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Prose Poetry Father Poems | Prose Poetry Poems About Father

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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...


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"


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Grandfathers Clock Revisited

The wrinkled gent woke up suddenly in the middle of the night. Staring into the 
darkness he saw nothing. Gloom and fear ganged up against his mind. Had he 
heard something? What was it? Something falling with a bang? What? 
He had heard things fall in the night such as glass picture frames—old strings giving 
way. The picture would crash to the floor, shattering the glass. He would recognize 
this. But he did not hear shattering glass. 
Was it a thief in the night? He lay listening, not daring to move. The night was dark, 
cloudy, gloomy—and scary! Desperately replaying the sound, he heard a bong in his 
mind’s ear.
A bong! That would have come from the old grandfather’s clock. Yes, it had to be his 
grandfather’s clock. He knew it. His stomach released its tension.
His eyes popped open again. How could it be the clock? The clock stopped running 
when his grandfather died – forty years ago, this very night!
Suddenly the clock started striking. Twelve strokes at midnight. With bolt-upright 
attention, he sat in self-detention, and pondered.
His grandfather was a strong man who lived to be ninety years old. Then the clock 
stopped to run no more. One of his kin wrote a song about it, and it was sung for 
generations.
	“My grandfather’s clock was too large for the shelf, so it stood ninety 
years on the floor. 	It was taller by half than the old man himself, though it weighed 
not a penny weight more . . .”
He would find out why the clock was striking. Slipped quietly to the room near the 
clock’s encasement, he saw the clock standing with its door open.
His eyes adjusted a little, and there in the floor he saw a dark object. What was it? 
He had left nothing there on which to stumble in the night. You learn a few things, 
he thought, in a long life like his. And you keep things picked up so you won’t fall 
over them.
Moving with stealth, he saw something hunched and furry, standing vigil with eyes 
reflecting light. His cat! Apparently, the cat had chased a mouse up the clock 
seeking safety. Its weight tripped the spring wound tightly, causing it to strike.
In his delusion the old gentleman grabbed his shotgun from the mantle. With the 
menace looming bigger, he quickly pulled the trigger. Now the old grandfather’s 
clock is no more. And the cat and mouse are a taxidermy chore.

####
Written for John Heck's "Choose your forte!" contest


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
   2/3/2013


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Circle

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.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

MegOHBlister

MegOHBlister
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.


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!


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Christ Child

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Symbiosis

"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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Slow Down the Clock

When we get old with arthritis in our bones we make thoughtful decisions about the use of our time. We can amuse our grandchildren while our children inhabit their jobs. We can volunteer to help others like a wolf that knows how to hunt. We can do something creative with our hours and work toward an outcome that warms people’s hearts.

We have options about what to do with our days. We can sit alone in our homes like the last drop of water left on a rock, or we can behave like practiced magicians who can slow down the clock with the snap of two fingers and live like an elder who is not afraid of the dark and be more inclined help our family and friends as they voyage down the highway of time. 
 


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? 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Hand Poem

Hands…
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
http://www.reverbnation.com/#/mikehamill
This was written by my daughter when she was nine.
One of the many reasons it’s great to be a parent :)


Details | Prose Poetry | |

In Ten Years

there are too many indiscriminate yesterdays
in my memory
too many I'll do it tomorrows in my
vocabulary
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


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.


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.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Suicide: A Path to Freedom

Why is it when someone go kill them self 
That they always have to go for such a violent way?
Is your life so miserable?
Wouldn't you want to go pain free?
To become pain free
In order for the deed to be done
A violent way is the only option
Is there something wrong with that picture?


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Love Lost

Love Lost…

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

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

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

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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

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


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.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

CHAMPION OF OUR TIME

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


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  



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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...


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Trip to Heaven

Sitting working in my private room a grandfather clock ticks and tocks so very loudly,
Like a metronome tuned into my mind my eyes become heavy my lids slowly begin to close,
My mind drifts into very dark places, jet black places with a tiny white dot way off,
I walk towards the dot and after miles and miles it started to grow so much brighter.

