All these lies you bottled up come sweeping, crashing with the tides. My footing's gone, the ocean real, but how am I supposed to feel? And here I am, a drowning mess, a loveless lie, I do protest. And here I am a drowning mess. So all those things you said to me? Where they just lies out of pity? So all those things you said to me? Or am I lost in salty waves? Yes I know my future's grave. Or am I lost in salty waves?And now the panic in my head, when I should be tucked up in your bed, reels and reels right here instead.I'm going down, a sinking ship, funny what name drips off my lips. It is not God, or Angles plenty, or even that I'm just damn ready To let go of the hell and the lies. I'm wishing for your gentle eyes. Or at least the way they always seemed, but perhaps that's just this salty dream. I have no clue what I'm to do! A drowning hopeless mess, for you-- think it's cute, and oh so funny, but here's the bitter truth now honey. I'm going down. There is no help. I can't be saved by God himself. I put my life, my whole world of trust, and you've thrown it away for lust. Well what the hell's a girl to do? I'm just so entranced by you!


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Note From a Dirty Old Man To the Hurtin' Virgin with a Plan

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------
wishing well, wish them well and sell me your sex and your candy!
it's hell and it's storming outside at two nineteen in the am morning,
dawning cums too soon, and damn it I'm hungry and I'm horny.
wishing well I can smell you and I can tell too, you want just what I got for you.
slide my way, convey that curve, serve that nervous purr right over here. steer 
me in. let me tickle you dear, if your cunt was aligned with your ear, I'd wax 
that true and through just to feel what you hear, Do you hear me wishing well? 
Don't you shy away and get all pissy! I know you've missed me with all that 
classy ass, finally figured out it would never last, from the way they won't let you kiss me. listen missy, I know you know what I've got and honey dew you know it's name is the TRUTH, well Truth be sold the well's getting cold, only one thing left to do. Letme dig dig deep deeper into my sack of gold, Truth be told, the Truth certainly hurts and you can't handle it honestly loosening your folds. Lay back baby doll, blindfold those crystalline eyes, sigh sigh, lose control, the fat facts are swollen inside your watering hole, deep deep beneath your thighs. listen listen, glisten as I christen your cries. Wishing Well, we both can tell this Truth serum's swell has cast a spell that crests the ocean when you lie. don't lie to me. the Truth gets drier when you try. the Truth will bruise and ruin your pie.
mean whipped cream right in your lusty crusty eye. What a dirty old man AM I!  
To De-Virgin-ize Skinny You with Girthy TRUTH to soothe your sinful LIES...


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Billingsgate Fish Market 1900

It so early it's only four o'clock and it's dark on a freezing cold and wet morning,
A man with a cap rings a bell to let us know times getting on and dawn’s dawning,
As the bell rings all the lights on at Billingsgate Market famous for it's fish,
Lighting all the fishy stalls and the dark walkways selling seafood's for a dish,
Haddocks and plaice packed in boxes with ice for many chip shops, frying tonight,
Fresh the same day for a restaurant for weight watchers who want something light,
A strong smell ozone wafts around the whole fish market from the prostrate cod,
Caught in big trawler nets by weathered fishermen on the sea with nets not a rod.
Sellers in this market shout aloud fishy slogans like, ‘Wink-wink-wink-winkles’,
Have em with some salt, pepper and vinegar that you can ‘Spri-spri-spri-sprinkle’,
Railway carts shunting, clashing, banging rolling along tangles of narrow streets,
From the Monument to the market their shouting is matched by the seagulls shriek.
A fleet of horse drawn carts take fish to nearby shops dropping off boxes outside,
Over cobblestone, waking all as they thunder along bouncing in uncomfortable rides.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Lost Confessions

Lost between Heaven and Hell, battlements of my spirit and mind, Raptures me into 
the new day, but delivers me in the darkness of night. I argue within my mind, that 
shall wither it blind, randomly I search for the meaning that enhances the light. I 
wander through the ailment that haunts me so. Small amounts of peace keep me 
driving onward, though I feel no glow. In-between both I am haunted with one 
sight, Glimpse of the dream I hold so dear, with massive amounts of fear, my 
menacing fantasy keeps me on my fight. Each week that passes seems as everyone 
that fell before.
My soul knows my end is of a different kind, knowing the sin that I carry each night 
and the penance that I must endure. My destiny is not what I see, But is what I 
deeply ignore. Lost between Heaven and Hell, My soul cannot sell, this torment, I 
speak is a different form I break, Not just any ordinary sin, I have no-where to begin.
No end to reach, my darkness seeks light, though there is no realization to teach. I 
am haunted by the past that lonely night that seizes, though it pleases me ,but no 
other can live in the desire that I speak here and now, Others have traveled this 
road without any dark temptation, though I would lose all interpretation, with great 
litigation. Lost now and forever my dream, forgotten almost it may seem. Distant 
calls engorge my thoughts, memories chase my spirit, and lust envelops my soul, 
into the realm betwixt Heaven and Hell. My dream I shall bury, my destiny, I shall 
marry within my mind and spirit. These darkened nights shall grab the bright days 
down into the mishap of grace. I will council each cheerful day and plant a smile on 
my face. However, the agony shall drive my heart to a stainless hollowness of 
discomfort my continued dream shall live on and inhabit this shell. This shell 
someday shall wither away; there will be nothing left to tell.


