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Prose Poetry Family Poems | Prose Poetry Poems About Family

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Details | Prose Poetry | |

She read me Dr Seuss

6:35 A.M.

Sunrise against my neck
that no cheap tan booth could ever match.

I ring the doorbell in anticipation of joy’s injection.

I needed it.

Because I left my cell phone in the car,
as I didn’t want to hear any chimed email
or text annoyances.

And the car just got cleaned,
only for the birds to have their way
on its waxy shine.

Bastards!

Time to grab the flamethrower from my trunk!

But, before I could scream in Braveheart declaration,
there she was.

Her 6 yr old smile,
made of 1/4 inch gaps between innocence enamel,
captured me like no other could.

“Tio”, she preached in angelica sonata.

As she held me,
held me,
with puppy love warmth.

Even the rainbows fell to its knees.

She took off my jacket with ferret-like perkiness and
asked me to sit on the floor with her.

But, not before offering to toast me some Eggo waffles
with a big glass of Ovaltine…
…in her Little Mermaid glass,
proudly made in North Korea.

It even had the dictator’s initials and a bucktooth smiley face stamp, signed in glitter
that said:
“Kid-safe”.

Thank God I just took my online course in Child Safety.
I was ready!

As I sip on Little Mermaid’s curves,
shaped in plastic, swirly straw weirdness,
a sound blasts off from a Barbie radio.

My 2 yr old angel galloped into this heart of mine,
with Tinnitus piercing scream & laughter,
tackling me in Incredible Hulk lunge.

“Hi Tio”, she whispered, before she hopped back upstairs, 
Ninja Turtle-style,
laughing maniacally with rapid head tilts, left to right to left.

Boys will fear her. 
And I couldn’t be more proud.

After two moments of silence, 
my 6 yr old angel places her Dr. Seuss book on my lap,
as she sits in front of me.

“I can r-r-read
with my eye-s
shut.”

She carefully completed the sentence,
as my eyes instantly fill with leaky pride
and an ingrained smile.

10 minutes later, she shut her book and asked me how she did.
“I am so proud of you my angel.”
“You have come so far.”

I had to hold back tears because I didn’t want to throw her off.
Yet I think she knew,
because she kept her head down and smiled with gentle starburst.

Mission accomplished.

And it was then where I heard her say,
“Those who matter don’t mind,
those who mind don’t matter.”

But she was quiet, looking at me with tilted head & smile.

For it was my inner child, 
speaking
clear.

© Drake J. Eszes

Copyright © Drake Eszes | Year Posted 2011

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Words Of Wisdom To My Child

You grow so fast, already showing glimpse of awesome creativity and transform discoveries from the industrious nature of your observations so squat at my feet and raise your attentive head up high to be equipped for this compulsory journey oh sweet creature of my seed. My hands of your molding and chastisement are already the processing engine of your refinement my strong willed mind and love soaked heart complete the stages as you hold steadfast to the train I’ve prepared for you Listen attentively as I perform this segment of my duties and lets take a tour round the routes of wisdom and gallivant the landscape of experience while I pedal your feet and smoothen your soles Seasoned flavored virtues are an armour through which life’s shots are overcomed and a colourful behaviour becomes a saviour in times of need Labor not your whole life in chasing vapour for out of vigour, flour is made from wheat, Bread from flour, but all for a time of enjoyment and satisfaction Guilty syndrome is exhibited when a person answers unasked questions and don’t force out jokes from your head or else people will think your sense of humor is on a life support Sunset is no accuse for the clock to stop running ad infinitum thus, an excuse is like a punctured umbrella it’ll still not stop the invasion of raindrops Your natural desires are borderless, but your ability to strongly control them is what makes you distinct from other species in the animal kingdom Love has no prefix, suffix or adjective it is what it is and as powerful as causing natural instincts to be abdicated in favour of kindness just for the carnivore to embrace abstinence. He who begins a tale becomes its reference don’t say what you cannot defend in court rumour is a bad odour which spreads beyond the neighbourhood and puts a noisy siren on your personality Bad companionship will lead you to the garbage and corrupt friends will join others to marvel at the immortality of your adopted stupidity Wash your face every morning with these words and take your every meal with these lines then would they be spices to which your life is preserved.

Copyright © Funom Makama | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry | |

My grandmother's diary

Cucu, maitu 

Now that am older
I seek more answers 
In the same manner I did 
Those days gone, of fetching firewood to cook a cherished meal
I seek more answers 
Not in the manner I did
Fetching sticks in the forest to be used by teachers for spanking and whipping 
Oh how I dreaded those days, those chilling days of punishments for poor grades, tardiness and noise making
And there my hate for math began....fearing it even to this day
that math teacher that came drunk to class and we mostly got beatings for nothing

I seek answers to understand our family dynamics 
Interesting, odd, sad, puzzling, beautiful, worrying, entertaining,  
Is some of the descriptions 
The reason we are the way we are
The beings we become in unexpected fate

Cucu, maitu 

I've heard your many stories of "emergency" during the colonial rule
I've seen your youthful strength that grows more beautiful with aging days
You always say "it's the Lord"
I remember how when we were little you always got us to wash our feet before getting on your bed
How you then proceeded to pray for your ten children, your many grand children and your ever increasing great grandchildren 
Telling God each of their names
My sisters and I always thought you said some of the longest prayers
But now that am older I know why
The number of family members I have to pray for increases with new age
Like the last video i took of you singing and dancing with some of your great grandchildren, 
The melody of my life becomes more fruitful with each new beat


Cucu, maitu (kikuyu words for grandmother) 

Copyright © njeri hunjeri | 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 | |

Crystal Clear

The window guys came to install the new glass. They took away the old glass that had become filled with moisture. The seals had failed, the result of nineteen years of Okanagan sun beating down on them. It's funny how we don't notice how things deteriorate over time, it happens so gradually, then one day you wake up and see and wonder why it took you so long to notice. I have had this happen with relationships so now I am ever vigilant when it comes to the ones I love. Unlike my windows I don't wish them to be replaced or perhaps I should worry that they may wish to replace me. The light is now shining into our home and as I look at my wife I smile and we look out the window together.  The view seems better with someone I love by my side.

