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Prose Poetry Death Poems | Prose Poetry Poems About Death

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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 heart......no 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 swells....my 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



__________________________________________________
 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.

Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The patient

He lay there staring straight at me,
but looking right through me.
At the time I thought little about it,
simply mustered a smile in my drowsy state.
Breathing deeper into his oxygen mask,
slowly his eyes began to close.
To me it seemed he was drifting
into a world of peaceful dreams.
His face was now emotionless,
his body motionless.
Feeling trepidation, without hesitation,
I reached for my panic alarm.
As the nurse rushed to my bed, 
I pointed to the man across me.
With pristine calm, curtains closed,
other nurses and doctors rushed.
'Poker faced', she left the bay, for a few seconds
looked at me impassively and wandered away.
For a moment I contemplated,
contemplating why his last visions were of a stranger.
It will always be a mystery what he saw in his passing,
and how sad, loved ones never got a chance to say goodbye...

27 February 2016

Copyright © Silent One | Year Posted 2016

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 
ones
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?
"Happiness" 
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

Copyright © brittney lopez | Year Posted 2013

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.
10/29/14

Copyright © Debbie Guzzi | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Think of Me

Think of me and smile
Our time was shortly spent
Think for just a while
Of all the things we meant………
To each other we were Love, 
Laughter, Smiles and Joy
Think of all those things
Then think of us once more

Remember our first kiss
Remember our first time
Remember I was yours, 
Remember you were mine
The things that we would say
The things we use to do 
I heard you sing a song
I wrote a poem for you
Didn’t think we’d be together
Didn’t seek, but we did find
A precious hidden treasure
A love so true and kind


Now when the Angels come for me
My home now in the sky
Don’t hang your head in sorrow
For me don’t even cry
I will send a signal
And you will know the sign
The Sun will shine its brightest
The humming birds will sing
Midnight will be the darkest
Think of all those things

The wind will blow so gently
I’ll Whisper in your ear
You will smell the roses 
And feel my presence near
For you have known my spirit
For you have only seen
The beam of light now shinning
A dream that came to be
So just in case you’re wondering
It’s not because I’m free
But that I caught you smiling
And I knew, you had thought of me.


Patricia Templeton


"Women Only"

Copyright © Patricia Mitchell-Nunn | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry | |

REINCARNATION THINKING

REINCARNATION THINKING?

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


REINCARNATION THINKING 2 -SOUL SEARCHING

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



MORE QUESTIONS ON RE-INCARNATION

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. 

10-3-2012


REINCARNATION THINKING 3 -

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


REINCARNATION ENDING

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.

6-2-2012

Copyright © Allan Koven | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Oldest Crime

Daggled and bloodied, the young man lay upon the ground where he’d been 
left.. .left by vile men who, spurred by senseless hate and ravenous for a taste of 
violence, had lured him with false fellowship and brought him to this secluded spot 
by veil of darkened day. At first, they bound his arms, rendering him defenseless to 
what was to ensue.  After dragging him a small way from the back seat of their van, 
they proceeded to pummel his stomach and his face, breaking his nose almost 
instantly. When he stumbled to the ground, he received the heels of their boots as 
they kicked at his extremities and then again, he received their cruel  blows to his 
stomach and face.  When certain they had done enough damage so he would not 
last a night in the cold, they spat on him and drove away.

 As his attackers sat far away in a bar, drunk and boasting how they’d “done the 
world a favor,” he’d already passed the stage of vomiting and gasping for his 
breath. And though his brain was writhing with awful pain, with knowledge of his 
sure obliteration, his chilled and broken body stayed inert. Reposed as if inside the 
womb, he felt the ache receding, and before night’s shadows passed into the dawn, 
his blood had stanched. 

Now as flesh turns into carrion lying undiscovered in the dust, his spirit… never 
quashed. . .cries out for justice.

Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2011

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Goodbye My Love

After the snowfall but before the lily blossoms, you were this woman who left by choice. All natural decisions made from a place of despair. Darkness consumed you as you fell into an addiction with expressions of deep sorrow and remorse... Step by step by step... Taking steps... Foot by foot by foot... Slower than a run, yet faster than a turtle, closer and closer towards your oblivion... Into mysterious unconsciousness, I whispered... "Goodbye, my love"...as you walked away. After the spring but before the leaves, I found you drained of energy. Completely exhausted into nothingness, and through it all, you still loved me. Seems like yesterday we walked side by side, you..me...the gentle breeze... You need not ask for forgiveness, sweetheart, it has been granted long ago, and before you were gone I already whispered... “Goodbye, my love"...as you walked away. After the sun but before the rain, You tore out the pages from your favorite book. You wrote it at such a tender age. Too young to understand, yet too old to make believe. Big brown eyes, wearing a ball cap on your head. Smiling while hiding and running while crying... I couldn't handle this defeated hopelessness you wore on your sleeves with patches sewn on to cover up the burn holes... I sit at your grave once again. No tears, no laughter, no guilt, I stood up and whispered... “Good bye, my love" as I walked away. ~Date Written: December 2015~

Copyright © Laura Loo | Year Posted 2015

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.

Copyright © Melody Coster | Year Posted 2007

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 ~~~~

Copyright © Iman Roy | Year Posted 2011

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 
differently.

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.

Copyright © Curt Mongold | Year Posted 2010

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Mourning In My Arms

Really, only five years have past
Since your son’s abandoned car was found,
	No note,
		Along side sea cliffs
		North of Santa Cruz,
		After failing with pills,
			Too many times.
	No body either,
		Though at times I prayed for that.
Wincing now myself at your pain
	As you hand beggars at streetlights
	A few dollars, as you pray, heart broken,
	Some empathetic soul is doing the same
	For your son, should he still be alive,
Watching your head turn wistfully to search the face
	Of distant beggars on the wrong side of the street,
	Both of us feeling in our hearts that he is gone.

Rested, before dawn breaks,
I close the distance night has sanctioned,
	Move closer,
		Take you in my arms
		Feel tension release
		As sleep finds its meter,
			Breath its rhyme.
	The body’s warmth
		Giving dreams new assurance.
The sweet sound of your sleeping
	Now informs my answered prayer
	Deft moves that fluff me into compliance
	Help me to trust some needs at least are met,
	My own sleep, pulls on my sleeve like a child,
As watchful still, I succumb to warmth of your heart,
	That even in its half-full, depleted state,
	Still has the power to make my sun rise.


Brian Johnston
December 5, 2015

Copyright © Brian Johnston | Year Posted 2015

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.
    Continued.....

Copyright © tom bell | Year Posted 2007

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.

Copyright © Stan Bradford | Year Posted 2007

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Darkness Falls

Darkness

Darkness falls over me all around..
It helps drown out the loud sound..
Of pain and heartache because I feel okay in the darkness..
And trying to pull me in to light just makes me feel less..
Because in darkness you don't have to talk, go any place or even look nice...
You just curl up and do your thing without needing advise..
I will take darkness over light anytime.
Just because you are in the darkness it is not a crime..
You can still meet me here if you feel the need..
And there is no dress code, subjects not welcome or language to watch indeed..
Darkness falls in my eyes and heart every single night..
Trying to stay out of the darkness has just become too much of a losing fight..
The battle is tiring so instead of continuing the battle every day and night and just..
Will let the darkness fall into me and let it take what it must..
                                            
Buffy Sammons 8/3/15

Copyright © Buffy Sammons | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Winter's Rime

(In a churchyard in Northern Ireland)


Through the broken and barren trees
Winter exhales its coldest breeze
From the wintry breath of northern seas
That can chill the warmest soul.

Thus in the churchyard by the sea
Nigh one broken and barren tree
Lies cold a soul once warm to me
Beneath the winter’s rime.

As the heart of winter doth unfold
I feel its touch, so dark and cold,
For I yearn at night to yet behold
That soul once warm to me.

But in earthen depths doth she lie
E’er below the moon and starlit sky
As yet unto her grave I wander by
And despair the winter’s rime.

O’ the winter wails upon the still
With its bleak and bitter chill
That conjures from the nightly nil
A soul once warm to me!

Copyright © Robert Liam McCallum | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Haunting of Missed Opportunities

As the sands slip through the hour glass of time
harsh realization dawns,
 such as the late summer rose ceased to flourish and bloom,
while the season grows short,
dead petals scattered by cold winter winds.
Yet unlike the rose, graciously accepting it's place in the grand scheme, 
man's self awareness becomes a curse upon his consciousness, 
to possess the knowledge of his ever nearing mortality.
Life's unfinished dreams chased away by the bitter rising sun.

