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Prose Poetry Father Poems | Prose Poetry Poems About Father

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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

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,
Parts of the undeniable whole
Determined shelter and food,
Life and death.

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,

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.


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…

Copyright © Odin Roark

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Winter of deception

The eddy pulls hard against my torso
panic rises and surfaces, my vsion starts to zigzag
I swim harder in the strong currents of confusion

How did my life become a battle
My father once seemed to love all his children
Now where is the love?
We have to be the dictator to prevent suicide/murder
Begrudgingly he submits to the will of the family
Unforgiving, ungrateful, rebellious
time has the last laugh, my son shouts
I hate you, I never loved you, you are so mean!!
My father shouts, you don't love me, you just want my stuff
You are so selfish!
Tears fall....A heart breaks!

Will this trial end?

Mother says, my daughter has not been to see me in so long, I want to see my baby.
Mom I am here, I was here yesterday! I brought you food! don't you remember?

Life cycles around the eddy, swirls and swirls with no end...

Copyright © Doris Culverhouse

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Your My Dear Friend

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

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

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

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

Copyright © Perry Campanella

Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Friend True Story In 1981

                ~Who What Where~
A friends true story.
One of those days while walking in the mall 
I noticed a camera man running after me
asked if he can interview me about a survey 
concerning those 3 words Where What Who
concerning marriage. Although I am a reporter
I didn't know why I agreed maybe it would 
help other teenagers not to do the same 
mistake my friend did. I had to tell her story.
The camera was on me then all of a sudden
he asked.

What were her plans?
She was still at school the last year when finishing
her studies she was planning to marry her boyfriend
one day and work with him at his Boutique but
her father never liked him as he was not from 
the same country.

Where is she from?
She's from a small state living with a very strict father 
and an old fashion envierment, he always stood in her 
way never allowed her to grow up building her own 
personality he even forced her to get married. 

Who was she going to marry?
She was young and got married to a man chosen by 
her father only met him once following the traditions in the 
old days he was older than her by 25 years.

Where did she get married?
She got married at church the ceremony took place
after that as bride & groom they stood at the door saying
their goodbye to each guest some would kiss some only 
shaking hands.

What happened that day at church?
It was full 300 guests waiting for the bride in a beautiful 
white wedding dress a veil to hide her face she was a virgin
in her hands a bouquet of white roses, held by her dads arm
to walk all the way to be given by hand to her future husband.

What happened afterwards?
That day passed away so quickly she found herself a bride at
his home for the first time the night is here all alone with her 
husband very quiet man there was no champagne no smiles no 
music no talking only his routine ordered her to go find the 
bedroom change in a black night gown and wait for him.

Where did she wait for him?
She searched for a normal bedroom as everything was upside down
everywhere she found one with a single bed undone ugly color on the 
verge to start crying but had to hold back afraid went into bed disgusted instead of dreaming of a beautiful wedding night imagining how her 
evening will progress dreaming of love like a bride would be thinking of. 
She knew how unlucky her life will be since she entered his home.

What happened in that bedroom?
She was waiting he comes in half naked no kissing no talking no 
nothing but sleeping with her in a few seconds he goes off 
walking out from the bedroom to have his dinner back to bed 
turns his back and in a second he was snoring. 

What Who Where the camera man was screaming? your joking,
no sir she was not joking after that night she ran away from his 
home back to her dad and told him seriously what happened and 
that she wanted to divorce him and never see him again.

What happened to her since? Who is she with ? Where is she living now?
She got married to her boyfriend after a few years very happily married.
A joyful ending until she passed away leaving two beautiful well grown up children by now.
I as a writer and reporter i get motivated to write poetry after 
reading the title. But that was a painful story, so sad.

Therese Bacha

Copyright © Therese Bacha

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Somewhere over the rainbow

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

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

Copyright © michael hornschuch

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Happy Father's Day: Your Sweat Is My Increase

your left hand was hard, but your right, gracious putting me in the balance of Love of which its fulcrum is discipline and respect. Your weaknesses were classified just to ensure I see beyond mine Your chastisement was not without pain of which its appreciation is a strong indicator of my gradual maturity. You always guard the gates of my territory like a Centurion and fight against all antigens like a warlock. You taught me how to be complete and provided the staff and Ass as I journey across Life and appreciate. I initially thought of you differently when you gave me the partially made sandal, when you refused to help with the air-tight metal box, when you gave me bone while milk was still my best delicacy when you laughed at me while I'm confused and worst of all, stopping Mum to come to my rescue. I never knew they were task of Life I most needed, finishing off the sandal made me industrious, opening the box, made me determined and never relenting, chewing the annoying bone made me grow up; your scorn and laughter actually made me decisive and rescuing myself made me independent. All these sum up to making me a MAN! Which makes you my Hero and role model. Before I was, there was you; in fact, I am in existence because of you. I've always clinged unto you as my Life's support but you allow me make my mistakes so as to be the best gadget. Your regulation of Mum's affections only makes me be an unspoilt egg. I always increase when you sweat and your headaches are stepping stones to my zeniths. You are such an irreplaceable asset and your love, so refreshing as the evening air. What more can I say and how else can I show gratitude? As much as I know, you need none of these, One thing I must always say is, I LOVE YOU DAD!