Written for

Sponsor Catie Lindsey 
Contest Name Dark Prose 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Sailor and I

Spiraling sensations of heightened instability cascade through an unsuspecting conscience, a chaotic whirlpool engulfs the psyche in seas of self inflicted torment and despair, illogically intertwined with fleeting moments of delusions, escape and grandeur, torn between everything that is and is not, what once was, what never was, what once was elsewhere, and what lies in the distance unknown. 

Desires to vacate this epoch of mundane existence without immediate destination permeate through every pore, confined by the all encompassing wet suit of societal boundaries, perilously trapped, craving comforts of previous experience like a stranded sailor anxiously await sight of land, and the utopian vision an uncertain future, devoid of realistic premise.

Disparate from islands and coastlines imprinted upon atlas, the past is a destination left unvisited save for flickering images, memories sewn into the fabric of the psyche. The vessel of the mind gives way to leaks, the images trickle into the recesses of one's inner thoughts, a barely perceptible drip, progressing into an uncontrollable flood of psychosis, the struggling vessel begins to capsize, obsession establishes itself as the dominant state of mind. 

One‘s future, an unwritten infinite epilogue to the present, reminiscent of the empty pages in a captain's log documenting this doomed voyage, once expected to be filled with tales of riches and feats of exploration but now submerged in a cold and murky existence awaiting to be pulled from the abyss. 

Expectations and desires succumb to the realities of circumstance as the mind concedes certain defeat, a casualty of pre entitlement and wishful thinking, a drowning sailor whose final thoughts establish the realization that the ambitions of the soul often exceed the limitations of the body.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

My End

There was a day where i met my end
A cold truth i can't pretend.
Since then my world is dark, not bright
And everyday is one long night.
I can't see the day when I'll be right.
Until I make up for that day.

So early one day I left from this
To where I could rebuild me.
To the place where to go I swore I'd never
To the mountain cave where he rests so evil so clever
Holding my soul in the room that he sever.
Where I met my end.

I was going to take my life back from his hands
And change myself, expecting no demands
For soon I would be leaving this horrible land
From that place where I met my end.

**an Imitation poem of where the sidewalk ends**


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Two mandarin oranges were both very much in love,

Two mandarin oranges
were both very much in love,
and the rolled together down a hill,
to the ocean,
and the sun was swallowed by great waves,
and these little oranges( who came from a tree-)
Danced together on a sandy beach,
(somewhere-)
and they were in love,
till a little girl, named "Death"
came along and took one of the mandarin oranges,
and Death stole away with someone else's love
and piled her away and eat that orange up in one bite,
and the other orange lay there
Summer, fall, winter and spring came over and over,
till the one orange rotted away in a distant land (somewhere-)

.2.15.2014.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

My Soulless Love

How could I have been so blind

You torn out this heart of mine

I thought I knew you but I don't

Your soul is black

Black as night you live in torment and put up no fight

You leave a path of despair 

You live like you have no care

You cut like a knife into this heart of mine we had such little time

You have fangs and no heart we never really had a start

We shall walk this world apart

I have to recover my heart 

My soul less love we now shall part...


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Apocalypse


Judgment is not the end
But redeeming Light
To unveil: 
Matter, is a state of mind

When the world 
Crumbling by
The appearances 
Of terrible fleshing fire
Earth quakes
Wars
Pestilence 
Homicide 
Plague
Tsunami and 
All other antics 
Of the anti-Christ
It's heralding:
The Light approaching
To redeem  matter
Mounted on quick sand
 
Beyond matter, I am intact
Father and Son in unison,
Ready to plant the new 
In the fertile ground of past


Details | Prose Poetry | |

soul

She is trapped like a mannequin in a glass window. Searching for new shoes, new hats, new 
clothes with hopes it will make her soul new and light. Swimming in a dark pool, under 
water. beautiful on the outside and ugly within. Ugly secrets for a beautiful girl. Dark shades 
to camoflague her face. It does no good. feel her green blue eyes piercing through your skin 
anyway. I hang my head to the side and lean on her to give my support. My best friend. My 
dark comrade. The devil to my angel. Its only when things aren't going that badly that we 
forget. Longing for the days laughter and friendship. No more black tears falling down to land 
on the white couch. White everywhere. Surrounded in white , dressed in pain. She'll miss 
me.  The blood pumps through my veins. Angry at the darkness that has swallowed her up. 
The moment pleasantly scary. The moment frozen in time. Frozen like the girl with green 
blue eyes. Holding my breath because I've treasured her all these years and now I must let 
her walk on her own.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Dark Alley