Copyright © Richard Lamoureux | Year Posted 2012

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Mama's Song

I wander through my journey, interspersed with joy and pain, always grateful 
Though not by choice, some days are somber; yet others follow with abundant joy
In my solitude, memories come alive with the recall of some old song from another time
When life was carefree in everyway! No worries and not one care!
First heard as a child; the title now lost to me, so I’ll call it "Mama’s Song"
It’d start off soft and slow; its rhythm smooth, graceful, incredibly beautiful!
Then lingering on my mind, gently reviving memories lost somewhere in yesterday
It’d calm my spirit, take me away- away from countless, mundane tasks
All necessary things, but they arrest my days, imposing, threatening, vying for attention

There’s a constant battle that rages within, and I often ask, “Should I lay down this burden  
of joyless pursuits which hinder valid expressions from my heart?  Should I?
And to what profit?  Surely monetary gain is a necessity, but at what cost to my spirit??
Were I guardian only to myself, I’d simply choose to live lean somewhere by the sea
I would cast my net for food, and barter for grain and herbs.  However, the compass is set
So, I escape in the melodies, with my eyes closed, and fly high, above this terrain
Sailing on the massive wings of a Condor, unafraid; over rugged pathways and
Jagged edges of mountains that rise above the seas, far away from this place of constant 
weariness, on my way to a place more tranquil, somewhere in yesterday
I hover over rivers that give life to green valleys below, quite an amazing view to see!
Like black velvet ribbons they meander through the changing landscape
At an angle they shimmer like fine crystal in the afternoon sun, and in one breath,
I am there! At Mama’s feet, studying her as she sews dresses for my sisters and me 
I watch, I listen to her, softly singing; feel her contentment and peace through the song
Never complaining, never too tired to go beyond the call, to love and care for family 
Teaching by example, using less words, her quiet spirit, ever steadfast, strong
Those times when I feel I can not go on, when afraid I'll falter, I still hear the the melody 
and "Mama's Song"!

Note:  For Mama - Thank you for putting us first! For the many lessons learned which we nowteach our children.  RIP w/Papa!!

Copyright © Annalise Brigham...a.k.a. Audrey Haick | Year Posted 2010

Details | Prose Poetry | |

You Haven't Left

You haven’t left my heart
You haven’t left my mind
I’m just trying
To give you some time
Something happened in your life
You don’t care to explain
Or just can’t talk about
Until you feel the time is right
It’s o.k. my friend
I can understand
Just don’t think of my silence
As coming from an uncaring heart
For I would freely give
All that I’ve got and am
To be by your side
To be your confidant
For you mean much more to me
Than a simple hello
Or kiss in the night
You’re the very hope
That brings light into everyday
And I’ll be there for you
In any way that you allow
You’re not just a hand to be held
A touch to be felt
Or a pleasure conquered 
You’re the very hope
Of what life could be
Were I to be the one
To win your heart
So while you take this walk
Know it doesn’t have to be
Or really isn’t alone
For you haven’t left my heart
You haven’t left my mind
And should you need or care to reach
My hand is always here

Copyright © Mike Hamill | Year Posted 2010

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Because Education Is Important

The last time I had seen this particular cousin of mine, I was still in college and he had a head full of hair. In between, there had been three funerals, two weddings and four births in our Trojan royalty of a family. I had been a university graduate for a year, and the prospect for a job, a decent one at that, had started to grow dimmer by the day. He asked, “Will you tutor my daughter?” “Yes!” I said. And we set out immediately. He, on his bike and I, on my motorcycle following him. We took a right turn at the famous landmark of the statue of demoness Putana, sitting on the grass with her bosom out and legs spread forward. He introduced me to his wife and daughter. Telling them to stand side by side, he told me, “She's only eleven, but look at her! Already equal in length and width to her mother, who is no delicate petal herself. Do you think you can teach her GK?” 

The universe wasn't made with dissent. Plus, the chicken samosas were really delicious. I tried on a grin while the overachieving pre-teen bustled around the room showing me her accolades for painting, singing, studying. As I left he pointed at a tree, “Do you know what tree is that?”

“Bael?” I answered thoughtfully. 

“Apple. That's an apple tree.” 

“Oh! Does it bear fruit?” 

“Not in this climate!” He laughed out loud.





---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Date: 30 / 11 / 2016
Contest: James Tate
Sponsor: Space Cadet

Copyright © Tamal Kundu | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry | |

What Is Poetry

What is poetry, I must ask? Writing poetry can be quite a task. Still I struggle and continue to write, Hmmm, for my delight, or  do I write from insight?  Although I get frustrated, very agitated, can"t  bring myself to hate it because I"m also captivated. You see, poetry is something very new, something I thought I would never do, yes I thought nothing of the kind, poetry never even crossed my mind. Until Rehad. I was jotting down stuff that was really drab, while in my mind I was repeating a phraise while giving The Lord praise. Then a voice I heard, "you can do much more with those words" I didn't have a clue of what I could do.

So I started to think, I started to strain but the more I strained the further away they became. I was completely baffled, it had stopped me cold, so I stopped trying and behold poem's started to unfold. Now the tide has turned, no more free ride it's time to learn, so some candles I must burn, like everything else poetry too, you must earn. Instead I duck, I dodge, I hide, thinking of anything to put them aside. With all the great poets how can I compete, I feel as though I'm already beat. So I get afraid and into the back ground I fade, trying my best to evade. But that's not the case for every morning I awake they are right back in my face. I'm thinking, this is not the norm, should I grab the bull by the horns. My head started to spin, thinking how do I begin.