Looking behind to see where I started there was nothing just the darkest of dark black,
I have no choice but to keep on walking towards the white dot now confused and scared,
After hours and hours I reach the dot but it is not a dot now it is a new bright world,
There were green fields greener than I have ever seen the trees had heavy velvet leaves.

People walked towards me they were smiling they were happy I wanted to shake their hands,
But they hugged me and held me and talked so kindly my troubles and worries disappeared,
Young children skipping, my new friends laughing it seemed I had known them all my life,
Being with these people was pure happiness we walked up to a white mansion we went inside.

A beautiful girl came running out to meet us she stood in front of me and gave me a rose,
It was the reddest rose I have ever seen it was frosted and gilded and drops of dew fell,
A man with grey hair and a white suit sat by a piano and began to play the sweetest tune,
I leaned on it's shiny surface and could feel the beat of soft hammers on wire, pure music.

All smiled and clapped when this maestro had finished my friends giggled as they saw my joy,
They asked lovely questions nice questions I enjoyed answering as they made me feel good,
We got up and began to walk back to the place where I had first met my wonderful friends,
We talked we laughed everything was about nice things I could feel the smile on my face.

Then the man with grey hair and the white suit said it was time that I made my way home,
Still smiling I desperately wanted to stay forever he saw this and said to have patience,
They stood in line by the entrance each person hugged and kissed me tears ran down my face,
The next thing I knew I was in my private room the grandfather clock still going tick tock.

I thought about my wonderful dream those wonderful people and still felt very warm inside,
It was all so very real and was very disappointed knowing it was just a lovely sweet dream,
Those people in that beautiful garden blessed with such loveliness they seemed so very real,
Standing up and stretching I saw something by the door it was a beautiful rose frosted and dewy,
It was the reddest rose I have ever seen.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

To Hell and Back

In the old days I was born into a
house of total chaos. My father was
a mean bastard and every day meant 
dealing with his put-down and 
sometimes physical violence. I ran away
so many times at 16 I was carted off to 
two different foster care homes where 
I was so despondent I didn't speak a word
for two years. My reward for being "good" 
was to be placed back with the original 
problem...my father. The day I was 
eighteen I left home going I know not
where until the car broke down.

The car broke down in Monterey CA which
was a good thing because I was able to
get a job at a gourmet restaurant and 
learned how to cook very well. I came back
to LA thereafter and put myself through college
earning an MFA in Graphic Design. As a designer
I worked for fifteen years in my own graphic 
design business selling greeting cards all 
over the world. I am retired now and when
I look back at the contradictions of my life
I just shake my head. I'm glad I got through
it all in one piece, not a drug addict or
alcoholic.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Wishing you could love me too

You mean so much to me, more then you'll ever know. 
More then ill ever be able to describe.
But I'll try.
Voice of a angel, touch ever so soft you would think its a feather.
Eyes so beautiful seeing them on a sunset day, medusa stare ever so hypnotizing locking eyes can't look away.
Baby in the tummy, heart just started beating giving me a rush that I really needed.
Love so old I feel defeated.
Even though I do everything for you, I'm looking out for me just keeping a close over view upon you.
How can I fix your life if mine isn't alright, but i don't know where id ever be with out you by my side.
And I thought I'd never know but as of now I'm pushing through. 
Now that your gone, I miss you every night.
But I gotta be strong.
Cause if not you'll be gone and ill be with a baby missing its mom.