Copyright © Funom Makama

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Missing the Man in the Hat

It was early one morning, when you arrived..
You entered the restaurant and I noticed your stride..
Your manner of dress was quite elegant.. and ..
It appeared you were having breakfast...
With a very important guest..
Seated at the table, and I couldn’t help but notice,
The strange thing you did , when you removed from your purse..  
An old and tattered faded hat..
You took it lovingly in your hands and..
Proceeded to give it a kiss..
As you placed it across from where you sat...
I knew it belonged to someone you missed..
Then you did something strange...
You did a smile and a wink.. 
Poured two cups and I began to think....
Perhaps the car was being parked,
And soon your friend would join you..
As I sat and watched you seemed to be...
Engrossed in a conversation...
The twinkle in your eyes and the smile on your face..
Sent the message you were in a happy place...
Then you got out of your chair...and hugged the air..
And left the same way you came...but ..
I heard you say as you walked away..
Same time..same place next year ?

Copyright © kj force

Details | Prose Poetry | |


They built the underground chamber well reinforced with concrete to the depth of 
three miles into the center of the earth. NO steel girders were used. They did not 
wish to be trapped when the atomics started dropping from the sky. They putt three 
tons of food within reach for everyone to survive. Radiation suits with water in 
drums to be used only in the event of the end of the world. They even used double 
doors like saloon doors which could not lock them inside. But they forgot what could 
happen iff Murphy is in charge. The SILO for this is the right title of this thing the 
SILO for this is the designation of this thing the SILO drifted above them only 17 feet 
away but it could not have been worse it could have been 17 miles for there were 
no equipment down there for them to tunnel up or out. The spokesman for the 
group turned out to be the worst the nerves evident in the strain of her voice there 
is no reason left to us. So now we will die here entombed no one could foresee this 
problem the concrete silo above us has drifted into the earth trapping us 
underground for the rest of our lives. Which recourse will not be much longer now. 
The lifer PFC Hice stepped up to the dirt floor roof just above them he took his 
shovel from his pack then he began to dig slowly at first then faster faster he pulled 
the dirt from the opening letting it fall behind him uncaring he begins to turn the 
tunnel to the west to begin his task of getting to the concrete Wall of the silo. 
NOTHING else matters now to most of them they sought out ways to help him. He 
turned over here he is to sleep then wakes to begin the shovel urging the others 
taking turns to come up behind him with the bucket then drop the dirt into the 
kitchen or the stove they filled up every free spot in the effort to conserve room they 
intended to win this fight for survival now. For where there is one free Man there is 
hope for the others. It took too long to get the concrete tower open. They found 
them there one September. They held open the tower door for the Prime Minister of 
the world. He took one look to the Man on the tunnel floor. He smiled. It is my son. 
He died he gave his life upp here down here trying to get them out he was trying to 
save them. He brought him out into the light only to bury him further. Such is the 
power of men. Such is there intelligence. One huge MegOHBlister.

Copyright © charles hice

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Track One, Side Two

Track One, Side Two
                          by Odin Roark

It was time.
He knew it.

Like the cuts on so many of his albums,
As he passed through the “got your attention” of side one,
He’d often considered the “time to acknowledge some chancier-experiments” of side two.

Back then, even though he was only thirteen,
His father had been prophetic.
After all, how many fathers would think to give some philosophy
As a birthday gift.

But that was long ago,
And now it was time he finally rejected society’s pre-ordained lifetime marketing blitz on how to live
And allow the oft times sleeper-ideas to maybe awaken discovery.

Just like his career of producing long-playing albums
Creating the safer decisions for side one was only rewarding
When there was risk mixed in, usually on side two.


He was going to welcome the task of searching,
Go beyond the choices he had been living,
Gamble on the unexpected,
Travel down the multitier-senses
Where less familiar ideas
Might muster appreciation for more of a being’s tempo,
And harmony.

When he thought about it…

How enticing that flip side of the so-called normal existence must be
Finding out what one’s unknown appreciations are all about
That discovery of a finger-snapping epiphany
Ready to produce surprises for the future.