And from out of my heart, following the other poets is a great place to start, in order to proceed you must not only write, you must also read and reading is showing me it takes special people to write poetry. Which also keeps me in check and for all you poets I have the utmost respect. So whether good or bad, I will nether smudge nor carry a grudge for I am not here to judge. I just want to be a part of these wonderful works of art. But Poetry, I wonder, what will I aquire and what will transpire? I guess I must travel the unknown but it's good to know, I don't walk alone. So I say again my friend. What Is Poetry, I Must Ask, Writing Poetry Can Be Quite A Task?

Copyright © Milton Robertson | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Biological Egg Donor

So far it's been 35 years since I started to roam the Earth, You only stood in my life from birth until i was 11months then left me with no trace not even a word.

I try to forget about you but in my mind you still creep in, Why put me through this mental torture was I such a sin ? I'm surprised you didn't throw me into a trash bin.

At times I fall asleep with tears in my eyes wondering what was your reasons for disappearing, also wondering if you did the same to my unknown siblings.

In fact it's a whole half of my bloodline that I don't know, Did you even advise them of my existence ? How can you as a "Woman" have a Heart so cold ?

As I grew older I tried to track you exhausting many options and logic, I guess I have better chances of meeting Jesus before we ever discuss this topic.

I was raised by my Paternal side of the Family who nurtured and watched me grow, Now I found the Woman who I will soon marry God willing adopt some children and start my own Family.

I am not poor nor am I rich 1 thing's for sure I will never be like you you disgraceful Witch, The pains you have caused me I would never wish on another since you decided to run and go in to deep cover, I'm glad I don't have to refer to you as a Biological Mother.

By: Shawn Muñoz

Copyright © Shawn Munoz | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry | |

A HOME

A HOME I never knew a home; Christmas, any holiday were words, merely words. Looking from the outside in. A child, seeing lights, balls, trees, presents, but most of all: family life. Warm feelings coursing me, A longing so unknown, A wish so deep, a wish to be. Only, I still don't. Winter used to be cold, inside and out. The house an unfriendly place. Feeling like a visitor, A child, craving warmth of family life. Wanting to belong somewhere. Silent words on paper form A longing deeply seated. Inside all my feelings storm, Melting hearts, heated This year I have a home; my sister embraces me to her house and her family. No more outside, but in. For once a child, and I can stay and I can celebrate and enjoy family life Small tokens in my happy hands. Wrapping paper, tape, smiles, Christmas tree, love lands. Peace, after years of trials. *** For contest: THE HEART OF CHRISTMAS Sponsor: Mystic Rose

Copyright © Darren White | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry | |

And Then I Pray

You came into my life, why? I didn’t invite you, I never wanted you around, you 
know this , but you will not leave, you don’t know how much I hate you, and yet I 
don’t hate anyone or anything. When you hate, to me, it is the same as killing. If I 
only knew how to kill you ……. It would have been done many times over. I awake 
every morning and there you are, ready to make my life miserable, the one thing 
you enjoy most in your life. Wherever I go, you follow bringing your misery into my 
life. Why cant you just leave and leave me in peace? I fight with you every day, and 
it hurts so much, so much it hurts to fight with anyone, even you. There is one 
way and only one way to rid you of me. I think of this often, but then where would I 
be? I would not be, because you are part of me, your name is bi-polar. Handed 
down from my father and from his father, and from me to my son, but he refuses 
to recognize you, so he fights you without help he could get. If he would only say I 
know who you are. I hurt for him everyday, and then I pray.
Oh God please forgive me for what I have brought upon my son. Son, I love you, 
and am so sorry for what you go through. Maybe someday we will talk again. Dad

Copyright © Kenneth Fordham | Year Posted 2008

Details | Prose Poetry | |

7 Gifts of the Holy Spirit Prayer

Lord God,
Stretch our mind/s with deep understanding of Wisdom
To obtain positive understanding with every complications
Counsel us with guidelines in our work

Give us Fortitude, strength, Patience and Tolerance to finish in peace successfully
Deliver knowledge in our mind/s
For us to receive Piety, goodness and devoutness to get satisfaction
With Holy Fear of the Lord-God, I/we ask in the name of Father Christ Jesus to be with us now and forever.

Amen 
09122012

People can change the “our” to “their”, “him” or “his” when praying for others.

Copyright © Jacqueline R. Mendoza | Year Posted 2012

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Your My Dear Friend

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

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

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

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

Copyright © Perry Campanella | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry | |

I Woke Up One Morning

                              "I Woke Up One Morning."

I woke up one morning as if from a dream, 
I had lived from being a child, to an old age. 
I was struck by anguish and fear until I realized 
that this dream was my awakened past.

I walked this earth with steady feet, 
Carrying my mind in my heart.
Surrounded by some who cared and 
other's who couldn't.
I felt betrayed and in return I wounded myself. 
Those marks are invisible, yet the pain is deeply 
felt with inner scars.

Along my path, I met my mother, a passive soul! 
kind, and generous, unable to express her perplexed mind. 
I met my father! unsatisfied at who he was, 
blowing blows of anger and frustration, into his world, 
yet sensitive enough To overwhelm his children with 
silence and authority, which he called love and protection 
from a world he feared. 
And under his wings was no such living.

I met my eldest brother, who's joy on this earth was 
short lived! A soul refined with inner depth and struggle 
to better himself and love unbounded by more love 
to those he loved.

I met my little sister, who will represent a loving 
child within a grown sensitive, and sensible feeling 
woman Her inner space, glows in her outer beauty, 
which remained young coming from the depth 
of her feelings, and suffering, and re-suffering, 
while creating from her own flesh her home.