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.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Wood Carving

            Wood Carving


He sits there, not quite motionless, for
even the comfortable must alter their
perception occasionally, frozen stare
upon a craggy visage, tiny fox-like predator
eyes peering into your soul.  “What are his
origins?” ask the bespectacled intellectuals.
“Who is he?” and “Why has he taken up
his unwelcome residence here?”  The buses
pass carrying workers, students, captains
of industry. They look at him but they do
not see him.  The children see him.
Wonder in their dreams how he came
to be.  Some want to be rid of him.
They have no reason, no justification
for alarm, nothing to warrant their
uneasiness.  One daring young lady
sat beside him, whispered a secret to
him, both shook with laughter.
Passersby were startled to see the
interaction and summoned the
the childs mother.  “What have you
taught her that makes her think that
she can do such things?”  They asked.
The young lady tried to speak but was
hushed by the serious looks she was
getting from the adults.  That evening at
bed time the young lady’s mother asked
her: “What did you say to him?”.  “I said:
‘You look like grandpa.”.  The mother sat
back, quieting a tear, and reminded the
young lady that her Grandpa was no
longer here.  “I know, Mommy”.  She said.
Well then, what did “he” say to you?”
The young lady sat up in bed and smiled
“He said that he was there every day,
and any time I wished to sit with him
and read to him it would be fine.”
“Mommy”, she said, “do you remember
grandpa”?  “You know …how his face was
all rough, and his hands hard and
spidery, and how he would like it when
I sat with him and read?”  The tear that
had been held “quiet” made a sound,
ran down the mother’s face as she
hugged her daughter and put her
to bed.  The next day mother and daughter
walked to the old tree, felt the roughness
of his face, touched his spidery thin
branches, sat with him – and read.
Soon others came to visit, sitting and
whispering, laughing and reading.
for they know who he is, what his
origins are, why “he” waits so patiently.


John G. Lawless
9/27/2014

For PD's WHATEVER - Poetry Contest


Details | Prose Poetry | |

MY HUSBAND THE FATHER OF MY CHILDREN

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!


Details | Prose Poetry | |

1Hundred6

1Hundred6 
1Hundred6 
 
 
CharlaXFabels 
 
Easter2 
 
 
Christ Crucified. 
 
The Cross 
 They took him from the crowd apart and nailed HIM both hands and feet unto the 
instrument of torture the cross of Golgotha complete the scriptures had prophecy 
concerning this event to complete the salvation of all of man. The LORD of all 
creation hung and suffered ridicule and thirst and hunger of a different sort for 
Heaven he was thirsty then. They cast lots upon his garment. 
The prayers were hardly out left far behind when eye began to reap the benefits 
of health improved my finances of wealth increase can be explained away by 
fools but ewe we knoe the truth for JESUS gives. My target Heaven my wealth 
health and all my food my found and scrounged and Easter egged 2 all come 
forth from HIM. A Poor and sinfilled man quite given to the drink may lie and steal 
and say he found it near his drink he “assumes someone has left it there” is 
what he barks at the beertender the drunk outside may soon die from his 
concussions the man left near the bathroom door he took a wooden batted 
thatch knocked upon the drunken noggin put the man all out took from him his 
wealthy purse to pay just for one more night out seeking oblivion again to drink 
perchance to dream the detectives came to task the man for overall complaints 
the thief he muttered “HOW? did you know that it was me ,yes? HOW?”  Detective 
Fabel was on the case he was pushing by the place the alleyway and heard the 
cricket paddle whack the commoner went down he is bound to get better now in 
the hospice we have found for him but you will only get worse in the old 
hoosegow. The old banded man in the alleyway digging in the trash can has 
more hope than you as they take the thief away the scrounger finds a basket full 
of boiled eggs left there an Easter 2 colored all purple and white inside the 
yellow yolk looking like a big surprise the color of a dandylion sunrise. 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Creation, Curse and Promise

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

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 ?




