Submit Your Poems
Get Your Premium Membership

Prose Poetry Death Poems | Prose Poetry Poems About Death

These Prose Poetry Death poems are examples of Prose Poetry poems about Death. These are the best examples of Prose Poetry Death 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 | |

A Girl From Darfur

I can show you where the brimstone sun has no remorse,
and where devils on horseback, have burned our homes, have pillaged our farms.
A killing spree,   the drum of guns, some tried to flee, but died,... each one.
The screams, I dream! Oh, the cries........the cries....... 
I try to mute the sound of them
For...,  I was there, I hid in fear,  was somehow spared, but now I look for 
something, ...something, ...something, here, ...someone to care.
A bit of food, a bit of shade, such bitter taste is in my mouth
A world of hate. To have no shoes,...a walking ghost.....
a blistered soul, I have no hope....  but nothing, nothing left. 
My eyes are blurred, and fires burn, a heavy world, shouts out despair.

Where are the flowers that used to bloom, where are voices, that once I knew?
There are no flowers here...just flies, in waist-deep dust, and a hot orange sun,
that coughs up sounds of fear and guns, and swords and words against my ears, I 
live in fear with no one here. 
I'm just a girl,  or at least I was....    for just a while.

I was defiled, when found by one
He spared my life, but did not see, I'd rather die than be this girl, who feels the 
shame in being free.
I once had a mother, I once had a father, I once had a brother who made me smile
Where did spirits, lift and go, when the devils on horseback came to kill? Spilling 
blood as if for fun?  For thrill? For what? 
Where were the Gods? Where are the ones who turn their heads?
In desert's dust with blood red crust.  They poisoned our wells, burned out our land, 
ravished and raped, and relished their brand......, 
nomads came, leaving shame, evil and horror came like rain.
Janjaweed, the name, I cannot say... I live with shame, a world, insane
I try to sleep, but I cannot........I can't forget and I am lost, the cost too much,
a swollen tongue and calloused feet,  across a land of bleached white bones
Alone, alone,....lost and done...a vanished one sees me  
There are no flowers, there are no trees, 
Famine as my lone companion, a pool of mud a home to stay,
Life drains out more every day, my belly eyes are parched,
and I can't tell
if I'm alive, or if I'm dead, dried up tears are what I shed....
Where are the flowers for my head? I've been scorned, 
all I have, and all I see is wind and rain, sorrow and pain
thorns, and dust, and a grave, that waits for me

Inspired By Cyndi's Challenge on Genocide 8/28/2014
Devils on Horseback – The Darfur genocide (ongoing) The Janjaweed (translated, 
devils on horseback) slaughter and rape the women, men and children of Darfur. As 
of today, 480,000 people have been “exterminated” and 2.8 million displaced.

Let's not turn our heads away from this, or from other atrocities being committed 
throughout the world.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

ashes fall from the joss stick: finger bone

My name is Devi, a foolish name really for it means Angel, and I certainly am not. The city of Phnom Penh had been our home, father was a professor at The Royal University. I was their only child. I was just getting ready for school, Tuol Sleng High, when the Khmer’s came. They drummed on the door of our house and said “Get out, get out.” They had bomb guns pointed at us. One of the soldiers, not much older than I, a very dark skinned girl screamed at Father. “You have American friends? You speak English?” He nodded and said of course he did; he was a professor at the University. “You New People, you think you are so smart—  She shot him in the head. He tumbled like a string-less puppet onto the step. Mother screamed and cried. “You are not to cry,” they ordered, “get out.” 

the open door
let in only the light rain:
teakettle whistles

They grabbed mother and I, and tossed us into the band of milling people in the street. They pushed us; prodding with rifle butts along the street lined with palm trees. I was glad it was warm. My black skirt and white blouse were dirty from the fall. All I could about was my feet. I had been barefoot when they came. What a foolish thing to think. Father was dead. Thinking of my feet. I wish I could go back and get my new shoes. I felt undressed. Mother staggered behind me. I told her, “keep up Mae or they will kill you.” Mother bumped into the Grandmother in front of her. Yiey spit at the guard. He jammed the rifle butt into her face. She fell into the gutter. The line walked around her. The guard spit on her body. “Why waste a bullet?” He and the other half dozen guerrilla’s laughed. The girl guard ripped Yiey’s gold chain and amulet from her neck. She wiped the blood off the gold on Grandmother's dress. “Be of use or die New Ones,” the male guard bellowed.

To my surprise, the guard took us to the High School. Mother was ripped away from me. All the women were taken outside. I could hear much laughter. There was screaming and cries to God. The dark skinned female guard smiled. “They are being of use,” she said. She sucked on her index finger and the male guard next to her howled. I never saw mother again. 

So many, many: young children, young mothers, young boys, all marched days with little food or water. The temperature climbed over 100 degrees. Babies were torn from shawl slings and tossed away like garbage as they died. There were no more tears. We were to be ‘purified’ in a commune in the village of Prek Sbauv. I struggled to live. I bent my back in the fields of the Old People. 

What was life? I asked myself, so many times, but, to say no was to die. I did not want to rot in a rice paddy, not be reborn. Had no one burnt father’s corpse? Had no one placed the white crocodile flag in front of our home? I must live to see father and mothers’ bodies were burned. I must place their ashes in the stupa.   

The Killing Fields – the Cambodian genocide.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

War Against The Flesh - Part 1

- 2012 - Winter -                                

                                - They Fought Wars Against Their Shadows -

The Road Was Dark and Paved into The Black.

He Stood at The Foot of A Narrow Lane, His

Eyes Like Burning Embers of a Dying Fire.

They Left Trails of Light as He Walked

                                - Satan, Beckoning Me To Follow -

They Took Everything, They Took My Sanity,

When They Butchered My Family. They Even

Took The Light From The Sky. The Eyes Adjusted

But The Skin Did Not, it Became Dull and Leathery.

                                 - The Lane Lead to a House -

The Fire was Lit, and Thick Ash Bellowed From The Stone 

Chimney. This War Was Over, But Every Encounter 

Left Me More and More Exhausted. I Just Wanted To

Sleep, But I Dare Not Force it Upon Myself.

                                   - Or I'll End Up in Their World -

The Ancient Societies Predicted This, After The Two 

Giants Fell, The World Would Became Unstable, And The

Days Of Reckoning Would Fall Upon The Flesh of Man.

Those With The Blackest of Souls, Became Unrecognizable.

                                     - Decorative Mutilations of Blood and Skin -

The Small Wooden Door Swung Open, The Smell of

Worn and Decaying Matter Was All Too Familiar With

My Senses, But This Smell, This Smell Phased Me.

Its Putrid Acidity Stung My Eyes.

                                      - Without His Lips Mobility -
                              - He Offered Me a Seat Opposite him -

The Devil Wants To Make a Deal With You....


                                   A painting by my friend, inspired by this piece.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

War Against The Flesh - Part 2

The Stench of Rotting, Festering Human,

Melted The Air, and Turned Every Breath

Into Decay. I Used To Keep a Pack of 

Toothpicks in My Jeans...But Now.

                - Just a Box of Charity Shop Rosary Beads -

Each Individual Bead Clenched So Tightly 

In My Fist, I Could Feel The Skin About To

Break Around Them. He Stared Me Out,

I Could Hear Him in My Head, Chanting.

                 - His Incantations Burnt Holes in The Soul -

They Festered Within, You Cant Reply and

You Can't Leave, A Stalemate of Will. A

Man Pursued By Hell, and an Angel, Rejected

By Grace...What Do You Want From Me?

                   - A Word Masked By His Breath -


When The Big Guy In School Grips You

By The Throat, You Cant Breathe, But You

Don't Cry. When The Devil Grips You. You

Don't Breathe and You Can't Cry.

                     - His Fingers Scarred My Neck -

Hell is Cold, There's Fire, But Not The Comforting

Heat, Just The Scarring Painful Qualities of The

Flicker. But This is Just a Taste, He Can't Take

Me, I'm Not Dead, and He isn't allowed to Kill Me.

                       - I'm Untouchable, Lest I Desecrate God -

...Communication With The Devil is a Sure Way to Start.

The Dust Rose in an Imprint Round Me as I Hit The Floor.

Just as He Appeared, He Disappeared, Leaving Behind Him

A Stream of Ash Which Followed Behind Him Into The Night.

I'll Just Keep Walking, Following The Light From Distant Fires.

                         - Hoping it's People -
               - And Not their Smoking Carcasses -

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Beautiful people

People make me smile the way 
their eyes shine when they talk 
about something they love 
when they feed me food. Or tell 
me how much they love me 
when I look into someone's 
eyes and see it I see that look 
in their eyes I see love in them 
When I see someone laugh and 
have fun in what they do 
The way they cry for there lost 
When they give me a smile and 
tell me how beautiful I am 
People are beautiful well some 
are and I wish someday I can 
find someone who will look at 
me and say "you have that look 
in your eye"    what look?
I want to find someone so 
beautiful in the inside I can't 
stay away they amaze me with 
what they say an do how they 
will dance in the rain and know 
every detail about me
Will bring me Starbucks on a 
rainy day and just talk about 
the stars 
I want someone beautiful

Details | Prose Poetry | |



Life is like a coloring book
with few or many pages
filled with complex 
outlined images.

We are given a box of crayons
and are asked to color in the 
background and spaces of the images

Sub-titles are allowed.

When the coloring book is finished
we are given a new one to complete.

C.A.K. 12-6-2012


Was I once before or never
Don’t know how or even whether

I was a firefly, a bird of prey 
a centipede, a fish fillet?

A baseball fan to keep the score
a mockingbird, a carnivore?

A blossom in the midst of spring
a sign of what the day might bring.

A germ grown in a Petri dish
a chicken bone an unmade wish

All things and species could I be,
even remnants of a tree.

Of all of these,  I leave this post,
I am for now what I am most.

CAK 7-23-2012


As 'core' beliefs thicken so, 
does it leave us room to grow?
As aging souls say we must, 
complete the cycle which was thrust
upon our bucolic living place 
turned upside down in whorling space
searching for a redemptive life.

But for you, dearest one, do you not remember 
before you arrived, you took this bucking horse of soul, 
tamed it, labeled it and proclaimed it. 
To become what you needed in order
that your ride be contained and controlled. 
It's name is 'balance' and it keeps you level in the saddle 
so you don't fall off. 



If, we are on a soul journey,
then what must that soul become?

A better soul? A wiser soul?
A sad soul? A learned soul?
Until one reaches the end of time,

There are so many lives to live out
to fully experience all aspects of this world.
Animals, plants - more souls searching?

One can speculate, but from my perspective
none of it makes sense.

CAK 4-03-2012


Was the Phoenix reincarnated?
Or was its embers reignited?  
Perhaps before a lowly worm or soldier bee 
or brown turned leaf upon a tree? 
A  seahorse, a shark, which fish shall I be?  
In fisherman's net to be eaten by me?  
And when the cycle is complete 
and x equals x on our balance sheet.
Can we then rest in a celestial lair 
with memories gone and unaware
of trials by all things forgotten?
If choose I must or chosen by me,  
I'll remain in the stars and just wait to see.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Diaspora of Her Soul

Amidst the binge of the champagne, and the glitter on the faces, she heard the 
distant lullaby. Glistening repertoire of appreciation elated her, but her soul had been 
far forlorn. She smiled her way through the ballroom, shaking hands, wishing 
prosperity and hugging the nonchalant children, who didn't even remember her... 
their innocent, curious eyes, complacent enough to defy contact.. but still she bore 
them momentary warmth.. and quietly soon enough, they gleamed with fondness 
towards her. That made her happy. She danced through her guests graciously, 
illuminating even the minuscle flicker of the dynamism that inflamed her celebration of 
triumph. It was her day of glory, but somewhere, the gaping hole within her had 
grown deeper. 

She couldn't bear the tinge of strangers crawling beneath her destiny.Like cobwebs 
spun all around her, she gasped for someone to call her own. The outlanders raided 
her memories in the making. Her soul became an illicit labyrinth that had been 
expanding like a monster. She couldn't find her people! Her People. Everywhere she 
looked, her vision proliferated from Void. How could she hide from darkness itself? 
She cried, but...

A sudden loud burst of laughter from a nearing clan hurled her back to reality. The 
strange realization that she had been ruminating through her desires, made her 
smile naively. She knew she couldn't be happy. The lust for satisfaction glided life into 
her. She resumed her counterfeited solace. To tunes so subtly high and alone, she 
began dancing again. 

Only till the guests had left, she looked at the empty glasses and collected her tears. 
She saw her reflection...The splendour of the ballroom in the background, the beige 
on her body and the silence....she felt alive, only, to die again.

