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Prose Poetry Daughter Poems | Prose Poetry Poems About Daughter

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

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Details | Prose Poetry | |

When the Time is Right

For nearly 45 years I never spoke of  that day; the emotional pain was too great.
I simply hid it in the lining of my soul, knowing in my heart you didn’t stand
a chance with me as I stood in the rubble of my life and let you go, wrapped
in my heart with a wish and a prayer- all I had to give. And for 45 years, 
I dreamed of you and me playing in fields of daisies under blue skies as
I cried inside, wondering where you where, and if there was a part of you  
that somehow would remember me- would remember the bond we made 
in that single moment we shared together, when the nurse held you up to the
nursery window for me to see as I  stood on wobbly legs, with my trembling 
hands holding unto a pole with a dripping IV?

I prayed. Lord! How I prayed that someday, by the grace of  God, 
you’d come back to me when the time was right. 

So I lived my life. Got back up and crawled out of the rubble that was me, 
and lived with half a heart that somehow still managed to beat.

With the passing of  time, I bloomed; sometimes red, sometimes blue when I thought of all the years we could have shared as I sat and listened to family and friends 
tell me of the joyful times they shared with their children, grandchildren 
and great-grandchildren as, I  smiled and  cried inside and dreamed of you, 
and all the years of your life I  missed and, all the years I would never know. 
It was then I realized I was a very lonely soul. So, I wrote and wrote and
wrote, never suspecting for a moment that  nearly 45 years later,
you would find me through a poem I wrote for you.

I know I can never replace the mother and father who raised you, for the bonds
of time shared  are  much stronger than blood. Yet knowing what a wonderful 
women you turned out to be, beautiful, intelligent, compassionate  
and now with a daughter  of your own, is enough for me, and someday  
when the time is right for you, I hope and pray , we will meet again.


                                                 Elaine George 

This is a true story.  It was through this forum ( poetrysoup ) my birth daughter found me. 

Copyright © Elaine George

Details | Prose Poetry | |


l. Opening the closet of narra doors, I sweep through organza skirts and gemmed ringlets; my hair ruffling aimlessly upon scalloped kerchiefs smelling decade - old hyacinth, Mom’s favorite ambrosia: she would lift her anklets in tiptoed hums, ”night and day, you are the one..” Evenings touched her candle hands; hands that soothed wounded knees from jackstone fights; her fingers caressing a pony -tailed girl’s wrath with piano keys rippling into a gentle moan; “night and day you are the one…” And i am delivered from my tempestuous rants. ll. From nowhere, the porcelain mirror gazed at me; her rhythm of silence billows, cradling my nights with each veil of her almond eyes that enter into my irises: a serene sight too close, much too tight I clung to her unspoken word. Through years, I grew like a bamboo shoot: her quiet smiles and music walked me through reality’s maze. And how I would wail bearing the grim of hard study, coughing late, late hours of reading toil…yet, she stayed like a moth with charm flushed in a wind of calm gaze, ebbing . lll. And only Mom could melt my temper when my raging soul paused to wonder at her light’s glow: oh, her feminine beat illumined more lamplights dancing inside this rebellious head… and now, she hovers around me. I become her eyes, chanting, “night and day, you are the one” ; never balking at my surreal conquests. She is gone bequeathing warmth into my torched flights without question; with much love dripping from her graceful movement, straying all through these my breaths: “night and day, you are the one…” Carol Eastman's Story Poem Contest

Copyright © nette onclaud

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Message from My Daughter

So… during basketball season… our manager, Anna,
             would sit by me on the bench.

After Christmas, 
I told her about Nana drawing with charcoals. 
I told her about how I wanted to buy her charcoals 
             so she would draw again. 
I told Anna about how Nana won’t draw anymore 
             because she used to draw…
                          when Papa was sick. 