Details | Prose Poetry | |

IT IS NOT ENOUGH

It is not enough to say I love you
It’s in actions it must be seen
It’s not enough to strike out on your own
We must walk where Jesus has been
It’s not enough to say I forgive you
If it does not come right from the heart
It’s not enough to say I’m sorry
If there’s bitterness there from the start
It’s not enough to stand outside the door
When Father says come in side
It is not enough to wear sin stained garments
When Father wants a spotless bride
It wont be enough to make excuses
If Jesus were to come today
There wont be the time to repent on your knees
There will be no time to pray
It is not enough to say I love you
It’s in actions it must be seen


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Waiting Justice

For Children of the World Adoption Agency it would be a windblown call of a random mother’s heart that led to its demise. 
Contrarily, for the conscientious “Jersey Rules” holder of these truths - life had its own rewards. 
Yet, to this day, each now carry a sealed fate alike whenever heard are the haunting cries of an infant; 
endures of which can only compare to the given penance remind of a snow-fence’s reprieve in the summer time; 
when echoed winds hauntingly rush by further weathered pickets 
howling for the cold company destined to soon once again, each keep!


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Paid In Full

On this day we sing and praise Your name as You prepare to give Your life for ours. 
There is nothing in this life more precious than a man, although not a man, who would 
willingly give his life for another and asking for nothing in return only that we turn our 
life over to Him and walk out our lives as He did. What more must we do for You on 
this day?

We stand here tonight singing, praying and crying out for You. Our tears are of joy 
because we have come to know You. Our tears are of sadness of the horrible and 
brutal way in which Your life was taken. You were whipped, stripped, pummeled and spit 
upon before the brutality ended with Your being nailed viciously to a tree, a cross 
created for You at Calvary. Why, oh why did it have to end that way? Why, oh why, did 
Your life had to end so abruptly? You came, lived briefly and died for me.

 I thank You, Dear Jesus for all that You have done for me. I give my life to You. I want 
to follow Your words. I want to be a good student of all that You can teach me through 
those You may put in my life. Dear Father You have done it all. You took the abuse. 
You took on my sins and washed me clean. You showed us how we are to live…honest 
and good.

Tomorrow You will be lead to that place. You will lay and take Your last breath as man 
on that cross. Dear Father You have rescued us all, even those who do not know You, 
yet. Three days later You rose from the grave as none other has ever done. You would 
walk this earth again, briefly, letting all those who knew You before, know that You are 
real and You will see them all again in Heaven. Oh how I long for the day to see Your 
face. To live in a place of peace, love, no pain, just comfort and joy with everlasting life 
and praising Your name. 

Hallelujah to the Lord on High


Details | Prose Poetry | |

When All

When all is said and done
At the end of the day
Week, month and year
At the end
When the finish is near
Nay, at hand
One thing will hold true
When the last grain of sand
Has left the hour
And the seconds have ticked away
When the last word
Has been spoken
And there’s nothing left to say
One thing will hold true
Through whatever time
Life has left
Till heaven and earth pass away
And eternity rules
Bringing life a brand new day
One thing will hold true
It doesn’t matter where roads lead
Nor how paths may cross
Doesn’t matter if directions are found
Or ways are lost
Doesn’t matter if freedom comes
Or at what cost
One thing will hold true
For when all have fled
And there’s no more to be bled
All battles have been fought
All conquests sought
When all that’s left to do
Is look around to see
Who’s left standing with you
One thing will hold true
Standing there 
I will be 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

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

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

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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Who Knows

I know

When my Father tells me food will be on my table
I know it will

When my Father says He’ll never leave me alone
I know He will not

When my Father says He loves me
I know He does

When my Father says His words are true
I know they are

When my Father says He’ll fight my battles
I know He will

That’s why I can call him my Father
Because I know Him


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Sounds Of My Father

There are those of us who were not blessed with wonderful, or even good 
memories of their father
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Exhausted by another night of sleeplessness
Alone in his home 
Not by choice but by fate
His mind raced ahead
Like a freight train on speed
Dashing franticly 
Down a steep hill

Looking at the clock 
He remembered his father
From long ago 
And the anger he held inside
Especially the morning sounds