We left our native home where we laughed, 
and cried, growing, hoping to fulfill a dream 
not yet dreamt. 
Follows a life with pressure, discontent,
pain, submissiveness we walked, unconnected  
with our partners, divided, never holding hands 
along the path.

Four new lives,  time, events, war, death, tears and smiles... 
engulfed our existence, until all that we call freedom 
brought an unaccomplished freedom 
short lived, yet lived.

I met my younger brother he our enigma our flesh 
and blood runs together in different fields. 
Children and more children they are our treasures. 
Their pains and joys reflect in our lives.

Yet, nothing can cut through the thread that holds 
our lives together. 
Young and old and growing will remain enduring, 
with every breath we breath, away or close, 
we hear each other's silences. 
Awake at night we see a portrait of beauty, love, 
courage, and endurance and colorful.

Awake with a warm feeling that I am 
that multiplicity of them, I am not alone
as they live in me and from me as one.

 Therese Bacha
12/12/12

Contest Old Poem You Are Proud Of.  Nathan. A  WIN (Honorable Mention)

Copyright © Therese Bacha | Year Posted 2012

Details | Prose Poetry | |

A To Z An Amazing Couple

                ~A To Z An Amazing Couple~

A is for Allow me to write a poem about my best friends 
love affair with an army man, she was 35 years old he was 
the same age living together for the past 5 years.

B is for Believing his love towards her as thee perpetual 
love of the century their love is amazing, their sharing is 
united, intelligence, its endearment, understanding 
everything for a wonderful happy life together.

C is for Creative in her work, she is a born philosopher
so much she has patience, she loves her job, she exists 
to give all her entity to her lover.

D is for Destiny for a unison hopefully to be able
to have a child of their own. They try each month
the tests come out negative. 

E is for Eloping one day when she gets pregnant
marry and settle down in a beautiful country side 
mansion that has been bought already.

F is for Forgetting to think about moving now to their 
new home until she becomes pregnant. This month her
hopes were high as a future mother would sense that.

G is for Great news was announced on the phone to her
husband she is pregnant. That evening was a unique
celebration champagne dinner for 2 in the most beautiful
restaurant by the ocean. Following that evening was their
love making an enormous pleasure together never happened
before she told me. 

H is for Happiness to the beyond, apart her work the buying
stuff for the baby, the babies room was a heavenly event for
both of them, they moved that month to their mansion by the 
ocean.

I is for Induced her delivery in the hospital that day, and her baby
son was born in 2 hours, so healthy and beautiful baby lying in
his mothers arms looking at her with yearning eyes.
 
J is for Joining close family and friends after a few days arrival
at their mansion. 

K is for Kissing the baby and his dream she's a mother & his
disbelief that he is actually a father.

L is for Living together when the wedding took place in a small
church only family and the bride holding her baby boy in her arms.

M is for Married an hour ago their entry to their mansion was an 
unforgettable event the house was decorated with roses everywhere.

N is for Never would they both forget how important their sons
career will be. Both vowed to stand by him grow together for the
utmost accomplishment of his success in studying as a lawyer.
 
O is for Ordering their breakfast after a sleepless night the baby
needing his mum every 3 hours to feed him the amazing sensation 
of a full house filled with babies soft cry.

P is for Presents that he had bought for his wife a Diamond ring
with a beautiful pearl necklace which she wore with pride.

Q is for Quitting her job after years of practice was so important
as her dreams for her son to become a senetor in her goverment.

R is for Running for PM after graduating from Harvard University
His parents mansion over the years was transformed into invitations 
huge gala for politicians finding him extremely adequate for this job. 

S is for Signing papers as her son started to get involved with the 
senators and sharing talks about her sons involvements with
politics. She was his right hand. 

T is for Turning over to the secretary all the confidential papers
and she was very happy with the choice his son made about the 
new secretary, his office was huge and employees everywhere.

U is for Unbelievable but true she was relieved at last and now
that her son is on the right track she will have all the time to be
again with her husband a normal life. 

V is for Very close to her husbands office she decided to stop by
and surprise him for lunch at her favorite restaurant. 

W is for Where is he the office was empty she has been so much 
involved with her son she had neglected her husband. 
She was told he went home already.

X is for Xmas was around the corner next month she went to buy 
the Christmas decorations to surprise her husband. 

Y is for Yelling for someone to come and help her instead she sees
her son in tears running towards her he hugged her and whispered
in her ear I have some news.
Mum dad I am already elected I will make you proud of me.

Z is for Zap will be my goal I promise you dad and mum 
he got married and was elected.The first youngest to gain that 
post.

Therese Bacha
21/3/2013
  










Copyright © Therese Bacha | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Honey's Light, Gold and Mahogany - Home

Dad looking at that weatherboard house, Old Tooters home,
A thrifty man.. us to him did his brother send,
Saying that the place could do with a mend;
The roof had red patches of pitted rust, the cost agreed, an aluminium spray, as if were new!
A bulge I saw like a big brown bag, ‘those eaves with bees were occupied’ my Dad said,
A bee man was arranged for tomorrow morn.
Off we set early that day to arrive at 8, for to watch the bees and the man perform,
He wore dungarees and a netted hat, and held a pot of smoke as well as that.
He pointed its puffs, ‘the bees were calm’, that’s what Dad said,
The man then moved this Italian swarm, they were productive he said; moreover than the norm,
Before he went saying no to pay, as these bees alone did make his day.
He pointed to the now vacant hive, saying there would 'bee' honey, most pure inside.
He told us cut it clean in two, the lightest colour  would be the new.'.
He then drove off us to leave, me, my Dad and Tooter made three.