             (I was telling Anna all of this because she likes to draw
             and mentioned she likes charcoals the best)……..
 	           All that being said…

Anna gave me the most beautiful charcoal drawing 
            of a basketball on a wooden floor.
It is framed and really big. 
You can tell that she put time into it 
            and really wanted it to be pretty. 
When I opened it in class today, 
            I was so surprised…… 
                           and told her it was beautiful. 

She smiled at me and said, 

            “I drew that because of the story you told 
             me about your grandma.”

I bawled like a little kid. 

Just that the story would influence her, and 
              inspire her to draw that for me. 

It is awesome.

I had forgotten that we even talked about drawing……. 
             She didn’t. 
                            That story meant something to her.

 And that is why people teach.

Copyright © Ray Dillard

Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Child's Peace

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

Copyright © Gabrielle Charisse

Details | Prose Poetry | |

My God on Earth: My Mother

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

Copyright © Hina Saxena

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Your My Dear Friend

We have been together
treasured joy now for many years
we trust each other with our
emotions, with affection, tears,

Any day when you are sick or hurting
I feel your pain - significant other,
when eighter-one needs attention
we help one another...

These mutual friendly feelings
for assistance, approval, support
form our tight bonds,
usually never broken

Sharing visions, time together
we respect each other,
regardless of shortcomings
I know you, "I love you anyway"

Copyright © Perry Campanella

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Message to You

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

Copyright © kj force

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Brick Mason's Daughter

My dad is a brick mason and so were my 2 grandfathers so it’s easy to say I would 
know a thing or two about laying brick. It has surely come in handy a few times in 
my life and each time I’ve had to use that knowledge; I have become smarter, 
quicker, more experienced. With each job, the joints look more clean, the foundation 
more sturdy, are larger than the last, more effective, rising higher and higher. I have 
found that some jobs were unnecessary and the walls would need to be torn down. 
But as I get more under my belt, those walls are harder to tear down.  The last wall 
to come down started slowly, very tedious work, back-breaking, brow 
sweating….many man hours went into what eventually resulted in a massive wall to 
come crashing down… covering everything around it in a cloud of dust. It was a 
most victorious day and well worth the hard labor. The land was cleared of debris 
and life began to flourish where the wall once stood. But I’ve been out of work for a 
while, no need for any walls to be built….until now. I thought my mason days would 
be over and I could hang up my trowel….retire from this laborious job that has took 
such a toll on me over the years. But now a wall is needed and it is time to dust of 
the tools handed down to me from a father to his daughter….trowel, level, jointer, 
and brush. This project is my biggest yet and will require much attention to details 
to ensure that it will withstand just about any force of nature. That it will stand rigid, 
unbreakable, firm. I dread the hours that this will require, the aches and pains my 
body will endure for this enormous wall….a wall that no one will be able to rappel 
over, with numerous defensives, so high and well-built that it will intimidate anyone 
who dares to think twice about seeing what’s on the other side….a wall long 
enough to encase a small city so that those who rest inside will sleep peaceful at 
night with no worries of invasion. As I gather my tools together, I realize I had 
forgotten how heavy those mortar mix bags were. Funny…you usually never forget 
that or the effort that goes into mixing mortar. But I had forgotten. I start going 
over the blueprints, going over the knowledge that has been passed down to me 
and what I have acquired by experience….building my confidence up for that task 
that lays before me. It’s time..yes I believe I’m ready to start my footer. As my 
shovel strikes the dirt…I wonder if this is the beginning or the end of my career as a 
brick mason’s daughter. 