Yes... the sounds
There were sounds his father made 
As he prepared to begin his day

Sounds that came
From the bathroom, and shower

Sounds his father made
As he prepared himself 
To begin his workday

Sounds
That as a child 
He learned to fear

For it meant 
His father was awake
And his father 
Was an angry man

Now 
As the fatigued child
Almost sixty 
Tired from lost sleep 
And lost dreams 
Prepared himself for the workday

In the bathroom 
Where he stood
Years after his father
Had passed away
From his own lips
Came the sounds 
Of his father


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Apart From Me







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


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


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


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







Details | Prose Poetry | |

FATHER

FATHER

His sinewy hands as strong as lion’s
Hold close wobbly me like trellises
Wet sun shone through latticework mangled by harsh wind
In the stormy night we were soaked
Rain came down like maggots
I slept under his wakeful eyes.

Juice trickled from his tissues
My fingers awoke in contentment
To suck his rocky skin with my sisters
We felt like fireside cats.

He died fifty years old.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

My Pa







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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Almost Time

It’s been a while since you were announced
It’s nearly time for you to arrive
I’m about to see you enter into life
A life I helped to create
The time I’ve known about you
Seems to have passed too quickly
And now before I’ve realized it
You’re about to be born
For it’s almost time
It’s almost time to meet you
To teach you what little I know
And to learn far more from you 
Than you’ll ever know
Where have these last months gone
I haven’t had time to learn
The many things I should
I haven’t had time to forget about myself
For the sake of someone else
My God, it’s almost time
To let go of these feelings
I haven’t yet understood
To be flooded with new ones
When I first see your face
It’s so strange and new
To love someone so much
That I haven’t even met
I can’t say how your touch is going to feel
Or how you will change my life
I only know it’s almost time
It’s almost time to try

NOTE*** This is from my CD A Father’s Love Letters
To listen to the CD please visit
http://www.reverbnation.com/#/mikehamill


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Christmas Long Time Past

Father Christmas in the night sky his sleigh and reindeer a silhouette in the moonlight,
He has traveled all over the world to lavish his presents to small sleeping children,
The family has retired and left a mince pie and some sherry, the little ones dreaming,
Mr. Christmas climes up and down chimneys leaving special gifts it is a magical time.

Earlier on this Christmas Eve, many excited little children on their little tippy toes,
Straining to place their stocking high on the front room wall away from nosy grey rats,
Some scarcely reach higher than these rats frantic that sweets will have bites in them
Older brothers and sisters unhook the stockings and pin them higher up, out of the way 

Mother has sat them round a table and coaxed them off to their beds earlier than usual,
Told them all about the story of Christmas and why it is such an important special day,
They sat there wide eyed listening to every word the very young not understanding it all,
There faces rosy from the heat of a yule log burning in the hearth and everything quiet.

They understand that Father Christmas only visits very good well and behaved children,
And the children feel guilty as they cast their mind back over the last very long year,
The children find it hard to hold their tongues hoping Father Christmas won't ride past,
And that if they go to bed without any moaning and go to sleep early he will be very kind.

Laying in their beds can they hear the the sound of whistles, penny-trumpets and drums?
They squeeze their eyes shut tight, just in case it is Father Christmas flying nearby,
A wind blows the downstairs door could that be the reindeer's and the sleigh flying past,
Gradually they tire and one by one drop into a deep sleep the sort only known by children. 

In their sweetest dreams they hear the cries of dolls, singing wooden birds, gold ribbons,
The ticking of pewter watches looked at by the raggy dolls, toy soldiers guarding oranges,
They are asleep and so very happy the emblems of innocence, at peace on this Christmas Eve,
And when the morning finally comes they are loaded with beautiful gifts it's Christmas Day.

