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Dream Prose Poetry Poems | Prose Poetry Poems About Dream

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

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Details | Prose Poetry |

Dandelion Dreams

There are those who will claim
your hopes are but dandelion dreams;
incessant and overbearing.
Nonetheless they like to play the part
of something beautiful for your eyes to feast.
I've heard some folk say,
"Out of all the weeds in Spring
I care for you the least, for you cannot decide
what role you're in, and this conflict I find
is the greatest sin".

There at those that will wish
to cut you down, saying,
"I don't want no more dandelions, please.
They make this perfect lawn look unkempt,
no, these dandelions I will not accept!"

But I see them differently.
I have lots to say so bear with me.
These yellow and green gems;
yes, indeed, these outcasts of Spring
instill within us our inner passion,
to find beauty in everything.
When we start our mowers
on the verge of a sultry June,
what are we really doing,
but saying farewell to a dream all too soon?
Why fling meaningless droplets
onto a raging fire,
when this lovely world of wonder
your eyes could admire?

There are those who will claim
your hopes are but dandelion dreams;
incessant and overbearing.
Nonetheless I bid you, my friend, take heart!
And let us build up this world again, part for part!
Remember the days when a dandelion
was the most precious gift for any loving mother's eyes.
Remember the days when technicalites
mattered little - that those plants weren't just weeds in disguise,
but a lovely moment in time
when you saw so something so small and so petty
and gave it your own unique light.

With this mindset I truly believe
there is hope for better days.
You just have to open your eyes to see...


Details | Prose Poetry |

My Chance

	High coffered ceilings, 
	an odd filtered light, 
	mote constellations adrift,
	rooms enfilade... 

	In the room at the far end
	— the kitchen, it was — 
	I met my dead grandmother,
	her crooked corpse 
	bothering a hot stove, 
	boiling up a pot of her 
	awful, brown, sticky soup.
	She turned to me, as if to ask,
	“Do you want a bowl?” 

	Startled, I turned to leave
	(She was a ghost, after all...).
	Her boney hand, 
	still holding a soup ladle,
	brushed my right shoulder. 
	I turned. She whispered, 
	“You had your chance.”


Details | Prose Poetry |

A Dream

Strands of thick strawberry lace
Cascade and kindle together over a
Serene and still, velvety muse;
Soft sensations of quiet breath
Brush against every line within the frame;
A luminous comma poses
In an eternal gilt about her face;
Every flicker of her unseen candlelight 
Reflects a somnolent kiss
Upon the gazer's nodding lids.
Magically, the mind reacquaints
A taste and scent of red and yellow ocher, 
Along with the sound of a swoosh,
That permeates a freshly painted room;
Soon, the eyes open to a distant, familiar recall,
When two sleepwalking, kingly eras became one;
Every step blending each image
With a different pallet in time,
And while touching overlapping 
Textures, the mixed mediums are forever
Imprinted upon the memories of the two
Motionless figures;
The connoisseur, while he slumbers
And the sleeper, as she awakens 
From her symbiotic dream.

Contest: "A Dream"
Theme: Based on the painting: "Resting", by Victor Gabriel Gilbert
5/12/2014


Details | Prose Poetry |

I Like to Walk Alone

I like to walk alone

I like to walk alone
In the desert...
By the light of
The stars....
And the moon......
A man.......being a man...
Alone...and comfortable
In his own skin....

I dig a hip hole....
Yes, the sand is cold....it doesn't remember me...
And that's as it should be....
Laying down and looking up
At all the gems and jewels
God has given us.....
 
To dream that dream again
Of you.....
And the day you wore that
Empire dress...
When we were just kids...
Funny what a man
Thinks about as
He closes his eye's
To sleep.


Details | Prose Poetry |

Mocking The Raven

When I was young, I would mock the raven,
Never dreaming her harsh call was a cry
Across the water to the castle of her brother
King Bram, the Raven, ruler of the British Isles.
Never did I dream of the destruction 
That would follow this desperate plea
Sent upon the wings of a blackened crow.

When I was young, I thought childhood
Would last forever; secure in my father's care,
Content in the loving arms of my mother,
Never did I dream of the devastating war
That would follow this messenger of our doom
Carried across the seas to inflict upon our land
A war of vengeful purpose and contempt.

When I was young, peace prevailed in our land;
Our King was just and beloved by his people.
Then came a marriage, an alliance between
Ireland and England.  Queen Branwen;
Discontent, lonely, hungry for power,
Hated by her court for the intrigue
And bloody sanctions imposed upon all
Who did not obey her sanctimonious whim;
Queen Branwen, beautiful daughter of England.

When I was young, I stood beneath
The blasted pine, looking up at the black bird
As she screamed out her litany of wrongs,
Watching as she lifted her wings to soar across the water.
My father, general of Ireland, fell upon the shores
Fighting to repel Bran's vengeful warriors;
My mother, condemned by her beauty
Fell among the vanquished women.

When I was young, I did not fear the raven;
Now I live in the court of the Raven King,
He, who conquered my people for naught as his sister
Queen Branwen, the White Raven, took her life
And walks now, shriven and pale, among the graves
Of the fallen warriors; forever singing her lament
Of sorrow and regret; far too late, far too late.

When I was young, I believed in the goodness of men.
Now I am old; my raven hair is streaked with silver.
The voice of Bran echoes through this palace
As he cries out exhortations to his conquering soldiers;
As he cries for peace and fellowship in his land.
When I was young, I would mock the raven;
Now I am old and have harnessed the power
Of the raven's call.  I cry to my people for vengeance;
I wait for their rescue, as I haunt the halls of the Raven King.