Lest he forget
Passing time was becoming more precarious
Making life’s tomorrow a hit
Would require risk of another kind.

He recalled his father’s birthday message at thirteen,
“Embrace the unexpected,
Indulge the inordinate,
Find the willingness to try track one, side two of your days,
It’s waiting.”

Copyright © Odin Roark

Details | Prose Poetry | |


My father painted
western landscapes and bluebonnets
in a manner that can be described as “primitive.” 
He painted with his heart to stay sane 
in the never-sane world 
of the mens’ tubercular sanitarium.
From what little I actually know of him
he was a man of conscience 
and strength 
and love for his family.
He may have been other things too, 
but I can’t possibly know for certain 
except from the stories I’ve been told.
In these stories he was almost a saint.

When I was twelve he was sent home to die,
although no one told me. 
I remember him lying in bed in our front room. 
I touched his puffy leg, leaving a white dimple.
We laughed. 
He said we would make plans for time together,
just the family,
when he was better. 

One anonymous night 
I stayed with my grandmother 
for no reason I could figure out, 
although I really didn’t give it much thought. 
In the darkest part of that night 
my mother woke me 
to tell me he was dead. 
I don’t remember my reaction,
but I don’t think I cried. 
Men didn’t do that, you see. 
I do remember eating cake after his funeral 
at what I recently heard called 
a “funeral party.” 

I have a way of forgetting painful times.
For a long time after his death
my memory is a blank. 

Now, I am a painter. 
I don’t paint his landscapes or bluebonnets, 
but, like my father, 
it brings a breath of sanity to my world, 
completing the long-delayed circle of his life.

Copyright © Jack Jordan

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Christ Child

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Copyright © Scott Bronner

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Daddy's Little Girl

Ballerina’d beauty…
She was always on beat and the most fluent mover. Never hesitant to step out onto her linoleum playground, Letting the stage lights beam down at her like sunshine, only refracting rays to intensify her lime light see she… was a dancer. &no I’m not talking about ya everyday tutu wearing mannequin. This one was special. The music was a part of her, she found a rhythm in every void and a tune in all speeches, it could only, flow thru her mind like water through the globe, more than she runs through my thoughts, like the way those greens slips of sustenance fell to the ground as she worked her pole. 
Tragic ending to the perfect fairytale. 
Mommy and Daddy had her dancing at six and in and out of auditions, wishing for her dreams to be realized unlike her own. Praying that her daughter could be somebody important, the next best thing since Broadway, better than Dejan Tubic, another Janelle Ginestra, but daddy had a sweet spot for his youngin. Wanting more for an innocent life and only turned her out of a fantasy. Pushing her on with the hopes only fools in the Ghetto would believe. Graduation day, she crashed hard, spinning back into reality. With no way to pay for her Julliard dream, a fistful of issues, and not a pot to piss in. She was strolling the block one night, and, heard music. Got sucked into the charisma of a strip joint. One second she was on the corner, everything goes black and when she comes to… she’s bare, with enough ones to get a place and put some food in her belly. That night she looked in the mirror… breaking down crying… all the dreams she had, crushed by the nimble fingers of fate. She doesn’t pity herself for long. Her mind’s already made up. “Gotta do this for me…” She rests, and the next day she finds herself back to the club to make more ones and satisfy more customers. It wasn’t the life she chose, but it’s one she’ll never regret, cause always had that sweet spot for her in el Corazon.. and she’ll always be, Daddy’s Little Girl.

Copyright © William Smalls

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Fish Lips

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

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

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

Copyright © Jack Jordan

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Father Never Negates Why We

"If in any part I with hold it mercy, I will never be able to see it as it is offered all of us, its perfect gift, blessing of forgiveness and truth... . In weakness I am made, in death I am given life, mute luke warm, I am but merely as chaff, in hope faith driven, the Father, in these things never negates, never refrains, let not dust settle, build up treasures write them on your heart... another; you'll find heaven. Yes heaven be the latter, of the hell to come, burning my indifference's lighting the flame... as we all have been, keep doing... . Song sung by good old Bob Dylan - it's called - Things Have Changed ~ Hope-faith, love, peace-are-never a-farce with-in and by-the-goodness of God... . ~

Copyright © James Long

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Hell is a Fine Line Between Forgiveness and Heaven