Copyright © A Rambling Righting Riley - Shauna Riley

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Somewhere over the rainbow

I had heard this song by an obscure artist, with a twist as it played verses 
of 'Somewhere over the rainbow, with 'What a wonderful' world entwined. 
It's simply melody strummed on a ukalele mesmerized me as I listened on the radio 
in the car.
I remember saying to my wife, "I want this at my funeral." I was morbidly honest 
that way.
Several years later, I was watching an episode of E.R. in which our favorite 
character, Dr. Green discovers he has brain cancer, and a short time to live. He's 
basically given the advice we all wish to avoid. "You don't have long, retire, enjoy 
the time you have left."
 Dr Green, plans a vacation with his daughter, who's relationship has been strained 
since his divorce. For the next three or four episodes Dr. Green and his daughter 
spend his last days surfing in Hawaii. Mending the relationship slowly, to a degree 
of understanding only a father and daughter could know. He's still Dad, and she's a 
teen working on letting go of her resentments.
In the last episode of the story, he's not doing well. He keeps passing out and his 
strength is waning. He knows it's only a matter of days, possibly hours; but doesn't 
share this with his daughter, the scenary is of a bungalo on the beach, white sands 
surround the openness of the primitive bungalo, palm trees speckle the beach, and 
in the distance lies the royal blue waters of the Pacific Ocean.
A day of surfing is suddenly changed as he suggests that his daughter go ahead of 
him, he'll stay back and watch until his strength returns. So he sits in a hammock, 
and watches out in the water as she strolls off to surf, Background music grows to 
this song I'd so loved, by and artist named Israel "IZ" Kamakawiwo?ole and as the 
music is playing softly, the camera pans in on the face of Dr. Green for his death 
scene, and his last breath. The camera pulls back, from the back of his head, above 
the bungalo, above the beach as if we are Dr Green's soul departing this earth.
Yes, I cried like a little school girl as realized that my favorite character had just 
been erased from our show, with no chance to come back for a Cameo... What!? of 
course that's why I cried! OKAY! it was a tear jerker! and the saddest part, was the 
relationship with his daughter was still in repair . Moral of the story i guess-- You 
never know when its your time, so don't hold on to petty resentments, and love 
every minute of life.  

I later learned, Israel "IZ" Kamakawiwo?ole; had also died

Copyright © michael hornschuch

Details | Prose Poetry | |


Have you ever imagined the world we live without women?
It is like a lung without some oxygen, agonizing and inevitably dead,
A face never with a smile, boring and unfriendly.
A cup of tea without some grains of sugar, bitter and foul,
A pool without some water, dry and empty,
A good ride on a bad untilled road, rough and uninteresting,
The earth without some drops of rain, an inescapable famine,

But how come with the great number of women on planet earth?
We still live to cry as a reggae legend sang “no woman no cry”,
It is because they permit evil as much as they permit good,
Gullible and instrumental in the hand of the wicked ones,
Ugly and nice, beautiful and dangerous,
Cunning like serpents, deceitful like chameleon,
Holy but liars, having a form of godliness but highly ungodly,
Lovely like little puppies, sweet like bees honey,
Women, an invincible force in our our world today.

(c) 2010

Copyright © Joshua Akinwande

Details | Prose Poetry | |


The strength of a woman
Is not in her tongue
Or the length of her hair
Or the songs she has sung

Control is not found
In the clothing she wears
Or seduction she offers
Or the child that she bears

Her honor and glory
Comes not from what shows
Except her reliance
On God that she knows

For God gives her power
Beyond height and length
And makes her much stronger
To display her strength

It’s there deep within her
And flows through her being
Revealing a boldness
And strength we are seeing

For man cannot crush
All the things she can do
For she is a woman
And warrior too

Copyright © gregory boyer

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Unconditional Love

In the warmth of a massive cozy bed, I lie
Enjoying the freshness of a washed sheet
Lost in a make believe world
Lovely enough, I can’t wake

But while in the deep of my fantasies 
I am suddenly awakened by my little one’s silent echo!!!

Her turns and sucks, 
Her little hand-full tummy, rumbling
Yet again, wet diaper.

Oh no!!! Why now? 
Sleep never felt so lovely
But I just can’t ignore this growl
Am I not her supper-mom? 

Sleep-walking; I grab some warm milk and fresh diaper
For who came from me, same flesh and blood!!!