It is a dark world they inhabit, dark and filled with a flood of blood.
Many bodies lay entangled, red and dark. Confused with the creator,
The mighty fellow who made them, so small and useless, having a heart
 which bled, a flood of blood. Men came at night, some during the day
Looking for love, in this well of blood, this land of the dead, of unconscious 
self, the engulfing dark, limbs entwined left to decay amid the lying money
The ghost of past women, recapturing mythology, an ambience of dread
This frightening flood of the blood, sucking and leeching away the soul,
The psychic inheritance of the ego, the dark near dead experience.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

LOOK OUT, IT'S GETTING DARK

LOOK OUT, IT'S GETTING DARK
Look out, itís getting dark
Time never strode
Viciously before
Treachery, torment
And unleashed lust
Demonstrated route-march
Even at broad day light
Look out, itís getting dark.
Daughter has not reached home
Look out ÖÖÖÖ.
Clutches of evil
So visible, virulent
Brutish libertines
Clung in air embodied
Tender child
She is not at home
Look out-
Sharp beaked vultures
Incorporeal
Invisible,
They flap wings,
Ugly luring of tongue
Resounding rhythm
Vagrant beasts roam, grunting.
Celestial bodies, guardian angels
Keep eyes shut
Look outÖÖÖÖ
Way side brooks
Bogs lay bare
Ferocious shades in darkness
Fireballs roll from gut to throat-
Dispassionate halogen lamps
Hostile streets concealing
Treacherous holes
And ferocious bipeds to pounce
On pray.
Itís dark
As dark as the Black Angel
Our daughter-
Look outÖÖÖÖ.
A wail on wings of wind
A choked scream-
Nauseating odour swells in air
A shadow at the rear end
Of St. Joan street.
Stage sets of a trap pit
Scary shades, bitter fruits
Of calumny, distressing.
Arresting with claws
The black scorpion stings
Prey shivering in fear, disgust
Flames, flesh burning
A self immolation
Crumbling down to ashes.
Our daughter
Look out-
Itís dark
As dark as Black Hole
Devilís stake
Charred body-
My cherub
My blood-
She is not at home.
Night spreads heavy shroud
Over our dreams.
A death knell mourning
Slovenly
Crushing life
Our life


Details | Prose Poetry | |

MORNING BONES

MORNING BONES

This bed,
This deep deep lake
Dredge my bones from 
The murky depths
Where’s my head?
The diver reaches out
Through dark silted water
Finds something akin
To its former form
Assembles it on the edge
This is the way it would have been
The experts agree and walk away nonchalantly 
They’ve seen it again and again
This is nothing new they say
He’s done it before, he’ll probably do it again.
The commissioner of these affairs
Thinks a major decision has to be made
But in the quiet of night 
No light or reason
Can stop the unfathomable from occurring
He’s done it before and he’ll do it again,
Shadows playing late into the night and 
The shell left in the morning light. 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Indonesia

Indonesia 


In 1965 I read an article in Newsweek 
a mass killing of communists, 
about a million, men, women and children. 
The writer of this article concluded with:
the communists had brought this slaughter
upon themselves.
But the aftermath of this atrocity still fester,
and the truth has to be told if this country 
is ever to find redemption.
Today Bali is a mecca for history ignorant 
tourists, who soak up the sun on a beach 
that once soaked up the blood of the innocent  



Details | Prose Poetry | |

RIbaldO

RIbaldO the Clown
RIbaldO the Clown
he wore a black bandana and no make up yet his eyes were slanted up and 
when he was on the street everyone saw a clown he looked like a clown face in 
real cheap clothing inn Glasgow the streets pass between and betwixt the fields 
are made of grassy things hot yellow flowers and daffodils here comes RIbaldO 
he is not really a clown but look closely at the face the eyes the frown YES he 
is a clown his girl had left him for another much younger and he had fought 
him to the ground leaving him in tatters with a black eye he wept and then the 
police had taken him to Glasgow Gaol for two days in the holding cell found his 
warrants received notice the warrants are too old let him go he has but 
nothing here but miss demeanors only he had returned to the Gaol office to 
receive his personal belongings they laughed at his clown eye face a disgrace 
they said to clown he is so jealous of his girl he will never get another to come 
near the ride to the day use area where he is allowed to roam the beach the 
ride to the end of the Trolley out of reach the Ride to the INside of a Clown 
the reach around print the tickets out sell them to the highest builders the 
tent is going upp the circus is in town wait at the main street is closed the 
police in droves holding back the traffic from the elephants long nose and in 
the center of the ring the CLown has struck a pose he reaches in his memory 
and rides around the ring in a three piece suit no make up is needed his eyes 
and now his nose so funny to be seen the children all are laughing the youngs 
ones got in free the Circus is the life for me the life for eye the life for Clown 
follow the bouncing ball the Circus came to town they hired RIbaldO