~~Won 2nd prize for the Dark Prose Poetry Contest~~

~~~~Thank You all, so very much ~~~~

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Kilted Warrior

He stands proud and strong, this kilted warrior
head held high against the unending pain
of a heart born out of sadness
for the loss of those who came before him
and thoughts of those who would
continue on when he himself was no more.
Proud men one and all
vows made, till surrendered in death
to defend that which
was their birthright, the very land
upon which he now stood.
The call to battle though long since silenced
came from within his very heart and soul
blood of the ancient ones raged in his veins
his sword by his side...shield upon his back
he stood ready to charge into battle
to do what was expected of him since birth
to fight as those before him fought
without fear, but with a strength
only a battle hardened warrior
knew and understood.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Frozen Ground

I bent down to pick up a penny from the frozen ground.
I could smell myself, the acrid stench of sweat and soot,
the taint of vapored vagrancy
that marked my movements, masking me from the reality that used to be.
I hate me and what I am, more than you could ever think to,
but more so becuase you do, with your  limp laughter and scared stares. 

I never knew my life never needed me to know it could all go away in a single day.

 I see it all through dirty windows draped in singed eyelashes and gutter grime,
 the pathetic gazes from afar as another afternoon of sale shopping and shoe sizing is ruined 
by my appalling appearance.

"How dare you be here!  What's wrong with you?"
"Go get a job you junkie,  you slob,  just jump a bus so you can't disgust us with your sewer 
shoes and hard luck blues. You deserve the dirt and a kick in the teeth from the steel-tipped 
toe of a jackboot too. No one wants to see a scummy sack of crap like you, bending down to 
pick our scraps off the frozen ground."

The helping hand of man slaps the taste of humanity from my mouth with each volatile volley 
of acid arrow analogies angrily slung and fired furiously  from the bows of bastard 
businessmen and bleach blonde bimbos.
My weary wounds fill with the sea-salt of sarcastic statements and unflattering finger 
gestures from frat boys as I bend down to pick up a penny I found on the frozen ground. 
"Head's up means luck," Abe smiled at me, and suddenly my thoughts began to run 

I took a long look at the lingering light of one of the sweetest sunsets I had ever seen, and 
the simplicity and majesty washed over me.
There was no use in listening to abuse and accusations and obtuse observations any more. 
I was being shown a door.
Wrapped in the warmth of the amber and amethyst glow, I finally smile for a little while and 
close my dirty windows against the icy winds of waning words.
Tomorrow, someone will bend down to pick me up from the frozen ground.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Sand Castles

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Bell's Blues

Staring, vapor locked, at my Hammond B-3 console organ, which dominates my 
kitchen.  Surely a symbol of my madness.  I can't help, but think, if the keys were 
the days of my life, and the black ones represented the bad days, are there 
enough black keys??  Fighting petulance, self-pity...losing...
     Wondering if I can stand another minute alone.  Atop my organ, music books, 
and the complete works of Edgar Allan Poe, another mad poet.
     Plagued by physical agonies that merely complete a perfect circle of anguish 
and distress.  Even to worrying of misspelling a word again.  Pure lunacy.
     Remembrance of my 1863 death at Missionary Ridge, something I became 
aware of as a young child before I'd ever heard of reincarnation.  Or just an early 
sign of the madness to come??
     I am lost in a befouling miasma of deep despair.  My life's hopes down to 2 
desires;  one last music band, and taking my son to Disneyworld.  Money is 
meaningless to me.
     I am well aware that death is as natural as life.  And I would venture to guess 
that the loss of my father, my young cousin Billy, my dear friend Mark Trotiner, and 
too many others, are "Business As Usual" in this universe.  But not for me.
     Being terminally ill myself is something I have long since come to terms with.  
And what a reunion it will be!!  But I must continue to go on surviving as though I 
cherish this long and barren life.
     My writing, especially my poetry, my poet friends, my music, my musician 
friends, and a few relatives and others; these are the meds that work for me; not 
the 30 or so pills I must deal with everyday.  So thank you all.
And now an addendum, one which brightened my day:
     Mark Trotiner long maintained that he gave Mark Knoffler (Dire Straights) the 
idea for his hit song "Money For Nothing", when Mark Knoffler came into the 
appliance chain store he worked in way back then, where he bought, and drove 
off with several T.V.s, singing the prototype words he'd gotten from Mark Trotiner.  
Over the years, I tested him repeatedly, looking for the tale-tell deviation in the 
story one finds in a false tale.  He never faltered, he never failed.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Lonely Grave


I stood by your graveside this cold winters day.

A heart broken with sorrow that won’t go away.

I called out your name and shed many a tear.

And hoped in my heart that you would appear.


God took you from us that fine sunny morning.

Our lives now shattered without any warning.

Your work here on earth has finished this year.

Your books and teachings you spread  far and near.


It was a pleasure to know you for sixty odd years.

And when my time comes I will have no fears.

You will be waiting to greet me as oft times before.

When I call to your house and knock on the door.


Each night when I lay my head down to sleep.

I will ask the lord your soul to keep.

And if you find any time away from your books.

Look kindly on me as I walk in those woods.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

This I know

The question so easy
So difficult to answer
I know why

It leaves me broken all over again
I know the answer, I know, no, no, no . . .
I don’t want this

This pain that’s not all mine . . . hardly mine
It rips and tears and cuts
My heart to pieces 
It bleeds and drains my soul away
I wish I never had one

I know why
Why did I have to teach myself the answer?

I know why
I wish I was blind, deaf, numb and uncaring
I wish you never made me

Why did you put me here?!
What did we do to you?
I wish I knew what to say!

Every time life turns good and gets better
You smash it all to bits and pieces
You rip and tear and shred me apart
Again and again and again!!

I know why
God help me I know why
It leaves me beaten, battered, discarded and defeated
Alone . . .
Always alone in the end
I don’t want to know why anymore
Take it away
You can do it if you try

I cannot stop myself from know why
And these words sound hollow empty like me
Why not me and not other
It was I who stole and ripped asunder
A world, a life, ahhhhh I curse you!!!!!
Not them, not him, not her . . 
Just me

Can’t you . . .
Just go away and leave us be
Why can’t I cry for anyone or anything

Would someone please tell me
What good is a heart and soul anyway?
You break and take them both away all the time
You bastard!!

Ask me why I don’t believe in you!
Ask me again why I believe I live in hell!

Why . . ?
Just tell me why . . .

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Winters Freedom

The Sky Wept Unendingly with Snow:

His thoughts in a Frenzied attempt at Normality,
Clung to the idea of a Priceless Freedom.

Striving Forward, splinters of Ice cut and Maimed
Revealed patches of Flesh; Each Sting a Reminder.

A Cascading Avalanche of Memories Swept him
Into the past, amidst Those he Could Remember.

Each, a diminishing aspect of his weakening 
Internal Clock; The Gears, a Rusted Brown.

The Day diminished with him,
His clock struck Twelve.

An Inescapable Crossing of Thin Ice,
Half-Way across, The Gears Halt.

The Ice Gives Way.

The Sky Weeps Unendingly with Snow.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Bell's Blues (Conclusion)

     Today, I had a chance to ask his widow, Laurie, about this story.  She 
confirmed that it did happen, and he came home from work that day excited, and 
told her and their 3 daughters about the event.
     And sure enough, shortly thereafter, the song became a hit on the radio, and 
M.T.V., in those ancient days when they actually played music.
     This news brightened my day considerably, and I'm happy to share it with you; 
so when you next hear that song, remember my good buddy, Mark Trotiner, the 
uncredited genius behind it.
                                          tom bell

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Sand Castles II

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

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

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

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

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

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

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Last Moment

Day by day my body decays
And my soul waits
For the warmth of your embrace
The meaning I cannot trace
The time is now to receive your grace
I remember much
Yet memories past have no bearing
I can see much
The meaning almost clear
The dust settles and chaos vanquished
Peace and love echoed again and again through the halls of time
Bear no weight until the final moments
Jubilance captured
A single frame as I lay
Time will no longer wait and I can no longer stay
Weep not
Harmony engulfs me
Symphonies escort me
And angels guide me
My loving Father waits for me
I can almost see Him
I certainly feel Him
The old world fades to grey
Weep not
A brilliant glow not of this world fills me
A love not felt by mortals
It is the beginning of the end
My breath shallow
My thoughts clear
My soul readies
Do not weep
He is waiting for me
This is exactly where I am supposed to be

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Harvest Of The Seed

  Each field is barren white with snow, 
around me blind, they know.
I see.
Darkness brings the haze of dawn, 
how many must it show.

While many miles of web it's barb, 
my flesh, 
it tastes and grows.

Bringing home the wheat, 
ground white, 
and powdered souls, 
spread open far and wide.

Touching only youth, 
not men, 
Each gem from stone, 
pours out and lost our seed it keeps.
No more.


Is It Poetry 

Details | Prose Poetry | |


To the forgotten soul that have ever lived For their families they have lost, a new nation conceived For their ashes scattered, one blood they bleed Blessed by their stories told and memories grieved Loved for their battles lost and wars achieved Their cowardess disregarded but courage believed Their fears covered by their bravery revealed Their sorrow wept, their lives appealed Whit their bodies torn, one nation they weaved One anthem they sing for lives they screamed In the doom of battles darkness a ray of hope they beamed As our last line of defense this is how they lead Now count the numerous grains of shapeless sand In the war torn widow’s hand, understand her internal misery As every mournful tear they wept is not a locked mystery ‘Cause every jagged grain is a lost memory This simple gesture is a constant ministry That the young blood perishes but the old bones live to tell the tale The more they ask why, the harder the grave fail To cover the brave As they salute, march and wave Not knowing so sorrow they will cave With their blood they will pave And our salvation they'll save Now on our hearts they'll engrave “WITH OUR LIVES WE GAVE” Now we say: “LOVING LIVE THE BRAVE!”

Details | Prose Poetry | |

White Feather Spirit

laid me down within cold tomb light capture me neath baying tree feel thy warmth once more white spirit of feathered down lay upon my soul pray set me to rest
Written to accompany one of my photographs. This is the link to the image...

Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Twist in Time

As I stand here in front of my closet , starring in to the space...
I wonder which black dress to choose, and how I am going to face..
All the guests that will be there , at your final resting place...
I look in the mirror and what do I see ?
But cuts and scratches all over me...
Although I don’t feel any physical pain...
Oh, what’s that I hear ?..could it be rain ?
I miss you already...what went wrong ?..
We were driving along just listening to our favorite song...
I remember the curve on that old mountain road...
And then heard the train crash... and then explode...
Time to go called out my Mother...
It was a cold November morning, and very heavy rain...
And I swear I heard the whistle of a train...
As I looked around I could see...
So many friends and family...
Standing in the crowd was Aunt Sarah and Uncle Fred...
OMG ! I thought they were dead...
And there’s dear old Michael...
I had heard he crashed his motorcycle...
All of a sudden I saw YOU stand...
With a bright red rose, you held in your hand...
What are you doing I wanted to shout...
But then I realized what you were about...
You dropped the rose upon MY grave...
It was then I realized You were the one that was saved...

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

Details | Prose Poetry | |


With so many gifts to 
I can't empty myself fast enough
so much to give so much to
the finishing line is
and clearer every minute
every second I breathe.

It's time to go

reform   refit   relax
refill   repent
in small bits
the soft smells and gentle hits.

Agree and be with the flow of
let it flow  enjoy the the newness of
saying goodbye in slow waves
lapping in your soul.
A soft sea, like an
ocean that slows at the
ridge of your feet.  Be rich
and glow with light that
calls you home.

Lilacs still bloom, you feed
what you don't eat to the
great sea of gentility.  Be
generous, it makes you free.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Somebody's Baby

Somebody’s Baby, lie still 
Embalmed in pure white cotton, 
Cocooned securely, like the babe in arms 
within the shroud. 
Seraphim cavort no more upon a form  
once touched with shades of youthful innocence.

Somebody’s Baby, be sure.
Your time for dreams now spent,
No future beckons only time captured frame by frame,
Frozen in vulgar technicolor;
Close Up; Explicit, depicting genre yet unclassified;
The epic over exposed.
Somebody's Baby, be silent.
Grey and gnarled  imposter in the cot
Metamorphosis contrives a landscape dry and gnarled.
No more seductress of tender ministry;
Solitary, silently; endures the travesty
Of human demise.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Rwanda's Why

I'm driving through such beauty, this lush rural countryside. I find it hard to believe that my 
career has taken me to here. Being where I am is so much different to the Highlands from where I reside from.

Thankfully my 4 x 4 takes the endless rutting roads with aplomb. Mind you, sometimes they remind me of back home, councils never repairing.

As I drive, visually I see scattered belongings. Has the wind carried them to there, as I stare, whilst driving, mm!

The long and winding road takes me to where I've come from. The Coffee Plantation that allured me here initially, empowers me to think back to it's early days. The wanting of the locals, hungered for work, steady monies, quaint prosperity from their already empty existence. 

The next day, I hear on the news, that Habyarimana and the Burundian President, Cyprien Ntaryamira were on a plane, shot down, all were lost.
Having met Juvénal Habyarimana before, it saddened me totally.

The next day on the local radio, I hear there's been disturbances. Like many places in Africa, it was the norm. Onward I went about readying for work. Off I go, before I reach the entrance, a crowd rushes towards me. Angry to say is an understatement, vociferous they, wielding anything they can lay their hands on. Branches, planks, irons, machete’s to name. I'm now needing to veer, to not hit workers that I recognise.

I stop a few miles from home, sweated, shaking, as to why?

To get to my Coffee Plantation, I have to travel through the local village, town, call it what you may. As I near, like yesterday, strayed clothes abound, but different, and so much more. This time they're reddened, stained, adorning ripped bodies.

Now frightened, I travel on foot, walking through blooded carnage, my stomach churning.

Children clutching their mothers, fathers and sons I assume holding hands. Young girls taken, forsaken, their life seeping into their lands from where they lived.

As I near the village, town, there's shouting, chanting, the stench of burning flesh. Upon view, machetes wield down on many, amidst cries I've unheard of. Limbs now release, torso's tired, fired, my eyes streaming tears for fears. 

In frightened stare, I'm spotted, sadly by my neighbour. He points at me, my heart surges, scared, disturbed by what I've seen. Instinct tells me, run, and I run, Lord do I run.

Upon reaching, fumbling I am for the keys, this image I'd only thought was in the movies. Now where I ask, knowing where I am. For once amidst this, I think, border, which border, as I decide to head East to Tanzania, knowing we have a sister company there.

It's later that day, my eyes now in tears. 

On the news, knowing people I see. Their hacking children, pregnant mothers, fathers and sons.
What's taken this for the Tribes to have undone. I worked with both sides, for many a year. 

I now look back as I'm summoned, to give evidence at the '100 Days of Slaughter'
Caught up I am, to declaring Rwanda's loss, of my Tutsi wife, and our daughters

. 11th Oct 2014.

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 Royal Changeling

Deep in the dungeon in the back left corner 
Was a mere shell of what was once a man.
He was shackled to the wall of his own design
By the love of his lady so fair, and divine
The queen of a land so far away in time
With a king who held her ever so dear
Locking them away alone from peasant's view
None of his subjects gazed upon this mentally ill king
He had a smothering love for his queen, 
Abusing her in every way
Never there for love, but only in his mind
She hadn't felt his touch in years, other than abuse
Then one day her knight came in on his white steed
They loved under moonlight each night in secrecy
Hiding their treasonous affair from the evil king
Until one night he caught them
The knight dueled injuring the king's ability to speak
The queen fearing their treasonous death
Plotted and schemed as not to be beheaded 
To the knight's chamber they carried him
Dousing the room in oil laying him on the floor
Dropping the lantern the knight held
Flames rose in the chamber, consuming him
The queen screamed to the subjects for help
All the court came running to douse the fire out
The knight and queen really started 
The true king was unrecognizable and couldn't even whisper 
The knight came forward as her husband the king
The queen burst into tears, 
Explaining how the knight attacked her,
Setting the room ablaze
All his subjects bowed before the knight, the changeling
I am sorry dear king, the subjects said 
As the knight pulled the queen to him, 
Ushering them to take him away, to the dungeon below,
Shackled, and chained, in his own kingdom 
In the dungeon the king waited, to be beheaded
The knight secretly became the king instantly
Taking his spot next to the love of his life, the queen
No one suspected a single thing 
She visited the king one last time before he died
Telling him how she loved him, stroking his cheek
Watching the next day as they beheaded him, 
Hiding her head in her knight unknown
Her dark side she displayed
The day her knight became her king 
And her king became some subhuman thing
He had truly always been
The knight now the king with his lovely queen
Ruled for many years, having ten children 
Of tainted royal blood, but no one ever knew 
Their secret love and darkest treason ever committed. 

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The dead

The dead      
The dead are refugees 
To an immortal caves,
Hidden in the pockets of the earth,
They are escaping from sins 
 Exhausting by the pain .
We are the dead 
But we are walking. 

  A  poem by : Saad Mohammed Al-Husseen (Iraqi Poet)
Translated by :Laith Seher

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Losing A Friend

As I am awakened by the dazzling rays of the star we call the sun,
 I am appalled by that peculiar notion,
 because as I peek out my blinds the day is so dull,
 thunder rolling ever so treacherous,
howling like the night time winds, 
the trees are usually green but now all I see is the origin,
pain in my cranium I begin to feel it spin,
 as I try to cry out for help my jugular tightens up,
 I can hardly get any wind,
 as I lay there on the floor struggling to remember last night's events,
 I begin to have flashbacks, then I get a sip, two sip, three sips, or four,
 I see abandoned whiskey bottles and joint papers crumbled on the floor,
 before you begin to judge, yes I know its a sin,
 but this is the only way I know to cope,
 after Losing My Best Friend....

Details | Prose Poetry | |


A noble story one that ought to be our good host laughed and swore the games begun. Come match the knights tale if you can sir monk. To bellow arms and blood and bones he swore. A noble one I'll pay off the knights tale lets do this right. You tell yours by and by either I'll speak or go on my own way. Everyone listen but first i will propound that i am drunk i know it by my sound. For I'll tell a golden legend and a lie. Forget your ignorant drunken bawdiness it is a sin and great foolishness. Tell us of other things you'll find to lack i see you are angry with my tale but why. cuz you are a fool your head is overpowered by the wine. If you are not enjoying yourselves then cut off my head but as i drink my wine and ale. Whoever won't accept what i decide will pay for everything we spend along the ride. So hold up your hand if you accept my speech reflect a little and don't hold me to blame if you choose wrong don't lay it on my head. And both of them had bawdy tales to tell theirs no sense making earnest out of game.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Grandad's Missing

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

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

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

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

Details | Prose Poetry | |

the strength of death

O death!!! Why is the 
reason behind your actions 
Where can our oceans meet
That l may accuse you of 
injuctice and wickedness
Why does your action 
transform vibrancy to 
nothing but dust.
Why, why but why?
Why leaving the 
condemned to commit 
more atrocities and 
The just spend but a 
This may be because you 
don't want them to have a 
hard taste of corruption
Through your actions;
Homes are broken,
Hearts are divided,
Tears and pains abound
Think, think, thinkless death

Details | Prose Poetry | |

My brother's hand

My brother’s hand regarded not my words for, they go unheard, as the silence grows my brother’s hand clinches cold and my last words fall to the ground pooling, congealing into an unsatisfied thirst. The devils on horseback are led to the water, but never drinking, as the blackened house lies in ruin. I wonder about the tree in the forest and the forest without ears to hear and the tree never seen, but alas and alas every man. How does a machete make more noise and fire be heard on the other side of the world? It may have been bearable, but I am not alone and I know their words will never be heard for they are in my brother’s hand. 11/5/2014

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Going Through Non-Emotions

I listened as Ms. Azalea Lee spoke to me 
This is what she had to say…
I sat with the door opened catching the noon day breeze
As a package was delivered by the postman 
That stood there requesting my signature.
I hope its something good the postman said with a grin
Oh he may have been good to others, I said much to my chagrin
This package I had no desire to receive
Today or any day but somehow I knew it was the remains of him
This was supposed to be a joyous day
Expecting a newborn kinsman this eve and it being
The day of my daughter's birth -- I must state
How ironic this day has come in to play
As I received his backward ashes today
I never wanted to hold him in my arms again
Never thought I'd behold his form this way
My once tormentor, feigned lover, never true friend -- hey
No one could say I did not try
Held out the olive branch time after time…
He would just keep trying to burn that branch and my arm 
right along with it.   Even had my mama fooled 
By his falsified charms so bad that it seemed 
She did not care that it was I -- which he continually tried to harm...
Darn, that certainly should come to me as no surprise
As she often did much the same too me as a child
She, picking and pinching with her trying words 
To get a grief stricken tear from this numbed heart of mine
How absurd! Then Ms. Azalea Lee revealed some things to me that
I dare not write for indeed they were enough to horrify...
During that time, I whispered not a peep, for I thought to my self
How could she ever sleep, with all of those emotions balled up inside... 
How strange it was that after the age of 15 she had not truly cried… 
At least until the day her father died and then she went numb again… 
feeling nothing yet still managed to smile
My, how I wished I could share with her, this joy of mine….
How is it that she takes all in stride?
Without a drop of hate inside…  As I bid her goodbye, 
The answer came, she is mine and 
She possesses a strong will to survive.  
I now look back through time at Ms. Azalea Lee
Keeping her stories as they sure had an effect on me…

Details | Prose Poetry | |


The Divine Mood visited me
today.  Swimming in the clouds,
tearing at my heart.

As worlds fell into parts,
my being, my breath fell apart.


Breathe in.  Make room for
the Divine Heart.

Warm and toasty, a warm
cinnamon bun.  Like a cat 
purr in the sun.  There is so
little warmth.  Eyes have a 
hard time focusing;  the best 
part of the day is done.

Beautiful in the galaxy.  Search
for the gallery.  Tiredness reaches
my soul.

There is a hole where there used
to be none.  A space is opening
with or without me.  This will be 
done.  What to do with this fatigue;

Rest here or rest there I am the wings
of the 

Details | Prose Poetry | |


Cast in stone and written in blood Are the ideals of a lost nation? Paving the returned ashes of the ancients Their patience wore thin by the actions of the passionless Armed in tools for a journey with no set direction But their steps forward Matter to no particular purpose but a means to no end Instead to destruction Is their surrounds with earth shattering sound to deaf ears In the hope That the blind see and fear the renowned vision of tears And overcome by what comes over With a super nova of banished spirits carving out time In hope to expos The sickened seconds and momentary minutes into hours Those who have powers Will note the swinging vote they wield Those who are in this field Have only the word as a shield Blood spilled and dead, limp, bodies Will be served on the far vision Multiple weaponry Will be the cutlery of the day's dishing From the table view only red is seen Because all that within is left on the scene Those who were framed in this picture Can only refer to the Revelations of scripture Those who were in erratic panic Had to mirrored the ignorance that of "Titanic" How can men put their belief in false security? As survivors of today were fooled by the hope of tomorrow Let’s not borrow the bravado of a lost society Because Christianity is the true model we should follow.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Twist In Time

 As I stand here in front of my closet , starring in to the space...
I wonder which black dress to choose, and how I am going to face..
All the guests that will be there, at your final resting place...
I look in the mirror and what do I see  ?
But cuts and scratches all over me...
Although I don’t feel any physical pain...
Oh, what’s that I hear?... could it be rain ?
I miss you already...just what went wrong ?..
We were driving along just listening to our favorite song...
I remember the curve on that old mountain road...
And then heard the train crash... and then explode...
Time to go called out my Mother...
It was a cold November morning, and very heavy rain...
And I swear I heard the whistle of a train...
As I looked around I could see...
So many friends and family...
Standing in the crowd was Aunt Sarah and Uncle Fred...
OMG  ! I thought they were dead...
And there’s dear old Michael...
I had heard he crashed his motorcycle...
All of a sudden I saw YOU stand...
With a bright red rose, you held in your hand...
What are you doing I wanted to shout...
But then I realized what you were about...
You dropped the rose upon MY grave...
It was then I realized... You  were the one, that was saved...

Details | Prose Poetry | |


Dawn rises, and the Sun is Grey, again : One can hear the tears flowing.
The nakedness of the mighty Oak :  Withers : In the shadow of “ LIFE “
I watch “Mother Nature”  cry Tears of pain : in the West wind blowing
I catch those tears of Pain: For My Beloved  “ LENORE “  My “ WIFE “
In the darkness after Dawn ; in the Ebony of the Moonlight  : I still Live
Sullenly, I reminisce  of the LIGHT of the Past ; When I still had a Heart
As the Shadow of Death , follows me into an abyss, where only Death can Survive 
I think of Winters gone by, before the History of Forever : was torn Apart
Through the Corridors of  unknown Sanity  :my eyes cry tears of Empathy,  Dead
There is no morning Dew, on flowers wilted in a new Life  of nonexistence
In the Gloomy Mist of time forgotten I stare at Heaven from my Eternal bed
Hewn from a tree standing alone in a Forest , of Humanities nonexistence
Blinded my the Aura of death I seek a rebirth of Light in me to shine in my eye
           Will I ever Know : as I once Knew " LOVE " ~ before I Die ~

     Inspired by the Contest : " Dark Prose " Sponsored by " Catie Lindsey "

Dedicated to my Lost LOVE "Lenore" ; My LOVE Anew EVERLASTING " Barbara Jean "

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Too Near To Death

Too Near To Death

I have lived too near to death
to give it sway, walked hand in hand,
weighed it in the balance of the days
hidden in the darkness of its lies.
For death is neither quick, nor well
prepared, unsure why he was summoned
way too soon to tend the dying of one
bent on life.  So it was we walked our
lonely path brought together by the
whim of chance, entwined in tryst
of tyrants killing will, bound in a
union cursed from the start, a dance for
which he never had the heart, as
death prefers the sudden form of
self and rues the days he wandered
at my side.  I have touched the hem of
death’s long, putrid robes, tempted
him in times of failing trust, toyed
with the freedom of release, begged
for the silence of his peace, and yet
refused to use his hands to comfort
me, withdrew my pleas, for I had sworn
an oath to never give the bastards call
to gloat - so stood and honed my anger
into truth - so stood and waged my
battle with life’s brute.  Death wept at
our parting, freeing me from debts
life had incurred. Death wept on
hearing of the horrors I’d endured.
I have been close to death and found
that he is in no rush - for time is his
lone ally.  For all of us must die
and even Death himself takes issue
when he must come too soon.

Submitted to Near Death or Near Life Experience – Poetry contest
sponsor – Anthony Slausen

Details | Prose Poetry | |


My shoulders are blades of flesh,
they hold my skinny arms

to hands that hold this pen
across this page as it reaches
the end of a long lived life
that was meant to bend fold
and remend.

But these feet have already
left;  I can feel it in my chest.
These lips want to smile the 
day away;  I have nothing 
else to say.

Knees to my chin, how long
has that been?  To crouch, cuddle 
what is now so thin.  Press and
pull, it all fits in.  

The warmth and the cool.  These
toes are not mine, they belong to
the sublime.  Up my pants you 
will find my legs spindly; a jelly
belly that shakes in my tummy.

My thin arms hold loops of skin.
They are far away and my head needs 
covering; but the sun warms my neck
and my face is full of laughter because
God has reached out his hand to me.

Details | Prose Poetry | |


Paul Celan (1920 in Cernauti, Romania  - 1970 in Paris) was a poet and translator. Paul
Antschel was born into a Jewish family in Romania, but as a writer used the pseudonym
"Paul Celan," becoming one of the major German-languuage poets after World War II. Celans
parents were deported by the Nazis in 1942 to a death camp in Transnistria (area between
Moldvia and Ukraine). His Father died of thyphoid, his mother was shot. The deportation
and the death of his parents  left deep marks in Paul Celan. From 1942-1943 he was
imprisoned in work camps and had to work in road construction in southern Moldavia. After
the liberation by the Red Army, Celan went back to Czernowitz and finally settled in Paris
in 1948. In 1969 he travelled to Jerusalem, only fwe months before his death.
Circumstances and true date of his death are not really known but it is believed that he
drowned himself in the Seine River in April 1970. His body was found near Coubevoie, ten
kilometres downstream in the Seine. He was buried on May 12th 1970 in Paris.

	Todtnauberg (Paul Celan)

	Arnika, Augentrost, der
 	Trunk aus dem Brunnen mit dem
	Sternwürfel drauf,

         in der
         Hütte, (= Hut in English)

         die in das Buch
         - wessen Namen nahms auf
         vor dem meinen? -
         die in dies Buch
         geschriebene Zeile von
         einer Hoffnung heute,
         auf eines Denkenden
         im Herzen,

         Waldwasen, uneingeebnet
         Orchis und Orchis, einzeln,

         Krudes, später, im Fahren,

         der uns fährt, der Mensch
         der's mit anhört,

         die halb-
         beschrittenen Knüppel-
         pfade im Hochmoor,


Arnica, eyebright, the 
draft from the well with the 
star-die on top, 
in the 
written in the book 
- whose name did it record 
before mine? -
in this book 
the line about 
a hope, today, 
for a thinker's 
to come, 
in the heart, 
forest sward, unleveled, 
orchis and orchis, singly, 
crudeness, later, while driving, 
he who drives us, the man, 
he who also hears it, 
the half- 
trod log- 
trails on the highmoor, 

Celan: "Todtnauberg" (translated by Pierre Joris)
Used by permission of the translator

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Suicidal Voodoo

Chase the voodoo to sleep. sleepless freaks i see in the silver screens blocking the vision of me. there's no choice but to eliminate hate inundating the mind. please mute the voices haunting the airwaves making me blind. the big bad budding burden flashing red lights at every intersection. stealing away the insight i try to gain by using time for reflection.

It's a mess the way i test myself with deranged prophecies and bleak scenarios. replaying horror flicks in my head. blasting screams in stereo. all too often the worm hole shoots me to a mid evil castle of torturous devices. impaled in dreams that seem to be broadcasting punishment for succumbing to the world's entice and vices. but other times i fall victim to a good old fashioned "day-mare". people notice the self conversations and can't help but laugh and stare. I must say it's becoming difficult to blame them. if i can't learn to shake this voodoo, it's true my future's looking grim.

What do I do? they're gonna end up arresting me! Toss my ass in a padded room and throw away the key! and get i worry about getting sent away, the paranoia increases inside my head. i reach for medication increasing odds of ending up prematurely dead. I may be crazy, but don't take me for an idiot fool. and don't haze me about where my faith is, cus' this could just as soon be you. and i've learned enough to know that each and every one of us will die. and you may take me as insane, but me not taking my own life's got nothing to do with having a fear to fry. 

This is exactly why i choose to write as my mind fills up with crazy thoughts and throws fits. it's a therapy for me to try and work out all the kinks that make me sink, instead of cowardly throwin' in the towel n' calling it quits.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Lost One

Shivers my heart, by the sound of thunder,
In the world of darkness, alone the soul wander,
The twilight that has no string of light,
Seems its brightness is eaten by night,
Frightened, every particle, every life and the nature,
I find the world no longer has a  nomenclature,
All my directions lost, ways surrounded only by monsters and ghost,
Sails my ship in the deepest sea, with no sign of the coast,
The storm of life which is obstructing my route,
Rain! my only partner which makes me sooth,
When no one recognized drops of water from my eyes, 
You were the one who showed me where another world lies,
You changed my route, my life and brought back the hope of light,
Without you i would have never seen the sun so bright.                              
Waiting for my wrecked, sunk voyage to come ashore in the sun,
Sweet heart! move on, because I am now forever the lost one....

                                                                        -'Panchi' Panchal Hitesh D.

(for more please visit:

Details | Prose Poetry | |


Fear of infinity sits with me
today, eternity flies, looms,
hovers stretches the heart
must make room for the 

space I am to embark.
Though I let my eyes search
for God within;
let my eyes mingle with
the Cosmic wind.

Afraid of what will be
stormy slaps.  It is not
really your place to
see such grace.

The thorny drift burnished 
by that crush around the
trees, now I'm afraid God,
now I'm glad you are with me.

Details | Prose Poetry | |


Kisses good-bye;  waved out the door.
Sitting at the shore.  The water is still rolling.
You want to know how much longer I'll be here for.

We'll all be here till death is at the door.  Methadone,
morphine will squelch the pain, but for that ONE day
when it won't work anymore.

All the threads have been cut around the spool ahead.
There will be nothing but pain and nothing at the store.
People like it when I'm cheery and I don't know where to
put myself anymore.

Sit, stand, lay; I have no real reason to stay.  I am warm
and cozy under this hood.  My body is clean.  That is
understood.  My cuticles are disgusting.  Is this the purply glut
they talk about in signs and symptoms of the dead and dying?
They are not the nails you see in Cosmo for manicure ads, you
know, manicures to die for.

My mouth feels mucky and brushing my teeth is a chore.  I can't
remember one breakthrough from another.   Holidays forever around
each corner;  it would appear I'll still be around, what a drag; the wet blanket.
Dead broad walking down the dining room hall.

If I could cry and know the river would actually wash these tears away 
for GOOD;  I'd lay down and weep for weeks on end if it we're understood
that this would be the bloody end.

Tears aren't painful, nothing more than a wash.  Not everything is as someone else says.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Bonding with a Stranger