Copyright © chocho diva

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Children Laughter

Beautiful as they are, so is their laughter and smiles
Echoing noise of melody throughout the open sky,
Touching the hearts of parents everywhere, eradicating despair 
The children laughter often makes your day,
In spite of the hard work you put in today
It’s a delight to observe their faces as their laughter fills the air
Bringing rays of sunshine even on a cloudy day
Laughter of gladness, laughter of joy naturally flows from within
Never a dull moment and is harmonious to the ear
A Child’s laughter brings a mother’s joy any time anywhere.
Often changing the mood when there is sadness in the air
The beauty of the children laughter tell of 
The happiness of their heart
With sparkles in their eyes and a laughter that cannot be denied
Is a tribute to a mothers’ ear
Little children everywhere, filled this earth with pleasant cheer

Copyright © Pauline White

Details | Prose Poetry | |

My Dearest Daughter

My Dearest Daughter

Melanie, dear Melanie, I know that you know my thoughts
are always about you, my concerns are always for you,
my heartache weeps for you, this you know
for there are numerous pages in your possession
that make it clear, unfortunately though
there are none that express the opposing view,
the view where joy, pleasure, the peace
you bring into the life of this single parent.
As I read over a note I wrote to you a couple of weeks ago,

“ Melanie, I pray that things will come back to that space,
a place we go and get us back to a life of some normalcy,
or at least as normal as possible for you and I,
where you might give over your anger, your hostility,
your pain, your frustrations, your external as well as internal
self-destructive behaviour to a more peaceful, beautiful young woman
– my lovely Daughter -  I only see in glimpses, as fleeting shadows,
of you caressing the corners of my eyes as you slip by
– like a summer breeze on it’s way to rustle the leaves on my tree –
on your way to your room, where you hide from me
or from your room, in stealth mode, to wherever it is you go
- this Daughter I love, no matter where her emotions might lie,
no matter how many she beats me with them
or the methods she uses to beat me with them –.
Please be back soon !!!, please do not be angry with me ???
                               Dad . ”

I realize, Melanie, that every time I write something to you,
It is always about some negative experience we have encountered,
or you have encountered that has a negatively affected me
and that I have responded to in words – words written –
for seldom do my words penetrate the walls you have erected,
seldom do they have opportunity to form in my mouth, to move my lips,
for your ears, like you, are so very, very far away.
I do not understand, why Melanie ?, maybe it is your age ?,
maybe it is mine ?, - I should be your grandfather –
maybe it is because of your experiences ?, or maybe ?,
it is the experiences I have created for you these past ten years.
I just do not know Melanie, I can not say, I do not have the answers.

Anywhichway Melanie, I just want you to know how much I love you,
- more than all the space that fills the heavens themselves –
how much you mean to me
- more than all the heavenly bodies that inhabit all the universes,
all the galaxies, all the dimensions, all the planes our minds our eyes
will be able to see, to perceive -
and how much of a delight you are,
- like the sun at dawn, in the twilight hour, at high noon,
like all the suns in all the heavens
could possibly radiate down upon this old soul.

I truly enjoy you as a woman, the person I am watching blossoming,
brightening up the time we spent at that house warming party
and again at Linda’s fiftieth birthday party in Maple Ridge,
the days we spent on the road, to Vernon, the stay, and back.
You were a delight Melanie, everyone could see and feel that,
as you wandered through those great times with all of us.
You are a humorous and beautiful young woman Melanie,
and it is not just words from a prejudiced old father.

                                       Dad .