what is a bed
what is a bed
the princess and the pea she had a bad back
the pea attacked
she could feel the little green pea under twenty nine mattresses she said to pile 
them up until she reached the moon and still got no relief
the bed of cardboard gives me some relief
eye do not need a warm cover in the summer
just a jacket with some sleeves perhaps to lay it over me
like a cover on the cardboard bed
it is better then the dead they lay in splendid palaces of foam padded homes
in the morning when eye rise it costs me nothing to surmise
eye can leave the bed alone waiting for me to come home
unless it rains down from the skies and makes it limp
it will support me in my old age
it still is the flat old bed of choice
when all the material is wet the cardboard lets me down
it keeps the ground from claiming me it keeps me happy on the ground
as the homeless eye lay in dread of the detective will say
the cardboard is stolen he should have used hay
hay in the field is so used
he told me next time to try mulch
mulch mulch better then zilch
eye have the bed of pea that princess left to me
eye roll around the pea and drop off the round to the ground
the cardboard covers up the pea and leaves me off the ground
eye am around
safe and sound ahead
what is a bed


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Token: Mysterious and Drowning in Anger Pt1

How often does it come to call?
How often does the sea breeze spray?
How often will she fall?
How many times will he ask her to stay?
Then tell her that she is to leave,
How many times will she have to greave?
Will she leave him forever?

She sits in the room, it is so cold,
It is now, so much darker.
In her hand, his hateful words in bold.
On her face the pain of staying with him,
In her heart,
Her hair, how he hated it, short trim.
She thinks of her heart; she only imagines it falling apart.

He walks in, key in hand.
He walks in to ask her,
Where had she been?
He tells her to stand,
Then drops her to her knees, 
She cries out, and he lashes out at her,
What of this had she not already seen?
Her knees begin to shake, and still the scream…
Still the scream won’t come,
Yet, when she awakes, she thinks it a dream.
Then, when she looks at the picture of herself,
She remembers how she must be mum.
She remembers at time when she had health.
When she didn’t have to worry about him.
He turns through her mind, so horridly.
Yet, she still calls out to him.
And he scolds her so disapprovingly.
Can’t she do anything right?
Can’t she find new words to write?
Her guitar,
snapped strings,
Unpleasant things,
So near to her from afar.
Then, when he is dead, she says, I will be free.
How can she not worry?
How can she not, herself truly see?
How: the truly beautiful things she now will carry?
Why does she know? 
Did she have to learn; Trust is often broken?
What now will she show?
Will the next approve? 
Or will he be unreal as a mysterious token?
Yet… There she stands…
The gun and razor in her hands…
The current has not yet washed away.
He still comes back, like the tide late of midday.
There… 
The gun goes back in the drawer,
She will wonder,
Will another be able to love her?
No, she takes the razor,
the chair,
and she takes up the outside’s cold air.
She cries as she walks briskly to the water.
And in the chair she carves a message to the hater.
She sends a message to those who will find it later.
And slowly she slips into the water,
colder than the dead of night.
Yet this, this she thinks feels so right.
She swims in above her height,
There she realizes she wasn’t quite right.
Yet she can’t swim against the drowning waves.
The waves beat her down, and she can’t swim.
The current keeps dragging her back in, 
the man she didn’t want to see again.
There he is again, like the tide, out, and in.
He sets her on her bed. 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Unremitting Serenade (Part two)

She said
“We are slowly and always eroding
As we lose more and more
By little bits and little bits they fall
They are falling 
Prey to the fading and wasting away
Of the nameless one and all his dark children
Those of dark hearts and souls dimmer still
And yet we weep to find such ones as you
Who fade as well
For we see in you the ability to listen to the rhythm of the world
To the celestial hymns of the stars
And you heed the whisperings of those around you
So we grieve for those of you with hearts and souls so bright
And despair when you lose yourselves to unbelief
We cry when the listening becomes a burden
And thus as you fade
So we erode
And bit little bit we fall
Are falling 
I lament the loss of all I’ve ever known 
And it frightens me
That all the glory-bright children who guide you at night
My brothers and my sisters
Whose tears fall for you and so many like you 
Shall leave my sight forever
When comes the wasting 
And the fading’s complete
Yet all my agonies for you outweigh mine own
For you truly believe in the vasting
All its loneliness
With its great nothingness and all its tranquil non-existence
I weep for the breath of grey upon your soul
Tainted thus from scars of the past
And I mourn for the one who may yet still come
To shed you of all armours and shrouding veils
For I wonder if you will struggle 
And fight each step of the way
Because I fear the tainting and the fading 
Has dug in too deep