[Loosely based on the legend of Bran, the Raven King of England 
and Branwen, his sister, who was married to the king of Ireland.  
It is said that King Bran speaks still in England through the cries of the raven.]


{by Deb Radke -- written for the contest 'Among the Dead'}




Details | Prose Poetry |

Hunting for Spring

We’re so tired, of winter’s, snow and ice,
For too long, we have been, within our house, winter’s price.
Why won’t you come, to visit us, and sing?
Where we’ll be touched, by your sun, so heartily, beaming.
Oh where! Oh where! Are you, our sweet Spring?
We need you, so very longingly!

We saw you peak out, for just one day.
Then you quickly, and suddenly, ran so very far away.
So we did a Rain Dance, and danced in the cold.
Without your shinning brightness, all we got, was cold snow!
Oh where! Oh where! Did you go, our sweet Spring?
Why did you run, so very far, with your blessing!

We sought the Groundhog, that he ask you, to come back.
But he was burrowed, deep beneath, all the snow, and ice pack.
He wouldn’t open his door, as we knocked, true and hard.
He refused, to even come out, as he denied the pleas, of this bard!
Oh where! Oh where! Are you, our precious, sweet Spring?
We beseech thee, to please come back, to me!

The trees want to bloom; their sprouts are ready, to collect.
Our hearts are there beside them, under this winter, and it’s effects.
We’ll sit here, dreaming of the beauty, only you can affect.
We’re hopeful, can’t wait, but now at March’s mercy, and redirect.
Oh where! Oh where! Did you go, our sweet Spring?
Our hearts and souls want to be warmed by thee!

What? Dragon and I see you! We rejoice my friend!
Our hearts, like the trees, are beginning, to warm again.
The snow is leaving; all is greening, before our eyes.
We beg you, to please stay here, solidly, close by our side.
Oh where! Oh where! Did you go, our sweet Spring?
At last! It doesn’t matter! We have you back, and all that you bring!

Written for my good Friend Jack Ellison.


Details | Prose Poetry |

Here is a story about myself

My mind went on a trip one sunny day
In that trance I was president
Papa was proud of me
Mama felt pleased too
“You are a natural leader” said my neighbor
“I knew you would make it, it’s not a fluke” commented another
Frenemies surfaced in haste


My face was on TV
I was a president on the move 
Ain’t nobody stood in my way
I travelled far and wide
My term was short
I had to make an impact
Etch my name in the hall of fame
History had to have my name

Time is a march and the powerful are drummers
He who drums loudest leads the song
His life is lavish and his abode magnificent
Look who is drumming
Would they be drumming if I weren’t president?
Are they friends or foes?
Only time will tell
Then there was a reality check.
The chimera was over

I am just who I am
The same old nobody


Details | Prose Poetry |

Smile

Kill a smile with a kiss
The demise of it will visit you in your dreams
Never will I let you
Drown in a pool of angry thoughts
I will be your unexpected smile
Every time I bring u roses b4 valentine
A wet poem I would recite for you

I would make you my 1st rhyme
your heart-beat will rhyme
Twist my beat box
Into a love song
A cartoon I would paint in your heart to keep you smiling
Your twin smiles I would define in vernacular
Though I speak no language from Peninsula
My parents will define your beauty as African splendor
Black mother nation
Smile please smile


Details | Prose Poetry |

My Fantasy Dream

                                   
                                 A Dream From My Past 
                                     Was A FANTASY.
                           Be patient I will take you where I 
                              have been from the beginning.
                           One of those days was a lucky day 
                         When I heard a light tap on my Door
                                 Who is it I asked? 
                                 Its me the post man. 
                          Oh dear I was murmuring what could it be? 
             Step by step with my cane I arrived to open with shaky hands 
             a young man with a smiling face was standing with an envelope 
                 in his hand ready to give it to me but I had to sign it first 
         staring at him crying for help to stay as maybe it could be 
                                       bad news or good news.
              I opened it and In there was a cheque of one million dollars
                                I screamed young man I won 
                                 the lottery I am a winner 
             yesterday I bought a ticket with my last 2 dollars thank you 
              please come back tomorrow I have a small surprise for you.
 My cry of happiness was heard by the drops of rain knocking on my window                                                                                              calling to ask when I am due to cache the money as they also were my friends     awaiting for the happy event to the never ending journey of giving.
                                My fantasy dream was fulfilled 
                               Oh! how good is The Lord to me.
 Now that I won I ran sat down got out my pen and paper and here I am 
writing today I am rich but tomorrow I will become poor as I will give away 
all the millions to the needy my family my friends everybody will share 
                                        my richness. 
      Good night my friends until tomorrow another day another dream.  

                                        Therese Bacha 
                                          10/5/2013


Details | Prose Poetry |

The Dream Leaving

This is the last call for the
dream which is about to
leave from cloud number
nine. Calling at freedom,
peace, tranquillity, hope
and love for all.
Your ticket shall be faith,
humility and respect for 
all, your passport the
ability to care and share
for one another, to give,
to teach, to learn.
The price of the ticket,
your heart, your soul,
the willingness to bind
and blend, to join hands
on a journey beyond the
boundaries of reality.
Don't miss this dream,
there is room for all, 
there is no first or second
class, no colour or religious
divide, only carriages full
of futures desires.
Don't miss this dream
leaving from cloud nine,
on it the future depends,
both yours and mine.


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