25th December 2012 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

I Came To You

In my youth
I came to you
For love and warmth
When I needed words
That were strong and wise
I came to you
Now here I stand
Facing your door one more time
Oh how I need your strength 
To walk on through
There’s the couch
Where you watched TV
The kitchen’s still in place
Where you used to cook
The rocker’s still on the deck
Where you’d just sit and look
The pillow still has your imprint
Where you used to sleep
There’s your clothes all lined up
Waiting for you to give them grace
Look at the pictures lining the hall
With your smiling face
I remember how I came to you
With news of my wife and kids
And how you used to smile
Now I’m walking in this place
That has your feel
But not your smiling face
Oh dear God
How I need your strength
Who will I come to now
Now that you are gone
I don’t know how
But wherever you are
I’ll still come to you
In my time of need
Oh dear God, I’ll never forget
How when I needed strength and wisdom
You were always there
And how I came to you


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Already Nine

My oh my
Where has the time gone
It seems like only yesterday
I was told you were mine
And now here you are
Already nine
This birthday I have to miss
But it makes me remember
And say thank you God
For having this little girl to kiss
To hug and snuggle
And watch as she grows
From the little babe
I once held in my hands
To the girl
I now hold in my arms
One day soon
You’ll become a woman
Leaving me with all these memories
Of how special it is, and how lucky I am
To be able
To watch you grow

NOTE*** This is from my CD A Father’s Love Letters
To listen to the CD please visit
http://www.reverbnation.com/#/mikehamill


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Seek

Seek, if ye will find.
Knock, if the door will not open.
"Will the father whose son asks for bread give him a stone?
So much more will your heavenly father give you
those good things you ask for."
I on my knees asked for understanding.
I asked for light.
I asked for truth.
I did not ask for more than I needed
in material things.
But I asked for more than I needed
in matters of God and truth.
I learned how ignorant and crude and low
my mind was, how much my soul
needed expansion,
and above all, how much love
was missing.
By the time my knees had become
pillars of stone
I
understood.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

So Unprepared

Here you are on the verge
Of your very first road trip
All grown up
Ready to set the world on fire
So much excitement
Running through your veins
Ready to discover a whole new world
Even when it rains
There’s no need to wish you luck
Look at the person you’ve become
There’s no doubt
You’re ready to leave home
Make the world your own
Look at me with so much pride
So much evidence in who you are
That I’ve raised you well
How you became who you are
Living with a fool like me
Only proves 
There is a God
There’s no doubt that you’re prepared
To face whatever life throws your way
As I’m left standing here 
Savoring one last kiss and hug
Watching you drive away
I suddenly realize
In my haste to prepare you well
There’s one thing I forgot
One thing I left so unprepared
That has no idea what to do
Watching as you drive off
To a brand new life…
Me


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Things To Be Learned

They say that in life
Each day brings things to be newly learned
Today at age thirty, I found that to be true
From none other than you
Though you’re just past four
I’d just finished yelling
Over some silly wrong 
I perceived you had done
And like adults so many times do
I only saw it from my point of view
After I left the room
I heard you crying
When I returned, I found you in the corner
On the floor sobbing
When I asked what was wrong
You said I really didn’t want to know
When I convinced you I did
Boy, you really let me have it
You said I didn’t need to yell
That you could understand
I didn’t have to scare you
That you had feelings too
That there are some things you didn’t know
Cause after all you were only four
It was then I realized, that yes
You are a person too
And things don’t always look the same
From your point of view
And that as we go through life, you just like I
Have feelings, thoughts, things you don’t understand
And so much each day to be newly learned

NOTE*** This is from my CD A Father’s Love Letters
To listen to the CD please visit
http://www.reverbnation.com/#/mikehamill


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Last Night

Last night we went to see a friend
Who has a little baby girl
And it makes me love you even more
The warmth, the smile in your eyes
The love dancing across your face
Makes me dream of the day
When that friend will come to see
You and me
And the little baby girl
We will make together

NOTE*** This is from my CD A Father's Love Letters
To listen to the CD please visit
http://www.reverbnation.com/#/mikehamill