Copyright © William J. Jr. Atfield

Details | Prose Poetry | |

I danced with the Devil but stepped on his toes

  I slide my tongue across my lips; I taste salt from where my tears once fell. The serpents been winning the race, Infiltration of my desires take procession, I’m standing in the mirror and I don’t recognize my own reflection.  It’s not the flesh but the soul that’s been disquised, every carnal temptation he’s devised oh how quickly I’ve come to oblige.  I need to hit rock bottom and slow my pace, at this point he’s winning the race, baking firm an eternal glaze upon my face. I care so much that I care not. I’m so hungry yet no food is sought. Feel so much sorrow that I’m not dolorous, sing so loud but leave absent the chorus.
   I’m vulnerable, looking for warmth in another’s touch, simply falling victim to his charms like a little girl searching for warmth in her daddy’s arms. Though, he provided no warmth, he didn’t provide much, just the foundation, the stepping stone where he left his prints; of course I followed with every step slipping farther from the grasps of temperance.  You can call me an abuser Lord, I abused your love, snapped the wing of your symbolic dove, snapped too the wings of thee angel upon the golden gate, funny how I just read Job and he knew not his fate.
  Thank you for trampling me into the ground, into the dust from which I roze, into utter darkness living with consequences to paths I chose. I thought you were guided me completely from the light, in reality it was never out of sight, even your own shadow leaves you in darkness. Give me the courage that I seek, give me strength when I am weak, and at times make me weak where I am strong. Give me positive passion for life like the passion in “Solomon’s Song”. 

Copyright © amy epiphany tunks

Details | Prose Poetry | |



The river bank is clam and restful
where I was sitting on a fallen dried tree trunk
brighter sun has become tender 
glistening with golden smile
setting behind the lush green canopy 
I recall the wonderful day you bone
In a sententious cool evening!

I was so impatience and anxious 
To see your little loving face
you wake up me by the first scream 
of your birth 
It was filled with alarm, sweet hopes and temptations to hug
the most wonderful gift apart from 
my son, you loving daughter!

Limelight of my future expectations bone
responsibility with love and care emerged
I guessed, my love, affection and tasks has broaden 
to protect you from evil spirits of the kaleidoscopic society 
just like the grey heron 
sitting under the canopy of water lilies
watching sharply the dangers of predators
while little ones practicing the hunting game, 

Silence broke by a melodious tone of a bird 
roaming over the near surface of the river
Its long dark shadow swinging on the 
light blue dancing waves
depicting the hard side of the future life challenges

I was trying on my best
to equip you with all necessary skills
to overcome future hindrances
with love, care and affection  
It is a never ending spring like this river
my dear daughter
I believe, you will never ever forget
even after my departure from you.


Copyright © Jayaratne Weerakkody

Details | Prose Poetry | |



Seven years I’ve been waiting for
A Christmas with you I wish for
Just like the other years that passed by
My wish for Christmas never gone by

A thought bothered my mind
How do you feel fine?
How do I feel fine?
If it breaks your soul it breaks mine.

Everything you have to sacrifice
A tear drops in your eyes
I wish I could make it dry
But I too can’t stop myself to cry

I hope he will grant my wish
If not now, maybe next year
I would still be waiting here
The same wish that I wished.

Copyright © jaycel frances tamayao

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Fish Lips

My father had a Dick Tracy nose, 
sometimes referred to as Roman, 
beneath which were his thick, full lips. 
His fraternal twin, on the other hand, had thin lips 
(Genes are strange things.). 
I don’t know where on the family tree either inherited them, 
but I do know that my father’s proved dominant: 
I have them, 
my daughter does,
(I no longer have any idea what her mother’s were like.),
my son does. 

I was never aware that mine were my father’s until, 
upon seeing a photo of her grandfather, 
whom she never knew, 
my daughter remarked that he had “fish lips” 
like hers and like mine.
I showed her a photo of her half-brother, 
whom she barely knew then, 
and, yes, there they were.

There are many traits that my father imparted to me. 
Sadly, not all were as wonderful as his fish lips. 
But I’ve been told more than once
that my kisses are soft and sensual. 
What more can I ask? 

Copyright © Jack Jordan

Details | Prose Poetry | |


No one really knows 
The True Mr. Right or the true Mr. Wrong
They all come singing, the same sad song
Her dad once told her Mr. Right
Will choose the right path to God
Mr. Wrong would lie, cheat
Make your head go round and round
Mr. Right would have dignity and pride
Mr. Wrong, false promises then hide
Ever hear Trini Mr. right or a Trini Mr. Wrong?
Full ah ma-ma-guy, fake be gone
Remember, be careful choosing Mr. Right
Be fearful of Mr. Wrong
And analyze all, their sad songs...