Copyright © JD Caperton | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry | |

This I know

Why?
The question so easy
So difficult to answer
I know why

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

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

Why?
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

 
Why?
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 . . 
Me
Just me

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

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

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

Why . . ?
Just tell me why . . .

Copyright © Neal Freeland | Year Posted 2008

Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Lonely Grave

1

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.

2

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.

3

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.

4

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.

Copyright © Patrick Ronan | Year Posted 2007

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

Copyright © tom bell | Year Posted 2007

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.

Copyright © Stan Bradford | Year Posted 2007

Details | Prose Poetry | |

SNAKE OWNER

snakes-owner
…………………..
poet-mrs.anjali denandee , mom
…………………………………………..
i am a snakes-owner…..
i catch snakes from here and there….
by my own-hands……..
i am very-expert……
i live in a village-corner…..
to my snakes , i take too-care………
i put , in bamboo-baskets……..
give to these , milk…
all drink it………
on many-ways……
i show the dance of the snakes……..
many people enjoy it………
the crowds give me foods , cloths and also money……..
i am not poor..
by these , i eat..
i dress……
and also i buy my useful-things …
by the money……
one day ……
a doctor says to me ,…………
‘’ if you give me the poison …….
then i shall give you money ‘’ ……..
i agree with him,then…..
at every month…..
he contacts with me……….
and i give him the poison…..
and take money……
he goes back in his city , then…..
we contact , again and again……
after some years…
i become very-rich-woman…….
one -night …..
i give milk ……..
to my snakes…
and at that time…
a snake bites on my right-hand….
i think that …
i shall be dye…..
without any treatment………
yes…by my collection …
of the poison……….
the doctor creates the medicine …
but i can not take it………
i know that….
after some-times………
will stop , my heart-beats…….
yes.it is the reality……
where is my safety ……

Copyright © ANJALI DENANDEE | Year Posted 2016

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
Life
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

Copyright © Sean Taylor | Year Posted 2012

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.


j.McC. 

Is It Poetry 
 
 

Copyright © Poetry Is It | Year Posted 2009

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Death Of Love Part 1

      ~Death Of Love~ Part 1

The death of adoration is the moment of truth
                  abundance of caution is needed
                            when love has no tomorrow
                                            it changes to pain.
                                                   In the name of suffering 
                                                          weight your capacity to hold tight
                                                                             by not giving up the fight.
.                                                                                                 
                                                                            Therese Bacha      
                                                                               12/5/2013
                                                                Contest for Russel Divey 5 minute
                                                                                  WIN. NO.( 1)

Copyright © Therese Bacha | Year Posted 2013

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. 

Copyright © Danielle Wise Baxter | Year Posted 2012

Details | Prose Poetry | |

DRUNK AND IGNORANT

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.

Copyright © craig schaber | Year Posted 2011

Details | Prose Poetry | |

IN THIRTY-FIVE MINUTES

IN THIRTY-FIVE MINUTES The angels are rushing and running left to right, they are careful as wounded-soldier eyes plead as thirty-five minutes ago... - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Earth-quaking are the sounds. On the dance floor is a number of halcyon Romeo and Juliet swaying smooth under an umbrella of blinking lights: red and green. Clinks! Clinks from tossed liquor filled glasses with loud chats and laughter crowd the air when--- tenacious shakes strike and slip their ground. Spiky trembles trip on spines, pounds grip hearts as the mad shaking earth beneath brawls and growls. They wanted to jet fly but they are tight trapped to a web of disaster. Satanic is this villain. Outside, sleeping pipes spurt! Shocked current wires fire! Anxious buildings cracked! Worried bridge fell apart! Disturbed waves began their tidal rolls, higher and higher as they land the shore. Thunder and lighting rule the skies, sad helpless clouds cry and cry flooding everywhere... Passed the thirty-five minutes, stinky is the breeze ragged dirty doll-like bodies are strewn all around... _________________________________________________ Sponsor Debbie Guzzi Contest Name Death and Dying ++Placed 3rd++ O.E. Guillermo 9:27 pm, June 28, 2015

Copyright © Olive Eloisa Fraser | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry | |

LONG LIVE THE BRAVE

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 cowardice disregarded but courage believed Their fears covered by their bravery revealed Their sorrow wept, their lives appealed With 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!”

Copyright © siza sibiya | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Somewhere over the rainbow

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

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





Copyright © michael hornschuch | Year Posted 2011