      “Although meaning well, the bottom line shows that a “Jersey Rules” Adoption Attorney, 
a Children of the World Executive Director and the sidling State that is New Jersey had all gambled with the path of lives.
 And now hopeful we should be, each and every soul carries a sealed fate according to visions of karma. 
     One wonders about the autumn of life – if in some of their minds…? 
…Seen loosed for the first time are an infant’s fenced-in lonely springs of life cries, which time had been known to eventually turn into joyous laughter when windblown and lost amongst a summer’s children’s own. 
    This endure of karmic atonement I can only compare if viewed as a metaphoric wind born penance remind given to a phalanx of the forgiven, 
now found ironically within a snow fence’s charged duty to help clear the avenue to adoption. 
Yet for the task of some snow fences, 
found bound is the standing turpitude of the not forgiven; it is when these weathered pickets are subjected to that same constant echoing wind that rushes past, 
drawn out from its gusts is the steady drone of haunted howls for the cold, cold company to once again surround and soon forever to be their winter life’s keep!” …An Unknown Father  

Copyright © dave archuletta

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Fallen from Grace

Fallen from grace, 
no longer do I sit high upon the pedestal that you had once put me 
No longer am I seen as idol or mentor
Nor wanted as provider or protector 
But now looked upon as an outcast and banished from your heart. 

Betrayed by the one who now blinds you 
With a veil of lies and deceit that weighs on your young fragile heart 
With heavy words of animosity and abhorrence
You have been trapped in a malevolent web of hatred and retribution 
Used as an unwitting pawn in a game of emotional chess. 

Your words of respect and adoration 
Have been replaced by venomous accusations of brutality and oppression 
Taught to you by the on who now holds the chains that bind your heart. 

But I will not be vanquished or deterred 
By these attempts to falsify or dilute my love for you 
I will be strong in my resolve and true to myself
I will not let these misguided asseveration's destroy my confidence 
In knowing that my spirit is pure and that one day 
You will be able to break free from your restraints 
And uncover your eyes so you can distinguish the truth from the lies. 

To understand the choices that need to be made in life 
Through your own mistakes and life experiences 

Until that day comes I shall be waiting, 
Ready to stand next to you as opposed to being on that pedestal 
And walk down a new road with you as your friend and equal.

Copyright © Thomas King

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Old Fig Tree

I only sang to the old fig tree
As it trembled under the wind
I promised you since you left
I'll drink grief enough for both of us
I'll open like the gulls
My wings on the  horizon
And under the November sun
I'll wade into a cold Natifah's brook
Inviting your friends who accompanied you in the war
To our old home
Sitting next to our old fireplace
Talking about our homeland,
How the men descended 
Two, three and four toward their death
Talking about storms that flooded homes
About horses that plunged into rivers
So that shadows became frightened in their land
Talking about one who
Still kindles the wet firewood
And how the rooms are filled with soot
After the flames stopped
Talking about what they did
What they couldn't do 
About your heart hungering for holiness
How you passed death twice
Thus death returned defeated  
Once you made from it, a home, a door and a lock.
We'll talk about all of this
Until the wind shakes and the fire is extinguished
Then I"ll recall in my mind
How everything around me was just empty seats
Ah how bitter you are 
O Wind!
When you took all the warmth
All the love in my heart.

Copyright © Fatima Nusairat

Details | Prose Poetry | |


I landed down
I dropped down to
My native soil
A tradition met
An initiative into womanhood
I am a woman
And a man I must choose
Norms speaks not of any man
But “The man”
The real man
Is there a man in every man?
Not in the least
The man is my life’s side warrior
My life’s second guard
He must remain the protector of my eggs
This man I search
Amongst all men
He stands tall
With none coming first 
But me, his woman
This man must have a woman in him
The side that gives him compassion
A feminine sense of love
That man I seek
He is the real man
My husband, the father of my children!

Copyright © Victoria Nunoo

Details | Prose Poetry | |

In Ten Years

there are too many indiscriminate yesterdays
in my memory
too many I'll do it tomorrows in my
i could blame my daddy for his absence
or I could fault my mama for her negligence
i could put it on uncle incestuous
who caused me to become promiscuous
but I'm a grown woman with plans
to be confident and advance
to inspire people not to become
hopeless mothers
or irresponsible fathers
I'll start today
not in ten years or tomorrow
but today

Copyright © Bridget Martin

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Love Lost

Love Lost…

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

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

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

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

Copyright © Michael Domaracki

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Education is Power

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

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

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

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

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

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

Copyright © Natala Orobello

Details | Prose Poetry | |


"Each experience is locked within my heart and only I hold the key..."