©Copyright November 1, 2011 by Brian Pierre-Alexander 
© All Rights Reserved

Copyright © Brian Pierre-Alexander

Details | Prose Poetry | |

My daughter

My daughter had an abortion
She was hooked to alcohol
She slept with savages
She took drugs with cronies
She was sad and morose
She did not care anybody
She left school at 16
Went to reformation home at 18
Released at 19
And got pregnant at 20
She aborted a fetus of 25gms

This story may be noted my lord
She died at 21.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Education is Power

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

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

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

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

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

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

Copyright © Natala Orobello

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Late Comer

Spent and Battle Weary, the exhausted figure trudges the well worn path like the to-ings and fro-ings of some relentless seaside donkey. Utterly defeated,she resumes her rhythmic rocking, almost robotic in its ministry. No welcome here for this fretful form Out of time This usurper of liberty, predator of new found freedom, like the parasitic mistletoe as it clings to the enduring oak Consumes the spirit Outflanked by convention, choice simply a misconception, The woman capitulates before her adversary. The final shades of moonlight fade from the sky. The child, enveloped in the first vestiges of sleep, Surrenders its hold. The early morning sunlight precociously animates its shadowy dance; and Fairies cavort upon this tiny form, playground of elfins and pixies; the elixir, the effervescence in champagne. I brush the hair from the forehead of the sleeping child My heart is swollen No enigma here; only my daughter


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Of Daughters And Aborted Liberties

      Of Daughters and Aborted Liberties…
My ravished womb drips
precious blood of incestuous rape;
the ghosts of my daughters scream
from shared graves
marked with vaginal blood
shed by sons drunk
on the wine of intoxicating power.

Mislead adolescent warriors
fan holocaust embers
scorching time tested hopes
gone to ashes
as death winds strike chimes
of ebony genocide;
and the cradle and the grave
stand juxtaposed to each other.

My desperate screams
reverberate off once listening ears
and ricochet into the void silence
of a newsworthy footnote:
caught in the cobwebs of history
my aborted blood of liberty flows
like the meandering Nile.

Copyright © millard lowe

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Little Girl

He walks in with a ring
Asks my Daddy for his blessing
Tells him how much happiness I bring
Tells him that his little girl is a rare porcelain princess
And he wants to be my prince; he doesn't want to settle for less
"So please," he begs just say "Yes!"
Daddy just looks at him with a tear in his eyes and an emotional stare
He sees his little princess climbing trees
He sees his little girl crying over scraped knees
Sees his precious hugging him in past memories
Hears her telling him; "Daddy! I love you!"
"Daddy, it's a secret! Don't tell mommy please!"
He can feel her excitement when she goes on her first date
He can see her riding her first bike
Getting into a snowball fight
Daddy's little girl always gives him radiant smiles
Daddy's little princess always remembers to give him a good night kiss
She gives her symphony of love and generosity to the world
But she always saves a special shine for father
Going on hikes
Reading together
Riding her first bike
"Daddy, listen to this song please!"
"Daddy! Please come pick me up!"
He remembers all the happy and sad memories

Copyright © Rebecca Berezin

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Hand Poem

My father’s hands are very twisted
They’re strong and built with lots of muscles
They’ve helped me learn
So many things as I have grown

In my life
They have helped me learn
How to ride a bike
They’ve helped me defend myself when needed
And I have come to realize
That without his hands to guide me
Through this world
I would not make it

NOTE*** This is from my CD A Father’s Love Letters
To listen to the CD please visit
This was written by my daughter when she was nine.
One of the many reasons it’s great to be a parent :)

Copyright © Mike Hamill

Details | Prose Poetry | |

7 Months of Touch Hunger

My grandson fingers his brain

He sings and listens to it but mainly clings
He prods and jabs it

His thoughts are drawn to where he is pointing
They desire his touch
And triumph with each poke and squeeze
But are ever needful of attention

His finger padded larvae crawl up
A new days branches
Until a butterfly of insight emerges
And alights upon an eager nidus of neurons

Hurry to wiggle the air, the hair
That cascades from his mother's head
The casing for another beautiful brain
that duly desires his grabbing and twisting

Insistent kneading for them both
To have their daily bread of love.