I bonded with a stranger today.
It was at the airport in Honolulu.
I was waiting for my flight to be
called. I thought, I better take
advantage of these spare minutes and
visit the ladies room one last time.
When I entered through the restroom
doorway I heard someone sobbing.
There sitting at one end of an orange
covered couch was a slender Japanese
young lady. I felt an immediate need
to comfort her. I said in my kindest
voice "can I help you? What is wrong"?

She said in her broken English that her
mother had just died and she was
going to her funeral. She cupped her
face in both her hands, rocking herself:
her tears dropping onto her lap. I felt
compelled to sit down beside her
and I began to offer words I hoped
would comfort her. I put my arm around
her shoulders and lightly rubbed
her back. I said, your mother is not
dead. Her spirit is still alive. It is only
her body that is no longer here. You
can still talk to her and she will hear you.

She loves you and she is watching over you.
I related how I had recently lost my
mother and how I still talk to her, and
that I feel she hears me. I heard my
flight number being called over the
speakers in the restroom. I said a silent
prayer to help her cope with the pain of
her loss. I gave this dear stranger a hug
and asked her if she would be alright
because I had to leave. She shook her
head yes and I rose to leave with tears
in my eyes. Yes, I feel I really bonded
with a stranger today, and she with me.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Christ Child

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Details | Prose Poetry | |


Not the wine sacrament of the church not the grape juice that we use not the chalice cupp
not the rememberance not the ritual not the religion not the commandments of men. The
BloodOfJesus is the real blood that he shed on the Cross of Calvary the post of Jesus. ON
the Romans Internet it was www.JesusSaves.Com.Blood the Pointless Pilot smurffed the
action then went behind the bathroom tossed up all his cookies lost his function. The
COnstant searching of the Knights of the Rounded gave me pause seek becomes find King
Arthurs COmputor did not have the same wireless button on mine. Smile you are on CharlaX
Camera candid the price of life is death the death of GOD. GOing to a function and
remembering his sacrifce will never save you but the realization given to you from the
Holy Spirit to once and for all convince you that it is this Jesus Crucified in Jeruselum
His Holy City and cast out to SHED his blood on the tTtree of Golgotha the Hill of the
Skull it was a place of Death is where this new eternal life comes from. Drinking wine in
small amounts and breaking cracker crumbs will not save you but the shedding of the blood
of JESUS when he did this was over Two Thousands Year ago this Christmas. Not the formal
necktied meetings but the Beaten Dying Lord hangging dripping Blood the blood of Jesus.
What he said was WHEN WHEN WHEN you are DOING THIS (meant breaking bread at the meetings
and drinking the wine as the sacrificial remembrances) HE then said Remember ME ???
Meaning Jesus. on the older model Snail mail COmputors you wlll
not be able to see this. You now need INtel. This may seem humorus to you even fruitless
or breadless at least it is wineless but it may seem like sacrilegious but many people use
this internet the web is huge and they also need to be saved by the shed BloodOfJesus.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Ashes and I

She's been kicked to the ground in the dust of despair , kicked in the ribs by human hyenas...
When trying to stand up she was stepped on like a cigarette butt
...and Time threw at her the acid of aging in an unexpected attack.
She never complained to the outside of her Soul. Dirt could be hosed  down and she never needed ribs anyway:
 She was one with the rhythm of Nature in Spring
                                                                       and knew how to blossom despise desert winds.
 We rented a boat out of a Pacific harbor.
 I sat next to her for one hour ride.
We whispered and giggled memories of childhood while two whales accompanied us echo-locating our Soul.
"It Was Time!"
The motor went mute as clouds dissipated like a curtain, the Sun - the only stage light - focusing on the monologue of a sad. lonely life.
I picked up the urn, a silver  Deja Vu.
My wings started to tremble as I was struggling to open the container.  How can you grab and unscrew the lid of your Life wearing feathers from Heaven instead of fingers?
I whispered the Captain to help...
It was time for me to throw myself into the beloved Pacific ocean. It only lasted for a few seconds until I made contact with the tears of the dead. I have never imagined how heavy my ashes were. . I felt nostalgic but, oh,  so very light...
We both said: "Farewell" to the lonely captain with blue tears in his eyes ...
 he accelerated disturbing the balance , he was  mad with the world
but still willing to anchor on Life...

Iolanda Scripca

Details | Prose Poetry | |

I'm Angry

I have the fury of hell trapped inside. I’m so angry that words can’t express how I 
feel. Nothing in life could have ever told me that these emotions existed. I’m mad at 
you, at everything you ever stood for. At the very fact that you were so charming 
and happy in life only to die and leave me alone like you did. Angry at the fact that 
your death could have been prevented, Drinking and Driving - were you just stupid; 
careless. Did you think that you would never die? That you were immortal and could 
defy even God. Well you weren’t, I guess you know that now. I still can’t believe 
that your life could be wasted because you were too arrogant to wait till you got 
home. You should've waited...

Details | Prose Poetry | |

I Shall Wait For You My Beloved

I shall wait for you to come my beloved
For you are my white star of twilight
The moon in the sky’s far end

I shall rise up with thee
Lie down with thee
For in my dreams thou art always with me

Oh Great Spirit
When our time has come
Join us together as one in the wilderness of your sacred home
When you look upon us give us your peace and refreshing sleep

For you and I my beloved, are two halves joined together
Each others distant shore
The left and right wings of the bird
Two halves of a seashell

We are apart, yet connected by a greater love
I shall wait for you my love 

The sun and moon bless the union of our spirits
Designed by our Creator for life’s endless journey
Joined like a tree to earth, a cloud in the sky
You are a part of me, as I am of you
Bonded by the Great White Spirit

You are my love, my heart’s best  friend
Our love will never cease, never end
I know it is thou who moves within my heart
Now and forever my beloved - I shall wait for you to come
Ayor’ Anosh’ ni’ my love

"Ayor’ Anosh’ ni’ means I love you in Navajo"

Details | Prose Poetry | |

I Wish I Had Died Too

I wish I had died too
I wish I had died on a mystery plane from Malaysia
Carrying over 200 souls yet to live
Their last beautiful moments
I wish I had sat on my first class section
Sipping ice cold champagne
And the plane would suddenly shake
And spill the precious contents
And my near celebration
Would be violently shaken and this time
Throwing me off my seat
Making me groan…
I would lift my eyes to see other souls
Sprawling on the floor….
I would close my eyes to pray
And this time we would be spinning
In a deadly circle that clatters all souls and furniture
It’s chaos! What’s happening?
I am frightened and wondering…
The captain’s inaudible warnings don’t make sense
I suddenly get a cold dizzy feeling
That rocks me to the right, left, up and down
As the cold water suddenly soaks up
My white jeans and fills the floor
Like a shallow river
It’s the horrifying sound of a shot gun
That makes me scream wild with fear
At the deafening bullet because
Someone just did the act of suicide
And I am horrified in tears as
The broken windows reveal an ocean current
That churns like a thunderstorm
The roof of the plane pulls off our heads
I can now taste the salty water choking down
My throat and preparing me like a meal
For a shark to devour….
I already feel like a meal ready to be eaten
As the ocean dissolves all our bodies
The efforts to swim and beat the currents
Have taken on an eternity!
I have dissolved, I have dissolved
My heart cries out as i hear the cries of the souls
Drowning and myself dissolved
And drowned with them.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

My One And Only Better Half

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

Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Dove

A Dove
We said :What are  all those  feathers ?
When  we walked  for  the funeral of the kid . 
His father raised  his hand ,
 picked up a feather
 and  cried :This is the word "a dove"
He learned  to say since two days. 
we forget to take it out of his mouth .

The poem by :Maithem Radhi (Iraqi Poet )
Translated by : Laith Seher

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Crossing Through The Red Sea Undivided

The calm and quiet serenity embracing a string of fine buildings and a hypocritical weather which seems as if a quarrel manifested between the day and the night say it all as we enjoy the romantic stroll. Our aim is highly achieved if this was official, we would demand a certificate but the environment, our smiles, our love and our world are more than enough reward as we warm our souls and take the slow, gentle pace. the red flag was totally absent as we noticed many of them with tails unwag by-passing one, not knowing it is the scumbag began its vile its voice and energy much more than three angry wives on top of their nag. A drastic lag in our steps of royalty as my darling was taken over with gags. Then comes the full rage, attacks and great disdain to us. They were initially five; but now twelve. Creating a strategy by walking zigzag served fruitless and more like a drag as the voices of hell get even closer. making my wife scared as never before. Just one attack , can attract a deadly feast. Turning us into rags tearing us snag after snag and separating our flesh from body like a slag. That one bite, is now seconds closer with the lead intimidator showing its brag but 'the protector' being my tag; I turned swiftly and immediately going downwards and acting to take a weapon. Then the dozen of cowards impersonated Usain Bolt. 'That's my swag!" was the showing but in reality, I embraced my love passionately, thanking God for such a miracle with a skipping heart and a trembling body.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Master Carpenters tree

The impressive mighty trees
Are birthed from such small seed
Drawing resilience from the sun
And earth’s fertile garden bed

Trees wooden trunk has shaped 
And sustained for centuries many in varied ways 
Some over and upon oceans wide
Where waves stroke shapely hulls 
And lull to sleep the hapless venturer 
Trusting in woods durable strength and buoyancy

And from such crafted boughs 
And whispered sounds 
Her meekness and strength is seen and heard 
Like the creaks of grandma’s rocking chair
Where the hapless wanderer was first rocked to sleep

Trees have cradled and rocked in their arms 
High and low of this world
The greatest of these was in a lowly manger 
In an animals crib 
But for this one tree its destiny was marked 
Chosen before time

For on this tree’s wooden shoulders 
It bore God’s greatest gift–
A Holy Child born - Like it- 
For one purpose only – 
To become accursed - on its wooden cross 
To bear the sins of All 
The Holy Son then rose - triumphantly from earth’s fertile soil

Into His Father’s arms

© Brenda V Northeast 11th   March   2012

Details | Prose Poetry | |

I Survived Janjaweed Part 2

     Hordes of screams sounded out all around and masses of slashed bloody villagers staggered into our village.  Grownups started running to finding stuff to clean them     They kept saying “Janjaweed, Janjaweed, Janjaweed” and talking about running away so they could live.  
     They said that hundreds of men had been hacked to death and they were the lucky ones.  There was rape…and death…and starvation…and disappearing thousands, not just in their village, but in other villages in Dafur, too.
     Since Uncle Sofarlo and grandma hadn’t arrived, yet, Mom became histeric.  Then, someone said a man with an old woman was still in the desert and they weren’t hurt.  Mama raising her eyes upward and thanked God. 
     I didn’t understand exactly what was happening, but a few years later, I learned first hand.  One dreadful day, the Arab militia rode into my village.  The first thing they did was ride over to the well and start cutting off people’s arms and pushing them to the ground.   They laughed as they drew water for themselves and their camels.  Then, they cut off my father’s head and started grabbing my playmates and their mothers.
     Terrified, I slunk back into our hut.  My parents had dug a hole in the floor beneath each bed shortly after my grandmother and the rest of the survivors had come to live with us.  They told me that if those bad men came to our village that I must hide in the hole and not make one sound.  So, that is what I did.
     Sometimes, I would lift the cover and peek out.  I saw one of those men slash Uncle Sorarlo’s head with a hatched and throw it in the well.  One of them grabbed my mother by the hair and slung her into a nearby hut.  Then he dismounted and went in. Her horrible screams still flash through my memory.  I saw and heard appalling things happening to other women, young girls, and even the little boys.
     I could hear loud voices and laughter as the Janjaweed savages watched the survivors scamper like rabbits into the desert.  Next, they set the huts on fire and rode after them.  Then, there was silence.
     I stayed shivering in that dark hole what seemed like forever.  Then, my older brother came over to help me out.  He had hidden beneath his bed, too.  We never saw our grandmother or cousins again, but we were alive!  
     Survival was the next challenge.  My big brother was smart and had faith in God.  It is because of his strength and bravery that we are both alive today to tell the story.  
     Please help the people of Dafur.

Copyright 10-13-2014
I chose Dafarian Genocide.

Written for Poetry Soup Member Contest: GENOCIDE: SPEAK FOR THE LOST... the FORM IS POETIC PROSE  Sponsor	Cyndi MacMillan


Details | Prose Poetry | |


So close we are,only the clouds are in between
Together we are bond Just like joined twins
Ur guidance & counsel  make my paths
Only me & you understand this language
But far beyond my reach you are,
Only time will join us again

Sometime I wish it could be a journey,
I could travel all the way to see your face.
To hear ur words of wisdom once more
& share the laughter we had
But far away you are,
And only time wiil join us

Passing one bridge of  breath to another,
Is achievement,
But,what bridge did you pass?
You left me all alone
Only holding to the live we had,
Hoping & wishing  dat death had not visited
Far away you are,
And only time will join us.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Mary's Tribulation

Mary’s Tribulation

She wept from the depths of her bowels
For the child she brought into fruition.
Not knowing in her love,
She would witness the greatest of all sacrifices.
Tortured nerves washed with vinegar.
Nails driven through meridians to increase the pain.
PAIN, oh so great, oh so long,
That a Mother would die herself...
Beneath the cross

She wept and her heart broke in angst,
His purpose to teach mankind.
Her witness to His Love.
So great, the task, His life
His walk, so brief on earth.
Yet thousands of years, the story retold
Eternal salvation unfolds.
That a Mother would die herself...
Beneath the cross.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The black fear

 upon the skin of the drunk earth 
The black fear breaks the column of the blue lightes
And the lighthouses of the white sea ,
Sinking in the ridiculous anger
And the rebellious love crying above space of the tired universe
And breaks my horizon mania .

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Gator Bait Series 1st Cold Snapped

The wind was blowing when she left the city...

I believe it was twenty below...

Where she was going she already knew...

But... first she had things she had to do...

Get rid of the body that was clear....

There were no options, it had to disappear....

The heater was broken and blowing cold air...

She could feel the ice, building up in her hair..

She had cleaned up the blood as best she could...

As she had hit him hard with that log of wood...

All she had asked him, was to light a fire...

To take off the chill in the house....

Do it yourself if you are cold...he snapped

And while you’re at it get me a cold beer...from the fridge..

It was early morning when she finally arrived at the bridge..

This was his favourite fishing spot...

She pushed his body off the pier...along with his ice cold beer..

And suddenly began to shiver and sneeze.....

Oh well, she said...this too shall pass..

When I get to the Florida Keys..

PS..this is the first in a for part 2.."gator bait..the dream "

Details | Prose Poetry | |


Can ewe balance out those two final hits against the lives saved those that would have 
continued WAR on Asian Soil those days of hell of hurting men caught by bullits and the 
bayonets? Can just two bombs blasting death be counted as salvation won for all those 
young boys girls old men women who died instantly in two Atomic Blasts over those two 
cities of Japan. Nagasaki Heroshima eye have seen the END of time the BOOKS of GOD are 
open when the Dead Arrive. Arise all sleepers in those Graves can GOD usher in those 
SOULS into new places now to stay is there a place for JAPAN in Jesus Heaven? For those of 
us who sinned and suffered radiation burns lost our skins and mortal coils gone some died 
just screaming out in pain all normal living gone perhaps no time to say your HOLY NAMME 
of Jesus. Can they live there inside your heaven is it still possible that you forgive them for 
once upon the time it came to me today that a Just and Perfect GOD adjudges perfectly 
those in suffering words can not describe no time to utter words of salve; but deeds looked 
at made right by YOU salvation won given now to all. Eventide has come today to those 
whom tomb decay whom die threw no fault of there own. Just hit twice dumped down on 
Killed with anguish very slow. A special place in heaven for all those special people of Japan. 

Details | Prose Poetry | |

I Hope You Know I'll Always Love You

I am what you call a hopeless 
But im also a lost lovers cause, my 
heart belongs to another
Yet in my head a love triangle starts 
to form, the girl I love doesn’t love 
She holds the heart to another and 
mine caged to the floor,
She isn’t afraid to fight for what she 
wants, not even when it comes to 
leaving another man torn
Trust me she’s happy, as that boy 
holds her heart ever so close
Seeing what I shouldn’t I smile as I 
wear my blind fold,
Blind to everything around, lifeless 
staring into air
My train of thought running so fast, 
the second I stop you’ll hear a crash
Derailing my hope, for ever finding a 
love so pure & rare
Wishing I could hold the hand of the 
lover who stole my flame,
Wish I could change the last days in 
which we parted ways,
Realizing now that we can never be 
the same
Finally saying it out loud as tears run 
down my face
You stole my happiness, as I walked 
away that day
But it’s because as of what you said 
I guessed I changed,
Now every relationship has just be 
the same,
No one can seem to bring back that 
Because a love likes ours comes 
once in a lifetime
Well at least it does to me,
But I mean you’re happy with who 
your with 
I mean I only wrote this as I heard 
exchanging “I love you” flow from 
each of your lips.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Darkness Waves

He is watching her
She knows that he is
She can feel his eyes
Everywhere she goes
That Hollow sockets 
The depth of the ocean’s darkness hidden behind

Whatever he has in mind
Tormenting her all the time
When darkness waves creep up
And the glimmer of last light fades fast
Embracing those eerie arms reaching
Dark waves engulfing
Drowning beneath life's surface
Losing sight of the moon
Lies beneath 

An unmarked grave
Lifeless bodies 
Staring soulless eyes embedded in blue-white face
Body numbed by the stingray’s touch
Death finally came
Water filling lungs
Her anchored 
Escaping death several times
Miracle of the One above
The now lifeless body 
Eyes that no longer see

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 | |

lead my hand o' dear life

lead my hand o' dear life

lead my hand
on this land
o' dear life, 
until the end

o' dear thought
of comfort

seed my life
feed me not in strife
bleed me joy from nine to five

lead me a journey of phases
a journey of ages
to face this

germinate in me a corn
of survival 
a history of possibilities
a record of living to afford
a source to live

for this life 
is a choreographer of life
a propeller of existence
an economy of spiritual commodities

a tear drop of opportunities
yet not so many does see its commonalities
an event of anomalies and regularities

lead me a way o' dear life
carry me a sledge on a journey of life 
a terrain of survival and life

a gemstone for many
a pentagon of any
a model of penny

an artwork of joy

a string of life on a journey
a script of many
a stanza of any


from: 'journey of life' and 'on a journey', 
february 2012 

>> ntema's unique poetry (nup)

Details | Prose Poetry | |

An Affair with Death

I knew I was gone when I went into the sleep..
There was no guilt or pain insight..
I’ve never had an affair of the heart.. of mind, body and soul..
The comfort I felt was beyond words from my mind...
And I was destined to fall under his spell...
The fire I felt on my skin began to rage..
 I became like an animal in a cage..
Every time I drew back, he pushed me forward..
I could feel his arms embrace me like no other,
His strength overpowered me and breathing became a necessity..
I gasped each time we danced the dance..
I could feel life’s breath leaving my body..
As he held me tighter and tighter..
I have never known such ecstasy as I drew each breath as the last..
Don’t know why I gave in so easy, temptation is not one of my virtues..
I’ve always weighed the pro’s and cons..
Who is this man of many tricks that I would succumb to him ?
I am smarter than this I thought in one lucid moment..
Be gone I said.. leave me alone I do not want to follow you..
All you want is my soul... and I am not ready...
When I am I will call you....

PS. This was a recent experience I had in the ICU...

Details | Prose Poetry | |


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


Hands Up
Don't Shoot!

 black males
are dying,

faster than
on a

nothing is done

young brother

They killed Pac, 
In Vegas
nothing was done

They killed Biggie
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

your eyes,

see the

Hands Up 
Don't Shoot!

Young  black males
being murdered
their cases run  cold -

the  killer lives another

to murder another
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?

is a 
pattern here -

it's Vile

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!


We Want Justice -

Details | Prose Poetry | |


I looked into the eyes of a dying child 
And asked her if there was anything I could do
Anything that may lessen the pain
Anything that would make her forget
She said, “ Sing for me, Oh! stranger
Sing in that beautiful voice of yours
Sing till I pass away in peace
Sing for me, Oh! Please do.”
I sang in a voice trembling with fear
Laden with sadness and pain
I sang about God, his glory
About God’s ways of which we know nothing
As the song ended, she smiled that little sad smile
And asked in a voice ever so frail
“ If there is a God, then why am I here
Have I lived my life? Answer me this
What are his plans, so grand, that don’t let me live
Is my death part of a greater truth?”
Saying this she closed her little eyes
Squeezed my hand with her tiny hands
And let out her last little breath
And looked radiant even in death. 

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Love Lost

Love Lost…

Morning star shines down on me
I seek the shade 
The shade of the great oak tree
It casts a giant shadow across both of your hearts
Across mine

The cool breeze blows through the field
Between the rows of etched marble stone
And beyond the blades of overgrown grass
Your resting places I see

In the peace and quiet of the morning
I sit, I stand, I talk to both of you
I breathe; deep
Exhale in a sigh
Unable to fight the tears
Not really wanting to try

I find myself needing to spend time with both of you
But have neither Mother, nor Father
I am no longer a child, but a man?
I am all that you both have made me
Your love and guidance cannot fail me now…

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The generous mother Earth

How generous you are the mother Earth
It is from thee that man was made
You have made man un-thirsty
And your benevolent in giving out of nothing is inexplicable
You feed the worthy and the unworthy
We are till forever indebted to you
To return what thy have taken from thee!
The heaven can never be ungrateful
For the inexplicable water supply
That has made the heaven glamour
That has made the birds of the air gorgeous and flamboyant
They can never fail to pay thee, the last tribute
As to return the expedients taken from thee!
You have continued to bring out valuables
That prompted the regalia of men
That necessitated the pride of plants and flamboyant flowers
That yielded the live of insects and man
 They wouldn’t hesitate to vomit explicitly what they have savored
To the generous mother Earth!

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Final Fire In the Hall of The Mountain King

Sweet were the days though too few in number
When dread was lain over all tomorrows
By those whom upon the Rod of Asclepius swore
Sending him to seek solace
And pass by unseen
By the Final Fire in the Hall of the Mountain King

A blue star burned cold upon his brow
In the darkness to proclaim his coming
To this place he claimed
As the home of his heart
To play his part in this most sacred scene
By the Final Fire in the Hall of the Mountain King

Alone he arrived 
To no greeting or welcome
But gladness filled him all-the-same
No company would be kept
For this final thing
By the Final Fire in the Hall of the Mountain King

There were no songs in the Hall
No one to sing
Of loves lost or left behind
Succored and scoured
By compulsive dream
By the Final Fire in the Hall of the Mountain King

No proof against arms was his armor
Though many times it had saved him
Against ravage and rage of weather
Their service no longer in need
He laid them before him in offering
To the Final Fire in the Hall of the Mountain King

Although weakened, quickly he kindled 
The first glowing embers
Coached them and coaxed them
So fragile and nascent 
Till they brought into being
The Final Fire in the Hall of the Mountain King

His presence in this hostile home
Alone would suffice
No grief-stricken children
Or wailing of women
No beeps or buzzes of cold machines
Only the Final Fire in the Hall of the Mountain King

He dreamt of the First Dawn of his absence
And was surprised it weighed nothing
Against the many that he was graced to see
Contentedly he caressed them
Comfortable in his memory
By the Final Fire in the Hall of the Mountain King.

His star dimmed slowly before the First Dawn
With dignity dwindled the last flickering flames 
As cold grew the King 
On his throne of Stone
Set free near the ashes 
Of The Final Fire in the Hall of the Mountain King

Then Alpenglow burst the first rays of day
Round the only monument 
To a life lived like lightning burst forth from the storm
So proud stood the peak 
Glad alone to have seen
The Final Fire in the Hall of the Mountain King

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Over The Dead Body

Grim, hollow, pointless
Walk limping through its lostness
For a name he is clueless
For a past he is dreamless

His insight is only some bored routinity
Which is stuck in the airport of dead society
Killing time like it never be killed
Living a live like it never be lived

An ambush to the stadium of shelter
Was a breakthrough for the unexpected trigger
One brain consumed by the hand of a ripper
Its cerebellum emit clear memories about the lover

An outstanding memories 
Led the soulless to its side of humanities
Longing of past, stages of life
Belated hunger stop to strive

A girl with her sweet adventure
A dead body whose lost in his picture
Rely on their fate to each other
But blind in the shimmer of their clutter

Through the memory which righteously read as a diary
Through the features which bring him to the life ready
Through the whisper
Through the struggle

He entitled for the second chance
He deserved for the right romance
The new life is just waiting 
To the next chapter of the beginning

Author's Note:
Inspired by the book of "Warm Bodies"- Isaac Marion.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

-Needs a title. I will probably think of one later on.-

There is a single rose

kept high in the vase of her memories

she eyes thee rose with despair and sorrow

circles around and walks away.

The rose withers and petals fall

she comes back but has the same thought.

Picks up the withering rose, she starts to dance

circles around and around with the rose balanced in her palm.

-she stops-

she starts to cry and she sees streaks of blood fall from her palm

the thorns dig deep

her tears reach her collar

darkness falls, then drags her deep in it's depths.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

We Ain't Got That Kind-a Shine

ladies of the night 
are dressed in finest lace 
while hiding in the shadows 
where they never leave a trace 
on barren - broken - bastard streets 
these ladies have no face 
with tarnished tassels in their hair 
they stand like statues there and stare 

the ladies of the night 
now lean in darkened doorways while 
they sip selected wine 
and watch two lovers writhe entwined 
upon the floor where bleeding whores 
are losing life from open sores 
where punctured veins and death remains 
inside a fantasy that reigns 
with bitter dreams of better things 
that lost tomorrows never bring 

now lovers covered - soiled and stained 
with bursting leaks from wounded veins 
where needles of inclusion 
can create and make illusion 
last beyond the degradation 
as they stride in "sharp" persuasion 
unto death of one whole nation 
in complete discreet oblation 

can't find a lot of pity 
in a dark and dirty city 
as the waste is placed in alleyways 
and vagrants void themselves 
on steamin' streets at dawn 
while new commuters stop to yawn 
as night concerns now fade to gone 

all is lost at higher cost 
inside a pride that has been tossed 
onto the gutter - 
where machismo men just shudder 
as they lose their life-time rudder 
leaving all directions and erections 
on the street's abstract inflections 
just before they lose connection 
with their soul 

forgetting obligations 
where unique configurations 
seem to supplement and compliment 
the pain 
the mutual - conceptual - PAIN 

who is the dreamer and who owns the dream? 
who is the screamer in the scream? 
it's you and I dear friend of mine 
we dream the dream and scream the scream 
as part of Eden's Garden Scene 
but we don't ever cross the line 
cause we ain't got that kind-a shine 

Details | Prose Poetry | |


Tick tack  on the wall,
Knocking all the wall,
Scaring us all,
Muscling the muscles,
Muscling the morsels in us,
Quickening the finest deep,
The hidden gold of gold,
A dignity of labour,
How loyal and diligent you are,
Precious and precarious,
Dangerous and conspicuous.

Running without waiting for anybody,
How impatient could man be,
In your sound you keep man,
In haste at everydawn,
Thou hath in the haste of full dawn,
Desperately desperate,
Anxiously anxious,
Wisely wise are we and you
Preciously precious,
Nothing can be done without you that's obivously obvious.

We chose to choose you,
Working to work with you,
Falling to fall with you,
No time no food,
No time no suite,
No time no cheat,
No time no shift,
No time no me,
there is set time for everything,
Mama use to say,
Patience is virtue of time,
that's the way whichever way.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Martyr Girl

The Martyr Girl
Arabic Poem by: Jasem Al-Khafaji*
Translated into English by:
Inaam Al-Hashimi (Gold_N_Silk)

In your absence,
Dreariness, in every class, 
Has been the prayer of the break..
Every teacher calls your name,  
His voice falls slaughtered, in pain, on his lips..
In every standing and every sitting, 
Your class condoles with your desk..
Without you there, the schoolyard feels empty 
The bell sounds strangled as it tolls for you..
Oh, grief of all schools!
Oh, weariness of all lessons!
Too young to be gone..
Your mother wished to see you a bride..
Vacant was your stand in the lines and rows
For the flag ceremony
And, silently, 
The flag was raised..
The blackboard is missing your words
Saddened with no words to spell
“Dar” … “Door” 
Oh, grief! 
When your braid caught fire,
The kids tried to put it off with your bookcase
Their hands were too small to carry water..
May God help your mother.. 
Your mother, who, in her grief, turned white, 
Like daylight upon your coffin
Your mother, who, with slaps of grief,
Drew skipping squares on her cheeks
Your mother, who raised your hand in prayer to God
Your mother, who used to come to get you,
 At the end of the school day
Your mother, who, not even once,
Received a teacher’s note complaining about you
Your mother, who is wrapping ribbons
Around your pictures 
In madness after you
God help your mother, who, in her grief, 
 Turned white like daylight upon your coffin..

O God, May all bombs be paralyzed,
And all blasts be blinded!
* Jasem Al-Khafaji is a poet from Iraq,
The poem is in Iraqi folks spoken dialect 

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Trees of a Dreary Autumn

Trees of a Dreary Autumn 
Arabic poem by: Saad Yassin Yousuf*
Translated into English by:
Inaam Al-Hashimi (Gold_N_Silk)

At a light
Said to be "dawn" We got to the shoulder of the Sea book;
Our wrecked boats were floating 
As wood stained by bloody waves,
Heads of children slaughtered
By the voracity of a false 
Prophet, Eyes yearning farther than the kingdom of light,
Wooden pencils robbed of their sun color,
Withered flowers,
Pictures of palm trees, standing
Drunk on the cliff, waving to other banks,
Butterflies that lost their color of light, 
Remains of time, 
Cut-off- ears and marks of defeat.
A beach shoulder crying over the nests of its seagulls 
Mumbled:" A cheap spring 
Is what the miracle doves 
Have paid their throats a price for its singing!!! “
I loosened the ties for my steps,
But I stood as if pinned to the ground;
I tossed away the moment, in which I bereaved my sea,
And went on flirting with
The fuzz of my dreariness.
The couriers of death, 
Still in haze black jackets, 
Raised a mast stained with clay mixed in
Oil of desires; 
It’s a spring chocked with the blood of flowers, 
Smoke of the lost horizon, 
Pirates and autumn
Branded with palms 
Stained by the blood of a grassy dream
Beneath a cloud of straw
And ashes......
The sap rising in it stopped to green and give colors 
To the branches of dreariness.
Oh! How reckoning troubled us
With all that comes with it;
The jars in its coffers
Are full of
Forgotten pains, 
Fear of the moment, 
Broken wings, 
Songs shattered in the voice 
Of reed pipes trying to play it, 
And days of spring
That turned into
Trees of a dreary autumn.
 Translation by: 
Em. Prof. Inaam Al-Hashimi (Gold_N_Silk)
 March 6, 2013
 * Saad Yassin Yousuf is a poet from Iraq
Link t0 the original poem In Arabic :

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Too Much There

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

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

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

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

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Garden Club Ruse part 1 of 2

For years no one ever had a clue...
Of the secret she one knew..
The child inside her never shed a tear...
Although she lived everyday with fear...
She grew up never knowing what love was...
Till that fateful day, when he met him on the bus..
He was tall and handsome and had a great smile...
Knew all the words making her feel worthwhile...
They fell in love and soon were married...
And that’s when things changed...the love got buried..
The days were long and the nights were lonely...
They seldom spoke, and if only...
She hadn’t seen that ad...this never would have happened..
Join the Garden Club today and...
 wipe all your cares away 
There’s more to this story..I must conceive...
So please follow this sequel and I believe....
You will stop and think of the words I wrote...
And perhaps even take your own personal note....

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Good From Bad

Eighth of November,
nineteen years before 
the start of the 21st century
Suffolk County Georgia State Penitentiary
He slowly walks down the cold and barren hallway
The Preacher right beside asking the Lord's forgiveness
Entering the chamber where one lone chair sits
He has come to grips with his mortality
Eyes only gazing at the worn oak floor
He is seated and strapped with ice cold steel
The Warden asks for any last words
"May the Lord look after my unborn baby girl"
Eight Thirty Eight  the lights flicker 
The mouths of the onlookers drop
He no longer can be a burden to society!!

Eight of November
nineteen years before
the start of the 21st century
Clare County Michigan State Hospital
Down at the end of the pure white hallway
A young mother to be
Nurse right beside praying to the Lord new life be born
She has come to grips with Motherhood
Laying up high on the table
Strapped in to the stirrups of warmth
Her words could be heard
"May the Lord bring me this baby girl"
Eight Thirty Eight you hear the cries
The mouths of the onlookers all grin
For one mans sin has turned into life again


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Love Not Allowed

He had fallen in love when he had first seen her, her dark black hair and green eyes had 
been what had attracted him.

Yes he knew the danger but he had smuggled her out, taken her to his home and he had not 
told a soul what he had done.

She was nineteen and he was fourtythree, he did not see the age difference and only saw 
her beauty, if anyone found out he was hiding her then he knew they would be both killed.

She had lived with him for eight days, in that time he had never tried to seduce her or make 
any advance towards her, he clothed her and provided food and any comfort that she 

On the eigth night she came to his room, she was naked when she slipped into his bed and 
they made love all the way until the dawn, it would be their last night together.

They came the next morning, he knew he had to shoot her, the Luger given to him by his 
father two years ago was the weapon he had to use.

She wept silent tears for she knew what must be done, he put the gun to her head and 
pulled the trigger.

He put the gun to his own head as he heard them break down the door, he knew they would 
have both been punished to death and this was the only way.

They were too late to stop him and he pulled the trigger with the gun at his head and his 