Or will you allow the one to see
Behind the reflecting pools of your eyes
To converse with you
The one only I have seen so clearly
The one that hides deep inside 
Behind those eyes
Willingly 

For you the future I glimpsed 
Was so bright
Because I saw in the palm of your hand
A key of hope
Such a key as could open any door
And yet I have watched with helpless wonder
As the hall of many doors began to lock
To one by one bar themselves
‘twas a time when you traded
The white rose for the red
So you might remain within your world a while longer
So that perhaps you might discover once again
The lost faith
And all the many wonders you used to see without the veils
The little things you had abandoned
And to this end you held the rose within your arms each mourning
To find the fresh reason why
Sorrow should stay his hand
And why
Why he should have left you alone
When it was you who brought yourself to the brink each day
To the edge of the world


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Mr August

Mr. August, the mature man with shining golden hair the color of a ripe cornfield,
He is slightly graying at the temples but his eyes are clear pools of deepest blue,
There are hard lines in his face, they are deep, he's strong it's part of who he is
He stands and looks around him heavy hands on his hips a tall man of rural beauty,

His serene presence hints of much wisdom a good age make his company so delightful,
Casting his eyes as far as can be seen he smiles because all is right for this time,
The rich soils are dry and pillows of clouds wisp across light blue turquoise skies,
The dark greenness of the fields, the meadows and the pastures are strong and sweet.

He watches cattle grazing on the richest grasses and they low because they are well,
The day warms and the cows lay easy, chewing cud a sight worthy of a painter’s hand,
Warm breezes temper the sun as a second spring is flowing through the healthy trees,
He nods to the mighty oak the king of the woods and forests and the trees wave back.

His eyes catch heather on the moors and the dust devils on the heath's new flowers,
They are all there in fine form, dog roses, blue chicory, hawk weed and honeysuckle,
And as he stands nearer he breathes sweet perfumes from his August summer gardens,
Looking to his glades knee deep in grass the blue campanula dances a flowers dance.

Nuts growing fast they are fat and green they hang in the tall hedges and woodlands,
There are more nuts in trees along old woodland lanes and deep in the dark forests,
He salutes the fading roses and kneels down to thank them they have done their duty,
Then waves goodbye to the foxglove with a warm smile and thanks her with a blown kiss.

Did the Foxglove blush, just a little?


Details | Prose Poetry | |

POWER

POWER


Dark words for me are words about fears, nightmares.   
I simply don’t harbor dark thoughts towards anyone, 
And  my dark feelings are to do with powerful  threats to me, 
Often  occurring when a child.  As a child  I was terrified 
Of being abandoned by my mother, because as far as I could see 
The world around her (and me) was a hostile place. I was powerless. 
School  of hard knocks : I have  never feared abandonment 
Since I was fourteen.   As a teenager I was scared of being
Pursued by gangs of maurauding toughs in the inner city.  
When you’ve been beaten up once  you’re anxious to avoid it again.
Trained then in karate and judo,  earned the power to be safe.  

I am more scared  now of being hurt accidentally 
Because I will lose work and therefore have no income
Scary because ice and snow are  more powerful than me.
Shame  is a painful  emotion  often inflicted  on powerless me at  school 
By  holier-than-thou   bigot-teachers who had not 
An ounce of  Christianity in their entire bone structure.  
I detest their actions towards me even now.  

But the motive which has driven me all my life, 
And therefore my main area of dark  thought  is fear of failure.   
This is the scariest thing to me.  I  hate to fail,  
And I take extensive steps to avoid it,  because it makes 
Me seem less in my own eyes.   As a result, I rarely fail;  
And  if  do,  I make absolutely sure it doesn’t happen again.
I will always want to have that power. 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Token: Mysterious and Drowning in Anger Pt2

The struggle.
The tugging, the pushing,
The shoving, the screaming,
The fighting, the crawling,
The hurting, the bleeding,
The sickening, the hating,
Oh the tension that is snapping,
How could this be happening, he wonders.
Wonders just as the thunderous boom
The boom that echoes in his skull.
It is now, that his head is so clearly full.
Full of understanding.
On the floor his face is landing.
All the while, the hater.
How could he hate her?
And there he falls, his mind now empty.
She visits him in the cemetery.
An empty, mysterious token.
Something that she had not spoken.
The things for which he was mistaken.
And there, the time is coming.
The date is set.
Will they forgive her?
Or will they hate her too?
Somehow, among it all, she is let go.
Where will she go? 
How can she go away from what she knows?
What will she do?
Time passes for her, and she sees not its vantages.
She still reapplies old bandages.
She cries herself to sleep.
But she still remembers how the water was so deep.
And there, in her house by the sea.
No-one saw when she waded into the water.
Forgetting the late hater.
Not remember to swim when she came to her height. 
Yet from under the water:
The lantern amidst the dark, was bright… 
How well did it feel to have been right…
She wondered what it would be like.
There they say she wades in the water,
never sooner than later.
Always with enough time to see the cold, dead skies above her…
Skies: Floating… floating into the open, the dark and unknown…
Swimming without pattern into the deep, 
Deep, deep sleep.?The sleep of a September that she will never forget to always remember.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Mr August