We cut it through as we'd been told, there was honey like sunlight, then a ring of gold, the core was darker of long months ago, from each we ate squeezing the comb, it fairly gushed upon the tongue.
The first seemed sweetest, the lightest one, the gold was more subtle onto the palate,
The darker ring also was sweet yet with a herb like twist; it did us treat.
Old Tooter said there was a reason.
For ‘twas gathered in the springs plant life season.
We ate a lot till we felt queasy,
Then Dad said work would make our stomachs more easy.
We set to work upon the tin, scrubbing back rust, and knocking roof nails in;
Then dad spun the flywheel on our new Briggs & Stratton machine, 
Two hours later the roof was all silvered out, Old Tooter exclaimed it was better no doubt.
What Dad had promised was accomplished to the better; the old guy even wrote us his thanks in a letter,
‘Twas 40 years ago that day; on that I ponder as I write away..
Thinking on life, on seasons.. on reasons; just where is 'home?' where does it lie?
Under an immediate or distant sky?
Is it a street, a house, City, or shack?
Is it where you are safe from harm?
I'd say yes, with close good family, like that day on Tooters farm:
I look out a window its now dark night,
Tomorrow brings yet; the soft dawn light.
As I think, I recall a yeasty savoury smell,
Mom’s currant scones fresh baked from the oven; and risen well.
For me all these things are together tied
With what is home real deep inside!
And I know I'll never be parted, from that memory's treasure,
Where love was poured in generous measure..
So if I need to know of if, what, when and where?
I'll take a walk back up memory's stair...
Back to that day of sweetness fresh from the comb,
To say loud and clear; (honey I'm home).

©Joe Maverick 12-01-2014

Copyright © Joe Maverick | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Speeding Ticket

There… he… goes…
speeding down the mountain, 
he’s just enjoying life. 

He just wants to share 
TIME
with his friend.

To his provider’s misfortune,
TIME
varies her lipstic – I mean definition.

His description:
“I was just enjoying MYself,
it wasn’t MY fault.”

Her description:
“But you hurt ME.
What about ME?”

She was furious.
Her insurance rates became destined to go
THROUGH THE ROOF.

It’s so unfair for her,
she was just trying to provide for her man:
gave him a car and some freedom.

The interest her man once gave her, though, 
sped off so quickly that it
deserved plenty more speeding tickets.

That interest
Deserved stars, road blocks, and helicopters;
and a much more somber ending than that of a life in Grand Theft Auto.

Once you’re caught,
you’re caught.
You can still go back,

though, once you leave, 
you’re gone indefinitely.
Everyone else must pay your debts now.

She became dull,
she got fat,
every Christmas present gets old by the time Santa comes around again.

Not that any of any of those
physical characteristics mattered,
though.

It was true love,
so true that the betrayal was just as true.
But it was just a speeding ticket.

Copyright © Tyler Garlick | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry | |

ANGELS AND DEMONS IN HER HEAD

ANGELS AND DEMONS IN HER HEAD "Abort it!! and from this day and on, no more us. NO. MORE. US.!" (These the earthshaking words she heard from him.) This was the man that made her feel she's pretty. She's nice. She's worth every care and touch, but this time, he denied her. He want her out from his life. Blues skies he promised flew fast like the wind, so are the smiles, moon and stars he vowed to share. The light and shades, they are painting nine months ago turned fast in a minute in an envelope-tinge of black. Liquid diamonds- a curtain flow from her eyes as that one test. Two red lines now change her life. Sponge soft are her knees. Gypsy are her shaking heels. Chilly sweats cascade to chaperon her tears. Alone. Scared. Frightened. Torn. Horror is the athlete running through her reverie for she knows... She knows the world she's in may stop and stare at her. No lax brows no smiling eyes rather arched brows and big eyes ready to claw. Lightning fingers and tidal palms may grace her face. Lashing monstrous words she will hear. All these plugs, churns... regurgitating to her nerves. Angels and demons knocking to her head-- they, she --all in a battle for life. Should she tell her parents about this? to her mama... who didn't even care to stop even for awhile just to ask how she is? Her mom who prefers going out with her friends rather than with her? To her papa, who like more to watch a television? who likes staying out 'til dawn more than paying attention to her talks. Yes,her phone is always new. Her room as big as her school's classroom. Her pocket like a walking bank. Her parents taught her to speak but when she wanted a talk no one there. She walks so well. They even tell her she could be a model. Yet, her parents refuse her for a stroll. Ah! She is hurting-- HURTING... Her hurt is cutting deep reaching further to her already broken soul... Her life-- like the leaning Tower of Pisa even a collapsed castle; a black hole but lo! some voice within tells her: "soon from your belly a new life will begin..." _____________________________________________ Sponsor Debbie Guzzi Contest Name Tam Lin Placed 3rd... O.E. Guillermo 11:49 pm, April 14, 2015

Copyright © Olive Eloisa Fraser | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Memories of grandparents-2

A twelve year old boy, village-bred   and  very shy
Having but token familiarity with buses, routes and places
Escorts his mom’s mom,  very sick and about to die
To the town forty kms and four hours away  those days
Involving  three buses, two junctions needing directions 
And a km on foot, where her other two daughters  lived.
She sat on the road and vomited, so bad was her condition,
The boy waited without a thought till she once again moved.
Finally on reaching the house  wanted,  everyone there was aghast
On how we two made it and critical of my mother’s foolishness
In entrusting  a boy who knew next to nothing with such a task.
(But mom with none to help did what she thought right in all seriousness)
Grand ma  gets  promptly admitted in a hospital nearby.
Along with others, the boy goes to see her daily. On the third
She pleads with him to stay back with her that night 
But, no, he runs away because he wanted to play with the other kids.
He never knew she was going to die that night till he was woken up 
To board the ambulance which was taking her dead
Back to her native village, and the boy who sat with her was I.