body fell to lay with the dead body of the woman he had loved.

It was not supposed to had happened, a German guard falling in love with a Jewish girl 
condemned to have been gassed to death at the camp.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Confetti of Flesh

Would I rather go too slow,

Damp breath feeding the soil, 

worms to grow, an

old mans toil.


For me the answer is clear;

Though not today and I hope not here – 

To explode with love and feelings gold – 

Not too young and not too old

Wise enough to see my growth

But not old enough to have outgrown 

My sprit, 


this place called home

That’s how to die


A confetti of flesh ruptures the Sky.

Feeding the air, water and earth.

Why you ask do I care how I die –

My love, that is the whole reason -

We’re here

to ask why.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Forever Trail

They roam miles over hillsides
stride aimlessly cross open plains
and grassy fields
unseen and silent to all cept' those
who see with more
then their eyes,
hear with more 
then their ears,
and believe with more
then their hearts and minds.
Twilight,a gray blue haze,settles in
quiet, no sound(s) heard
but those of time almost forgotten
souls lost, blanketed by death
foot-steps hushed by time
travel now in ghostly silence
their destiny, to travel the forever trail.
Physical lives long shed in defense
of the very ground they are now one with
their cries must be heard! always honored
never to be forgotten
lest their lives were sacrificed for naught.

Melody A. Coster

Details | Prose Poetry | |

O' Darkest Night

“O my love, my wife!  Death, that hath suck’d the honey 
of thy breath,  hath had no power yet upon thy beauty.”  

Last we kissed, where summer’s lease hath too short a date,
and winter’s chill laid a breath upon thy face,
hath stell’d thy brightest smile.
Sweet coral days frail blight to rust, and now mine empty hands,
to wring despair from what will never be.
O, behold my eyes that weep, and empty arms that flail
So blind I am! I cannot fly on broken wings! 
No other love could ever grieve so well. 
Shall hence, I now exist an empty shell?
O’ she of flaxen hair, fair cheeks so pale,
My love is as a fever, longing still.   To never be again?
My sorrow greater than the darkest night.
Disquiet of my heart cries out beyond the distant stars.
O' fate thy has forsaken, canst thou, O' cruel!
Sweet love so rare, a thing beyond compare. 
Where whence my love, once like the lilac full
The blossom fragrant, o' so sweet as whippoorwill
Ere' slumber's chain has bound me.
Weary I am with pain, I haste me to my bed
Where dreams will keep us never parted
Linked to thee forever, I will ever be upon my death
With day, by sun awakened, again I must recall
Thy song has waned, the garland dead
Whence dost return new storms, again to bring mine tears
Yea, gentle are mine dreams where thee appears. 
Linked to thee forever, I will ever be, 
upon the blade, upon the sword, asleep
My swollen heart with anguish weeps…forever is my love to keep.

For The Contest : Romeo and tragic is love
Sponsored by *A Wandering Butterfly*

Details | Prose Poetry | |


When you left us
The window was open
There was a single star in the sky
Wind was breathless
A sudden cry ripped the darkness

That night was a book’s last page
Frayed by time and solitude
A lamp was burning in the corner
To thicken the whispers of coming souls
We were speechless 
Touching my mother’s feet
Lean and wilted 
By thousand years ‘march.

September, the cruelest
You did not know the weight of pain
One’s heart endeared 
And cried in a land
Islanded by silence.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Time Was Not On Our Side

Here I am thinking again about how our life should of been

But it's to late cause you are gone the love we shared can't go on

Wishing we had more time before the clocks started to wined

Time has stopped since you went away I really wished you could of stayed

You have moved on far away but my love for you has never changed

When I die someday soon we will meet again pass the moon

Far away in an unclouded sky we will never say goodbye

As I look back on our life I realize time was not on our side.....

Details | Prose Poetry | |

January's Wishes Spoken Through the Dishonesty of April.

Her eyes amused me, slices of January that held April tightly....

she could rain in snow, drop from upside-down skies, and we held tightly to the tears that
only appeared on the opposite side of closet doors as we marked our claim on unusual with
hand prints that never saw the sun.

Two days could have passed underneath us before we blinked, my windows whispered glorious
promises but we kept them closed for safety, for the opposition of who we could be, and
she knew the secret of every season, she knew how to laugh when bedroom doors...


I drew her behind the mirror and we created October across December stars, we became
disobedient underneath the glorious names we sang that night for lips speak magic when
they pretend to lie and dishonesty was but a kiss away from sunrise.

Time stung me come August, come March, come the age of thirty-two, her eyes had been shut
for years now and she sunk beneath flowers I am positive would be beautiful enough to
photograph had I the courage to glance, but my feet have never crossed the grass that
blankets her and roots her promises...

tangled beneath tomorrow with a tight grasp on yesterday, and I wonder if the days have
yet to fade the color of her hair.

It rained in January when I existed miles away, teardrops of memories that fell as softly
as the whispers of her name, I closed the bedroom door tightly and listened intensely for
the echoes of dishonesty, for she remained there, somewhere, behind mirrors that painted
her and the lies that bit my tongue, that reassured me...

our hand prints would hide from summer...

covered in ice-cream secrets that screamed her pain from a smile, from a foolish wish that
spoke us inseparable.

Her eyes, blue as October, slapped me, that day, as they painted themselves the secrets
girls are never supposed to witness, as they refused to allow April to fall but declared


with the beauty that she

could never see.

Details | Prose Poetry | |


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 | |

Ninth Fable

 Ninth Fable 
Ninth Fable 
Tragic Love 
Internet Love 
The Love eye have for ewe is just the same as iff we wed. 
The feelings that she gives me are never filled with dread. 
But nothing she can dew would make me ever want to wind up dead but the 
living do the love they do the life time instead. Eye could walk the halls of memory 
and get depressed or eye could become a nun in convicted pleasure and rest in 
convent until death can dew us part death can give me rest but what of love. How 
can a man get so excited at a little green dot a few mouse clicks and then a cold 
white chat box. The ink is never wet upon mye crinkle paper yet there it is its love. 
When she smiles at me eye smile when she frowns eye weep a river of the 
stuffins kept inside it all comes flowing out to make a wrongful death seem 
somehow write the words upon the mended heart depart from worry and from 
woe and take the brand new start and soon it all works for love. Snow White she 
ate the apple and then fell to fast asleep but Charlax came to kiss her and 
awakened her to live. Prince Charlax kisses good. 
Live upon the creek bank fishing for dragonflies in a house of love. Mending heart 
of Charming. Making love in heart. Mye snow white turtle love my pookie 
pochoucntous love my internet thrall. We can have it all just hold on to my 
namme and love. 
Researchers have now proven that love can mend a broken heart. 

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Streetlight

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

Details | Prose Poetry | |


What is it about dread that controls us?  The mixture of fear and loathing that 
consumes the contents of an empty bottle, longing for concentration and proof.  
Do we confuse the child within with the promise of loving past?  To be trapped in 
the closet crying insinuates passion that is manifested through burden of truth.  
Fallen is the plight of earthbound angels with clipped wings of faith.  Paralysis 
inhibits the quest of sequestered fanaticism and belief.  Eaten by earthly gilded 
belief.  Why does the clock taunt the merciful memories of divine imagery?  Why 
must that price be paid to know isolation?  From birth the struggle defines and 
outlines the matrix of conflicting souls.  The constant crash and collision of 
innocence tainted by truth.  This feeling is certain and intoxicating.  No truth could 
be truer.  No faith could be more devout.  The absolution of death disembowels 
the continuance of self-repair.  Does the collar impair judgment or empower 
concentration?  Can the songs of holy impunity comfort like the caress of a 
mother?  Will the tears drown unselfish giving?  

The answer is simple. 
The journey is hard.  
The gift is reverence. 

 Light, when will I learn the lesson?

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Life or Death

I sit here pondering my death. 
As I look upon the remnants of my tattered remains for signs of my so called life, I come to the conclusion that to do this, I must first accept the fact that I even had a life. 
But how can one have lived without the rhythmic beating of a heart, or the spiritual foundation of a soul to support ones wants and desires, or the will that encourages the thoughts and dreams of existence. 

How could the emptiness that was inside me have housed such a wonder? 
How is it possible the weakness I felt could ever have held such a power within? 
Is it possible I had reached the pinnacle of my suffering and committed emotional suicide?

Is it possible my demise was due to the ravenous wants and needs of man, disguised as passion and love which lured me into my willingness to give all that I had so freely, to satisfy a gluttonous appetite that consumed everything in its path including the memory of who and what I was?

But to acknowledge this would be to admit I gave my precious gift of life in exchange for a lie wrapped in the promise of everlasting happiness and love.

I sit here and ponder my death but I do not mourn. 
For I have only lost the vessel which held my true spirit, the one which now looks for the light and the chance to be reborn. 

A new being of strength and wisdom who realizes the mistake made in that other form, but will now hold dear all that is to come and all that will be. 

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Love: The Perfect Murder

When I am drowning I want you to be the water crushing down on me, escaping my 
last breath. When I am shot I want you to be the stinging bullet the pierces my skin. 
You will be the blood flowing from the hole in my heart and you will be my heart 
pumping the blood out to my death. When I am sad you will be the feeling of 
warmth upon my cheeks and the salty taste on my lips from tears. When I am 
overjoyed you will be the stretch of skin across my face. You will be the twinkle in 
my overflowing eyes. You will be the memories pressing against my skull when my 
head aches. You will be the blade perfectly slicing my skin. You will be my anger 
releasing vulgar words and you will be my pointing finger. You will be the reddening 
of my face and the burning of my pride. When I am fed up I want you to be my rage 
that puts a hole in the wall. When I am heartbroken you will be the glass shattered on 
the floor. When I am choking your hands will be the ones around my neck. When I 
stand before myself in front of the mirror, you will be my reflection staring back at 
me. When my veins are bursting I want you to be the needle that punctures them. 
When I have given up on my survival, I want you to be the icy cold touch that 
consumes my body. When I have decided enough is enough I want you to be that 
little voice in the back of my head. When I let myself fall from the sky I want you to 
be the wind that carries me to the bottom. When I have fallen to my death you will 
be the blood stained carpet on which others will later stand. You will be the jealousy 
tearing away at my soul when I witness happiness. You will be my broken wings on 
which I try to fly away with. You will be reality destroying my every thought. You 
will be my emotions draining from the bottom. You will be everything that no one 
has ever wanted except me. When I am buried you will be the dirt holding me down. 
You will be the worms and bugs feasting on my body. You will be the forever coffin 
that surrounds my sleeping self.

Written December 16, 2008

Details | Prose Poetry | |


Haven’t they seen where time stands still and the sun kisses the morning sky 
Running free from the break of day, laughter echoing for miles
Oh yes, it was easier then, when we were only 10
Spirit alive with tomorrows promise and innocence 
Watching sunsets disappear and then soon came the years

Innocence, memories from an easier time
Beauty fades, but not for you, I can see through
The soul never weathered and aged like your skin  
Spirit worn from facing each day without hope 
The soul renewed, found peace, stayed true 

Honesty is living life through your soul.
Life is more than meets the eye. 
Beauty is in the eye of the beholder 
And eyes are the gateway to the soul. 

Souls which have no color decend unharmed
Reality unmasked, the soul of compassion and forgiveness
Teach the young that they possess a power
To love each other past our cover.

When time is gone, the soul remains as the body decays
Before the end, slow down, enjoy the still
Give your soul to another who truly sees you
Taking only what you need to see truth
Be still and listen to what remains unspoken 

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Heart of a POET -- Speaks (Part 3)

Red Tears , Create a Black Lake
Where my Heart now swims

You may Kiss your Bride : I raise HER veil, see the essence of my universe
Wrapping my arms around Her; drawing Her closer, We kiss our tongues dance
The eyes, ears the depths of my soul ; screaming “Rejoice; our host is Whole
 I remember Our Wedding Dance a Rhapsody to Eternity, the rest of the day 
                                            A soporiferous trance
I remember the last  Beautiful  Picture  I ever Felt of  “  L E N O R E  “
 My host  was  standing on the Shuffle-Board Court talking with Mr. Adams
 His only “FATHER” - in law :  Respectfully  my host gazes beyond “TO LENORE”
 Standing by the railing  on the main deck a few feet below : He glances and catches
 THE flash in LENORE’s Green Eyes : the mirrors of HER SOUL a silhouette :
  Against the Sun standing upon his own reflection Smiling at His smile : I Smile
 Sending  LENORE ‘s Heart a whisper :  a LOVE Song;  Singing of our FOREVER
 A Toast to MRS LENORE ELLEN(Adams)JOHNSON The Heartbeat of my SOUL
 Her eyes bypass me to her Daddy,  I nod my appreciation, He nods Saying call me D A D 
 OUR eyes  revert to LENORE who raises her glass which flies from her hand:  I glimps
As a sailing boom sweeps across the main deck Hearing the wails of fear and pain
The boom lifts LENORE up and throws Her over the Railing I glance at DAD “FROZEN
 In that second of time” I tore off my cummerbund tie and my shoes “All HANDS on Deck  
ALL HANDS ON DECK Man Overboard  I start to leap as the arms of a monster puts me in a
I can’t break through “ Let me go YOU stupid  M___er - F___er  Please LET ME GO I cried 

Details | Prose Poetry | |


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 | |

Genocide contest

My wife. 
I watch them as they tear her limb from limb
Gnawing on her arms and legs, now stiff, but still
They try. Their mouths trickling blood. Rabid animals
She drips from their chins. I wait for them to bleed
From their eyes. To die of something, anything
For desecrating what is mine. But still they moan
Hungry for more, staring at me, ready to attack. I lunge
A few feet away, with all I have, but they’re on human crack, 
Arms reaching for my body next to the rats. My wife’s finger 
Rolls away. Her wedding ring still on between gnaws.  
A peek into my future, what’s next 
But to give in to the savagery. No energy left to defend my life. 
Teeth bite into my skin clamp onto my shin. Someone bites my tongue. 
I swallow the last breath of air. A whisper of sound barely there. 
Then released.  
Yet The Starving’s just begun. 

For Cyndi’s contest
Holodomor genocide

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Creation, Curse and Promise

Since eternity past God the Father Son & Holy Spirit dwelled in unity and sweet fellowship.
Then Three-In-One decided to make a marvelous universe with an earth for life to dwell.
Creating an amazing array of creatures was the easy part – the risk was on the last made.
For unlike other creatures, man & woman were made in God's likeness with a Spirit.

That Spirit communicated with God, and harmony reigned as earth was well cared for.
Freedom to do was great – limited by but one tree that the humans were not to ear from.
At that tree, Satan disguised himself as an innocent snake and asked the woman questions.
Did God really say don't eat from this tree?  Well, that's to keep you from becoming like Him.

Look its fruit is beautiful and one bite and you'll know what God does and be Jehovah's equal.
Eve was confused, for this didn't sound like what Adam said God told her, but wouldn't it be grand.
If God is so good, why would he keep this secret from us of being able to be like Him – is He jealous?
The firm, juicy fruit was indeed delicious, and she quickly called Adam to taste, which soon he did.

A small act? Every war, family problem, anger, hatred, lie, killing, stealing, rape, abuse came herefrom.
The beauty of God's creation was now marred with sin that affected every part with death and decay.
God graciously gave Adam & Eve animal skins for no longer would they live in Eden's perfect climate.
From now on there would be sweat for the food they ate and exceedingly great pain during childbirth.
Even their firstborn would murder their second, starting the cycle of revenge and killing that's ongoing.

Yet God also made a promise that one would come who would crush Satan's head while being bruised.
"In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God and the Word was God" clues us in to who.
For God's Son Himself would come to teach, heal and offer His life on a Cross to destroy our death curse.
Our sins He would bear and in rising He's seal the promise of eternal life, so great we Jesus' love for us.

For Jesus the cost was unbelievably high, and for us the reward is incredibly great – if we but accept.
Accept that I am a sinner, I've done wrong and need God's forgiveness to live with His perfection.
Accept that Jesus can do what I cannot – change my heart, make my Spirit alive to forever live with God.
This being GOD, the promise of heaven and new earth is sure, though pain lies in between.  Choose now.

For GOD and all creation cry out – this is what life is meant for – to know and love One's Maker.
As humans we live eternally with or apart from God, and His great desire is that we choose with.
But just as an earthly Father cannot force true love, nor does our Heavenly Father – He waits.
Though He made all and knows beginning from end, he waits and yearns that we receive His love.

Then love and be loved by Jesus in life's harshness & delight, sharing that love with other lost children
To work in harmony with the One who made us, makes life new again as our spirit is filled with new life.
There can be dry days when we don't feel His presence, and others so full that we want to shout for joy.
The fact is Our Father GOD, our Savior Jesus, the Holy Spirit, are always with us and never will leave us. Amen.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Brave Soldier

Eleven years ago, my father died.
Divorced from my mother when I was two, 
he was a stranger to me most of my life.
I had no tears as the Marine handed me the flag.
He said, "This is a gift from the President of the
United States in honor of the service that your father
gave to his country". 

Five years ago, as my mother died,
I touched her face and held her hand -
something she never allowed when we were children.
I told her everything was all right
and she could let go.
My eyes were dry, she had no funeral.

Later that year,
my husband packed his suitcase.
He told me of his plans
to find his "spiritual path", and left.
I said nothing and went inside.

But last night, my sweet little Aussie
stumbled and fell, unable to move.
With wide eyes slightly opaque,
her dear face grey around the muzzle,
she told me, its time.

This sweet companion,
faithful and brave, has only asked
for my presence in her life.

This morning, I awoke,
and I cried a  child,
with my mouth open,
eyes streaming,
nose running.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Ghost of Bayou Cannot

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

Written by my grandmother Sandra Burch

Details | Prose Poetry | |


shadow visits me
moments slip I play with him
every next moment

she reminds me of
finale I must play in
I rehearse exit

fake now and then, grogs 
light and dark meet in my ribs
They tickle heart pounds

a pointer stylus
marks every seismic move to
grave sleepless eyeballs

She says we meet soon
I must sleep with flower-buds
she loves all bloom, night

A shaft can crack her
Only moon slinks off
kissing my shadow

Death Shadow - Poetry Contest
Sponsor:Justin Bordner

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Dead White Things and Recurring Dreams Two

Suddenly - same as in the last dream, the seal pup eyes again, had 
metamorphosed into two oblong pools of a flat blackness. They now showed deeply 
vacant, unreal, each one filled with certain emptiness ..., each one devoid of 
characteristic implying of life within…
In this little girls’s mind, the pup had now transformed into a ghoulish image. Her 
vision of the apparition had now taken on an eerie out-of-place look and feeling. 
This was a feeling much the same as if a sudden appearance of a clown had risen 
from out of the sea ice; a desolate vision that had always posed to the little girl as a 
face of terror. She had her reasons...
In this dream turned nightmare, the motherless pup always chased after her, crying, 
pining, yet to avail its seek. The nearest this whelp would ever manage to get, was 
to lay in the little girl’s shadow, a taken offering in a desperate attempt to 
suppress the horror that lay ahead. – While still frightened, it would be at this point 
that the pup fell into a self-induced trance, losing itself in a deep blue memory while 
in the vastness of a white world... the little girl opened her eyes, she instantly knew that it had happened again. 
Earlier it was her birthday, the clown had now left, but she knew that it was 
him. “This cannot be right,” the little girl would think. Tears welled up in her eyes, 
yet only an ensuing silence flowed.
White seal pup teardrops same as her own have no tell, only do they vanish, only to 
then reappear...
The little girl closed her eyes again, only this time, - really falling asleep – alone, but 
yet still having to dream...
...Therein, the pup woke up to a horror scene; everywhere in every view, were 
splotches of blood-covered snow. The Harp Seal colony had vanished, leaving only 
the red stained ice that now nearly encircled the white seal. Yet, once again, the 
pup would dive into the ever-receding safe confines of an eight-year old girl’s 
mind ...; miraculously having survived, to yet, – another close remind...that they 
were one and the same!

Details | Prose Poetry | |


SUN TRAN history 
 Passenger Pigeons carry messages to people entrenched at 
www.wwone/ditched in doughboy britches wearing Army boots of wool 
 August 3, 1914 special free edition of the BerlinTageblatt announces "The War 
with France” The Kaiser rolled away and fell from Germany the world is saved 
they proclaim the war is over 1918   
 His hat was very black and ebon his vest hung down in back front was cut in 
western sling style his hair was off white gray an old gunslinger out of old 
Tucson days. He took a transfer out of his pants pocket and tried to slide it in the 
bus to make it work but the driver had turned it off to see his face light up he had 
been caught for this was the very first bus. NO the driver said simply with a smile 
that will not work and left it at that and up to him he did not frown but added the 
dollar paid the money for the fare the first time not again his bogus attempt at a 
free ride had failed. He took his transfer paid he learned his western lesson 
there the driver being kind and understanding could have been demanding that 
he leave the bus and March 24, 2008 has come the carrier pigeons are taking 
messages to the war is over Hitler dead go home and live 
without a gun without a dread.  She simply simpered she opened up her bag a 
purse no doubt without a dime or dollar amount inside her friend paid for hisself 
one dollar kept the transfer in his hand she kept repeating to herself for all the 
crowd to understand eye left the wallet with the money in it at home the wallet MY 
wallet is NOT in this bag it has been left at home the man he seemed astonied 
when she said in certain tones did you get a pass for me NO he said don't you 
remember my pass and your pass is both in your wallet left at home the driver 
moaned a bit but let her be she let them ride he said eye gave to you my pass to 
keep for me she said so sad MY WALLET is NOT in this bag it is left behind at 
home IT'S EVERYTHING the carrier pigeon flew with messages to the troop in 
the trenchment ditch at 
The message simply said 
we airmailed 
 every missle 
that we have 
to hit the enemy 
the world is over now 
do not try to do anything 
just pray 
we are all going to see 

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Lady Of Mortality

She is waiting in time's shadow

Wrapped in night's whisper 

Fever crowns her head with fire

She wears illness as her garment 

Heartache is her design 

Her soul less eyes reflect 

Absence of life 

Her mouth draws breath 

Leaving emptiness 

She lifts life's veil 

Death embraces sorrow 

Flowers blanket stone memories 

Grief weeps to an orchestra of pain

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Stitches of January.

“Buy me a scarf” she said and curled her toes through snow to demonstrate the color of

“Buy me a scarf and I'll wrap our memories around my neck, you can watch me smile in
storms as I contemplate warmth and look at you beneath the sky.”

I wrote promises on windows with fingers that touched shadows and counted snowflakes
crystals as I destroyed their patterns in a feeble attempt to claim love...

There, in the house that spoke one thousand tears, I thought about the secrets we
whispered when the year turned and purple was fantastic on the other side of frozen lakes
despite the voices that named us something unspeakable.

Rings and silver and I wore one on my toe, polished perfectly, my feet felt summer and I
laughed in lilts of June and breaths of lilac bushes that lined my backyard, but I kept my
closet door shut, winter stitches on shelves so January's voice would never be heard...

I boxed up photographs and letters that quoted songs we had sang together, I covered up
her haircut and placed her eyeliner in an envelope but I knew, beneath the ground where
lilac bushes rooted themselves...

she wore the ring I had placed upon her finger on her fourteenth birthday, on the day
August spoke up and we listened intently, mocking 


and bedposts that wrote her name...

and I sat, cleaning prints off of windows, erasing promises and eluding love, wondering,
if I had learned how to knit, would sidewalks have been so convincing?

I listened to memories and bought myself a scarf, wrapped stitches of January around my
neck and heard her, in laughter, as she whispered through the wind that numbed the fingers
that broke promises...

“Lend me your scarf, and I'll see you, I'll hold your hand when August knocks you down.”

Details | Prose Poetry | |

What If

What if 
I vanish, 
I vanish from the face
Of the world,
Into an oblivion,
Into the void
Of pitch-darkness
Of nothing beyond.
What if I don't
leave a word
or two, behind for you.
What if I go,
Cold and slow.
What if I draw
grey-black strokes
Before I know
That I'd immerse
lower than low.
What if the day
comes, cheerless
and dull,
Songs of skies
allay and lull
me to sleep.
For eternity.
What if I cease to know
How the emerald
on that grass will glow,
How it feels to wake up
The leaf will stir.
The wind will take you far.
Joys of breathless delight
Would still rupture. 
Countless days will pass.
That my toes do not
touch the grass.
Until a lonely star
On a dust-less night
Will murmur
my name, in your ear.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The war that can be won

The mind commands the body immediately obeys, the mind order itself and it meets arrogance and lets that mean genie out of the bottle.

In your addictions the line between life and death is very thin a war that has only one win if you keep using and letting that evil genie in; death is slow and sure. These are the guideline that you have set; stop and think, do you like being satan pet? keep this thought on your mind, the setting of guidelines belong to God not man!

Logic is blinded and you forget about the past, the future is an unknown; why just to get high? Every endeavor is a challenge is it not, just for a high that just don't last.

Fear not all is not lost! Addiction is a war that can be won, that is if you keep certain things in your mind, fighting it with all your heart, and all of your mind. Lean not on your own understanding, but finding faith in God of your own understanding;. Place your trust in Him; He not demanding.

Addiction and recovery encompass neatly identical tactics, they are both learned behavior and they are both controlling factors. Neither one accept anything less than total victory. the first one will bring about your destruction and second one brings about a chance to live a life free from bondage.

Open your eyes don't let illogical thinking be your guide, living life with satan by your side, just for the brief moment of that high. This life type of living is shaded and it is unkind; demons controlling your mind.
 Word to the wise, wisdom and strength comes from the One that is Setting most high; let the Lord edify. Life in the Word will become excitedly gratifying ; in this your will find strength without any boundaries and all that you need is faith and belief that Jesus can set you free; Pick up His words and read John 3:16.  
Nothing beat a failure but a try; so I pray for you and so please stop getting high.

Details | Prose Poetry | |



   On Monday March 14th 2011, at 1:05 PM, I believe I was looking into the face and eyes of Death, as we drove to Her, school .

   I think I heard the voice and sounds of Death, on Monday March 14th 2011 at 1:15 PM as She tried to direct me past the entrance to Her class. 

   I felt the hands of Death, touch me as She turned away, leaving me standing there, heart in hand, bleeding profusely, no response, as she turned Her, back and walked away, not looking back . 

   3:40 PM and as I sat in the Henderson Mall, heart broken, feeling the pangs of regret, the Grim Reaper, cut into my chest, as I watched Lady Death, walk towards me with a look that said " die ", " go to hell " but the words that came out of Lady Death's, mouth were " such a serious look ! " and Her, response to my gift of apology ( flowers and a poem ) and my offer to give Her, a ride home where met with a curt response " I have something else to do " and She, was gone like the lights had been turned out, and then the Grim Reaper, plunged his scythe deep into my heart, twisting his blade with such aggression I could hardly breath as my lungs tightened up, my throat closed, my heart would not beat and my soul cried out in vain . 

   For eleven days I sat in the silences, looking into the casket, at this old fool, who, by his own hands, was killed, killed by his stupidity and thoughtless words. The evening of the eleventh day of my wake, a sweet, voice, from my memory, sang out to my dead ears, but the tones where sugarless and the lyrics where that of a dirge ringing out a death blow, as Lady Death, responded to " will I get to see you sometime ?" with a " maybe " and then " I have to go, I have things to do " and then the coffin lid came crashing down on my state of reverie, the dream shattered like a mirror struck by a meteor, shards, splinters, fragments fused together in twisted, distorted images of what once was ?, is ?, my dream, a dream that was not, is not Hers, and like Alice in Wonder Land, slipping through the looking glass, reality was not as it seemed, for one's reality, on the other side, may not be the reality of another. The visions, the desires, the dreams, one's perception, all, are but splinters of the holographic universe we inhabit, but have no control of. FATE ?, KARMA ?, THE GRAND DESIGN ?, BLIND CHOICES ? 

   Now I spend every hour of every day hanging on to the edges of my funeral, the wake, my spirit attends faithfully and from these, my mind will not let me escape . 

   I wonder if I will be able to step out from behind the looking glass ?, awake from my beautiful dream ?, face reality ?, reality reflected in those exotic, dark brown mirrors, the windows to your soul .

   My Lotus Blossom, my Oriental Dream, my China Doll, my Exquisite Vision of Loveliness, my Exotic Beauty, - she has left me with my own death mask to reflect upon as I look into the mirrors ( images of what I once experienced with Her, ) and see only ghostly figures ( She and me and all that we shared, all we experienced ) haunting all the moments that lie among the ashes of all the beautiful experiences we shared, experience I believe She, has placed upon a funeral pyre, set them on fire, no longer having a desire to even remember we once lived them, them that gave my life some purpose, gave me meaning, put a sparkle in these tired old eyes and a spring to the shuffle of this old mans step. For   Her, ????????????? 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Take Me

I'll be you're victim take me and not her I'll do anything you 
wan't me to I won't say a word you're secret is kept inside a 
box I call home I don't know what you look like even though 
I seen you're face pently times around here I anit gonna 
show them how you are even though I know how you are 
things had change about you I see what made you act this 
way??? you're eyes are even clearly blood shoot red and 
you're face is meaner then ever something made you change 
and I wish I can turn you back to the man I knew years back 
theres some good still in you don't let get fade away give 
that nice person you have hinted inside I won't tell a soul 
how soft you truly are

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Final Wishes of a Poet

Final Wishes of a Poet 
Arabic poem By: Rukn-al-Din Yunus
Translated into English By: 
Inaam Al-Hashimi (Gold_N_Silk)
(Part 1 of 3)

Lend me a handful of earth
So that I may make you a statue 
You have not seen the like before
In your dreams.
Lend me a breath of spring
I’ll paint you cities, seashores 
And passionate rendezvous.
Lend me some of your crazy letters 
And I will dispatch couriers
To deliver them to gardens
And send elegantly dressed devotees
With a touch of sadness 
To receive them from the gardens
And read them to the river.
Lend me some of the words
Escaping from under your hat, 
Which has no resemblance to Pablo Neruda’s,
To write you an epic 
Spelled out by tyrants
Every night 
To cry their own fates in the morning.
Lend me an evening you could spare
To romp through virtual streets 
Named after living poets 
From different generations
Wherein a river of music goes over the heads of passersby
Drowning all in ageless glamour. 
Lend me the rest of the golden letters
In your pocket
To disperse them over the outskirts of my words
And the lanterns of my dreams
To light up what’s left of the opaque sentences 
In the imagination of the painter
And the wisdom of the poet 
Who is crazed about the clay
On the banks of the Hilla River.

(Part 2 of 3)

I'll die tonight...
O my dear wife!
I’ve never liked farewell ceremonies
In my life
So let things be normal and quiet.
Forgive me! I will not kiss you tonight
Just lie down beside me on the bed
For now.
Don’t tell the boys about my no-return journey 
Don’t let the girls cry with you
Especially the married one
And the little one
The middle one as well.
Let everything be as ordained for me
By those I don’t know
All I know for sure
I will die tonight.
How? ..... I do not know!
How? ..... I do not know!
At what time? …. The mind of the poet is unable to tell.
I will die my dear wife
Don’t forget to feed the dog “Yoyo” early in the morning.
Don’t neglect spraying the garden 
First in the morning
Even if it was time for the funeral.
And don’t forget the seven o'clock news
Listen to it for the sake of your love for me
They always mention news of the lost homeland.
Don’t forget ever....
The chicken feed
I’d like to hear 
The cock’s crow every morning in my grave.
And hide the empty wine bottles
Out of the sight of mourners...
I don’t want them to accuse poets of infidelity.
And if they ask you 
What was with him before he died?
Just tell them:
He forgot to live!

(Part 3 of 3)

Before I died
My wife made me a clay statue 
And cried at it
She and her five daughters did.
But my two sons took no notice
Of their mother crying
Nor of their sisters wearing black 
But, rather,  
They seized the opportunity
And went out to join their peers
In a football game!

Before I died
My friends vied 
And jostled in front of  
Mercenary and non-mercenary newspapers’ buildings
Led by “Riyadh Alghareeb”
To provide their elegies for my immortal soul
Which reminds them of their own
As they greet death.

And since that day
I am holding on to my soul
Lest it slips away 
In a moment 
Of inattention
From me
The poet
Rukn al-Din Yunus
Translated by: Em. Prof. Inaam Al-Hashimi
November 2013

* Rukn-al-Din Yunus is a poet from Iraq

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Mom's Death

I will always recall the day
my mom died.

She was in recovery for 
congestive heart surgery.
The work itself had gone well 
but brought on massive clots 
to the lungs.

I was an hour and a half away
and when I arrived, 
Mom was talking to the doctor.
He had tears in his eyes,
apologizing for getting hopes up 
where there was no hope now.
She looked him straight in the eye
and told him that she didn’t want to die.
But, if the Lord was ready 
the doctor didn’t need to cry.
“I know you did everything in your power 
to make me well”, she said. “So don’t you feel bad, 
don’t apologize for trying to help me.  
God is the one to have the final say.
I will resist going until my absolutely final breath. 
Because, I think that is what he expects of me.  
When I know it’s time I will be with him.”
The doctor left, I don’t know if he felt better. 
Probably not. He had promised her five more years.

I stayed and talked to mom for a while, 
before my brother came back in.
“Now Bunky, you know your brothers
are not as strong as you.  
You will have to help them through this.  
That is what I know you will do.”  
I said “yes Momma,” 
no longer fighting the wetness profusely rolling down my cheeks.
“Where’s Carolyn” she said of my wife. 
“I called her and she is on the way shortly. 
She will get here as soon as she can.” 
My brother came back in 
and I went out to the doctor again.