Mr. August, the mature man with shining golden hair the color of a ripe cornfield,
He is slightly graying at the temples but his eyes are clear pools of deepest blue,
There are hard lines in his face, they are deep, he's strong it's part of who he is
He stands and looks around him heavy hands on his hips a tall man of rural beauty,

His serene presence hints of much wisdom a good age make his company so delightful,
Casting his eyes as far as can be seen he smiles because all is right for this time,
The rich soils are dry and pillows of clouds wisp across light blue turquoise skies,
The dark greenness of the fields, the meadows and the pastures are strong and sweet.

He watches cattle grazing on the richest grasses and they low because they are well,
The day warms and the cows lay easy, chewing cud a sight worthy of a painter’s hand,
Warm breezes temper the sun as a second spring is flowing through the healthy trees,
He nods to the mighty oak the king of the woods and forests and the trees wave back.

His eyes catch heather on the moors and the dust devils on the heath's new flowers,
They are all there in fine form, dog roses, blue chicory, hawk weed and honeysuckle,
And as he stands nearer he breathes sweet perfumes from his August summer gardens,
Looking to his glades knee deep in grass the blue campanula dances a flowers dance.

Nuts growing fast they are fat and green they hang in the tall hedges and woodlands,
There are more nuts in trees along old woodland lanes and deep in the dark forests,
He salutes the fading roses and kneels down to thank them they have done their duty,
Then waves goodbye to the foxglove with a warm smile and thanks her with a blown kiss.

Did the Foxglove blush, just a little?


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Breathe deep

This tattered box has finally burst at the seams with shame and regret.
The first breath of fresh air escapes these frigid lungs of mine.
I can feel the warmth of the sun on my pale skin once more.
These hallow eyes once again embracing the light of day.
The creaking sound of a crooked smile hisses through the cracks of my lips.
My body is frail, and far out of date, but I still manage to drag it out of this chaos
The chaos that has poisoned such a light mind to such a dark place.
It's the dark place that has left me blind to happiness for so long.
Here this voice sing of renewal, and relief, I am alive again!
Feb, 08


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Redest Popies

The corn now growing tall moving like an angry sea in a ferocious wind,
It rustles softly it is thrown back and forth by a warm billowing wind,
Rye is higher than my shoulders cerulean ears have long since been shot,
In the fields grow the reddest of red poppies they too sway in the wind.

Scarlet anagallis and the red of the cockle twinkling in the sharp sun,
With the rye cut the wild roses takes center stage and bows at the sun,
On sandy heaths the wind blows dust across the woods mead's and glades,
Thistle instead of wheat, cockles instead of barley in the sandy soil.

Black cloud as thunder rumbles it cracks loud across the darkened sky
Drenching rain pelts the ground and swells gentle rivers and streams,
The slow water now rushes picking leaves and wood on its furious way,
As the storm ends there is no smell like a soaked wood or wet field.

The black skies clear and a warm sun shines on the meadows and glades,
The thick dark green grass shimmers in the breeze in a warm bright sun,
Droplets sparkle like diamonds hanging from a copse of ancient lime trees,
The rain in the dark green grass is like a kaleidoscope of a tiny rainbow.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Storm in my Ming

Lightning cracked the sky and thunder rumbled, rain lashed and all was dark,
A terrible storm but the heat is not cooled and hot fetid air remained stale,
Thunder was my loss, and heat was my anger, of a very dear lifelong friend,
The rain was my tears falling from swollen eyes I stood alone in my darkness.

Heavy steel black clouds scudded across skies and viciously poured cold rain
Air became rancid and a new wave of anger etched into my dark heart and soul
A loss too hard to face as the thunder cracked my mind was in a place so dark,
By a quiet garden where bodies lay I cannot remember any happiness of my past.

No more happy greetings no more joy in thinking no more joy in anything at all,
A wasted friend in a wasted world a dark frightening place to live in all alone,
Trying to sleep through nights sliding hours the longest night hours ever known,
Thinking of meadows, beautiful boiling streams my darkest thoughts always return.

Walking together down long winding paths but now I cannot see any beauty anymore,
Those happy times we had no longer exists, as happiness is an emotion for fools,
There is a flaming coal inside my head it has scorched and burned sweet memories,
All that is left is hatred anger and revenge with wretched pictures from the past. 


 




Details | Prose Poetry | |

Has Spring Sprung

Can't seem to get off to sleep tonight, thoughts buzzing around my old head,
It's dark and quiet, the cat has gone out and the street lights have gone out too,
The odd car passes by maybe coming home from friends or a night on the town,
Could be on the way back from a restaurant a Chinese, or picking up family?