My dad’s dad was dead before I was born
But about him I used to hear a lot all through my life
Because he was  a big landlord who owned a village
Of twelve hundred acres, as the head of a joint family

He was a monarch of sorts, albeit, without a sceptre and crown.
Trained in herbal  medicines, which he dispensed for free,
And a scholar in astrology and all those esoteric things
And a man of great virtues, he was much sought after.
Then suddenly the rules changed and the system 
Of joint families went and after partitioning his  estates
Among his kinsfolk , without taking an inch of land for himself,
He shifted to his wife’s place where too they fed a hundred daily
But they fell on hard times with the litigations that followed
The new laws which ruined families and my grandpa died  poorer .








Copyright © S.Jagathsimhan Nair | Year Posted 2011

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Family Roots

An African man once said to me
A parent is like a mighty tree
To understand who we’ve become
We must look close at where we’re from

He smile at me while bending down
And picked a leaf up from the ground
He pointed to the other leaves
And said “they’re here because of trees”

The leaf was just a simple hint
To help me know his message sent
From parents we are leaf and limb
And we exist because of them

And as you grow into a tree
Remember how you came to be






Copyright © gregory boyer | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Windstorms of Neglect

Dearest Sons
and dearest Cinderella StepSister,
I regret ways I have failed each of you.

From today's view of memory clips,
frames as farms of teaching-learning times,
my Great Lover Eldest, yet perpetually unfulfilled,
AfricanAmerican urban male Thug,
driver of van repurposing other's grateful loss,
transporting toward highest and best
ecologically healthy use.

You needed me to choose to continue bedside reading 
just a little longer,
you wanted me to choose family-no-phone daily dinners,
just a little longer,
to choose not to add StepSister
to your adolescent chaos.
Your challenges with reading 
other people's emotional verbal rhythms
and rhymes with reasons,
speak to me of missed opportunities
to invest more eye-to-eye and same-room time,
rather than those other more nutritious monocultural choices,
the kind my dad made without me.

You needed and deserved more time invested
in revesting what it could mean to learn together
about muse and music,
about rhythms with natural rhymes,
cultural songs and political sounds and rapping economic voices
of poetry as temporal rounds of time's seasons
investments in political
with cooperative economic treasons.

My middle shy wilting flower
MidWay Fluent Son.
Co-empathic gifted and cursed,
Polypathically resonant,
and therefore often suffering
through over-heated bright,
you needed more shared sun-screen time,
a partner in your fascination
winning cooperative relationships
bartering transactors,
on-line cooperatives,
competing team strategic outcome choices.

Life Game Outcome Values
assessed against Cooperative Economic and MultiCultural Political WinWin
PolyChromatic Objects with PolyPathic ReGenerating Objectives.

I always love our mutual wins
cooperating "both-and" cultural opportunities to share,
avoiding our competing "either-or" risks of wrong presumptions,
encoding Game Theory versions of Golden Rules with Natural Ratios
applied to all golden-natural ecosystemic relationships,
transactions bilaterally light and dualdark,
4D (0)-centric,
Tao-Soul Revolving RealTime,
BiLaterally Revolutioning LeftThink to RightFeel 
to Left sadtry again.

My youngest son
who has no bodylanguage filters,
who cannot voice his temperate words
with languaged rhythms and icons,
to you I leave a human race
that has already paced too fast
to be sure we can sustain
a future that could support
your incubator and medical needs
in your own future's less viable infants.

Who will sing with our damaged children in their own keys
of rhythm and joy and laughter,
where will your song be heard
as cherished elder-music memory?

Who will remember to tap your shoulders and back
and bounce your bum to the beat
of gospel and rhythms of blue light
speaking through your skin
"I hear it too, as do you?"

Who will hold you through 
internal earthquakes
rolling across inside neural plates
seizing chaotic rhythms,
waves of seismic volcano rebirth,
struggling waves
surfing up and down
in as out as in again...?

You I leave your mindbody
as your beautiful song
and daily liturgy of dancing sounds
in resonant colors
of your warm love of light and scents transcendent
echoes of singing voices past,
ringing flowers singing
flowing through your veins,
beating your thumpthump heart,
breathing your in-out balanced flying mind as body.

My struggling StepSister Princess
baptized in embryonic toxic chemicals,
mixed slyly with MotherManna,
you are born to Yang monoculturally through
Cinderella life,
as Princess or Ugly StepSister,
your moment by moment,
hour by hour,
day by day choice.

For you there can only be one Sun Goddess
of EgoMe,
for whom all others were divinely sole-vested
for worshiping your Cinderella feet.

You vigorously want
and need 
and expect Prince Charming
good and beautiful and truly healthy
and kind,
loving and good-faithing,
listening and fulfilling each hope
instantaneously,
whether for more or critically far less,
to have sole control of all you know,
exterior robotics serving interior ego-manic,
to Yang about by day,
and struggle against all night,
playing WinLose games of confrontation,
either-or assumptions,
when both-and are so obvious
with more bicameral-temporal-neural balance
than you could ever become.

I have given you all I have to invest,
all my Zero-interest EgoLeft/EcoRight MindBody
could think and dream of
to play and sing and story 
in our puppet fable rhythms
of superheroes and romantic witches
of hope as a shared magic smile
over humor that is most certainly 
not politically correct.

You sing up,
I dance down.
You say smile,
I smile frown
upside down.
You say yes,
I say notnot.
You say why,
I say forgot.
You say did not,
I say you caught me,
our co-elating truth,
StepSister don't know how
to give a shit,
to return our opposite
with her own,
economy of survival
in her made up
why dogs eat cats
dipolar dissonantly dialected
neural challenged world.

Dearest Sons and Daughter,
I regret our losses
and celebrate your resilience
to keep coming back into our new day,
despite past windstorms of neglect.