He said her lungs were completely clogged 
and she would slowly suffocate.  
But, it would be painless because she could breathe.  
She just couldn’t process the air.
She would simply go to sleep.
And that is the way the next four hours went,
with Mom going little by little.  
She napped, 
and woke up once in a while 
to ask about my younger brother 
and his wife and my wife. 
Telling all how much she loved them. 
She slept a little longer each
time she closed her eyes
and finally the only one not 
there was my wife.  
We thought a couple of times she had passed.  
But the nurse said she just wouldn’t give up. 
She sunk so low they couldn't find a pulse
or read blood pressure. 
I don’t remember how they knew she was not gone.  
Finally just before my wife
came in they actually didn’t know 
if she was still alive.
My wife came in and Mom spoke.
“Carolyn, Carolyn", very weakly and 
they talked softly for a while and Mom died. 
She had held on beyond a readable pulse.  
Beyond blood pressure. 
To tell my wife good bye. 

Details | Prose Poetry | |


Flashes of memories and thoughts
 whirl around in my head 
until I can't take it anymore
I don’t know what's worse; 
memories of us together 
or the reality of him being dead

Laying together in a pile of leaves
walking in the rain 
making a mess instead of making cookies
long talks deep into the night
feeling wanted and knowing that I mattered
Lying alone in the park
 crying in the shower
not eating for long stretches of time
cutting myself off from family and friends
feeling lost and empty inside.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Owl Watching

Clutching his coat closer to his body, he trudged through the thick fog. Steps unprepared,
unplanned, only to arrive at the statue posing in its eternal stiffness. The face carved
carefully, most obviously hand crafted with letters seemingly gargled and thrown up, left
misinterpreted but etched into history. Coins jingling in all 4 pockets, unspent and
almost as worthless as the promises that were made.

How-To books only revealed his worthless state, ripping out blank pages one at a time,
with the bright yellow façade guffawing at his precipice. The inevitable would amount to
an anti climax, one that would bother him for a while, one that he could possibly never

Tired screams were dismissed of their existence, after all no one was around to hear them.
A bloody mess lay at his feet as a deep drum drew closer and closer. Beads of sweat
delicately ran down his face, his palms gilded with blood as pure as gold. Precious stones
culminated into a vacant stare and slowly as the sun set, they shined no more.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

When you're just not thinking

Remorse is building up inside of me,
Everyone has to know fairy tales don’t always have happy endings,
Never thought you could try so hard and still fall short,
I’m in need of something to fill this hole in my chest,
It grows bigger,
Moving deeper,
Making me realize that some things can’t ever be achieved or obtained,
I’m gonna bottle up my heart and let it float out in the sea,
Never to be found,
Never to be seen,
No more pain can be caused when it’s somewhere at the bottom of the sea,
I need to face the fact that I’m going to lose everything if I keep on the path of my sanity,
I want to believe that things can only go up for me,
But that’s life,
Your gonna suffer,
Sitting in the corner rocking back and forth,
Head so low you can see caskets from the recently diseased,
It’ll be pouring showers from all the crying that’s going to be happening,
I know life might seem hard sometimes,
And trust me it is,
I know that shotgun looks shiner by the minute,
And trust me it does,
But just bottle up your heart and send it away,
Like I did,
Because no matter what you’re going through,
What might be going through your head right now,
Just isn’t worth it..

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Beau lacrima -beautiful tears

She cried and she cried
and i tried and i tried
but she just cried and she cried 
and i pained and i cried
she told me its alright to die
but i kept holding on 
couldn't let her go
she just kept crying tears
some from anger some from sad
My heart dropped right then and there
she clutched my shirt and cried more
I held her there and smiled small
"mi amor,mi corozan,cry no more for you will always have me in your heart" 
I whispered in her ear as i kissed away her tears
she looked up at me and she made me swear that no matter what
i'd stay in her heart 
i told her i would and to never forget me 
as i told her this she cried some last tears
I stroked her cheek and kissed her tear
one last time i told her,your still beautiful when you cry
mi beau lacrima

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 | |

Always the Fool

Perusing the tomes of esoterica,
One truth I've learnt indeed,
Not one book contains it all.
There's always more to read.
Axiom mixed with allegory,
Abstract salt and misty sulphur.
Is this that famous alchemy?
I'll find the quintessence myself.
I wonder will my pupils burn,
Ere I see the salamander?
Peradventure I'll go blind,
Gazing at the flame.
Kundalini's far too painful,
No snakes I'll squeeze from there!
Keep the stick; I disdain your wand,
And those dowdy robes of rite.
You banish nought excepting creed,
So your mind can play in circles.
Dr Dee, did you notice,
Darkness in reflection?
Enoch's sigils say no more,
Arcane shapes that never shine.
Antiquated and obscure,
The like of which I can't define.
No Angels tap upon my pane,
I think they've lost their wings?
Or John and Eddy were insane,
Who can read their mirror?
I covet a theophany,
To behold an avatar.
But none have manifested yet,
Perhaps they are asleep?
I heard the Masons in cabal,
'Find the tent within thyself.'
Alas their holy pillars crumble,
When their master's meet.
Will I become the charioteer?
And overcome my obstacles.
Maybe the Tower's drawn for me,
'I'll see you at the bottom.'
To then be threshed by death himself,
Though his charger l won't fear.
Nor that upon his hasty heels,
For death is only transition.
A torchless Hermit I'll remain,
Engaged in futile rumination.
The change I will, will not occur,
Therefore the Fool forever I'll be.

Details | Prose Poetry | |



It was a smooth transition
So imperceptible that I hardly noticed.
The passage from life to death was so sudden.
It happened as I was driving
Making a right hand turn.
The bright sunlight softened
Became less harsh.
A blanket of peace embraced me tenderly.
I turned inquisitively to Eliane.
She wasn’t there.
I was truly amazed
I didn’t comprehend.
Somehow I wasn’t stressed.
I want to go back.
I turn the steering wheel,
However the car does not respond.
I want to panic
No I cannot
I am at peace
I look in the rear view mirror
And I see commotion, 
Eliane is leaning over someone,
Who is she so intimate with?
I am brought closer to her 
I see that she has someone in her arms
She is crying.
I still cannot comprehend, 
Why is she sobbing?
People have gathered around her,
There is Brendan
Now Mel is running 
And Carlos too,
As Louise pulls Eliane gently away from this person
I see that it is me.
My eyes are staring nowhere
My face is wet from her tears
Am I?

Details | Prose Poetry | |


	Billie died today. 
	Respiratory failure, 
	quiet and painless.
	She just went away.
	I sat beside her bed, 
	watching her breath, 	
	the blue pulse in her neck. 
	She lay on her right side, 
	pale, fetal-curled, 
	facing the wall,
	worn out, used up.
	Hospice told me 
	that the only thing 
	keeping her alive 
	was the oxygen being given 
	though the clear plastic mask 
	covering her nose and mouth. 
	There were drops of condensation 
	inside the mask, 
	making most of her small face indistinct. 
	The parts I could see clearly – 
	cheek and chin, 
	one ear,
	were perfectly calm. 
	I was told that I could
	remove the mask. 
	I did. 
	She took a single breath, 
	later, another; 
	she was gone.
	She would have done the same for me.

         © Jack Jordan 2013

Details | Prose Poetry | |


breathing stops
no heartbeat
waxy pale
blood settles nether limbs 
temperature falls 
limbs get stiff
now to elements
to elements

Details | Prose Poetry | |

I Survived Janjaweed Part 1

I was a girl of only 5 years when I looked across the desert and saw a cloud of smoke covering the skies off in the distance.  I remember being afraid that my grandmother might be hurt because she lived there with my Uncle Sofarlo, his wife and my cousins.         
     It was during the season of the drought, so the sky was bright blue everywhere except above Grandma’s Village.  I thought that the blazing sun had sparked a flame in one of the huts.  All I could do was hope that Grandma was okay.
     A few days later, one of my cousins, Lekelo, stormed into our hut and collapsed on the ground.  He said that Uncle Sofarlo was a little way behind and was bringing grandmother in a cart.  
     I never saw Lekelo so thin.  His face looked like leather stretched over a skull.  His skin was scorched and terror shown through the tiny slits of his sunken eyes.  They were almost swollen shut.  His tears had made mini-gullies through the ashes that stuck to his charred face.
     He fell to the floor of our hut and Mom ran over to put a blanket under him.  My oldest sister drew a bucket of water and brought some leaves to wash and soothe his wounds.  Everyone was running around trying to help him revive, but it did not look good.
     Of course I was terrified.  I might have been only five, but I knew that something awful must have happened.  He kept muttering the same thing over and over, “Janjaweed, Janjaweed, Janjaweed” until finally, he spoke no more.  
     Dad frantically sounded the drum.

Copyright 10-13-2014

I chose Dafarian Genocide.
Written for Poetry Soup Member Contest: GENOCIDE: SPEAK FOR THE LOST... the FORM IS POETIC PROSE  Sponsor	Cyndi MacMillan


Details | Prose Poetry | |


Have you ever felt hunger? I have. 
I had turned twenty-seven years old in Ukraine in 1931,
it was the best year of my life. 
After four years of marriage, my husband and I were blessed.
Twins, I would name them Emma and Anna, and a year later
I would bury them under the solitary tree on my brother’s property.
It should have been the happiest years of our lives. Work was
starting  to pick up, the grain harvest was running full forward.
It is ironic, since it was the improper storage of grain that killed us.
We didn't know then how we would die, we only lived with ambition.
We were sure our lives were in the right direction, finally. 
It happened so immediate. From overflowing rations to the dreaded
voice of our supplier saying, "None today, move along."
The twins were milking me dry, I hadn't the energy to move 
during the warmest months of the year. With my husband’s work
stopping production, fields desolate and storage depleted, we
moved in with my brother, leaving behind a house we built from 
the first day of our marriage until the day we left, never seeing that
wooden fenced in stone house again.
Soon, death was all around, with the family close, we saw it week
after week. 
First it was Emma, she refused to nurse. Her body shut down overnight,
if I wept for her, I wept knowing that Anna would suffer the same fate,
but maybe if I held on just a little longer she would survive.  She didn’t.
It became too hard for me to survive. I felt the weight from my pregnancy 
wash away quickly, my plum Ukraine cheeks went from blushing and proud
to hanging on my bones, a sad skin I was in.
Many died of starvation. My brother died when a neighbor fought him for
a wild rabbit.
Then it was my turn. With the twins in the ground, I lay upon the fresh dirt, cradling the earth in 
Fingers. My husband held my hair. He kissed my dry cracked lips as I slipped away.
Hungry, oh the pain of hunger, the body eats away from the inside. I know the hunger
And it was the death of me.

For Contest: Genocide
Date: 09-01-2014

Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Friend in Doubt

A Friend in Doubt
July 2, 2011 

Thought I had a true friend
He would be there till the end
In the end I found out 
What he was all about
Making me the shrew
And giving me the screw
Though the years we were there
All we did was help and share
You show concern 
But then you learn
His name is Jimmy and so full of bull
He treats most as a fool
Once he is alone
It will finally lost last be shown
Just keep on to thyself lying
Because soon you will be dying
Things will be better in the end
Cause life will be begin again
But now a lost friend to me 
So my life is finally free

Details | Prose Poetry | |


You need a visit to the bush
to see an elephant

You need a visit to the bush
to see a bufallo
Who will go to the wild
to see the fun of these animals

'Abidoye Adeosun' has been there
to see these animals playing

'Akintan Oluwasegun' has also been there
to see there funs, now both are part of them

You two are great warriors
of the world above

REST IN PEACE my two lovely friends

Dine not in a earthworm soup
Dine not in a millipede stew

Whatever they eat in the world above
Dine gracefully with them


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Untitled 17

You’ll eat anything:
the closer to death the better.
I think you prefer me half dead:
the fainter my pulse,
the tastier I am.

But I won’t let you gorge
on my thin bones anymore;
these pale remains are mine.
I’ll love, and try to live,
and kill your appetite.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Beneath the Water Drowning

I guess we'll never know
if you found peace
or if the answers came
to you somehow

In the turmoil
of your life' passion
you encountered confusing contradictions
when you needed compassion

Your struggle against the flow
estranged you
to your loved ones 
you thought your
husband was a foe

I'd like to know
what you were thinking
what drove you to the point
of jumping in
after a bout of heavy drinking 

The creative gene you possessed
is in me now and I thank you
for allowing me to have it 
my dream is that in
the afterlife I'll see you

Until then I guess
we'll never know
if beneath the waters
you found what you
were looking for.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

How I Will Remember You

Every time I think of you
I’ll see your smiling face
In your hands you kept my heart
And within my arms your embrace. 

We had our share of ups and downs
We didn’t always see eye to eye
Remembering the times you made me laugh
Made it easy to forget each time I cried.

We always stood up for the good in each other
And with God’s help got rid of the bad
What better a family could one man have asked for
Than the one I’ve had.

I thank you for all you’ve done
I was blessed to have you at my side
Your job as my guardian angels is done
Now God’s angels will be my guide.

When I needed you most you were there for me
Now there’s nothing more to worry about
Although God’s always had it
He’s got it from here on out.

This is how I will remember you.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

My pain

blood drips down
locked the door
the stinging starts to fade
everything becomes a blur
i know lay in the tub
in the cold water
my my arms stings
then the pain fades
i go under hopping not to come back up for air
and i feel my body going numb
i open my mouth to get a water in and blood
i tell myself to stay under
and then everything fads away
no more pain
my heart stops
the pain leaves me
my dead body is in the tub
untill someone starts looking for me
when they find my body
it will be to late

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Bitterness Death

Hug me! hug me!
I"m still here, standing!
Oh bitterness of death
You shall not frighten me!

Behold oh companion, I felt
Thy hands squeezing my hands,
Your chest supporting my head
So I am watching from thy eyes
These white sweet roses!
Behold from these, your sweet scented-breath.

Oh ye - white roses as if you 
Were thousands of years before
Growing and growing from my remains.
As if you were before - in my ears - whispering.
So! repeat thy whispers, repeat.

And you O grass of graves!
O perpetual existence  - from the brightness
Of the day - toss these roses into my tomb, toss!
Behold white roses from the leafy lips, moaning! 
Hug me! Oh bitterness of death,
And behold as I ascend. 

Details | Prose Poetry | |


He woke in the chilling morn of Monday
Standing tall and stretching like a snake
His son lay carelessly on the old ragged mat
Innocence envelops him like a clean blanket
Unnoticed, he trudged past his dear son
Gathering implements crude and shabby too

He jumped without delay on his old motorbike
Rolling it away from the thatched roof hut
That the engine shrilling noise may not spread
Like the wheezing cry of the morning wind
Through the windows of many blocked houses
That never was heard in his old derelict hut

Wearing many tattered shirts, he zoomed off
Into the thick dark bush that stood just ahead
The speed was great and the rain drizzles
Drenching him thorough to his very soul
His arms shiver as they held the motorbike
Unsteady he rode on, into the forest

Before him lie, a thunder-stricken tree
Crossing the road that leads to the farm
Head on collision, the bike tumbled 
He lay on the wet ground, without a help
It was still dawn and none around
He writhes in pain and with tears-filled eyes

Blood in his eyes, one thought filled his mind
His son at home, an innocent in this world
He wished he lived a better life than his
He struggled to survive death’s strong grip
Squeezing strongly the last of his breath
With tears in his eyes, the man died.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

When Old Dancers Die

She was a dancer
But now at age sixty seven
During the days
Her ghost leads small groups
Of aging seniors
In pilates stretching 
Several times a week

She was a dancer
And though her feet
Remember every heel and toe
That she had ever done
Arthritis keeps her 
From ever thinking 
Of a simple lock step
Ever again

She was a dancer
Whose feet flew
This way and that
Across every stage
From New York to California
But was never chosen
To be the one
To play that special role

And though
She is sixty seven
And the direction of time
Can never flow back
After the sun departs
And night time covers the land
She closes her eyes
And still dreams
Of the time

She was a dancer

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Phenomenal Angel- Maya Angelou Tribute

You are too dark, 
too unimportant,
your stomach is bulging,
they said..
Thank God for this angel,
she didn't let negativity settle in my head,
Although I am a man,
I never thought the day would come when I would see,
myself not as a failure but phenomenally,
Ms. Angelou was a single mother,
the struggle was difficult I know it,
but she still found time to become America's favorite poet, 
her words were like animals running free on a meadow,
never ending like rejection by the world while living in a ghetto,
who ever thought a black woman from Missouri could recite a poem at the inauguration,
Ms. Angelou,
you are the face of our cultures perpetuation,
you gave faith and hope to many,
including me,
Thank you angel for teaching us to live,

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Dying Dreams

The young dream their dreams away at night

Hoping they come true

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

Too naive to understand the ways of the world

Determined as ever to achieve their dreams

The old regret the dreams they could never accomplish

They had dreams but unknowingly never came true

You go from living a world full of dreams

To living the reality that is life

Why do we let our dreams die

We were so excited as young kids

At the foot step of our dreams

Were we haunted by the mountain we had to climb

To make our dreams come true

Did we simply quit

Because of society’s pressure

Did money deter our dreams away while we slept at night

Did we let doubt creepy into our hearts

Silently killing all of our dreams without realizing it

Why do dreams die so quickly

When we spent years of our youth

Hoping that we could get an opportunity

To make them come true

Dream big, chase your dreams and never let them die

Details | Prose Poetry | |

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 | |

an angel

An angel.

I thought I saw an angel today when I was remembering you.
You are in my waking day, I dream its just me and you.

When I go and walk a while I think your by my side
And then I remember the truth of it all and that you had to die.

I don’t know why im so confused
They say death is  part of life
But you were so little my love
You had not lived your life.

They say you have gone to heaven
And that you are a star
But I don’t believe them, not at all
I just know that you are far

I hope one day I will see you again 
And we will smile and laugh and dance
And I wait with anticipation for the day
That I will get another chance.

I love you

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 | |


Her blood lies upon your perfect hands
All the pain you have put her through
Has ended her life for good
Upon your perfect hands 
Connected to your perfect body
Not so perfect now, are you?

You made her weep
And you made her drink
You made her scream
And you made her cry
Made her breathe her last broken sigh made her die

Those hands that once held her
Before they became hard and cruel
Those hands that once calmed her fears
Before they began to cause them
Before they took her life away
Those hands --- Your hands

You had no right, no right!
And now my sister has no life

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Cadeyrm - Battle King

The battle hardened warrior
stood solemnly upon the war torn land
the battlefield before him covered
with the life's blood of his warriors
battle armour, sword and shield
lay strewn across the land.
Flags fluttered in the breeze
as grim testimony to the fierce
and bloody battle which before
his very eyes had been bravely fought
with his fellow countrymen giving their lives
for that which they had sworn to defend
the very land upon which death now ruled.
His warrior Queen by his side
her allegiance to him the same
as those who had come before her
she swore to give her life, if called upon
for her Lord! her King! her Husband!
The ground, soaked with the blood
of warriors young and old
lay open before them
like that of a bloody wound
received victouriously in battle.
The once pristine beauty of the land
upon which they now stood
lay clenched in deaths mighty grip
a stark reminder of the ravages of battle.
With a warriors cry long born of anger
his sword raised to the heavens
he vowed his life's blood
that those who lay before him would be avenged.
As he turned to walk away
he heard the shrill call of an eagle overhead
this was to him a sign
felt throughout his very soul
that his cry had been heard
and he knew he would be victorious in his quest.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Come To Me

Come To Me
Come to me, he said again, to my dismay and tired chagrin, I fought to tarry a while longer... As I grew weak, he grew much stronger— “...Come to me.” † ~*~ 'Tis just a melding of simple fate, a subject not for one's debate; and lo', this wretched creature beckoned I fought him off just as he'd reckoned— “...Come to me.” † ~*~ "Am I not worthy of your best? Have you not put me to to the test? I dare not wish eternal sleep..." He glared at me, blank sockets"- deep— “...Come to me.” † ~*~ His skinless masque, devoid of feature with feral grin, this wretched creature reached yon, His slender hands of bone beseeching, calling,- "I'll take you home— ...Come to me." † ~*~ "Where is this you and I must go? To heaven's gates, or fires below, Should you divulge our destination?" Yet, he looked on;- gaunt presentation— “...Come to me.” † ~*~ May I offer you some wine? perhaps, if you just took some time, You'll see, I do not wish to go. He smiled at me, and said... “I know” “...Come to me.” † ~*~ Wretched creature, scourge of nations You wrest me to your lost damnation Can I not reason with you a bit- Please, sir! There, do come and sit— “...Come to me.” † ~*~ "Away, I cried, you demon's seed I bear no illness, I have no need to follow you, please I implore Away! Away," come back no more..." yet, He went on, much as before— "...Come to me." † ~*~ "I must stay here, my work's not done! The battle wages, the war's, undone, 'Tis my fight not worth completing?" He only watched, and kept repeating— “...Come to me.” † ~*~ "Oh Death, I know your wretched grin, I've seen its reflection on my own sin; Have I no time to make amends? This can not be where my life ends..." “...Come to me.” † ~*~ "I refuse," said I, "I will not go!" His voice grew darker, his countenance, lo' 'til I arose, from tufted bed, then I turned 'round, so softly said, “good-bye” ...And went~ .
Come To Me © Dean Kuch™ 2013 All Rights Reserved

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Thrift Shop Foreshadowing

Thrift Store Foreshadowing
                              by Odin Roark

Inventory of past life inventories
Poised in dress-parade attention
Obliging his obligatory inspection,
Seeking the suit that would fit him well,
Avoiding the over-priced,
Cleaned and pressed,
Yet with frayed collar conspiracy
Luridly foisting their prominence
Beneath overhead fluorescents.

About the store,
Bathed in mist-like dust mites and hidden cobwebs,
Dummies dressed in street-window conceit,
Stood like Nutcracker soldiers
Their Mona Lisa eyes tracking his every move.

As rickety fans stirred the summer’s air,
Racks of faded dresses sashayed to and fro from hangers,
Not knowing he was of manly preference,
Even though…

Racks of shirts and ties waved
As he hurriedly sought an exit.
Dead men’s boots and shoes vied for his attention,
As sweat-stained Stetsons rolled along the floor,
Chasing him back to his slumber,
Where his time to wake meant quashing the noisy Big Boy alarm,
Following his ritual of shit, shower and shave,
And the daily venture into the real world of fear.


His analyst, the only known confidant, gave little credence to the dream,
Until having to identify his still body at the morgue,
Her doubt developed a bit more dream consciousness,
Insomnia becoming her constant companion.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Sad 'Porn Star'

The Sad 'Porn Star'
Most are like this face, i see.
Open much too wide, how i cry.
Starting out to young, heaven was, 
i know, simply i was to much too.
Beyond pleasure, even in my darkest, 
sadly it is even now.
One after the other, 
always so heavy and all the trees now, 
i gasp are much too tall for me.
famous for what and too who, 
no feelings do i have left to prove
deep inside and besides, 
i now cry rivers.
looking at him today and how i once thought, 
between all the sets he now conveys.
he whispers to me in my ear my 'Dear, '
once i was young and sweet like you and i was.
now there are to many hands involved and it's
business not pleasure that brings them all out.
and the light how it hurts my eyes and your skin
is too soft to stretch like this, play your part.
do you want to go back home too Kansas, 
when we are both done.
Is It Poetry

Details | Prose Poetry | |

When they love their children as much as they hate us the war will be over

When they love their children as much as they hate us the war will be over

Its doesn't matter which side your on
Whether your a viva viva palestina
Or an am yisrael chai
You know which side is evil, committed all
Wrongs, sometimes you meet people who 
Extol the virtues of this treacherous, 
Terrible oppressor /terrorist
With their shock and awe tactics and 
Disregard for freedom or the right to life And the pursuit of happiness
And sometimes for a minute, particularly 
When you talk to someone you think is 
Intelligent it becomes harder to maintain the 
View on this malignant party you tried hard 
To campaign for and against and although 
Peace (of mind) is all you want
All you could dream of
With this entity at the negotiating table 
Independence is swapped for catastrophe And war
If you give them what they want you will
Have nothing except the need to a right of 
Return to a better time

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 | |

Ominous Glances

I walked slowly to the front of the room.  The blood that, under normal 
circumstances, would be filling my veins with its life-giving red fluid ceased 
flowing.  The rhythmic thumping noises my heart was keen on making no 
longer beat in time and instead began making reverberations that sounded 
more like the mating noises of a humpback whale than any sound a heart 
should make.  Palms slick with beaded drops of perspiration that made my 
limbs stick to my clothing, leaving fuzz and other unwanted particles as 
temporary tenants.  

I noticed the carpet then, with my head bowed downwards in anxious silence.  
The artificial light reflected off the random shades of green, orange, red, and 
what may have once been beige but now lay faded and discolored like a 
memory of summertime one has all but forgotten.  I inspect the various bits of 
dust and left over gourmet dishes like a magnifying glass held by a young child 
hovering over the dead corpse of a fly.  The clock on the wall’s ever present 
movement left its listeners with the disturbing realization that we only have so 
much time before the reaper comes to tell us it’s time to go and with spidery 
fingers, that resemble the claws of a wild beast, rips us from all that we’ve ever 
known and takes us to a place of overbearing darkness that is both foreboding 
and intoxicating.  My classmates’ eyes, glossy and animal-like foretold a future 
of loneliness and sorrow that would leave them crawling on their knees, 
begging for mercy, but there would be none left to give.  
I began my speech, my throat filling with nervous butterflies bursting forth 
from their cocoons and threatening to spill out from beneath my clenched 
teeth.  The walls containing our seemingly lifeless bodies started shaking and 
coming together like jigsaw puzzle pieces and began consuming the chairs, 
then the tables, and finally baring down on the multitude of teenagers until I 
was the only one left.  I closed my eyes, inhaled a fresh breath of air, cleared 
my throat, and finished my speech.  I picked up my bag and exited the room, 
leaving my classmates’ bodies behind for the reaper.  

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Plastic Days

 Plastic Days
 Arabic Poem by: Muhannad Al-Khikani*
 Translated into English by:
 Inaam Al-Hashimi (Gold_N_Silk)
 Never mind
 Days will fold our faces 
And go on, 
Just as suitcases would fold 
A handful of hearts
Sealed with hope. 

Never mind
A lot of rain will sink in this mud
And the fate of the despondent
Will be suspended in the question
The day whereon
The mud and this wetness will not be availed
By chests unveiling prayers 
Nor by fingers that drop in the lap of the heavens
Declaring the way back 
And burdened with life...
Never mind my friend...
We all know what we don’t know
And we all wait...
For that
Who doesn’t know
That it’s him
Who we are waiting for.

Translated by: Em. Prof. Inaam Al-Hashimi
 USA / September 2013
 * Muhannad Al-Khikani is an Iraqi poet

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Invitation

I had a talk with God
Just the other day
He invited me to his kingdom
And then asked me to stay.
He said the time had come
For me to leave my earthly home
To come to live with him
And be seated by his throne.
All my troubles, pains and worries
Were to very soon subside
He said my new life begins today
So I went ahead and complied.
I know it doesn't seem fair
But everything's gonna be alright
God is taking care of me now
As I rejoice in His light.
When He saw what was happening
He didn't want to see me suffer
He came down to protect me
His love became my buffer.
My friends, my family those
Who were with me my last days
I'm sorry to have broken your hearts
But this was the only way.
I know it's hard to understand
Why it had to be this way
Even more why it was me
I truly can not say.
All I know is I did
What God asked of me to do
As for which I was rewarded
When He said "I love you."
So don't be discouraged
Our day will soon come again
Keep me in your hearts and memories
We'll be together in the end.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Queen of my Heart part 2

I remembered how she would each Thursday or Sunday bake sweet pudding ...
And except for Christmases (which shall never more with her be shared)
Then the aroma of sorell, her cakes, and her gungo-peas-rice slow cooking
Filled the house ...  those puddings were the sweetest story of love. 
They were her second job, and sometimes her shaggy windows had curtains
New, because she never was too lazy to figure her survival fresh, and to prove
That poverty does not deny us virtue, nor needs cry under strain of burdens
That love brings to our door. Yes poverty was her choice, but as queen
She lived ... now that's a gift, a gift from God, a tribute (recognized) from us.

Let me explain mother's royalty in two anecdotes, each an indelible scene.
How when I was five she walked the long Lacovia miles through sun and dust
From Montego Bay to Knoxwood to retrieve her child, hug me to her breast
And took me from my father's and grandmother's house, and from their trust,
While she was penniless; and taught me ambition in nothingness; taking no rest
To feed me expensive baby food until I was thirteen, spoiled me, so that I
Should not have missed what my father could afford with ease. It cost all. Then
There is the fact of me reading and writing for her till I 
For college left her, in which time she got baptized. I returned and saw a pen
In her hand, she writing, and reading her Bible by herself; amazed
I asked "how?" She said, son when you climb the pole of knowledge
Remember those on the ground, do not judge people by rank or college
Greatness is wrapped in simple clothes sometimes. Give all their due praise,
And know I gave you the privilege to read for me, so you would always read
But the skills in my childhood house was instilled, a teacher's love did recedes."
She, clever as Anancy, and what simple strategies! Let her sleep now, great
Women wear simple clothes, Esther Veronica Jackson, I celebrate
Your life, your warrior spirit, your uncommon faith, sleep mother dear
I shall not forget you till the trumpet blows, and God dries my tear.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

They Came Running

They came running
Without pause
Without thought 
Without hesitation
Not away
But towards the dangers
That lay ahead

They came running
Not because 
It was their job
Not because 
They were brave
But because 
Their brothers
Their sisters
Their friends
And most of all
Those they never knew
Needed them

They came running
Because someone disagreed
With the way 
We chose to live and believe
And worship, and pray
With the way 
We did something 
They did not do
They came running
They came running
From down the street
Across the city
Across the boroughs
Across the rivers
From miles and miles away
And they stayed until
Nothing remained 

And when
It was all over
And many 
Who had come running
Had died
Along with those 
Who could not be saved
The brave sat and cried
Not because 
It was their job
Or because 
They were brave
But because 
Many of their
Brothers, sisters, friends
And those they never knew
People with and without faces
Who had called out to them
Were lost
In the smoke 
Of what had fallen

But I remember

I will not forget
That when 
They were called upon
They were needed
The world 
Seemed to be falling
And when others 
Like me
Looked on
Not knowing what to do
They came running

Details | Prose Poetry | |

To All My of Children

The time has come
For me to say goodbye,
I'm going home to Jesus
Please don't cry.
I love you all unconditionally
Without a doubt,
From the oldest to the youngest
There's nothing to be sad about.
I know this won't be easy
Because it's hard for me too,
Knowing I'll see you all again
Keeps me constantly thinking of you.
To all my sons and daughters
Instill in your children all that is good,
So they'll learn to seek to understand
Before being understood.
Grandchildren, continue to do well
As you have always done,
Extend your hand to one another
Until you all become as one.
To all of my other family and friends
I truly do love you all,
But do understand my phone is ringing
And I must answer this call.
Keep me in your hearts
Know I've always loved you,
I have lived a full, complete and content life
And it's because of all of you.

Forever Yours With Love,

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Final Kiss

                              If you can believe in anything try to believe in this
                             For God has bestowed on her his last and final kiss
                                    You will say goodbye and shed your tears
                   But remember the good and happy times throughout the years
                                  He has taken her to his home, a better place
                         Where there will be no more pain and suffering to face
                                   She can be the woman she wanted to be
                                 Her soul at last filled with peace and harmony
                               You gave her your love when she needed it most
                         Brought  a smile to her face when the tears were so close
                                 She will never be far from your heart and mind
                                  Always looking over you or sending you a sign
                                         So you can believe with all your heart
                                       You and your mother will never be apart
                                                          She is your angel

                                                            For my mother
                                               In memory of my Grandmother

                                                           Christine 8/2000

Details | Prose Poetry | |


Today I walked but not alone, through a garden of many songs.
For a gentle breeze took my hand and invited me to follow.
Transparent gold veils streamed through the forest canopy,
enticing shadows to form before my naked feet.
Upon each side of my path stood miniture armies of violets and marigolds,
as I would pass they would brush my skin and kiss my feet."Thank you", I said without a 
Dragonflies that laughed like rain led me to a valley frosted in petals.
I closed my eyes to inhale the apple blossom scent of childhood calling.
An azure tear fell from my eye.
Crystal liquid made of innocents became a seed for a wild-rose that awakes from the earth.
I knelt down beside the flower,held her face to my own.
Gentle I let her crimson petals caress my face, and left her with a kiss.
I lay myself down under the boughs of a willow tree.
He sways to the whisper of the great oaks songs.
I watch butterflies dance in a recital performed in my honor.
I closed my eyes.My body and mind lie still as I drew my last breath.
My spirit awakes,atlas..I can breathe.
Today I walked but not alone,through a garden of many songs

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Don't Shoot

Poet:  Ken Jordan
Poem:  Don't Shoot
Edited by:  Sparkle Jordan
written:  November/2014

My hands
          Don't shoot!

    POW! POW! POW!

                       Michael Brown
Eric Garner
                 Kimani Gray 
                              Kendrec McDade
                     Timothy Russell
Ervin Jefferson
                             Amadou Diallo
           Patrick Dorsmond
Ousmane Zongo