“Dad, I’m going to straighten your closet for you,” 
my wife said as she set upon the task of pulling out his 
clothes and refolding and re-hanging each item.
“I have to go to the John.” was his reply.
“OK, you go. Need help?” she asked him.
“No.” Into the bathroom he went.
Immediately out he came again.
“Can you help me with my pants?”
“Sure dad, there you go.”
Back in again but leaving the door wide open this time.
She closed it and went back to the closet.
“Why don’t they put his things back the way they should go?”
Fold, hang, arrange.
“Dad are you OK in there? Do you need help?”
“No. Can you come in and help me with my pants?”
“Dad, you have them on backwards.
That’s why you can’t find the zipper. Here let me help.”
Out they both come. 
A successful mission.
“What do you think of your closet now?”
“Wow! I have the best looking closet in the whole place.”
“Yes you do. I’m going to talk to them about keeping it that way.”
Out the door she goes. 
A new purpose. 
Making things better for her dad.
“She’ll give them hell,” he said to me.
We watched the news for a while and then he got up.
He went to the closet and pulled out some clothes.
After unfolding them and looking at them he stuffed them back in.
Not in the right place. 
He sat down and smiled.

Tony Lane
A Fragment Of Life contest
Written 8/20/11

Copyright © Tony Lane

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Adoption Where Ravens Fly

Nevermore - but for the told truth would this 'faceless girl of destiny' speak of life lived by the reaching, unseen silent ones! And unknowingly, it would also now take place that this teenage voice would cast as a persona iconic, an entity hauntingly Poe. ...She was visionary with recant born of 'raven-like' dues, all stemming out from, but yet still held within this country's darkest realm of infant adoption.
This was a brave soul about to take on a mission impossible as she viewed the on-watching and gathering crowd. Her conscience wouldn't care less of the fact that most of these people held close ties with the select few of adoption facilatators who were sitting off to her left, but still yet highly praised - on thier 'right' side. These were of the adoption industry's best, which she alone shared this newly raised wooden stage. And shortly, to the unbeknownst coming shock of a nation, she intended to present these people similar in held light as had shown history's offering-to-the-world - of the Nuremburg accused!
Moreover, found amongst these scoundrels too, with guilt by association, happened a cross-section of our country's scattered innocent Adoption Triad. But yet, ignorance is always the recall when a kept company is a murder of crows! ...and these are the innocent of eyes ever so much easier to have let - pecked out.
Truly, for change we must plan and plot as ravens do, even if so-be-it sacrificed is this girl's award-winning essay recital, and with whose weightily chosen speaking platform may have just as eerily now become a purpose-ending trapdoor - about to spring under these beautifully trellised self-dooming gallows...

Copyright © dave archuletta

Details | Prose Poetry | |


Leader among leaders
Beaten, never die
Stressed, not strained a bit
Pulled apart, never deformed
But better than former
Been through fire,
never burned
Walked through storms,
last man standing
Super eagle among the eagles
Catering for the falcons
Having a heart of unconditional love
King of one queen
Great example to his offspring
True friend to his friends
Man of his words
Always walk the talk
A true ambassador in a foreign land
True champion of our time

(c) 2011

Copyright © Joshua Akinwande

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Little Girl

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

Copyright © Rebecca Berezin

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Last Journey

Beating drums mark his last march and fifes play lowly, a breeze blows on blackthorn blossoms,
Raised high above on hardened shoulders for the mourning march, that slowly glides him along,
A hero, a name carved in precious polished stone, this is his last the most important journey,
The drums roll, bearers sway quietly with each step, a fife plays sadly bringing burning tears.

Winter, its hard wrinkled face and rough horny hands froze men to death stuck in no mans land,
It has no friends in this evil hated war and happily takes wounded men, a trophy to its might,
Thick mud is sometimes frozen and is like granite as the brave settle waiting for the whistle,
Some died with honour, their bravery hard to understand, bearers proudly shoulder such a man.

The parade stops at a grave, they lay their comrade down on planks of wood covering the hole,
The innocence of sweet youth taken away, living with bitter hating men, fear drives them on,
This boy was different he believed in the cause and he died for that sacred belief, honour,
The drum roll stops and a bugle plays the last post, men with their head bowed pray for help.

At home all are working in their gardens, a father mows grass, turning earth fresh and mellow,
Young flowers spring up in his boarders they have a delicate, poetic beauty a snow drop grows,
His boy, in fields far away, just as delicate as these new flowers when he took the shilling,
A father stops, can he hear the drums slowly and fifes playing lowly as his boy is lowered down.

Copyright © Terry Trainor

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Hand Poem

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

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

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

Copyright © Mike Hamill

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Creation, Curse and Promise

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Copyright © Scott Bronner

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Fatherly Love

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

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

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

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

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

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

I regret for the times that flew,

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

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

Copyright © Sweet Angel