 



Copyright © Gerald Dillenbeck | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Endangered Trailblazing

Endangered Trailblazing
                                  by Odin Roark

Astride his father’s shoulders,
Like a double decker bus,
There was always what his father saw,
And the child’s gaze beyond.
They learned together
What their senses taught them of reality.

There were so many hills his father climbed,
The boy seeing what was ahead on horizons,
The father focused on firm footholds,
Following trusted forest imprints,
Relying on tradition’s habitude.

This father is long gone now.
This boy of shoulder wonderment
Has grown wise of rugged tracks
Leading to this day.

The day…

A stormy December afternoon
Staring through a digital lens
Atop a mid-town observation deck,
The boy now a man
Stares outs across a skyscraper landscape,
A winterous tundra his father never had to pioneer.

Realizing the Now of navigating
Relies little on the primitive tracks,
When plant,
Animal,
Rock,
Weather,
Parts of the undeniable whole
Determined shelter and food,
Life and death.

Wisdom,
The oft missing essence of success,
Impacts little of today’s aspiration,
Whose awareness respects not learned footprints,
Nor hardened determination
To stay true to a right direction,
Instead…

All too often
Success honors but bushwhacked obstacles,
The opportunity to conquer any and all,
The razed aside,
Inert and live,
Banished and dead,
Leaving many to query
What lens can sharpen that which isn’t there?

Today’s existence is but yesterday’s ethereal presence,
Once preceded by integritous footholds/handholds,
The resplendent oneness of nature’s vast inner-connection,
Now all but buried beneath
A stumbling culture’s duplicitous stepping stones.

Tracks lead precariously to penthouse suites
Where an eagles nest is but a Britannica reference,
A redolent library book of often ignored history
Reminding a father’s boy
Staring through glass-layered revelation
That decisions need pondering past momentary reward,
That Nature’s swirling white layering the once wilderness of discovery
May be foreshadowing avalanche forces
Unrestrained in their ability to bury man.

Pulling his eye away from the telescope,
He considers a wind gust
Lifting snow daring not to confront the ground,
Choosing instead to swirl,
To levitate with perhaps man’s exhausted currents from below,
Struggling to rise through waning memory,
Trajectories of so many devoted fathers
Trusting honest trailblazing would never disappear.

Fortunately…

Like the cyclic snows from on high,
Rising temperatures initiate their own revolution.
Endings return to beginnings
Nullifying load and weight.

Time’s undaunted sagacity knows
Once civilization’s latest aspiration expends,
Creation knows no better
Than to invent new trails,
New boys on father’s shoulders,
Tomorrow’s then and now…
Again.

Copyright © Odin Roark | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Ode to the Orange Gourd

It’s that time of year again...
When family and friends gather together..
To share and give thanks for all that they treasure..
The young and the old, the tall and the small..
The Vegans and the Carnivores, come one come all...
There are dishes of tradition, like Turkey and stuffing..
Mashed potatoes, gravy, and cranberry muffins..
Green Bean casserole, and corn soufflé...
Are just some of the dishes of the day....
And of course a relish tray to take off the edge...
With that awesome Spinach dip in Pumpernickel bread...
So many desserts at this time of year...
But the favorite of all , synonymous of the Fall..
Is that Jack’O ‘Lantern, orange Gourd.....
 known as Pumpkin Pie...
As the children play a game of touch football...
Something that is 24-7 on this day in  Fall..
As Grandpa sits in the afternoon sun...
Remembering back ..when he was young...
Then the words of “ Let’s eat “ fills the air...
And everyone sits down in their chair..
Who wants the first slice ? Dark meat or White ?
Grandpa asks...then proceeds to take the first bite..
Everyone fills their plate, till it can’t hold no more...
Yet some go back, for more and more....
Finally everyone is full...can’t eat another bite..
Till the smell of fresh coffee brings on a plight...
Aahh  dessert ..and the best part of all....
“ PUMPKIN PIE “ !!!! ....It appears was a "Majority Call"...
This is “ my “ favorite time of the year....
When you mention "MY" name, everyone gives a cheer !!!
So without  further adieu  ...Grandpa picks up the knife...
As I am the “ MAJORITY CALL “ and receive the first slice....




Copyright © kj force | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Happy Family

Happy Family
 
There is no closer bond in our life other than with relatives.
How bad a problem between family members can also be always a thought about it from both sides with a desired reconciliation.
We can never choose on our own family, only when we get married to swear the oath for trust, our in-laws also can become the family member of us.
A Successful family is when everything is well organized in harmony with each other, so that every problem can be solved peacefully.
It will be grandiose if everyone in the family can rely on each other in any circumstances, this also give us a soothing and relaxing feel.
The family love is something that can go to the extremes between members with a limitless desire for each other and it is indispensable in a family relationship.
It’s give and take among themselves but without having any thoughts to extract benefit from each other.
We only able to meet a few people in our life in which we can treat them the same as our family member, but with them we can develop a super good friendship and they are indispensable in our life.
When our family grows then several new members has been added which makes our life becomes more meaningful and the love play a major role with mutual respect.
We would never miss our family, because we’ve learned a lot of life experience from them with joy and fun thus we becoming the person we are now.
And now we can be very proud with ourselves because of the family members we have with us all the time through thick and thin.
Our thoughts will always with them, even when they are out of sight , they still conquered a place deep inside our heart.
 