                   Timothy Stansburg Jr.
  Sean Bell
           Orlando Barlow
Arron Campbell 
                          Victor Steen
Steven Eugene Washington
         Alonzo Ashley
                     Wendell Allen
    Ronald Madison
                             James Brissette
            Travares McGill
Ramarley Graham
                     Oscar Grant -

Black men
        gunned down
         White cops -

          will it stop.

My hands

          don't shoot!

Details | Prose Poetry | |


Fusty bread, larva infested water
Threadbare clothes, I dreaded morning
For it spells rumbling of my Pot
With no antidote to reverse that body butchery virus
Days longer, hunger worsening
My brow, an inch longer with sunrise…

Medicals shooting, Penny weakening
Condition worsening, my death chariot riding closer
No strength to hold-up our destined union
Till he draws near planting 
The kiss of death on my pale cheek
A pill could have delayed this rendezvous

I would call baobab my home, only I land down
Devils grass passing? I suffer its unending prick
Still the open remains my shelter
With crooks my entertainers
Rapists dancing in and out my skin
Robbers sharing my day old treasured bread

I hardly know this being they call love
They claim she remains compassionate
They say he is concerned
Be it her quality or his trait,
I know not! I never met either
This I know…

My chamber of food remains empty
My sugar level? Zilch…
Home remains my nightmarish
My voldemort, averting my rest
Chariot of death awaits me
My rider bids greetings arm stretched!

 ©Naa Takia, All rights Reserved 2012

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Dance of the Dead

Like autumn leaves blowing in the winds of time
Whispering tales of heartless crime
Your spirit resonates all around
I cannot escape the chilling sound
That last golden beam of sunlight fades away
Resuming once again this midnight play
Ghosts of the past smolder in the moonlight
Silver flame such a beautiful sight
Look but don’t touch is what they say
From fingertips they prance away
Endless dance in a lonely night
Lasting until the world begins to dew
Separating fantasy from what is true
Left to wander aimlessly through another day
Will the guilt ever fade away?

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Maiden

There once was a fair maiden 
Who sat on a pedestal up high? 
With raven locks and eyes of ice blue 
But a heart of stone 
For a love she once knew. 
The prince he was 
Unintentional love doomed by above 
So she was shunned and locked away 
So to the ledge she did run. 
Tears rolling down her fair cheeks 
Too distraught to form words to speak 
She raised her head to the sky above 
And screamed why him? 
Why my one true love? 
As the last word left her lips 
She took that final step 
Down she fell onto the cliffs below 
No sound did she make 
Nothing, not even a goodbye.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

With every breathe I take

With every breathe I take
you my love, are farther away than before.
When I breath in, you go further away,
my love with every step you take,
I am one more short breathe away from
my Blue-Eyed Death.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Goodbye My Old Friend

you were there the day I was born
you sewed my clothes and spanked me when I needed it 
I wasn' t ready but you said it's ok your only a phone call away
so I moved away thinking it would be ok
then I got the call that you past away
I'm mad as he++ 
that much you can tell
I want to ask why you didn't say goodbye
was it because you didn't want me to cry
I'm going home but you will be gone
I think you went on
to make a home with a room just for me
you know it wouldn't be long before I come along
I didn't know I had brain cancer at the time you left me
I sit here and cry and hope it will not be long before I can come home
and join you again in heaven and sit by the fire then I know that is where I belong

Details | Prose Poetry | |


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

Count me among men
Who can read and write
Count me among them
Who finds book a delight
Not about intelligence
Mother taught me diligence
Scrapped for a living
So I could get learning
I am a dead woman’s sweat
My worries cracked her chest
My mother was my literacy
My literacy is my treasure
My treasure…is you
I wrote what you can read
She was its measure.
I never paid back 
Never gave thanks.
Prodigal son playing pranks

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

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

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Apart From Me

Somber silly little Setter, English; painting trapped himself in the side yard whimpering, howling away wildly. 

Sunscreen-on, moseying on over, in His tenderness He offers a helping hand. Hot Summers cool vapors the blessings found  here, there to and fro leaning midst the still lulling; gentle calling of the Rains. 

Yes the Grace of God, in His joy humming, arriving just in time, and so is Patience the greater venture I suppose the eminent virtue. 

His Love always; Honest, Open... Willing already beholden... . Far beyond the wreck I make for myself and others... chains stretched bounded securing me yes, my freedom in kind stripped away from me given in the effort this provisional very prominence preceding me when in denial of these facts.     

Details | Prose Poetry | |


Why do you who
insist that you love me
continue to rape my spirit.

Suffocating it as the wolf censors
the sheep’s last breath

You insist that I be as you dictate
but, you bleed me.

I a pawn; you a player
you manipulate my existence

Lost in the group mind of ignorance
you smother me.

My soul is older than you
Yet, you would sever
my physical existence.

Perhaps I should have aborted you
and kept the others human…perhaps…

Details | Prose Poetry | |


I wonder
If this knife is sharp enough?
It has to cut deep to sever the vein in my thigh
I have been wondering lately
About death, about dying and of decay

What’s after death anyway . . ?
Does dying hurt, can I make it easier?
If I have a soul will it decay as my body does?
Will it grow old and die?

I wonder lately why I tried
What was it that I was reaching for anyway?
Why did I think it could be found in others?
I wonder why I thought they cared
How could they when I never did
How can I see them through another day all over again,
When I can hardly make it through one more myself?

I wonder why I wanted to try
I’ve done enough, more than enough . . ?
I can’t find anymore strength
They’ve sucked it all up
And never given anything back
I’m running on empty
No more, nothing anymore . . .

Why should I continue in the face of defeat
Day in, day out I can never hope to win
I wonder why I bothered
If they cared I’d know it by now
I can wonder until I’m blue in the face
I will never know will I?
Unless I try,
Unless I do it
Do it . . .

. . .

I wonder now that I’ve done it
And its begun
Will God turn away from me too?
I wonder
Wonder . . .

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Our Mother's Song

We sing a song to our Mother's soul who has passed and gone
she sings back as an angel from beyond and drops a tear 
as we sleep so we won't wake and weep

On earth she gave us birth and strength to shine in this universe
and to remember family comes first for even in death
we have rebirth and a life of worth

So, we sing a song to our Mother's soul who has passed and gone
we will remain strong and will carry on for this beautiful angel
from beyond who has bygone for our mom. 

T Reams 2/10/2015

Details | Prose Poetry | |


Nobody knows my story
I don’t even know my story
I sit at the window
Gazing at the raindrops 
That wriggle their way down my sill.
I wish I had been given more grace
I wish I had seen the grace
Nobody knows what happened
I don’t even know what happened
Had I murdered her?
Had I let out her spirit?
I wish to remember
Yet I do not want to know
My story is not forgotten; it just doesn’t exist 
Or does it? Only in me?
An illusion, a mirage or a dream?
Who knows my story?
I bet nobody knows my story
I still remember her scream
Piercing through the walls of that tower
I still remember that mouth,
Too tired to utter words
It was only the tongue 
Alive enough to lick that blood
Blood that tickled
Freely from her forehead 
She had stared hard
As if to tell me what?
This story runs endless
This story is timeless
It keeps arresting my thoughts
Should I have helped?
Could I have helped?
When I was frozen?
When I was rooted to that spot?
When I could do nothing
But to stare back?
I do not know my story
I have no idea what it sounds like
It happened too fast
In one split second
Right before my eyes
It all went up in flames…

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Damage Will Always Be There

The Damage Will Always Be There

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

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

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Pity Trip

Pity Trip
July 24, 2011

I need to die
And I know why
The pity trip
My soul to rip
I have no life
So full of strife
No one knows
How can they
There is no way
Shall I stay another day
WHY oh Why
I just want to die
But what of Darla
My only friend
What will happen to her
She is the only one who needs and wants me
She is the my freedom
She soothes my soul
And makes me whole
She always knows
When I am down
With the whole world closing around
I need my puppy so
And only she will ever know
Now I must go
To where I do not know

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Never got to say goodbye

Screaming in my head not able to hear nothing else.
the screaming is Me saying come back so I can say goodbye.
but the screaming goes unnoticed due to only me hearing them.
  I wish I could have you one last time to say one last goodbye.
Before you go but your already gone, never even got to say goodbye.
Maybe one day soon I will get to say goodbye and hello, as I will be dead 
to with no regrets.
the screaming in my head goes silent as I finally get to say goodbye forevevr.
 the screaming in my head is because I never got to say goodbye.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Death lives for death

He stands there, alone.  Alone, looking out. Looking out across the vast empty lands.
Lands now cold, dark, and void of life.  Life that had once stampeded through the continents.  
Continents that now were as lifeless as the moon.  The moon whose eye stared down in its 
socket in the heavens, at an empty planet that no longer was entertaining.  Entertaining 
now, only death.  Death, he stands there alone, finally.  Finally he has accomplished all that 
he is, all he had lived for.  Lived for, yes Death lived for death.  For death is the only life that 
he contains.  Contains, contains like the vast body of water, the sea, contains salt, cursed so 
it can never quench thirst.  Thirst, like Death thirsts for his own death, yet he lives on.  
Lives on and on.  On and On.  On and on.  on and on. 

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Between Heaven and Hell

What shall I do
What shall I do in the meantime
In between this heaven and this hell
Believing in God more than what the people tell
What shall I do
What shall I do in the meantime
Under the sun
Never ending Corruption
In between this heaven and this hell

Between zero year and the end times
I've bidden my time
Smoke and mirrors
A day further
Time goes on
That  light on the horizon
Is just a mirage
Just the glare off a shiny nickel in the dirt
Nothing but Despair
The entire world 
In a state of dis-repair
We march on further
Into the abyss

A day further
Time goes on 
So what shall I do
What shall I do in the meantime
In between this heaven and this hell
Believing in God more than what the people tell
What shall I do
What shall I do in the meantime
Under the sun
Never ending Corruption
In between this heaven and this hell

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,
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-)


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Life Is Short

Poet: Ken Jordan
Poem: Life Is Short
Edited by: Sparkle Jordan
written: July/2014

Candle in the wind,
candle's in the wind -

Pulsating a weak flame;
burning to a smoldering
end -

Details | Prose Poetry | |

My Pa

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

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Jesuits Ate My Basketball

The north wind blows cold, and the snows fold over like blankets in the closet.  Spirals
spin in acrimonious dances, prancing madly at unheard music.  The tune is soon gone and,
as the sun rises, it trips, breaking dawn.  Sweeping pieces of the fractured day, this
display of frozen water glistens brightly, and dims nightly.  The wrong song is sung,
again, but rightly.  In the East I wonder what magic holds sway, what words they say to
welcome strangers into their folded blankets.  

Time is chemistry and physics, spanning consciousness, but slips away like fishes. 
Delicious moments linger in memory, gone but not forgotten, the sweetness tastes a little
rotten, I'm afraid.  Tears do not forestall the thunder that always comes behind the
light.  I do not fight to see, or hear, or know, but slowly come to understand that which
is no more.  This floor supports my tired feet, becomes a bed for back and head, and now I
must depart.

I'm dead, I think, but still I write, this word, and this one will not stop.  The cold,
again, is coming now; it burns my bones to ash, until no trace remains.  Will she see my
face in snow drifts, bed sheets, and shoe laces?  I long for lingering embraces but arms
slip through me, ghostly, and listen to my beating heart.

Will this missive find kind eyes to see its meaning, to see its lies, to see its preening
self-adulation?  Will it speak to a soul that listens?  I hope so.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Card Game

The Queen of Spades trumps all
In our game of hearts
And other organs
Tangled in Greek and Latinate names
Wake up, Shepherd!
The Black and the Red
Call you
Kings and Queens battle
The rules don’t allow for discarding
Draw from the deck,
Choking the progress with wheeling lights and coloured geometric shapes
Like crystals
Crystal methamphetamine to make the cards fly faster
Club the senses 
Introduce new shades, purple kush
Orange and yellow sunrise
Swirling blue and gold
Smoke goes up and enter the kaleidoscope.
Your kaleidoscope is white 
Fluorescent light
Perfect background to lay the tricks
Deal the hands
And take your pick 
Buy? Fold? Try again?
And when we’re done
We’ll pick them up, one by one
Put them in order again
And lay them away in the dark.
Sleep, Endymion.
The Queen with the black eyes is your sign
In dreams, everything is fine.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

My Suppression of Suicide

I sat there,
"My God, I can't take another day"
my mind cried;
 My heart was so cold and black...

"Look at yourself", 
I looked in the mirror... 

"You have turned into a Monster, 
you are no longer living,
You are a zombie."..

"You love him so much, 
but look at what is happening"...
Life isn't worth living...

This is not love, 
this is not what I want out of Life, 
This is Madness...  

"Does he really love you?"...

Yes, he does---
I don't know...
He doesn't stop me from the things I do... 

All I know is I really love him...
I want to Die!!!
But what would he do?..
What would he feel, 
if he found me dead here?..
I wrote this little note 11-14-1996 that night:  
Telling him I love him and will always love him... 

I don't want to die and hurt him, 
if I killed myself, 
"Then it would hurt him!".. 

I wished he really believed me... 
I wish this nightmare would go away... 
Why can't he accept the fact that I'll never leave him?.. 
How do I know he'll stay?..

I know how he feels, 
I know why he feels the way he does about me... 
I feel the same... 

Why am I repeating 
this stupid feeling of rejection?.. 
Why, do I care if he leaves me or not?.. 

I got a nice spot to be buried, somewhere..

I know the other side is much better... 
I'll get a new body, another life... 
I don't want to die unloved... 
I don't want to die alone... 
I don't want to hurt someone I love... 

Maybe he'll join me, 
maybe he won't... 

Whatever he chooses, 
I'll never stop loving him... 
I'll wait for him forever... 

He'll blame himself if I die... 
But it's not his fault... 

I should of spoken up... 
We both should of been more open... 
We should of communicated more... 
I don't know?..

I guess we were really scared of one another!!!
"Feelings of Death" 11-14-1996

Details | Prose Poetry | |


I attended a funeral today, for someone's loved one...
The room was full of garments of black, consoling gestures, and fond memories.
Tears were shed, sobbing was heard... but grief cannot be abated, with only a word.

Attentive ears, as the prayers were read...
Hearts deeply saddened by the loss, could only remain heavy in their anguish.
Memories of a life given, now taken the Master who leads us all on our way.

The slow ride to that final resting place...
Passing through red lights, as thoughtful men watched the cortege in respect.
The last lonely place of stone...where so many laid their troubles before the Master's throne.

A few last words of comfort said, before we say goodbye...
Sobbing will stop soon, as the gloves and flower are laid gently down.
The hand of the Lord is shown the silent petals are swept by wisps of wind.

In life there is death, for this is the rule...
It comes for us all too soon, and we know not how, or where, or when.
But in death there is life, for this is the truth...if only we believe, in God's holy proof.

The child born in Bethlehem so long ago...
Raised in love, youthful days filled with child's play and a heavenly mission.
His Son to die, so we could rise with Him, make no mistake.

The morning has passed, the mourning has broken...
Not through the words, or gestures, or flowers, or memories, or even the prayers.
Remember it was broken long ago...when Christ died for us, and then arose.

(See my poem - A' Ma which was dedicated to her.)

Details | Prose Poetry | |


Walking with me, it moves along,
Contorting with me, to me it belong.
It’s tied to me as a chain,
I know it’s with me, it would never wane.

There lies poise between it and me,
Grasping me, never allows to flee.
Together we go, without any tiff,
Casting my image, it stays stiff.

It survives in bright, perishes when it’s dark,
It does exist on a spark.
Following always, it never goes astray,
Stuck with me, can’t think of betray, it always stay.

Gives me sense to be stronger, as I walk,
I halt on the way, admire it, if it could talk.
God knows, why it is made so conventional,
Unceasingly it swings parallel.

At a certain time, everything departs, saying farewell,
Except for my shadow, the one will always dwell.
It certainly is the symbol of faith and duty,
It is the only companion, who has eternity.

A dark image staying in me,
Forever as one could see.
As long as I will be,
I desire to see, no ‘you’ and ‘me’, but a ‘we’.

Details | Prose Poetry | |


Refugee in other country
Like a ghost or sinner.
I am a man not be counted ever.
I am helpless.
 To get a shelter moving here and there loiters.
When country receives like slave.
Who fights and favors politician.
No sense likes to kill so many or to quit innocent civilian.
With remorse refugee quits his place of habitant.
Mortar fires, rapid gas of tears   and bullets compels to quit.
 Every war creates so many refugees in every fight.
War starts with fear.
Refugee drops his tears.

Saroj khan[sakha]

Details | Prose Poetry | |



Jaundiced eyes peered
from skeletal sockets
reflecting the daily fear:

Not of inevitable death;
but the agony of life another day.

The permanent stoop
of the frail body---aping
                           a living trophy of submission,
had long prepared its self
to endure the daily scavenge
of the garbage heap:

What a pity;
even a dying man must eat!

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Tragedy---for Jon

Never has life's cruel temper dealt its deceiving hand as this day 
Lost-found in a place, living know not. 
Kinship friendship - words, verbiage to describe mortal bonds 
While those of the soul grasp bonds endless and dimensionless 
Youth is but a stage of dying 
Time cruel to its very essence. Time blows through us all as our sight through glass 
Its dark fingers paint our walls and carry us to our HOLMES 
Its cruelty is its existence. Defining agony, depriving experience 
Youth felt emotion lost through existence 
Found youth soul existence beyond comprehension 
Youth to us all? Youth has been lost but found where else 
But where time confronts us all. 

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Dark Depression

Dark Depression 
Suicidal Thoughts
William L. Moore

Let go of all the strife
Just snuff out my life
Make a strong fist
And Slit my Wrist

Make me cry
Hope to die
Call to get help
Only to Yelp

I can not stall
Just end it all
Would anyone care? 
If only I dare

Would someone come by?
To check, to say goodbye
No one would crave
The stink that would Rave

This was written when the whole world was falling down around me.  When life was not 
important any more.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

When the ship sank

(When the ship sank)

When the ship sank I was on deck, my flute
sang a holiday, my legs were trembling like a whale
Cabin sat on whiskers, spills swerved the seas.
Dennis was close hey hey,check the wind,check the wind
Cool like frigidity lady whupped the deck
Metals creaked all hell let loose hulls croaked
Like frump unattached to the muscle of hope.

When the ship sank I was on deck, my flute
sang a holiday, and after a year or so my ribs
found another deck chomped my sea animals
corralled by weeds blue, brown, pink and red
You may say its just a story, well said and sad.


16th November,2014

Details | Prose Poetry | |

My Brother

You left my brother
Came back a man
Should hear our proud father
Speak of you
How you’ve done him
And momma proud
Sister Jane and Katherine
Down the block
Never seem to have anything
But you to talk about
Oh if you only knew the loving
All the girls around here
Say you’ve missed
It’s a good bet
You’d never have left
But leave you did
Nothing can change that now
In a way it’s good to know
Exactly where you are
We need never again worry
If that old truck of yours broke down
Leaving you to walk home in the rain
It’s a good thing really
Now we can all get some sleep
Granted, not as much as you
But we will in our due time
Just want you to know
These tags of yours
Will never leave my neck
You, will never leave my heart
For no matter why you left
Or how you came back
You still are
And will always be
My brother

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Ole Shoebox

Hmm, a photograph
Two quarters and a dime
A half written note
A set of tags
A few keys and credit cards
Driver’s license and I.D.
Surprising what fits
In an ole shoebox
A few clothes thrown together
Some well pressed
An old pair of sneakers
And well polished shoes
A mind full of memories
A room full of emptiness
No doubt the room
Will be filled again
The box handed over
And the memories lived
I’d just rather not 
Be holding these tags
Through the silenced laughter
Echoes the days we knew
How with hair on fire
How high we flew
Larger than life
Now within my hands
In what I hold
So much more is told
Than a few items in a box
For what lies within
Is a life well lived
Cut much too short
For a greater cause
So surprising it is
What fits in an ole shoebox
I’d just rather not 
Be holding these tags
And damn my friend
I so want you back

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Untitled 20

I sit at the window and just stare at the jagged trees,
                their branches jutting out like anorexic bones.
The bars of rigid light explode in the empty room,
                draping me in a dark shade of gold, the colour of yellow intestines;
it’s nicotine arms reach in and strangle me in my empty room.
                I’ve been taught to ignore my reflection but absorb the landscape,
I’m now an unnatural shade of green as it’s swallowed up my insides.
                They’ve taken away the knives. It’s too easy to slit your throat.
The doctor comes to heal, or whatever it is he calls it;
                he bandages and plasters over my open wounds
so now they’ve stop staining my dresses.
                They’ve taken away the edges, no corners in the room at all,
and the walls are as soft as babies born with straight limbs.
                The clock’s toothless grin widens and I have all the time in the world.

Some say I’ve been fixed, I’m back to their normal.
                I’m not so sure. They can fix my body, the limbs can be nailed 
together and stuck with their glue, but my mind has died.
                I can feel it rotting, dripping from the ears, the smell fouling the air 
like road kill. The soft carcass houses maggots that crawl out at night.
                My hair has faded to the colour of dead leaves,
when I creep around the room, which is very frowned upon,
                I can feel it rustle like a ball gown being dragged along rock.
I yearn for the changes that I see through the window,
                I want to be the white moon that peeks through the fingers of trees,
I used to see that whiteness in my eyes, but that is also frowned upon. 
                The pot plants can’t survive here either, the air is too thick for their gills. 
I’m sure I’m dying, but whilst peeking at my chart, I’ve seen them tick the box labelled 
                ‘healthy’ even though I know I’ll never leave this sick room alive.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Who Needs You Now

You have fought for your country
You have heard the calls of death
And felt the loss of blood
And now, no one hears or cares
About the tears you cry
You fought a fools war
Inspired by heroic deeds
Majestic words of honor and fame
From people who never knew your name
Many were those who fled
And endured behind their protest signs
But you, you fought the war
Lost your limbs and gained insight into reality
It was you who came back less than human
And now you stand alone at night
Lost and forgotten men
Tell me, tell me who needs you now
Where are the people
Who gave you hell
Where are the people
Who cried to bring you home
Who marched for your life
While you marched to your death
Where are the people
Who loved you when it was the thing to do
And fought for your cause
While you wondered what it was
As you watched your buddies fade away
Heroes and medals
Tell me, what does it all mean
Now that you stand alone at night
Lost and forgotten men
And tell me, tell me, who needs you now
Now that our memory fades
Of those who served and the reasons why
All we seem to do
Is stand aside and watch them die
And tell me Brothers
Who needs you now?

Details | Prose Poetry | |

watching you die for my tia

just sitting here looking at you and  knowing your leaving us soon.
knowing that i cant do anythingabout this but to just let you go.
as i sit here and think about all the memories we`ve shared all been
good and happy and sad.

but the ones i will charish are those speacial moments we had together,
those i will always have close to my heart forever.

as i stand here looking around, looking at all these sad faces tear after tear
fall down there face, leaving the mark imprinted on there cheeks, i stop and think
it shouldnt be happening, why to you?

i grab your hand its cold as ice, so pail, so cold , so lifeless.
as i start to let go but i then start to cry but keep asking why?
wishing that time would go by slow, just so i could have you here just for a lil more.

but i close my eyes and take a deep breath,
its for you to go.
as i say my last good bye with these tears in my eyes,
 good bye for now but i will see you once again but untill then.
i will let you rest.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Drink When Thirsty

Within a vast sea 
under a calm and distant sky
is a secret solace known to few.
This is a place of peace, 
silence, and tranquility.
Here dwells knowledge in the purity of living, 
simply breathing life into a glorious texture of emotional bliss. 

High on the oldest tree are the words Drink when thirsty.
Masked phantoms move past, 
with a ceaseless breeze against their backs. 
They speak in riddles with jigsaw mouths, 
in mirror eyes they watch themselves.
Evening falls again. 
Day has closed her eye to another freckled veil of starlit hue.
A memory, now lightly nudging my shoulder,.. 
I see again their dances,.. around autumn fires,.. 
when the forest floor smelled of dry leaves, 
and the moon spilt shadows though naked trees.
Moistened now I drink life's sorrow, 
I tastes life's joy, 
and death awaits with menacing indifference.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Untitled 10

You’ll eat anything:
the closer to death the better.
I think you prefer me half dead:
the fainter my pulse,
the tastier I am.

But I won’t let you gorge
on my thin bones anymore;
these pale remains are mine.
I’ll love, and try to live,
to kill your appetite.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Candle

Burning light of a candle
....................Small flame in the distance
Beckoning forward lost souls
....................Offering a new life
But the candle is naught but a lie
....................A mirage in the night
For this forsaken candle
....................Lies in the hands of death
Those who are drawn to the flickering light
....................Are never again to be seen
Whisked away are they
....................To the land of the dead
Where they dance around the flames
....................That burned their lives away

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Here's The Thing

Here’s the thing
Doesn’t matter what you say
Or where you are
We both know what was felt
Though we’ll never again add to
We both know what was done
What was shared
What we’ll miss
Though ones will fade
We’ll both have memories
Of what we did
Even if they come and go
When they reappear
For a time we’ll both know
During the times
One’s just a shell
The other’s strength
Will pull us through
When one seems so far away
The other will stay
To bring them back
As long as one has breath
We’ll not let the other down
And if the breath
Is not together lost
The other will not say goodbye
But be along soon
So here’s the thing
That no matter what tomorrow brings
Though what it is
We cannot know
Somewhere hidden there within
Our love will always show

Details | Prose Poetry | |

You Were There

You, you were there for me
You, you showed what life could be
Though time was short
Words were wise
The love ran deep
And you were there for me
You played like a child
When the time was right
Knew when to cuddle 
And give some space
Your eyes spoke in ways
Words never could
If I needed help
I knew you always would
And you, you were there for me
You, you showed what life could be
You never questioned why
Yet always answered well
Had a way of making me tell
Getting me to face
What I tried to hide
You always knew
What I felt inside
Though it’s harder now
I know you still do
Though you had to go
And wherever you are
Time will never erase
That you, you were there for me
The love ran deep
Words were wise
And you, you were there for me

Details | Prose Poetry | |


     (Apropos The Ripping Veil of Pan-Africanism)

In all her blackness
her soils run red
with the blood of her children

Whose bloated bellies
mock the pregnancy
of liberty

And her breasts
sag in union
with faces 
of hopeless hopefulness;

While hollowed eyes 
of mourners
gaze into the wholeness
of nothing---

Smiling death stalks
the narrowing corridors of
life---echoing souring laughs
to virgin wombs
screaming from the shadows
of the valley of death:

But believe brethren---
mock not the gods---
keep plodding;
for in the theism 
of this imposed dystopia, 
a wretched mother
tenaciously clings to time
and history.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Because she still clung to his promises

The girl was legend

All empty eyes & purple painted smiles. Every sweet white inch of her. And everyone knew 
her name

She danced in satin skirts that only moved when she took them off. She was everything 
delicate, everything demure. She was beautiful even when she wasnt

She watched the world with terror filled saucer eyes & the world looked right back with eyes 
that were unmistakably green

It was clear glass, they envied her & she wondered why

She knew they hung up her picture, plastered her to walls&books&frames that made her 
their prisoner. They stared at her when they were alone & forged a kind of intimacy she 
could thrive on

But it was temporary & in the morning she was left to sing her own self to sleep since no one 
cared enough to do it for her

The people that loved her, that glimpsed the real her when she uncovered it, all those people 
left her at the end & she saw what they'd done

They'd led her down the wrong track but they peppered it with glitter & held her just right so 
she was blind to every bit of it

She was the diamond dying in the night, she was the candied rose melting in the morning 
dew. They lured her with promises of love & took her innocence before she even knew it was 

She hated them but started to love them almost obsessively. The love hate became another 
prison & she thought she was free because she always got nine seconds of pleasure before 
the sun rose

Back bars catered to her kind & she walked in just to stand there & let their hands go places 
she'd never gone herself. It felt like the past & she convinced herself it was right

One night she walked in, skirt past the legal limit & eyes bright like they used to be. It was a 
shock-making moment, she hadnt looked so sweet in oh so many years & they were afraid 
to touch her

She'd been their girl forever, passed around & used like an old movie that cant be rewound. 
They knew every mark on her body, every scar where they signed her, a kind of "I was 
here" of the human body. They couldnt recognize her. It was the first time she walked out 
alone. Faintly she hoped to be pressed against a wall & killed but it didnt happen

She kept turning around haunted by phantom-feels & ghost-touches. Her body just wanted to 
suffer. It was instinct & who was she to fight it?

Every step was agony. She walked so carefully as though she was afraid of falling in a river 
of her own dark thoughts

But it was hopeless, darkness followed her wherever she went

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Love: The Deathly and Delicate

Like the sight of Dandelions at an open venerate sepulcher.
Of the ardent touch, precipitously hailing two other's semblances to erudite tacit merit.
Voracious of the petal's vocation.
Voracious of the petal, so insatiably, so securely vulnerable, does she... does she not...
Delicate, denoted as such an inane, yet so gravely a significant.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Cry From Kabul

(Written During The American Attacks On Afghanistan From The Arabian Sea) 

O! The heartless callous warriors, 
The children of the crowning age, 
You do not see the havoc, 
For you stand at the distant spot, 
More than two thousand miles away, 
Planning against the weaponless; 
But your lacerating missiles and shells, 
Miss not the targets, 
They hail down on us smashing, 
Blowing up the houses, 
And thatched cottages with their contents, 
Let, allow me bury, put in the ground, 
My infant grandson that lay motionless, 
In the cradle, all shredded, torn up, 
Still gripping tight in his hand, 
A baby doll with blue eyes and rosy cheeks, 
Sprinkled with blood too.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

This Life

I lived this life my own way.
What else is left to say?
Now it's Judgement Day!

I misused this life He made.
It's time for God's fist to raise!
Was it worth the price paid?

Is the day of recompense truly here?
Or is this just a horrible nightmare?
No, it's really happening I fear.

Everyone hysterical and unstrung.
The wrath of God has begun...
payback for sinful things done.

The sky is beginning to shake.
I hear the sounds of a mighty earthquake.
God's Blue Prints are taking shape...

roaring thunder like crashing ocean waves...
people scattering fleeing into caves.
Oh My God! Is it too late to be saved?

Milton L. Delgado
March 5, 2008

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Soft Departure


I can be so gentle
I can be so soothing
When I come to help.
I am not intrusive or malicious
I am here with love and kindness
I am mysterious.
However it does happen that I am deceitfully used
That is why I am feared.
Evil people have used me for vengeance
Or used me to threaten others for gain 
I have also been used as an excuse to rule.

I am the right hand of God
I help him to bring back into the fold lost souls.
You cannot come to me
But I will call for you when the time is right.
I make your transition so easy, so banal
That you realise how stupid you were
To have been frightened of me.

I am not ugly.
I do not hurt.
I am Death.

When I come, you will find peace
I will shield you from
The chaos of life
I will put an end to your physical pain
And I will let you rest undisturbed for

5th October 2013

Details | Prose Poetry | |


William L. Moore

They been coming around
I just blew into town
Look, See the junkies
Acting like Monkey’s

Passing out the Drugs
Acting like Thugs
Watching all the others cower
Enjoy the sense and feeling of Power

Beating the people down
Deep, Down in to the ground
Giving up a ring
Just to feel the awful Sting

As the flow goes up my nose
From sucking on the hose
We hope the bread’s that leaven
Will surely send us to Heaven

Forever, Endless flight
In search of the Pearly light

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Untitled 5

Parents do not give the gift of life,
the gift they give is death.
After the long day that drains us,
We long to be consumed by darkness.
The blackness is bred in our bones,
it lurks silently in our hearts.

That long silence after pain.
That release from life's clench
is what we live for, and die for.
The best deaths, and the most rare,
devour it with unflinching acceptance,
and look it dead in the face.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Though love be a day

Though love be a day
and death be a flower,
we shall grow a garden so full of beautiful violets,
the only flower that stands,
when love is laid to rest for eternity;

Though love be a day
and death be a flower,
we shall continue to kiss,
till the gardens grow flowers blooming left and right
and a kiss shall be the only sweet thing for you;
though love be a day,
and death be an hour
not a minute goes by,
every second I never turn away from you
and kiss another.

Though love be a day
and death be a flower,
I shall pick those flowers for you,
when that day comes
when you are not with me anymore.

Shall I kiss your brow,
as you lay in peace and undisturbed beauty glories you?
There I shall pick a rose and place it on your bosom,
where I lay my weak head to rest every night
I spent with you,
and I kiss you- one last kiss-
and I whisper to you,
(though love be a day
     -and death be a flower,
       I shall grow a garden for you,
        and we shall kiss no longer)


Details | Prose Poetry | |


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

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

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

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

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