Copyright © Cordon Bittner

Details | Prose Poetry | |


                                            She was pregnant
                                   She named her daughter Emilia
                                          She was quarantined


             * Based on true stories of abortions of female fetuses in India.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Fatherly Love

I look back and see...
Remember times spent crying on 
my knee
Your anger is my biggest fear,
Your words can bring me a tear.

As year started rushing by,
For you I'm no good though I try
You treated me just as bad,
And those times were so sad:-(

I grow up longing and seeking
For a fatherly love I'm lacking.
I search, hope to find someone
Who can love me just the way I 

It's perhaps my biggest mistake
I just suffer pain and heartache!
My childishness caused me to 
stumble and fall...
But I've learned to carry on and 
stand tall!

And now I have my own family,
Living a simple life yet we're 
He's indeed a loving man, am so 
But still there's an emptiness 
inside of me...:-(

I wish I could bring back the days
To be a little girl to show you 
love in so many ways
Even if you didn't love me 
I promise to be here to make you 

I regret for the times that flew,

I hope it's not too late to show...

I would never ask for anyone new.
Papa I love you and I do care for 

Copyright © Sweet Angel

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Melanie, my Dear Child

Melanie, my Dear Child .

I am sorry Melanie, oh so sorry that this early morning
has brought strife, such a nightmare into our home, our life.
Your life, my Dear, is far too important, far too precious
to place it in danger, put in harm’s way, throw it away
over anyone, any person, any boy or man.
There is not a person on this planet, in this universe
that is worthy or worth one drop of your precious blood
let alone your beauty, your essence, your life’s force.
I know that you blame me my Child, Daughter of mine.
That breaks my heart, it tears it apart, but not nearly
as much as you threatening to take your own life
over such a worthless cause, this no ware man / boy.
After all the pain, all the heart ache, all the disappointments
you have suffered during these passing months, this past year,
I can understand your need to strike out, lash out at me,
cause as much pain and heart ache to this one who loves you,
as the pain and heartache you have suffered at the hands
of the one you feel you love with all your heart and soul.
Understanding my Dear, I can ( although I wish I did not have to )
live with all this, what is unacceptable and I cannot live with
Melanie, is your desire to terminate, wanting to take, give up
your young life to all the pain and heartache, for all that pain,
all that heartache, because of all that pain and all that heartache.
For what Melanie ?, this child in a man’s body, this user,
this abuser of my beautiful Daughter, this manipulator,
controller, who takes and take and gives nothing - but psychological,
emotional, verbal and physical abuse to you and everyone,
his spouse, his children, his parents, his so called friends.
He has taken everyone for a ride, lives with his parents,
has had them evicted from a half dozen residences
- during your involvement with him – because of him.
All I can say Melanie, is love hurts and who do you hurt ?,
the one’s who love you, for they are easy, they are convenient
they are accepting, do no strike back in kind, do not abandon
and stupid, in so many ways, is not stupid, for he knows this,
even if he knows nothing else and that is why he continues on his path,
to steel, to pawn, to sell, to use and abuse everyone who cares.
I pray Melanie, at this early hour – four AM, before the dawning,
the dawning of a new day ?, I pray – that you are letting go of all
your hostility, giving up on all your anger, your fears and tears
and get back to that woman who shared  with me, yesterday
and the few days that proceeded it, when understanding prevailed.
Be Melanie, Melanie, not all the pieces of another – others.
B. J. “A” 2
August 27th 2002

Copyright © William J. Jr. Atfield

Details | Prose Poetry | |


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Copyright © Ann Okotha