I wish you a healthy life.
Kindly Regards,
Author Jan Jansen
http://poems.easybranches.com/happy-family.html

Copyright © Jan Jansen | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Changing Seasons

Changing Seasons

In a burst of color and animal choruses 
Sovereign sun heralds in a golden morning –
The air was delicate with the perfume of cherry blossom 
Blown in from the hem of pink rows that lined the 
driveway on Grandpa’s farm 

I looked across at hay stacked verdant hills that were
Tossed with yellow daffodils, purple crocus and white snowdrops 
They danced to the baton of the breeze and the 
Hidden orchestra of lilting bird song of that fragrant spring morn

Grandma sang to me her songs of childhood 
As we walked arm in arm amongst beds of fragrant roses 
and budding fruit trees that whispered promises of full baskets  
that would soon be heavy laden with the Summer fruits, preserves, 
Pies and jam of a bountiful harvest, a few months from now

Summer came rich with its harvest, merry hearts
and long hazy, lazy summer days and nights scented 
with wisteria, frogs and cicada, chirping and croaking 
their melodious summer anthem of  ‘All is well with the world’ 
as we toasted to our full and wonderful life

Autumn brought in a more somber note and amber tones
though warm and restful, they soon told me - life is changing again
time quickly moves on - it prepared me for the winter and 
the chill mirrored in the face of the full moon as it lit a silvery path
to my next season’s change

The cherry trees glowed white against the dark night sky like iridescent bones along 
the snow covered driveway - they waved their bony fingers goodbye 
as I crunched solemnly down the long white corridor with slow steps and a  heavy heart that was beating to the mournful dirge of  hoot owls and creaking limbs – I blinked back tears under that star kissed sky and full moon that lit my path 
The moon reminded me- each season has its bounty that I can treasure -I held those memories close to my well seasoned but thankful heart.

Brenda V Northeast

Copyright © Brenda Victoria Northeast | Year Posted 2012

Details | Prose Poetry | |

- AN EMBEDDED MEMORY RETURNS- 9

Glide and sail into the waves of the sea,      
conquer the tides, and the groans of the wind
while motionless heaven watches, 
where for decades, the sea murmurs life ~ love.
Hungry eyes, eager ears ache at the quay;
mother and I wait with cold arms at the dock.
The sea, the wind, and the heaven remain
unchanged will the sea bring the ones coming and
leaving here to the place, they desire to go?
 
Pain sears her thoughts when she remembers Father;
years have passed; the scars of his leaving are not yet healed.
She loves him so. She can’t forget the gleam in his eyes.
I hear Mother sob between litanies of prayer each dawn.
Only Father's return will mend her broken heart.
Years pass, the scars she wears are not yet healed.
At the seaside where Father last departed, we recall his request
Move together don’t look back, move on together, always.
In the pale light of this day, as I hold Mother’s hand and
we walk along the quay, I felt Mother shudder as she says
Move together don’t look back, move on together, always.
That day, more than most, we did not want him to be away
as a tender, embedded, memory returns of Father’s smile.
 
 
Glide and sail into the waves of the sea,      
You may stand among us who survive life's tides 
while motionless heaven watches, where for decades
now I tell the tale from memory of Father, the sea of life ~ love.
a new child’s hears, our eyes tear at the quay;
Yet, our open arms spread wide embracing every day.
The sea, the wind, and the heaven remain
unchanged will the sea bring the ones coming and
leaving here to the place, they desire to go?
________________________________________________________________
~~Inspired by the painting: Morning at the Quay in Venice 
by Helen Allingham~~


***Thank you Debbie Guzzi.. =`)

__Olive Eloisa D. Guillermo__
4:58pm; January 21, 2015

Copyright © Olive Eloisa Fraser | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Here Comes Winter Again

Here it comes again; softly knocking on windows at 2A.M, here comes the winter at a cold silent night, awakening my soul with the smell of dust after rain, the smell of mom holding me into bed, with the voices of my sisters playing next room, here it comes again with painful delights, here it comes again taking me back home.

Let the drops of rain knock on my door and let them ache my heart, let me taste the sweet smell in my tongue like a little boy getting wet beneath the rain, waiting to be rebuked, but none of this does matter because the burdens of life are slipping down with the rains being drifted on his coat, none of this does matter because the weight of life was just not this cold before.

Here comes the winter with empty corners in my head and echoes of laughters in my room, a piece of chocolate I can no longer find and a broken toy I’ve never thrown away, with good sweaters that never felt warm on a cold night like this, let the chilly breezes of winter take me back home again, to smell my father’s smoking cigarettes and my mother combing my hair, and the smell of coffee beans on one cloudy morning to refresh my day, oh here comes the winter, remembering me again and stopping by with few memories to take me home.

Check out my writings at:
http://echoes19.wordpress.com

Copyright © Samar Saleh | Year Posted 2012

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Mood

Copyright © Bhavna khemlani | Year Posted 2012

Details | Prose Poetry | |

STRONG WOMAN

Strong woman
That woman 
Who tears behind the mirror? 
Made me who I am 
My hardened heart she took
Tenderized it with love
Took my salty tears 
Turned into joyful tears

That woman 
Who sighs behind the mirror 
Sighs in memory
Memories and feelings
Hardships she went through 
To feed my whole stomach

That woman
The woman pulling back her mucors
Does so in fear
Fear that ill not be what she hoped
That teared woman 
Crys in fast and prayer 
Crys for my dark self 
Cries for my future 

That woman crying 
Tears down her body fluids
Hopefully that her anger and disappointments
May atleast flow out with them
Her body almost running dry by now
That woman calls upon God
GOD atleast make him better
That woman cries for me 
That woman cries for her lineage
That woman cries night and day

How I came to be 
To be what I am 
I don’t know how
A slave of the world
A slave with one work song 
A song entitled failure 
The first stanza of calamity
The last stanza dead man where I am heading





Looking at her cry 
Twists my brains 
Is this what I am?
Is this my purpose to the world? 
Is this the man the world wants? 
Is this what God spent time Molding 
Is this what the bible describes? 
Just for her 
Just for her I take my life back 
Just for her God I stand strong 
Just for her I say no
NO no no this is not me 

Come mummy take this handkerchief 
I don’t wannna see those tears again
I love you mummy

Copyright © FRANCIS NZIOKI | Year Posted 2012