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

Details | Prose Poetry | |


April 18, 2011

Waiting on the corner
Should we warn her
Of the approaching danger
Like a silent still ranger
She has been caught as a snitch
Out comes the evil, mean witch
We may to her have to slice
Into little pieces we love to dice
With a rock to her neck she will sink
After a while she will begin to stink
And no one will ever know
For through time she will never show
This is a terrible place
 Which has fallen from all of God’s grace 
We hope we may
Live through the day
And hope to always stay
To live another day

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Sudden Apparitions In The Night In Rural Somerset

White cars stationary on their roofs blocking rural arteries whilst severing others
Unexpected loss of vertical hold and bodily functions frozen in the failing headlights
Beautiful greenery ablaze, beside the twisted wreckage of man.
A movement shakes away broken glass and the tarmac writhes free of the terrible pictures
Running on the wide screen’s of my mind. Dripping petrol explosions and decapitation,
Gruesome pictures I dreamt up while reality passed the windscreen and
I, 	I sat there screaming inside.

Luminous blue and an echoing voice rouse me from that dangerous moment,
The phone weighs in once again in my hand. I’m rambling, or worse, but I get the message out
And the comfort of my task ends with the depressed red button as
The door clicks open

A familiar face brings mind of the other and I’m out into the cold darkness
Stepping slowly toward a nightmare vision that grew up in the dusk
I find her and for a second we’re back laughing and smiling. Over her shoulder I see
The groupings of people that sprung up from hedgerows, their halogen shadows
Merged with the darkness of the incident. The car is much too white.
Too strange an angle, yet there they sit
Tingling on the verge of the roaring tributary
And casually stemming the tide

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Land of Graves

Land of Graves

A land of graves makes for quiet neighbors.  
He who blessed or cursed extant thereupon remains 
Shall suffer little disturbance at the will of his resting countrymen.  
The deep silence of an irrevocable sleep pervades his surrounds.  
His own sleep mimics that of his departed brethren 
But that kin to living rest is a far colder, everlasting condition.  
Lest it be by the appearance of some revenant, 
His nights will be those of uninterrupted stillness.  
The surface of this vast earthen sarcophagus is adorned with faltering monuments- 
The souls of their corresponding constituency have long-since dispersed in nihilum- 
Leaving playing children and Springtime Sunday-afternoon-passersby 
To speculate on their origins and exits, lives and times.  
But make no mistake this is not a wholly moribund environment.  
There is life in this soil yet.  There is an irrepressible profusion reclaiming 
This tomb from its own looming finality.  The tomb is rendered womb by its power.  
The tomb-womb is green.  It is a garden, a park, a yard and an arboretum.  
It is a charnel conservatory of the deceased, yes, but this sepulchered meadow 
Exists as much if not more for those with air in their lungs and blood 
In their veins as it does for those buried beneath its grassy lawns.  
Though in little more than a generation even the freshest entries into its 
Assembly will receive only sparing or incidental visitation.  
The ancestry hobbyist and the armchair genealogist will pay their homage.  
The digger of graves and the mower of lawns will be more frequent still.  
Is maintenance in the face of inevitability an exercise in courage or folly?  
Perhaps it is just necessary for life to go on. 

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Whole Bowl of Soup- the whole story

Soup tv, soup, soup everywhere.  Nice spoon, no bowl.  Talking weird 
cause somethings are weird.  Suddenly printer works...little else on me does... 
there is no clue to my problem...well at least I got free tv for a day...only in 
America- $4 for phone, $5 for TV, or get combo deal for $9!!  It gets way weirder, 
and it'll take some time to relate.  Wow.  bye, later, tom

Details | Prose Poetry | |

  Yet is a rose a rose; 
of 'death' aliments and milk. 
Absorbed and being absorbed,
To most it is a kind loving face, 
whom wasts beneath. 
And those one or two others
would pass skunk weed off as a 'rose.'
if aching or crushed, 
and affably is it cousin in close aroma.
and all whom it's activity touches and 
if you are ashamed and never thus broken.
For sin is sin, 
thus is why you are continuously harassed
by a thorn. 

Is It Poetry

Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Fine Line

I'm walking a fine line,
somewhere between dead and alive,
I'm contently loosing balance,
tripping over my own two feet.
I'm scratched, scared, and bruised.
Will I make it out alive?
Or will I die,
on this destructive path of mine?

Details | Prose Poetry | |


Filled with spite
He hides from the light
Ready to rip - Ready to tear
Merciless, without a care
Prowling the streets like a pro
He knows just where to go
To find his next victim
Wait for the dark lined eyes to dim
Shell of another thrown to the ditch
Never enough to scratch the itch
Burning inside his mind is a flame
No amount of death will tame
Cycle of death and pain
On his hands the permanent stain
Dripping red
He will not stop until he is dead
Filling the streets with blood and gore
Until he becomes naught but lore

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Death to Caesar

“Death to Caesar!!!”

“What!!  What did you say???”

I said:  “Breath to Caesar!!”
“Long and healthy and contented breath.”

“So which of his Legions are you a part of?”

“OH!  God, if there is one, they call us the freezing legion.
“See these fingers, well where they used to be, well
they got lopped off.  It was so cold out they didn’t even
bleed.  Saved my indentured frigging life.”

“Those that died froze so quickly we didn’t even
need litters to carry them off the field of battle.”
“Just picked them up stiff as you please and threw
them in the cart.”

“So What made you join up?”  “Trouble with the law?
or In-law?”  “Too many tarts?”  “Eh, C’mon.”

“Damn, same old story.  Dad’s a senator, always bragging
about his son, you know.”

“Agricolas this, Agricolas that.”  “Dammit, stop snickering.
He thought it would be an advantage to have an outlandish
moniker.”  “So he hung this one on me.”  “So one day I just
got fed up, said screw this, and went off to become a legionnaire.”
“Guess I showed him what he could do with his stupid name.
Now I kill farmers, well not just farmers, just about anybody
that gets in the way of the Legion.”  “Not a bad job though, as
long as your not the one frozen stiff and tossed in the cart.”

“Well, I bet your dad’s proud now.”

“Nope, hasn’t spoken to me in three years.  Says I spend too much
time hanging about with the lower echelons of humanity.”  “I told
him we weren’t partying, that I hacked their limbs off, crushed their
skulls, decimated their homes and villages.”  “Last thing he said to me
was Nail Caesar!!”  “Ya gotta love these loyal subjects.”  

for Isaiah Zerbst, The Roman Legion contest

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Queen of the Damned

Rivers of blood pool all around
Lap it up without a sound
Day is soon to come
Heart is pounding like the ghost of a drum
Slip into the shadows of night
Into the wind, I take flight
Settle into a restless sleep
Above me all of mankind creep
Hidden, I must not be seen
They are the damned, and i am their Queen
They will forever wonder and fear
When will I be near
When will I lead them into hell?
Only time will tell

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Uncle Charlie's Friend

I was barely ten years old
When I heard the news
Couldn’t quite comprehend
Why Marshall wasn’t coming home
People said he was the best of them
My Uncle Charlie’s friend
I can remember my Ma and Pop
All their friends crying out loud
The whole town coming out
For a man everybody loved
Sent off to a foreign land
Never coming home again
When Uncle Charlie came home
Used to sit on the porch
He and his drums playing a song
Damning the Viet Cong in Marshall’s name
Used to look at him through the smoke
Watch him shake, the blunt of people’s jokes
Seemed to have an unquenchable thirst
Twenty-two going past a hundred
What it was I never understood
Turned him into a piece of wood
Thirty years gone by
Seem to have a different view
As I look back on things I never knew
I see my Uncle Charlie’s friend in a different light
No longer just a name
As I’ve watched some of my friends go
It’s dawned on me why the whole town turned out
For Uncle Charlie’s friend
The smoke has cleared, the thirst is gone
Only the echos of drums remain
On the porch of a house no longer there
My memory knows him as Marshall
What’s left of the town
Speaks of him as the best of them
Though they haven’t thought of him in years
The way and why he died, they haven’t forgotten
It’s only now I comprehend, the pain and grief
My Pa’s brother and the whole town felt
For my Uncle Charlie’s, my Uncle Charlie’s friend.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

One For Love

Your sweet breath escapes you and engulfs my soul 
Through words spoken as though from some celestial being 
Warm emotion floods me, floods my very fibrous core 
Love I feel is not a mere four letter 

Word that reluctantly man takes for granted, but more a 
Monument to the jubilous fire you set my soul alight with 
Speak, I cannot, the true magnitude of shear bliss 
Endured by my mortal flesh. With the slightest brush 
Of your angelic fingers. None can know or fathom 
what true insurmountable beauty lies within 
green fields of yet discovered highland plains laden with 
flowers and sweet honey aroma blows within. Feeble 
in my attempts to profess my own meek emotions 
turmoil of my own past colliding with the yet to be. I destroy 
myself knowing such turmoil I cause in an entity 
none like yourself. Meager apology and material possessions 
offer no hint of emotion of love and remorse contained 
My, love, our love, will endure of that much I am sure. Open my mind 
My only wish, to show you things I need you to see. I have known 
No strength such as yours you take for granted. Times as this 
I've never known but with you only would I have it to spend. Forget 
Not the who I was, the who I am, and the who I will be. 
My love, our love will endure of that much I am sure 
Monotony & Mundane remain the same 
caught in this slippery pretty net 
we're all falling in and around our own whirlpools 
our upward spiral climbs too high - the higher up the further down 
Fly the same play the same one with the other 
floating always floating 
This sea we've created weaved in the merciless 
fabric of the time we all flock to certain death 
holding the hands of our clocks & wondering why 
our own bleed. double edged is the face of 
a sundial. With each shadow flicker anguish & 
joy death & life exist permanently & are lost forgotten 
by time held by life lost by eternity. 
Let's all rally hand in hand while the band 
plays on 

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Little Boy

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

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

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

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

Details | Prose Poetry | |

the 'Last milking'

the 'Last milking' they said, 
who ever heard of a last milking, 
but for the condemned
the Victims have rights too
it was legal.

It was after all within thier hands, 
and considered moreover how odd
An anonymous last request.

 Who would do it.
It would have to be witnessed.
In three hundred years.
It had never been considered.
Yet, I knew some how.
But that a storm was coming, 
Looking out, 
within that vast sea of witnesses.
Asking and 
dumb founded as every hand came up.

And when it came.
Then it came, CRASH! 
The team in there panic, 
Carried it off much too quickly. 

The creamy-white milk 
swished out down through the pipes.
They thought they would milk it out, 
for weeks if not days if even for an hour.

And the 'Doctor' reluctantly, 
pronounced the date and time
once again beating death.

The rehearsal is carried out 
over and over and if this is not hell
People lets get this done one more time.

Is It Poetry

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Big 'Not' So Easy

  is it like..
placing an inner tube..
deep inside...
then slowly inflating it..
untill you think you are about to die...
and it keeps on being inflated...
and inflated...
untill you scream for it to stop...
thinking you must and are about to burst...
yet it keeps on growing..and growing.....
moving...and shorter of breath...
fuller and wider with each passing breath..
yet like 'death' it still feels like...
being stretched so wide and pulled apart..
it grows even worse and worse inside...
you truly think..
blinding white lights..what did he know...
where was i thinking from...
and you think that this time that you will die...
and then you don't...
you can't as more and more of it swells untill..
you wish it could be just ripped right out and
when it does..
and with a gush some times awake some times 
asleep it comes..
and you know that it was worth it when she smiles..
she her name is Caroline... 

Is It Poetry 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Depression Challenges

You came to me without warning 
Took up occupancy without permission 
Your purpose hidden from the host 
In a dark cloud of anger and confusion

But you did not come alone 
You brought along a companion 
Pessimistic fear was his name 
Wreaking panic and consternation

 The question asked over and over 
How long did you plan to stay 
We could not see the answers offered 
With a mind that had gone astray

You were very active in your work 
Every day you plucked the beam of joy 
And left an impostor in its place 
What was I to do but cry

While you were at your mindless task 
You caused the host a lot of pain 
Damaged work and social contacts 
And his relations twice again

Your host had cultivated well the ground 
When day and night were merged in one
Working at unremitting pace
If you could see the damage done

From that time is twenty years or more Y
ou have come and you have gone 
I do not wish to have you back 
I once again am one

From now on I guard the door
By reflecting well on lessons learned Painful, fearful, costly payment 
Joy and freedom is well earned

Details | Prose Poetry | |

For Them

The beams of light shimmer as they fall onto the rocks
The grass bends to touch the memory of one long forgotten
Trees in the distance sing with the breeze as angels fly by
Whispering leaves pass over the field to make sure everything is all right
The silent moan of the lost voices is deafening to open ears
Decaying tears fall for the ache of longing for life only six feet away
Wives of servants and servants of men…Paid in full
In hollow darkness they lie with eternal smiles, though they will never feel the sun again
Blood spilt, bodies broken, sons lost, women widowed, they have achieved their goal
They sacrificed everything and lost it, only for the gain of the future, with no care of
They lie in sleep, void now of all pain. They rest in the endless ocean of white
Passing in their cars with thoughtless of whom they disrespect
A family comes to a stop and watches an elderly man stand with his hand to his brow
With no tears left to give, he grieves with a sigh that only his fallen men can hear.
The little girl of the man watching asks, "Daddy, why is he doing that?"
The man says with tears gently streaming down his face
"Sweetie, he's showing all the soldiers who are buried here respect."
"One way or another, you're a martyr…
In Arlington…”

Details | Prose Poetry | |


I hold out my hands
much to my surprise
they are touched
and, I find a new dimension
to explain would be tedious
I hold out my hands

Details | Prose Poetry | |

August Eighth

Chapter One 
Boy into the West 

Dawn upon my cloak 
Urged and so converged were the guns 
Seeding myself with the rest 

I broke in the eye of the Sun 
Settling my mind on the heartless rapist. Time 
Rasterize the faces 

So thumb through the annals 
Purged and so emerged fleshy etchings of this child
Breast wheels churn uncertainly 

Moistened embers dance to the deafening drum 
Tidal ducts offer piquant waters of the Pacific coffer 
I arrive on the sands 

Chapter Two 
Hole in the Wall 

Deserted in this mind 
Hover in and now behind 
Stare blank up through the ceiling stucco 

Gathering in the stench of ghastly breath of wine 
The New Year clothes itself topside 
Unfashionable walls crush youthful spirit I drink alone, until morning 

Demons of mine in lethargy 
Gnawed and sluggish slivers bond my illness
Horizons of hues of shapes the girl knowing 

Waking sweat cools slyly treats itself to my tongue 
Warmth of girl takes my breath save the end of I prepare 
God, are you there? 

Chapter Three

All in the deflection 
Though his reflection isn't mine 
Blood in kind of brotherly loving spiteful me 
We close our doors of aid restraining love I have

For angry boys reject the angry drudge 
Slave to a toilsome loving grudge 
It is raining erosion 

Blinding contortion 
Why in my hands I can't see you yet 
My rock there I can’t see her stand 

These matters wash away too comfortably 
I the destined rock 
To erode on as grain of sand 

Chapter Four 
Facing the Crow 

Give to the death 
Long confronting his road 
Gurge open those words she once clung on 

Hung from the rope he dove to the end 
I die decay per diem death 
Metaling her heart on his mindless last breath 

I survive only by his hand... 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Untitled 31

The graveyard is pregnant. With each expiration,
emotions are buried before taking root in darkness.
They are coaxed from their hibernation before fruiting.
It is always Spring there, with the tallest evergreens'
tips reaching into a never-ending sky before disappearing,
and each bed in constant blossom, 
the brightest colours bursting into an unflinching, raw eye- 
colours unseen before in nature. 
It is the warmest place, I know:
the only place where you can find hopes, dreams
and wishes in abundance. You can arrive there with nothing
but feast there forever. It breeds company, 
attracting the rarest specimens of birds from  far-off lands 
whose mysterious songs breed with declarations of love 
and ring on and on, almost deafening to a naked ear- 
                                                                              almost deafening.

But you won't find me there.
I long for the frost, the pale lullabies of winter.
There's peace in poverty, peace in the place 
that time abandoned. Nail the coffin shut; I've have enough.
I want to live in a barren land where wishes, dreams 
and hopes are absent. Where finished bodies are shriveled 
and purged of emotions. I'll sleep best
where love has been said and laid to rest.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

My Angel

The day you wore born my whole word became complete. We toke you home for 
the whole family to meet, you never left my side until the night you turned blue 
and almost died. We rushed to the hospital hoping they could save you, I 
wondered in my head was I a bad mother, what did I do to hurt you? We waited 
three hours before we could see you. They said there is hope for you. We toke 
you home with all the little machines each one was attached to you. At night I 
would lay a wake looking at you. If I could not hear your machines I would jump 
up and awake you.  We would go for walks; your big sister always wanted you. 
You looked like your daddy, but with mommy’s eyes. You have the cutest laugh 
that would make any one smile... I thought we where going to make it. We where 
going to have a great life. Your seven months now, you just got your first two 
teeth. Eating baby food. Playing with your little feet. I knew you where still sick with 
all the trips to the hospital. I thought you would be fine… but the last time we toke 
you, they said you could not breathe. My heart fell into pieces, but I knew I had to 
be strong. I set there think you where going to be ok, that we would be going 
home in a few weeks. But your body was tired and to weak. You needed bigger 
machines. It was time to sign the form. And let you be. They tried eight months 
and a day, but there was nothing else they could do. I held you one more time as 
your little face turned blue, Ooh how I mourn for you as you lay lifeless, cold in my 
arms. I said my good byes.  But when my little angel left the room apiece of my 
heart left with him too. That night we drove home, but in side I felt dead too. Till 
this very day I still cry for you.

Details | Prose Poetry | |



The acid rains have come and gone;
Leaving nuclear winters chasing 
The purple autumns of our lives;

Dying bones, wrapped in parched skins,
Silhouette the inept horizons
Of the desert’s edge;

Famine, the silent emissary of death,
Carpets the naked altar of life:
Hunger tutoring the sacrificial lambs;

While in the shadows and hues
Of distant dawns, ships sail to the moon:
Leaving death smiling at the evil that men do.

Details | Prose Poetry | |


Eating the weeds from the grass you slept in last night.
Don't look down or you'll fall from the moon.

Can you pick yourself up?
can you make it home?
Jump, and hope god will save you.

No faith.

No G.O.D

Just you

Bruised and rotting
You make it seem easy

Dream in the fields of all those yesterdays
and pick the weeds for the hope of  tom marrow

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Fields Forever

Until the end, I fight 
I fight until the light is no more 
and the perilous night does begin 
& when my day is gone & future masked 
I climb my mountain with head hanging low 
Low for now, I killed and desecrated all held sacred 
Slain the last foe & as the day breaks again 
I gaze at fields of red fury 
Fury misunderstood all dead to understand 
Mountains ahead and behind, in this valley of 
Presence. Engulfed by injustice and punished 
In personal strife, I cry, 
not out but in I cry to hear 
inside, inside where I've tried to hide 
and defend on this field of red 
with no more to hide & more to 
hide from. I perch on this mountain I've made 
& expose myself to all, with none to tell 
I'm free, lost to live, lost to die 
Never to love, never to fly. Only wallow for 
It turns to night and shadows comfort me my friends 
Till the end 

Details | Prose Poetry | |

To My Loved Ones

Light as a feather Free as a bird, Untethered. My soul takes flight Bound for I know not where, Yet I know that I must go. Like those who have passed before me, Now it is my time. It is with mixed emotions that I leave This world, my family and my friends. Then wings of faith embrace me And I feel my spirit soar. The angels envelope me In a welcoming embrace, My dear old friends surround me. I have reached my destination. And so, my loved ones, Smile through your tears In fond remembrance of lives shared. And when it is your time to pass And you must begin your journey alone, My hand will be the one Reaching out to guide you on your journey home.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Hang on Mr Reaper

Hang on Mr. Reaper we weren’t quite done!
Couldn’t you, possibly, sidestep just one?
Give us more time and I promise you this.
Each day will be savored and sealed with a kiss.
No time to waste as the minutes are done.
Along with the hours, days and the months.
Now all that is left is a big gaping hole.
Where once there lived such a fiery soul.
We’ll fill it with grief, sadness and tears,
As the penny’s drop and we realize our fears.
That each and everyone living today
Will eventually have to be on their way.  


Details | Prose Poetry | |



Are we meant to walk a tight straight line,
Wouldn’t that be saying to walk like the blind.
How will the hollow be treated in the end,
The two edge sword is being used for family and friend.
A crooked smile is hard to bend right,
The strong is most needy when using their might.
Unconscious wisdom spoken to bring down to the top,
A cliff is extended in sight of the short stop.
Wrongful delight can’t teach a child confusion,
But a picture made by evil hands gives a right way illusion.
Falling short to the tall brings along a silent bed,
Hot air in a head makes no stop air blown on hot makes stop while ahead.
Carving your pumpkin with heart out of chest,
To take a heart out of evil empty chest is best.
Cut off your left if it hinders your right,
Close your eyes to see dark to realize whose light!

Ashley Hogan AH

Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Mother's Worst Nightmare

There you were

I held you in my hands

You were my gift

After nine months of care

I wished for you hopes and dreams to come true

You were my dream come true

I guess my prayers weren’t listened to

But someone took you away from me much too soon

I said hello to you

But I never said goodbye

I still can’t believe you died

My soul and heart forever broken

Nothing to make it better or fix it

I laid you to rest on many nights

Knowing you would wake up

Unfortunately,today I laid you to rest

Asking god to love and protect you

In heaven you wait for me

To resume our relationship of mother and son

Details | Prose Poetry | |

death 'married' death to death

  Death looks at a flower and you screaming, 
I am beautiful, look, look..
look here I am, come and eat me, alive.
Death hovers, smiling, never waiting, walking always 
walking by, walking in side, you knowing that, 
any thing that touches, it will soon also, come to *sigh*.
Death is love, love is death, what are you both, death 
is your pet pink pig and deaths two flying bagged pearls.
Slapping you for ever and ever about your red face.
Death is a dry cracked nipple, sleeping, holding on
to the flesh untill it falls off, still dripping.
Death is a bullet fixed, never moving, why does the 
world move you through it.
Death is a voice always quite, sounding alarms to
walk across the street knowing you look both ways, 
while you come running very quickly out across, 
just to stop in the middle and wait.
Death is a woman, who is crazy, thinking the world is 
spinning into her coffee.
Death to all men who think they can save each woman
by marring death and eating her tuna fish sandwich.
Death fingered you, you loved it, now you finger me, 
leaving my bee exposed on the flower, you buzzed it. 
Death's own flower is always sweet and poignant on you..
It is always open for death to smell..............
and it's red alarms, you ignored...'Rose' and 'Lily'... 
still here it comes, never see you as you really are....

Is It Poetry 

Details | Prose Poetry | |

pouch poetry 5 - 9

is it true love 
or i do take it granted 
that i’m in love 

or i do love to think 
that i’m loving 

and there is 
neither any welcome address 
nor any opening song 
in my love 

my experience with heat of fire
and with burning pain
in the flames of water 
is nothing less

in course of burning 
i look around 

the chilly-plant  in the tob 
planted in my won-hand 
producing green-chillies

oh-ho how sweet they are

it is no chilled-body 
that has earned 
my life or death 

no remarkable mark 
is endorsed 
on the lotus-leaf 

now easily some words 
can be written 
on you 

i don’t know whether 
those would be at all 
some lines of a poem 

someone falls in loves 
someone makes love 
love comes to some another 

there is the far-off 

at first she constructs me 
then destroys rightly 

i notice her 
for the first time in six weeks  

the love 
that writes 
in the footnote of the tennis-ball 
a desperate struggle for existence 

within our skull 
there is the love 

or the midnight of the orion 

the little squirrel asked now
are you in your seventies 
or eighties 

those houses with the coating of 
the sky the air the light-and-shade 
provide me with the presentation of 
a wig and 
a set of artificial teeth 
the love 
that touches the hand 
in drizzling 

the love 
that gets lost in the brandishing 

would they want to inform 
that the flowers don’t have any skyscraper

in the layers of the flesh and blood
of the detergents 
as if  a whole human civilisation has been suffering 
from suppressed pain 

within it with the dry spell of 
anger and cough 
the time 

had there been no feeding from the love 
does the human civilisation stagger

do you think those words 
or it’s myself 

whatever may you say now 
i’ll travel within a great death 
to die 

rather after my demise i may tell 
i’ve informed everyone …look 

beneath the large evergreen flower tree 
the game of light and shadow continues

beside those simple households 
besides a high-head mobile-tower 
what else would you like to be 

is it a bath in the ganga-river is it a leaf 
of the water-lily or it’s a king-cobra  
tell me

i would now make love
with that idea from you

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Hard Reflections

Living today in the wake of yesterdays yesteryears, 
following the footsteps not walked for a while. 
Finding hope in the pages of time unwritten fearful 
that hope is all for nothing 
Offended by all of the offenders that crowd my sullen day 

All along the way I know in advance 
that the way I've lived most is 
the last way to live, 
knowing the way is hard to find when the 
days amount to nothing. Production slows 
as the motion becomes all to apparent, 
apparently just going through the motions. 

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Last Live Act

Some day, when this yellow sun is dying in
a crimson sky and a tangle of phosphorescent,
all-consuming vegetation covers up the earth's
shame and ruin, the robots will keep some poets
in concrete cages, just in case they need a new

And then the robots will drag one of the weak,
timid creatures out into the spotlight and watch
it trying to stay alive in the depleted air for just
one more precious minute of what the poet calls

And then, when the life-force bursts like a beautiful
bubble out of the poet's open mouth and it bows its 
head in death, grinning like a fool, the entire audience
will stand up and applaud like a lot of automatons on

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Don't Mourn Me

If I should die 
Let me die with pride 
Knowing that my life a successful ride 
I'd may not have been rich 
Nor made the front page 
But with my hope desire 
I've always inspire 
If I should look death in the eye 
Let me accept it with pride 
Cause then I know my life was a successful ride 
With smile I'll grace every mile 
Knowing that my life style was an inspiration 
for the next generation 
I've over come every frustration by determination 
So please don't cried,nor tried to asked why 
Cause if I do stare death in the eye 
I will smile knowing that my life was a successful 

This is dedicated to my Grandmother. 

Details | Prose Poetry | |



I cannot cry for the children
of others---
the deaths of my own have drained dry
the wells of my eyes---
red orbs sunken deep in dark caverns
of growing grief
echoing wailing cries 
of the ghosts of my womb:
wailing cries
falling on lifeless auricles
flaccid to vibrations of ebony pleads
of mothers whose babes
die daily deaths
of sable genocide---
blood dripping down fingers
of sons who would rape 
their mothers and pimp their sisters. 

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Sweet Mother! Sweet Mother!!Sweet Mother!!!

Sweet Mother! Sweet Mother!!Sweet Mother!!!
Suddenly my heart leaped within me
My eyes shedding tears in remembrance of the memories of yester years
Just like yesterday fresh and glaring was decade ago
In the midst of deep thought did my soul slumbered
Immediately my mind paved way for memories of yesterday
Every night my spirit morn you for the fear of what tomorrow holds 
Then I smile, now I realize so I cry for tomorrow
Knowing how painful it feels without a caring and passionate mother
Just like yesterday I remember your tender touch and how you natured my infancy 
even when I knew not my left from my right
Clearly and softly your voice echoed into my hearing singing and talking me to 
You guided me through the turbulence of infancy
You stood by me in the midst of raging storm
When my spinal cord could not carry my body
You went starving for years just to make me survive
Night toppled nights yet you stayed awake to steadily steering at me to ensure 
my safety
In your arms I opened my eyes day and night
Each time I stand to walk and fall
Quickly you rush towards me and pick me up
Whispering calmly to my hearing that you can do it son 
But suddenly the greatest adversity rolled in like a thief at night
Snatching you away from me and left me hanging in the cloud to face tomorrow 
all alone 
Sweet mother! Sweet mother!! Sweet Mother!!! 
I can not believe you gone so soon to the land of no return
In great pain and agony I itch my flesh to the bone screaming at the top of my 
voice and pleading to see your face one more time
During the day I frown and dine in loneliness
But the moon appears calmly at night just like encouraging words telling me that 
tomorrow will be better
Your words give me the strength to carry on in life
Pushing me from day to day
You are my treasure and my only friend
In my heart I keep the memories of you
Rest In peace dearest mother and let your soul find comfort in the heavenly 
places with lots of love.    

Details | Prose Poetry | |



There is nothing left here
for death to claim; even hunger
has abandoned the swollen bellies
and parched skin of the walking dead:
eyes of gigantic pupils sunken deep
into desiccated cranial caverns.

In this fenced graveyard of waning life, flies
soar to and fro---depositing metaphoric maggots
in the midst of the festering wounds of despair.

In this God forsaken place, the flame of hope
grows dimmer with the wrinkling nipples of the breast
of time---her hourglass---haltingly emptying its self:

There is no refuge here
for the refugee.

Details | Prose Poetry | |


The Church Parsonage on Church Street the old Methodist Church where eye 
used to go to church it Burned down.
My mother died a horrible murder death.
My brother died in a car wreck.
We used to fight each other though eye was elder he was bigger.
Eye was a weak and sickly child of GOD.
My Father died and eye do not knoe what of.
Eye was not always allowed to live at home.
My room was taken and the things in it like my toy box and the comics and the 
yearbooks were all destroyed. 
Eye was given a hardship discharge from the ARMY.
My home at Morrilton was burned down by a natural gas line leak which then 
exploded. My family always hated me and wanted me to die alone. Eye stopped 
my consumptive habits and was in a real fight in Arizona only was beaten into 
Jesus and left to die half dead eye still try to live and love and write this is mye bio 
mye evidenced. 

Details | Prose Poetry | |

On a Scale Of One to Ten

Do decimels count?  Exponentials?
Remember this crazy dude, I'll surely only get crazier as I age.
And I'm doing that fast.
Got some catchin' up to do.
The soap opera around me grows ever more bizarre.
And worrisome.
And I don't mean me. 
I spent the night over a cousin's house.
Didn't realize the mistake till too late.
It's hard to be pleasant company when you feel withered and adrift.
Read a complete book last night, then two children's books.
Well, at least I read the pictures.
My doctor told me don't buy any green bananas.
Cardiologist not so subtle, but I got a sense of humor.
I love to spar mentally with those who take me for as dumb as I act.
Usually they don't even know it.
I'm likely the only person in the world with a giant console organ in the middle of 
his tiny kitchen....barely open the refrigerator... whose 7 watt bulb is brighter than 
me often.  
Rosie worried, knew not what happened to me. 
My troubles pale next to hers.  I don't know how she deals with it all.
Vicodins, aspirins, voodoo spells all as useless as M&M's to a diabetic.
Pain relief or sleep?  I chose pain relief, then realized if I was asleep, I would't be 
aware of pain.  Now I know a few things I never had to ponder.  
Someday all will be sunny again...or not, I haven't a clue.  Enjoy your turkey 
sandwiches.  tom

Details | Prose Poetry | |


Did you hear my scream from the darkness!!
	Of the day when the sun failed to shine

Did you hear my cries screeching from my soul!!
	When the heavens broke from the sky
		To fall away and into nothing

Did you hear me die!!
	In the whispering across your skin

Did you hear me scream out in the night
	Just before the dying of day!!

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Empowered Weapons

Here I stand
with my Claymore, Agony
strapped to my back
and metaphysical forearm spikes
running up my arms,
     slanting towards my elbows.
Winds howl around me
    filled with knives of rhetoric
tearing at me like teeth.
Unleashing my spiked chain
from its pouch on my belt
I grip my already bloodied,
reverse crescent axe
and jump off the ledge
        into the fray
swinging the chain 
  around the closest neck
I pull them close
       then sever their head
with my axe
    releasing a fountain of blood
towards the heavens.

Morbid scimitars
  flash before my eyes
    as I lean back
narrowly escaping the attack,
a downward swing of my chain
spins the enemy
     and I hack 
through his spine with my axe.
A Morningstar filled with delirium
   smashes into my shoulder
and I drop my axe
         but retaliate
with a skull splitting slash
of my clawed hysteria glove
           stopping within
    the eye sockets,
shaking the carcass off
I pull out my Claymore.

Whirling my chain overhead
 I release it
   and it savagely
wraps up an unfortunate,
dropping him mid charge.
Snatching my sadistic,
spiked headed War hammer
I separate another
    from his legs
        with my sword.

At the last second
I catch the shaft
of a tainted spear
within my forearm spikes
    snapping it
then bury my hammer’s head
in his chest.
   the body draws me down,
      leaving me open
and an infected mace
smashes into my skull,
but as I fall Agony
serrates the seven mortals
with my death spin,
and as I lay there
spitting up blood
the detrimental maul
splatters my brains
             upon the battlefield.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Dead Poet Two Thousand Fourteen

Dead Poet Two Thousand Fourteen
Dead Poet Two Thousand Fourteen
solyant green the 666 is money the dollar sign the number on the bill the id 
card the birth date and now the phone number all these are important but not 
the end of time will come after time has wound down look at the sun it is a 
yellow sun not red it gets red science will tell you when it ages
when the moon turns to blood the light of the moon is only the reflected light 
of the sun as it burns in the form of the gaseous ball of fire we see a yellow 
sun this gives people light health and strength when it starts to turn red it 
might dwarf or grow into a giant the color is the key to the end when it is red 
it is almost over the time will be shorter the days length only a third of the day 
will we see anything people will be suffering more they will be animals again 
the mind will be gone the hive mind will be gone only monkeys intent on 
survival and fighters will advance up to the tower of Babel and preach new 
ways of murder uniform living one size fits all with the mark of the beast on 
the visible mind and hand me no money will no longer be needed only an 
access point me to the door way let me inside to those material goods pudding 
and soap clothing and food out the door way too home is a spot on the walk 