Looking at the calender I see we are getting into mid March and days are longer,
Could it be that the winter has lost its sharp teeth and the might of frosts gone,
A thousand welcomes to Spring but it cannot bring back youth or thicken my hair,
Or enable us to offer the first gathered violets to dear souls in their heavens.

The fowled of the farm yard lay, the pheasants crow in the copse the ring dove coos,
The linnet and the gold finch sing while man looks to fences and drains and water levels,
Next is ploughing and sowing, pruning and planting and talking of good years gone,
Sprimg stirs all with her mighty influence from the depths of the soil and heart.

So spring is with us and she will throw off one dark and gloomy coat after another,
And spring will chase away winter with his hardly wrinkled face and keen eye for beauty,
It is marxh rough yet pleasent, vigorous and strong with hope and strength and lovely voice,
His gales will come rushing and sounding over forest and lea and shake nature wide awake.

The tacamahac shows off its long furry green catkins, the mezereon its clustered blossoms,
Then the splendid red China rose unfolds itself to the fresh air, and green pastures return,
Coltsfoot and cardamine embellish old fallows and the star of Bethlehem gleams in the woods,
Crocus spreads around like a purple flood over the old established meadows, spring is sprung.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Anger

Lightning cracked the sky and thunder rumbled, rain lashed and all was dark,
A terrible storm but the heat is not cooled and hot fetid air remained stale,
Thunder was my loss, and heat was my anger, of a very dear lifelong friend,
The rain was my tears falling from swollen eyes I stood alone in my darkness.

Heavy steel black clouds scudded across skies and viciously poured cold rain
Air became rancid and a new wave of anger etched into my dark heart and soul
A loss too hard to face as the thunder cracked my mind was in a place so dark,
By a quiet garden where bodies lay I cannot remember any happiness of my past.

No more happy greetings no more joy in thinking no more joy in anything at all,
A wasted friend in a wasted world a dark frightening place to live in all alone,
Trying to sleep through nights sliding hours the longest night hours ever known,
Thinking of meadows, beautiful boiling streams my darkest thoughts always return.

Walking together down long winding paths but now I cannot see any beauty anymore,
Those happy times we had no longer exists, as happiness is an emotion for fools,
There is a flaming coal inside my head it has scorched and burned sweet memories,
All that is left is hatred anger and revenge with wretched pictures from the past.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

DARKSTONE

DARKSTONE
FortySeven
Statistic
Several missing parts some scars beaten up and left for dead the mighty men 
have used the fists oh GOD when will eye get some rest walking walking looking 
looking searching for my hideaway my endless questing telling portenting 
changing my namme today.
Jesus tells me in the Bible he has a namme for me to find so whenever eye see 
a stone of white eye look asunderneathe the rock and ponder. Oh wow there was 
a small dark stone there so eye took my namme to mean DARK STONE in an 
Indian manner my new nicknamme was visible there and given mee today. 
Charlax Darkstone sounds like some lost Indian fighter with buckskin britches 
pooring out his heart to save the villagers. A Statistic very bad vibrations from the 
passing stranger’s men it seems have followed Satan they are walking after lust 
not contemplation Oh brief candle out out but wait for love and stay alive she 
loves me please just try to find me ewe knoe just who ewe aer.  
Leaning to the million dollar giveaway the DOUBLEDAY publishers called me 
today and begged me for another chance to publish my anthology a prance of 
under moonlighted night the moon is setting way too quickly falling light is dark 
so dark it fits my namme my new nicknamme the DarkStone man has come. 
She sits and drinks her coffee sipping past the lipps and seeing only love. 
DarkStone is that yew old bean and how eye manage to avoid the many 
StormTroopers in my area and the Gendarmes who come strolling jauntily 
aiming from the hippopotamus erectus at the eye. Overcome with honor that she 
loves me this one is at odds become extant with the extinction of us all the 
problems of a man even when he is forgiven are so many and still varied until 
they multitude them past the ending now. Eye have a problem with the Judging 
all the man who meet me seems so evil and eye still do want to curse them even 
though the GOD the JESUS does not like it the statistics missed me nah nah 
nah nah nah nah nah nah nah nah. To the man in the truck the tires is only 
rubber and they bounce the road will not protect you but someday it will come 
and get you so look out. Make me shout make me holler make me doubt. Eye 
have beaten all the odds and lived in spite of odd man out. Revelation 2:17
He who has an ear, let him hear what the Spirit says to the churches. To him who 
overcomes, I will give some of the hidden manna. I will also give him a white 
stone with a new name written on it, known only to him who receives it.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Victorian Cemetary

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

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

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

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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Piccadilly Dawn