no more hope chasing the poor with no mark dragging mee upp the stairs 
steppes to the scaffolding holding upp the killers guillotine blade will take my 
worthless head off and send my soul to Jesus to be remade. God grant me the 
strength to be ready to die to refuse the mark of the beast let me become 
truley free a child of the living Jesus set me free  let me be free the price of life 
is set too high no heart no love no life only the asking price of murder in the 
long cold night of sky turning red for more then a few hours obscuring the 
clouds unseen the fire coming mingled with ice the misery of EgYpt the frog 
spirits of the dead mentioned in the Book Of Revelations eye paid 30 pieces of 
SIlver to JUdas to be hangged he might be the ABomination of DEsolation 
mentioned will be coming to the Temple area someone has to be the 
AntiCHrist when it will happen perhaps the SUn will be dying before that day 
ever comes not one day but about 3500 of them this has been a fact filled 
missive but you must understand what do eye mean eye do not quote facts 
and figures when eye write it is from a dead poet vision Dead Poet Two 
Thousand Fourteen

Details | Prose Poetry | |


Tell me what you see
When you see
The children crying
With their bloated bodies
Withered hands
Wasted lips and faces
And eyes that never smile

Tell me what you hear
When you hear
The children weeping
With their tattered clothes
Broken bones
Shattered dreams and souls
And hearts that never mend

Tell me what you feel
When you witness
The dropping bombs
With their hearts of fire
Songs of pain
Sundering greetings and goodbyes
And hands that never feel

Someone explain to me
Explain to me
Why children’s tears
Filled with sorrow filled with longing
Go unheard
Searching eyes and curious minds
Never see the beauty in the stars

Tell me what to say
What to say
To my child when he sees
The children crying
Many dying
In the streets
And going blind, wasting away
While we are safe
While we feast and we celebrate
And we love

Details | Prose Poetry | |


Confusion sets in
Along with it the sense of vertigo and spinning wheels
Tumbling end over end and from side to side
Slipping through the cracks in the floor

I’m lost again
Forgotten all over again
Unforgiven one last time
And still the church bells ring out to echo the tale of my soul
With its sweet ballad of woe
And crying eyes and flushed cheeks
Petals flakes falling softly to the ground
Crushed beneath feet and booted heels and crooked canes

But my heavy eyes and slumping shoulders burdened so
By this weight upon them both
Throws down the gauntlet of dreariness deep

“God help me now . . .”
And no there is no answer for one so wicked as I
No answer at all for I deserve none don’t you think?

“Well to hell with you God!”
My head sags to my chest and my eyes close
The lids so heavy

I feel the sense of gravity on my face
And still there is no answer

“Who needs you anyway, you never answer . . .”

No flower petals . . .

. . . . either

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Tongues Like Dragons, have no Speach.

Gray Sky modeled, a Leaf on its Falling,

And thus tenaciously wounded, a slow and Bitter Abandon


Past Churches among Coals

And Faces lined, tunneled by ants, cicadas

The mouths of Sad dead Men.

Gray Sky tears Into Dirt,

Cars and Old Women Flying,

My legs Wobbling, Noodle Like

Churning Air and Dirt into Butter.

Gasping relaxed Depravity,   Eyes of Bulging broken Connections,

Tasting tongues of insulated Iron

Rising higher, Higher, Still

Red—Slim, Long to the   Sky

Fifty Feet, A Hundred,

The Nothing of Where Sky, Was,

Filled in by a Forest of Red Bloomed Licks.

My Mouth Closed Tightly, Holding Leviathan Inside.

I Stumble Back, Truck Bound, but Falter, Finding Telephone Pole,

Penetrating it, Sodomy like, Through the Rear. 

Hands Writhe, Grasping, Reaching, I Clasp my Mouth and Break Free.

The Voices rising From Mouths no longer their Own…

I Cannot Describe…

Newborn Violet? The Desperate Thirst of a thousand harlot Bedrooms?

Vowels Drowned in Starving Mackerel congealed Eyes?

This, All of this, Is beyond me.

Simply infinite Air, Spearing Life and Earth,


Dense and with Cold Constancy.

Today …The Day

Has Died.

The Knife of half-destroyed Churches

Bite Deep,

Each leaf, Hunger, Phosphor’ ant Fire-Fly Eye of Darkness---

----As They Fall.

I However, Let them Take me from Within.

Forsaken interrupted Hands Growing,

Source-less Laments Turning Shadows to Anti-Life.

The World, now, some measureless Dream,

One long Abandoned Funeral Voyage to Nowhere.

Great Pale Cows of Tomorrow

Rain Black Milk

While they Float to the nothing of the now ground-speared  Sky.

Exasperated Winter,

Oh, Dark Color of Sinfully used Blankets .

Filthy Lightening Bolts and Dung Covered Clouds,

The Horizon reeks of an Oil Field.

Spark, Spark, Lighting a Match,

To keep God warm, That mewling 

Majestic Infant of the Sky.



And one Long Holy



Details | Prose Poetry | |


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






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

Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Lament

I have swallowed the poison...
suffered through darkness.
I have tasted the ashes,
lived in utter lostness.

I remember the pain
when hitting bottom;
desperate I dreaded,
what I had become.

To be punished for sin,
how dare I complain!
Is The Lord not my life
from whence I came?

I have entered The Light!
My Soul has been taken.
God proves to be Faithful,
To The called He's awakened!

Milton L. Delgado
Inspired By The Book of Lamentations
Chapter 3
October 20, 2006

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Dead Mens Bones

Eyes that are unable to see.
Ears that cannot hear.
A nose that cannot smell
the sweet aroma of salvation.

Mouths won’t confess the truth.
Your tongue is full of venom.
Feet that follow fools.
Hands can hold nothing but sin.

A heart of stone,
Feelings that are numb to His touch.
A mind of evil imaginations.
Ideas are unreasonable.

Self righteous mentality.
Prayers are polluted.
Emotions that do not care.
Life is full of lies.

Intentions are a deceptive poison.
Your power is a huge vanity.
Ignorance can change nothing.
Your hope rests in idolatry.

Attitude of hate.
Your true shade is make believe.
Your favorite color is blind darkness.
Your ruler is un-named.

Nothing in this world is free.
everything must be paid for,
sin is no different.

On judgment day your proclaimed strengths
will show themselves weak.
Your so-called knowledge
will be shut up, mute; it will not speak.

Your decisions have been made,
Your fate has been sealed,
note it.

The Book Of Life closed.
Outside you appear righteous
but inside you are full of …
Dead Mens Bones.
from my book ...

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Navriss in Ink

With this pen
I have lived once more

And with this pen
I have loved, laughed, sighed to breathe
Even as I laid my weary brow to rest upon your breast

And with this pen
I have died with a tear
To leave behind this chronicle to my last
With this pen

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Good -Bye Sonny

Good -Bye Sonny

Sonny was the talk of the town 
and when the neighbors passed by
they  would so often frown
for Sonny was an outcast
one who would take, but never ask
He drank his Spirits from a flask
and couldnt deal with much of a task
Sonny's mom had to go out with a mask
because of all the questions 
that the neighbors would ask
he wouldnt care if she shed a tear
or if her dress flew in the air
and he wouldnt care when the neighbors
passed by in order to stare

Now his mom's emotions were all spent
and to her name she had barely a cent
and she wondered of the length of her torment.

"How long will my torment last?", 
"How much longer?"she' would ask
Then one day, she took that flight
and went toward that white light
that was so bright in her sight
just to end her day and finish off her night.
Good-bye Sonny

McCuen Copyright October 2008

Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Prayer

  A prayer, that no one hears
as i walk through the blinding snow
and up each creaky step, 
they pause to let me by.
Chafed my wrists, your lips
i see, 
each face looks on concerned.
One ask them why.
My love for her, each call, each tear, 
i feel, 
by all around, i see them arm in arm.
The levers pulled.
My head, 
rolls down the wooden ramp, 
and muddies her clean feet.
i stood alone before the bench, 
without a name. 


Is It Poetry 

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Reflexive Daydream

We slowly sailed across the placid, blue surface. The profound silence was erupting from
all around. Across the lake, I saw a pair of birds flutter from treetops into the deep
blue lake above us. The Sun was a cherry yellow and everything I laid eyes on was alive in
its reflective radiance. Our boat made the tiniest whisper as it moved over the water. My
nostrils were filled with the intoxicating smell from my lover as we drifted ceaselessly
onward over the calm water. 

But suddenly, clouds exploded above. The Sun disappeared behind the darkness of the storm
cloud. An acrid wind began to blow harshly:  the trees began to bow. Our hair was whipped
about us. The chaos replaced serenity lightning created blinding cracks amongst the black
sky. The once smooth surface of the lake became turbulent with waves that threw our
helpless boat about. I closed my eyes and gave in.

The storm stopped. I opened my clenched eyelids. There before me sat an empty half of my
boat. Not one memento of my love remained. As I drifted onward, soaked and somber, slowly
the boat cried out the only evidence of what took place. The sky seemed paler and the sun
no longer cheery, Now unforgiving and hot. My eyes stung and the trees were pastel. The
water below me was hated and unforgiven. Slowly, beside the boat, my love's beautiful body
began to cry and my apologies fell upon her un-hearing ears. I had learned my lesson. I
begged for a second chance.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Seagull's Salute

My dear mother always had a fondness for seagulls.
I don't know why, we lived far from the sea...
The day of her funeral, as the hearse circled the block of our home, 
An old American custome hardly done anymore...
I was quite schocked to see a seagull overhead slowly looping as an airplane on 
Near fifty years, and I'd never seen one locally,
Food for thought.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Last Will and Testament

When I’m gone, let me be.
Please don’t cry, don’t shed tears
I don’t want to make you sad
When you remember me
Just smile. Remember the good times.
Try to focus on all the laughter.
Drink one or two for me. Raise your glass high.
I don’t want a somber occasion full of tears.
I want a celebration with good food, good drink and good memories.
My legacy will be how I lived for each moment 
and treated each day as the blessing it was.
Live that way too. Honor my memory by living to the fullest.
Don’t be afraid. Don’t fret about tomorrow. Don’t cry.
Just live. Live until you die. 
Death is not frightening at all. It will happen to each of us 
as inevitably as the sun setting at dusk.
An unlived life however  is absolutely terrifying and 
completely unnecessary.
Don’t waste time looking back with regret 
or spend it worrying about the future with anxiety.
Live your life in the now. 
Do your best. Give all you can.
And when your time comes, there will be no regrets. 
Don’t cry for what might have been. Smile for what was.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

You Are = You're

   You're leaving me for  no reason.
 You're going away, and never coming back.
 You're under stress with things on your mind.
You're on the phone, while I have no one to talk to.
 You're out, while I'm cooped up in this crazy house.
You're packing, while I'm watching you go.
 You're not saying a word, while I have lots to say.
 You're out the door, while I can't move.
  You're on that flight, as I watch you go through the window.
 You're gone, while I cry every night.
You're getting engaged, while nothing's working for me.
  You're in another world, while I'm back here fighting.
  You're getting married, while I think about what we used to have.
You're having a baby, while I cry like one.
 You're growing old with the love of your life, while I just died.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Last Thought of the Day= to all soupers

thanks for well wishes...I will see this thru...(like I got a choice)....always a 
joker...not so easy still up and in pain...vicodin like an M&M...I cant read 
individuals now, but that will come...Soup is where I am, and where I'm headed.  
You guys know the score...Truth and perception...light and dark...Tom and 
Rosie...some things just dont end...and she is my life saver, and my son any you much wiser than me in so many ways...dont have to say a word...there 
is a song about the sun and the moon...there is Bonnie and Clude...There is 
scotch and water...and there is rosie and Tom, though I haven't kissed her in 
eons..doesnt words needed...all the stuff I ever tried to say she knew 
from the minute we met...I have one last word tonight without sounding pompous 
and petulant---------...A fly and a fly swatter and  a hammer... A 20 cent fly swatter 
killes a fly effectively...rather easily.....a $200 hammer killes a fly as dead...but 
much harder...much more effort and focus to accomplish same thing...a dead a dead fly, but your efforts are unequal.  Morale- (buy bug spray!...opps, 
sorry....) bad word, you get what you give, and them kind word to one 
person can avoid a war.  so choose your words carefully, they live on beyond your 
wildset your actions do...easy..but Americans live in their own world, 
no more valid than another...yetmwe will die for a thing nebulous in conception.  
Poets are the lead troops...hate the analogy..but go with a sharp sword, if you 
must...God, under any  name, will handle the rest......see ya tomorrow...rose will 
post any news...she is are you...I would dread to have her as my 
enemy. I.S.Y.N.....dreams from another part of the world...Tom TTT 1-4-3 
Rose, let the poets figure that one out.  goodnight.

Details | Prose Poetry | |


The house lights dim. The curtain comes up. A door opens and the light from the hall gently 
caresses the contour of a woman in her forties at stage left. Her hair is stubble. A limp wig 
lay lifeless on the lamp stand to her right. Her face is predominantly covered with a mask. 
Not so long ago mascara and makeup complemented her beauty. However tonight she has 
none. Small penlights flash and beep. Her left arm that once dripped with gold and precious 
jewels now hangs lifeless off the bed adorned with wires an I.V’s. Her right arm is in a cast. 
Her limbs and torso leaves no question of her skeleton to the imagination. On the nightstand 
to her left stands a picture of a family on a beach. Monitors and lights circumscribe her bed 
flashing and beeping…and flashing…and then they stop…all is still No music, just murmurs of 
disbelief from the audience. All Is still and still nothing. Some people in the front get up and 
leave. The door slowly closes. Curtain comes down and lights come up. End of act one.

By Robb A. Kopp

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Judgment Day

Judgment Day has come!!!  I stand before the Almighty Father!  How will I be 
judged?  Will I have tears of joy … or fall to my knees crying tears of terror?

I stand shaking before the Thrown of God.  The accuser, Satan, lays out all my 
faults and failures before The Almighty.  Shame haunts me, as he cries out my 
sins, one after another.  Feeling small and alone,  my legs give out from 
weakness and I fall on my face in fear, as I see God sit quietly listening, as if in 
disgust.  Just when I think the horrible things Satan reveals of my life seal my 
fate; Jesus stands up and orders Satan, “Be silent!”  My heart leaps!  My breath 
departs from me, until I hear Jesus’  words.  

Jesus reminds God the Father, that it was for those very sins that He died.  That it 
was for those sins His body was ripped and tortured and hung on a cross.  I was 
forgiven when I accepted Him in my heart as my Lord and Savior.  He became my 
covering for my sins and sickness.  

Tears flow, I shake uncontrollably as I hear God the Father say, ‘This is true.  
When you received My Son as your Savior, you received salvation.  His blood 
washed those and all sins away.   I see a vessel white as snow’.  

As I watch, God throws my sins into the abyss, never to be seen or brought up 
again.  I cry tears of joy as I sit at His feet.  ‘I have been saved from torment and 
separation from God’, I rejoice loudly!  

‘Enter, my child’, are the words He says, ‘come to the table and feast.  Dance and 
be merry for you are a child of the Almighty and there is no accuser to condemn 
you.  Rejoice in the salvation of your Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ’.  

In my Father’s House I see others rejoicing for they also have been saved by the 
blood of Christ.  

Beauty surrounds me; living waters flow freely for all to drink.  There is no 
sadness, no fear, and no pain!  Only joy, peace and the presence of Love live 
here.  For we are with the author of Love.  God is Love, He radiates love.  

There is laughter.  I love to hear Jesus’ laugh!  It is so hardy and full of life.  To be 
in the presence of my God and Lord Jesus Christ,  to see their beauty and  feel 
their eternal love covering me is my longing.  I am home in my Father’s house!  

Will this be your story?  Or will yours have a sad ending?  It is your choice. 

God’s Word says , ‘For God so loved the world, that He gave His only begotten 
Son, that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish but have everlasting life’.  
John 3:16 

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Someone above me

I know you said you will be there for me
You said everything happen for a reason
Everything that we do together is meant to be
The day you went a way
For me it was a bad season 
When you left I wasn't sad 
It made me STRONG
Because I know you in a better place
It was just a matter of time that I seen you then you where gone
Even though I miss seeing your face
When it's pretty outside 
and it's one beautiful day
I know you looking down on me with a smile on your face 
Saying everything OKAY

Details | Prose Poetry | |

So long to Marie

Today we say ‘so long’ to our beloved friend, I have one thing to say, Lord, on her 

Lord, you know she loved to laugh, and how spunky she could be.  She kept 
everyone on their toes with one thing or another!  Yet she had her times of 
stillness too.  

You gave her the sense of humor and wit she had ....  By the way, thanks a lot!  
And stories ... my, she could make you belly laugh with her stories!

Remember how blunt she could be, and sharp .... yet she never was cruel or 
hurtful, nor ever meant to be.

She loved to minister to people, sharing Your love with them.  Comforting the 
hurting, encouraging and building up the downhearted.  That was her mission in 

She was so busy, she sometimes wore me out.  But Lord, she was special to 
me!  I thank you for the opportunity to share life with her.  She truly was a blessing!

I ask You, Lord, won’t You please ... prepare a very special place for her?  
Because when she hears that trumpet blow .... and the shout of Your voice .... 
Lord, you are going to have Your hands full!

As we lay her to rest, we do so with this sign over head: ‘A Real Live Wire’ will be 
coming home when called!  So raise the ‘Welcome Home’ banner high, ‘cause 
she’ll be runnin’ full bore!

So long, my beloved friend!  I'll be seeing you again!

Details | Prose Poetry | |


     There is a man in the street.  He walks his dog, unaware of the eyes observing
him.  The ladybug's short flight ends on a windowsill.  A man sits and wonders 
why life consists of sitting and wondering.
     The great storm came.  Its violence shakes the foundations of his thought and 
a rude awakening occurs.  There moves a creature, unaware of its movements,
unaware of its destination,  unconcerned with its destiny.  Fate has it so the 
creature can walk, but there is nowhere to walk.  There is no truth, there is no 
future, there is only continuity.  A season of death approaches, and all are 
prepared with flowers.  A return to the beginning, when I did not exist.  A return to
the windowsill, where nothing was achieved.  A return to the streets, where 
nothing was seen.
     A hopeless motion is repeated, and the creature is found on its back.  A push 
to an awakening follows.  Out it flies, to follow the creature on the streets, to an
unknown destination, to an unknown future.
     The storm passes and there is a return to the deathlike silence.  No man can
say what death is, yet each man has his future embedded in its existence.  Each
man has come from non-existence, and to it each shall return.  But why is there a
fear of death, if each life was plucked from it?  Why can not man again 
experience a rebirth from one state to another?  Is there another universe in the 
state which we can only recognize as non-existence?  Once I was there, but there 
is no memory.  I am now here, but there is no reality.  There is no experience 
which can not be classified, and there is no classification for reality.
     There is only the storm, and the short-lived hope it brings.
     Time is the great variable.  It is the essence of life.  It is the road upon which 
each of us travels.  Another dimension, unclassifiable, indescribable.  If there is 
a spirit of man which flows from one state of existence to another, if it is eternal, 
then time is a mere means of measuring its position.
     The answers to man's questions lie in the concept of time, of the continuity of 
man.  Each man lives but a short time, but man as a whole spans a greater 
length of time.  Look for your answers here.
                                                        Tom Bell, 1968

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Body meet Avalanche

I was a prophet, wrapped in my mothers arms
brightest eyes that saw a darkened world
my brother was the halo figure, a golden arm for slingshots
a temper to smash his own fist against a brick wall
we wept in time with the funeral march 
as our mother was buried in front of our eyes

misgivings and mass at midnight
praying to an empty alter 
to save our grandfather, to spare him one more night
lying in bed a week later 
I awoke to his voice telling me our prayers had done no good

It's easier to blame the empty bottles for my brothers death
easier to blame the teen years than the 
push and pull of growing up an orphan
and on nights like this, more than a decade later
I can still recall that conversation when he told me 
when he closed his eyes and spoke those words, barely above a whisper
that he wouldn't be around much longer
I was thirteen and still bright eyed
he was twenty three and weathered 

I was a prophet, but even a blind man could see
the pain that was ingrained in his faintest smiles
the avalanche of emotions still hit and bury me deep
some nights i pray to let me reach safety
others I take solace in knowing that
the avalanche is holding me tight as I sleep

Details | Prose Poetry | |

5 Minutes Of Clarity And A Single Moment Of Serenity

The sun is shining
Its a beautiful day
Sometimes I have to pray
For the sun to shine on me
Instead of the shade
For darkness loves to cover the heart
Seems like i can't get a headstand
Pride greed and fear
Is were i started to steer
Family friends and goals
Are thrown in the holes
Lost in the distance of who i can't be
Memories i can't allow myself to see
It seems every time i try to stand
There is never a helping hand
For the true ones i had to hold
Turned their backs when i sold my soul
For the destructive path that i now lead
I'm the one who sowed that volatile seed
For this life of pain and misery
I'm a blind man who can't see
The sun shining down on me
For the shade has to stay
Until the day i have the strength to pray
A single string of hope
That i can never see
A fearful past
That i had to lead
5 minutes of clarity
And a moment of serenity
For every second at least one heart seeks
In this world of fear and greed
To be the person they want to be
For no one wants to experience this pain of treachery
The bleeding hearts and the lost souls
All had an obtainable goal
Threw away or taken people don't know
But human judgment is always bestowed
On the liars beggars cheats and thieves
Understand, you can not with out experiencing the deed
The power of choice is what we've been given
Hope, Enlightenment, Love And Peace stay hidden
For the key i hold unlocks this mystery
This mystery of H.E.L.P.
And then the shade of darkness shall go away
The sun shall now forever stay
Enclosed in this box threw the distance of time and space
I shall forever be hidden from the pain of my insecurities
5 minutes of clarity
And a single moment of serenity
Is what i shall have, Finally

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Rip Rippy

It was long ago,
Whilst I was still going to college,
Way back during the dawn of mankind,
Still living with my first wife, with my parents,
And my beloved mutt-dog, Rippy...
A smallish, black dog,
Long a part of the family,
He loved cheese, like all Bells,
And hated harmonicas, I guess,
As he would howl when my father played...
But we didn't know that then,
We thought the cutie was merely singing along...
Well, Rippy was in the habit of being let out,
On his own, as we had a big yard,
And always came back without incident...
Until one winter's day, when he never returned...
All hearts were broken,
But none more than mine...
I went out after a snow storm tapered off,
Found his frozen carcass in a street nearby,
And buried him, not an easy task,
In the frozen back yard ground...
Set up a cross,
Although he never admitted to a religion...
And sadly resumed my routine...

Two days later, I came home from C.C.N.Y.,
One afternoon, via bus and subway...
When I came in the door,
My young first wife, Ann, and my mother,
Greeted me with mysterious, mischievous smiles...
They told me to close my eyes,
They would take me inside my parents'
Sealed close bedroom, for a surprise...
Great mystery was evident,
And it was evident they were enjoying
My perplexed looks...

Well, I did as told,
They took me into my parents bedroom,
I was told to open my eyes,
I did, and there on the bed,
Was my beloved Rippy!!
I was delighted, of course,
But wondering if this was some evil magic,
As I had buried him some days prior,
But no, it was Rip, and he was find,
Just a bit skinnier than usual.

So, who had I buried?
To this day I don't know,
But what are the odds,
A dog of similar shape and size,
Should appear dead, frozen,
Directly across the street?

Was his whitish frozen hue
The reason I was fooled?
I don't know,
But I was so overjoyed,
To have my favorite dog of all times, back...

When he ultimately did die...
My wife was gone from the scene,
And my dog died in my arms...
And if I live to be 600,
And have 100 dogs more
Before I die,
I will always miss my Rippy most,
So deeply did he I adore.

For Rhoda, who is about to lose a favored cat,
whose posted picture proved that
that particular cat was gorgeous
beyond normal expectations.   tom bell

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Innocence, Wisdom and Death

We were alive once,
when compassion surrendered identity;
and understanding held no expectation.
Alive in a world of innocence.
A hundred times we've heard these words of rescue,
giving aid for the death of our innocence.
Wisdom crying pleads of reason,
only to be held by the remorse of betrayal
It was then we clung,
from necessity, to our truth.
To our common defiance.
Together we are strong in our independence,
in our since of wisdom.
Slaves to our own arrogance.
Even marching to death we hold strong.
And so we unknowingly pray
Gods of our perception, 
we commission.
Lead us to death in our eternal union...
All is lost when innocence is gone and defiance remains

Details | Prose Poetry | |

But For A Short While

They were with us but for a short while
Their good works now live on in memory to make us smile-
Their joys, their tears, their hopes, their dreams and yes, even their sorrows and 
pains still linger on; they still remain in the portals of the minds of all whose lives 
they have touched-whether little or whether much-

And as they have now gone and left us in body, gone back to dust-
In spirit, it's only but for a short while.

For they who die in the Lord, one day they must:

       At the sound of the trump, as the clouds roll back, meet us in the presence of  
         the Redeemer, Christ, when He returns to gather His Father's children      
          home to the Kingdom of God where we will all prepare together to return 
           to the New Earth from the New  Heaven  to dwell in Eternal Righteousness-
Where joy and peace will be forever and ever, for our eternal home will be 
restored to a place where we can join together to live, worship in praise  to our 
Lord, receiving our crown and  reward of Eternal Life.

So, sleep on sister, brothers, friends, and loved ones; it is but for a short while,   
 for the  Day will come when we shall meet together once again, and all of us will 
be at Rest

In the Presence of God's Glorious Eternal Bliss!

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Psychic (another true tale!)(Pt. One)

this may be hard to believe, but it's true.  will be written in prose for my sanity's 
sake (too late, dummy!!)...let's begin our story....
in the 70's, as a musician, I had a band with my two cousins.  the bass player 
and singer- of incredible talent, was Bill.  the rare kind of person who lights up all 
the bulbs in a room when he walks in.  he was also my best friend..though 
younger, I had him over my house every weekend.  the other cousin, Charlie, the 
drummer- also very talented (in a 3 man band, ya all better be smokin')- but 
Charlie was a dark character- never really to be trusted- he lived with me and my 
parents, cause he was always bein' thrown out from everywhere- and the cops 
had him on their radar. I was the keyboard player.  we did originals as well. all of 
this in the early 70's.  after each jam/rehearsal- we'd go out to party- beer, bars, 
girls, etc...... well for reasons we need not deal with..after a period of some local 
success- we stopped playing- I threw Charlie out when I found his drugs (our 
agreement was no such thing!!)-  and for years after, I would just jam with Bill 
and a revolving parade of others.  for fun.  in dec. 1977, I got the horrible news Bill 
had been killed in an auto accident- something I am yet to recover from...I had 
some pictures of us playing blown up into posters.  Charlie ran to Ariz- he's back 
and forth all the time, depending on where the heat is less intense.  so years 
later (1990) he came to town, and we had a reunion jam...and pictures were 
taken.  when developed, Charlie, arm out, hand open, as in greeting is shown in 
the picture...with a clear stream of what appears to be ectoplasm streaming from 
Bill in the poster directly into Charlie's open hand!!  wow, bizzarre!  best yet to 
come!  sometime thereafter, my girlfriend Rosie and I went to a local psychic- 
intrigued by what appeared to be real knowledge from elsewhere- so to test- 
we came back with the original picture of Charlie and the ecto...sealed in an 
envelope-  surprisingly- she said she saw the accident, she saw twins (he was a 
twin)- he died with his new white shirt on (he did) and a few other tidbits that 
startled me and Rose.  and she never opened the envelope!  some weird stuff, 

Details | Prose Poetry | |

An Open Letter to all my Poetry Soup Pals

This community should only control Congress, the sh_t would stop flyin, the 
politicos stop lyin'.....You guys are great...
To Wilfredo Derequito; thanks, buddy, you're right, I am too old- but I'm still one 
dam_ good rockin' musician!!  Besides, have you seen a recent picture of Mick 
Jagger?  I seen mummies that looked younger. And, I sympathize (along with the 
devil) you got to that 19th Nervous Breakdown....I mean, all those years of 
un-Derequito'd love, gotta take it's toll...ha,ha.  Best regards, buddy,....tom

and to are so sweet a person, but I gotta admit I got back 100 times 
the love and satisfaction from my Dad...he even taught me to love music of the 
30's and 40's, and he often jammed with my band (harmonica- he was the best!!)
He was not only my father, but my best friend, my bar-buddy, my assistant cook,
and my confidant....( I am an excellent cook...)...he brought me more joy than I can 
relate....I was the lucky one.... which made losing him (a year long struggle that 
greatly tested my ability to "hang-in there")

and to Chrisy...hi sweetie, so glad to hear from you...God Bless

Later, dudes and dudettes......tom

Details | Prose Poetry | |


The natural flow
Of each life into the next world,
Hard to grasp at times,
Cruel, heartless, yet natural??

Mark Trotiner, musician,
Friend, teacher to me
Lighter of rooms on entry,
Suffering misunderstandings,
As we all do,
Blessed with lovely daughters,
Meaning the world to him,
Borderline genius,
I would venture to say...

I trust God has accepted him
With the love he warrants,
I will walk a little sader,
From this day on,
For I have lost a friend,
One who helped me through hard times,
One who held my respect,,
No easy chore, believe me
He's playing with the greats now,
To his family, my condolences,
I too weep tonight.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

I wrestled

Several nights now I have wrestled with death for my life.  I don’t fear death, I’m 
just not done with life.  I have things to finish here.  People to reach out to.

I feel my spirit pull me back as death tries to take me away.  My heart knows it will 
be all right when the time is in God’s plan.  But not at this time, it leaves too many 
unsaid, ‘I love you's’.  There is too much still to be done with and for my loved 

When my goal has been reached, then I will cherish the moment I lay to rest, until 
I see my Lord’s hand reaching out for me as  I rise up from my sleep.

But for now … it is life I choose to live.  It is Christ I live for.  So death leave me 
alone!  You can’t have me until my God says it is to be.  I trust His timing and His 
love for me.  

You, death care of nothing but death.  You shall wait, while I live.  I plan to live a 
full and rich life while you wait.

God has promised to give us the desires of our heart, those that are stayed on 
Him.  I am in His hands and you can’t do anything about it.  

There will come a day though that you will have your way, but not totally.  For you 
can only take me in physical death, but I will live in eternal life with my Lord and 

So, see you still can’t win!

Details | Prose Poetry | |

My Dear Mother Teresa

I imagine you're as sick of the mother teresa jokes, as I am of the bell 
ones..."ding, dong" ring my chimes, on and on.etc.

anyway: re; the door; me too, and countless zillions of others.. but to us, ours are 
the ones we deem to count to ...this is purely a natural trait...Death is the sword of 
Damacles' held over all our heads, and worse yet, to those we love...and when it 
collects it toll...our hearts have to dig a new hole.
best regards, tom

Details | Prose Poetry | |

My prayer in death

Dear Lord,

My Journey here finally has ended.  I am now at rest as I have so long awaited.

I could only imagine what beauty and peace there would be in coming home!  I 
pray that all my loved ones would have this peace also.

Lord, help them understand this glorious rest, that I have!  Fill them with peace 
and guide their lives that they may find the strength and comfort in living their life 
with You and for You.

For it is a wonderful and glorious rest. To be with You in heaven will be full in all 
ways, rich in love, joy and peace.  To be in Your presence truly will make  
everything brilliant.

I shall have no more pain, no fear and no sadness.  With ease I will be  able to 
dance and rejoice, as all illness and disease shall be gone!

Lord, be with each person that mourns of my passing.  Show Yourself  to them, 
that they may know You are real!  That You love and care for them Far more than 

For You Lord, are the author of love, and You give it so freely. All they need is to 
accept it, Cherish it, and  hold  tight  to it.

You are always near them, waiting.  Waiting for the day that they call out, “Lord 
God, please . . . I need You!  Make Yourself  known to me!  Forgive me!  Save me!”

And when they call out ... You will be there. Because You are faithful and true.
Just as You have been for me.  I wait to be awaken by Your mighty voice.

Call out soon Lord!  Until then I rest in Your peace, as You have given me deep 
sleep for a season, then the joy of arising to rejoice!

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Dregs of the Cup

Straining to swallow the remedy,
Thick like blood with the stinch
Of gall mingled with death
And the after taste of pleasure-
None running out the corners
Of his mouth- the Physician drank
The bitter cup, enduring the sting 
And curdled abominations stirred 
With grievous residue at the bottom 
Of the cup, and became tannic acid
On the Tree for the sick in the world.

Details | Prose Poetry | |


I go around loitering, all day;
lost in labyrinth! finding my way.
Clasping trees and rocks, undoubted cheer;
right before my eyes! progress of year.
The wind blows and the rain descend,
Its true! what comes must end.
Wondering what, this roaming would avail;
kicking! the leaves and picking the snails.
Pain and fear, I doubt it could see;
doesn’t know! death behold for thee.
The bare ground, would it ever meet;
the fruits! so red and sweet.
Breathing heavily, as the sky blast;
this evening! will soon be a past.
The nature teaches us, in this green;
The answer!  can be clearly seen.
I must leave, when death appears;
In spite! all good wishes and tears.
For all, god made to grow;
One day! has to bid goodbye and go.

Details | Prose Poetry | |


The wood pigeon awoke on her roosting perch,fluttered with a nervous jerk;warily 
searching for sustenance,above the peregrine made a fateful entrance.The 
winter harsh and icy cold,driven far from its familiar fold,seeking food further 
afield to an urban garden that might increase its yield.Under a biting wintry sky 
the short tailed falcon hovered high,an efficient killer from above,more than a 
match for pigeon or dove.Taking its chosen meal in flight,swooping sudden from 
a great height,the momentum imprinting our window pane,her throat slashed 
she soon was slain.Talons sunk deep into the pigeons chest this finicky eater 
pecked at head and breast.The lawn strewn leavings of a ravenous raptor,as 
nature's journal leafs another chapter.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Saddest Are These, It Might've Been

Looking out over this
I'm not the same as i once was
And the fireworks that dismantle the sky
Carry me back home
And just like that
You're dying in my arms again
In the bitter summer sun
Car crash scenes swing me to sleep
I'm afraid I'll die too late
To not be jaded and full of regrets

Looking out over this
I'm washed up and abandoned now
Dear, I've given you all I ever had
Now I'm faded pictures
And echoes that rattle the walls
Of your new life late at night
When you're all alone

What do you get when
The place you called home is all gone
And you feel like a stranger
Who doesn't know where they came from