The vitality of Piccadilly slowly ebbs away until it gets quiet at about three A.M.,
A human figure becomes enigmatic and provokes an interest when it’s empty of them,
Hoardings in the center of the road are now dark and dingy look like an ugly scar,
Then there is is a noise a beam that washes the Circus it's the lights from a car,
Piccadilly at three A. M. looks much like a big empty theater after the final show,
The cast have gone their separate ways and the audience too all had somewhere to go,
Bottles tinkle in the dark the noise of flapping paper it’s all part of the night,
Talking and footsteps from afar then a loud cough, laughs from revelers out of sight.
On the corner is a pillar-box standing guard, tramcar rods flash as they rumble by,
Big Ben four gold faces shine the four points of the compass, in the darkened sky,
Soon alarm clocks will ringing all over the city getting people out of their beds,
London at night, in the pitch dark, is the same as anywhere a wise man once said.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Deep in the Woods

It's a fearful place it scared me in my childhood and it still does,
So very far in the deepest of woods it lay, black, a deep dark pool,
By bushes, overhanging trees, stretched across dirty stagnant water,
An unpleasant quietness gave the scene a dingy dirty smell of waste.

The trunks of trees, undisturbed for years bowed, sagged over its brim,
Some had plunged headlong into its gloomy flood buried by its deepness,
A frightening place in the dim shade and the solemn hush of the woods,
The silence made it more fearful but there was lonely solitary beauty.

A timid little primrose did not fear the sombre place on its muddy bank,
Other plants sprung thickly there was thousands of starry flowers around,
Mixed with wood anemonies a breeze spreading their luscious sweet breath,
The woods revel in their flowered families so quiet yet so very beautiful.

In spring, knotted trunks displayed crisp leaves to join odorous flowers,
It is in laughing contrast with dark winters of grey moss and gloominess,
Nature calls for the birds pair by pair to weave within the leafy boughs,
To summer homes under hollow banks where the blackbirds build their nests.

In the maze of twisted stumps and roots a chaffinch makes it's silvery home,
On a bough a storm-cock sang to his love sitting in a beautiful willow tree,
There was a pleasant sight a pleasant smell from a close tasseled honeysuckle,
And to see within the shadowy solitude a sudden gush of warm bright sunshine.

Through some high opening everything became bright, clear and very beautiful,
Through brooding nooks and hoary branches the sun shone onto the black water,
And within the pools lowest depths a little world of its own began to come alive,
The beams of sunlight fell onto the bank and the flowers gave the pool new life.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

There Has Been

There is something in your kiss 
The taste of cigarettes linger 
There is a feeling only you bring 
When your hand is on my chest 
A strum of my silk heartstrings 
You mastered harpist.

There is a way you look at me
Your lazy eyes full of lust 
There is a moment when I can’t breathe 
We’re both lost in space  
You blind navigator.

There will be a time when it’s over 
Your wicked ways will leave me for dead 
There has been tears, laughter and sadness
But the scene is coming to an end
You cruel director. 




Details | Prose Poetry | |

FABEL EIGHT

FABEL EIGHT 
FABEL EIGHT 
 
Ignorance is Bliss 
 
CharlaX Fables 
 
People argue they agree among themselves on stupidity to be the ruler of them 
all it was so laughable not even rude at all just stupid and appalled. To the 
purists among mye readers this is written in the winter not the fall the words do 
tremble at the writer's test the writers want. Ignorance is bliss. Listen gentle 
reader to this twist. 

A man was near me on the bus a largesse man with a WINTER hat and GLOVES 
upon his head now wait please stop of course eye meant the hat was on his 
head the gloves were somewhere else. The joggers went near the bus the bus 
was honking at a car they moved in tandem to the music each one was listening 
to something different eye suppose. They went to JOG upon the road. As these 
people moved on past the man was heard to say “it is way too early in the day for 
joggers in the way”. The women near to me they numbered three they all began 
to say and to agree among themselves the joggers are out there in the dark. Now 
here is where the ignorance does come. Eye began to speak and so of course 
they then had to disagree with the mee. Eye began to say a profound thing “it is 
way too cold for them to be jogging like that”. “Oh no” they said, as if eye was a 
monster as if they had it planned “there is no cold the cold does not exist we 
meant its dark the dark had hold of them and they should not be jogging in the 
dark like this but cold oh no it's not too cold” they all pitched in and left me 
thinking that the eye was in the Twilight Zone again. “Of course it's cold” eye tried 
again but they were sure they had me now and to a person they each one piped 
up loud It is only the dark is all we meant and not the cold at all?” Eye tried again 
this time surely they will agree with this old man “ Yes it is cold out there there is 
no one wearing shorts yet in this January day?” And then eye left my seat and 
moved for eye was in the way of ignorance and bliss for they ignored me anyway 
for eye was reason in the face of added nuisance as the gaggle kept the play. 
Eye kept silence in the back of the bus all to myself the wounded pride intact so 
sure that eye was right about the cold. 
best thing of all eye could no longer hear them getting old.