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Shutting Down Arby's

Tonight, oh what a night it was
Nearly five hours spent
At a fast food restaurant 
Laughing and talking our way through life
Who else but you and I
Could get kicked out
For shutting down Arby’s
So folks could go home
We spoke of life
Of love lost and found
Of sex and dreams
The devil and Holy Ghost
We talked of beliefs
Work and foolish friends
Of places to travel
And goofy things we’ve done
We spoke of fantasies 
And how people are
Of puppies, kittens and relatives
Of future goals and lost hopes
Integrity and the things people think about
We asked why people
Are the way they are
Remembered childhood moments and scary movies
Came to know each other
Just a little bit better
Laughed at our life
While we joked about
Shutting down Arby’s
Such a unique distinction
To have done such a thing
But then again 
It was time well spent
Between a father and daughter
And all I can say
For letting it be so
Is thank you God

NOTE*** May all father’s have such a day. Happy Father’s Day


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Mother

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

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

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

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

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

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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

First Told

I didn’t seem quite old enough
Barely more than a child myself
When I was first told
I didn’t know quite what to say
Hell, it didn’t seem that long ago
I used the words myself
It didn’t seem that long ago
I called him daddy
And there was a special lady
I called my mom
Now here I am
Not yet sure of who I am
About to be called the same myself
Not knowing how to handle the feelings
The joy, the amazement, the wonder of it all
I never felt such a thing
Never felt so, so unworthy
Or had such a sweet song to sing
As when I was first told
How can one such as me
Be blessed with someone like you
It’s something I’ll wonder all my life
It’s a day I’ll never forget
When your mother
First told me about you

NOTE*** This is from my CD A Father’s Love Letters
To listen to the CD please visit
http://www.reverbnation.com/#/mikehamill


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Stranger 'in some' Strange Land

  I Wonder lost, 
tired and afraid; 
an epidemic
in reverse
unto it's self repeats again.

How was I raped? 
Was it from the act? 
Did I do it to myself? 

Did some one tell you to.
To keep the home.
To keep the land.
To keep the child.

Without blame to roam 
the land
consumed in flame 
your brain.

Before her birth, I thought
you had disposed of 
like the first.

I never saw.

I know 'I' Raised my voice.
I never struck out at you.
Pink pigs that fly 
off all alone.

Dipsomaniacs full cup
of sweet white pearls.

How were you to live 
the way you did.
With all your wine.


Here I sleep, 
while standing up
alone
alone and all afraid; 
I whom swam with sharks.
I whom fought off death
so many times before.

I have now lost all count.
Gone not any more.
No not now.

Does my,
little healthy daughter.
When you are drunk each night
again,
must she fear what you might
say to her each night.

I lay awake for her.

Did you not think out if any
or at all,
about her life you took.
When you took
my soul from her; 
Her virginity before
it had evolved.


Her life, 
My hopes
Her dreams
one day because of that.

I wonder lost untill that day, 
like spring, 
that never comes around.

a 'MOTHERS' day with out
May flowers.

Like a
Stranger 'in some' Strange Land, 
walking on crushed skulls
of they whom came before.

What should 'WE' do with those like you.
Whom waste the men and little girls.
On 'Evil' such as you. 

Is It Poetry 
 
 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Victorian Christmas

Father Christmas is in the night sky his sleigh and reindeer a silhouette in the moonlight,
He has traveled all over the world to lavish his presents to small sleeping children,
A family has retired and left a mince pie and some sherry, the little ones dreaming,
Mr. Christmas climes up and down chimneys leaving special gifts it is a magical time.

Earlier on this Christmas Eve, many excited little children on their little tippy toes,
Straining to place their stocking high on the front room wall away from nosy grey rats,
Some scarcely reach higher than these rats, frantic that sweets will have bites in them
Older brothers and sisters unhook the stockings and pin them higher up, out of the way

Mother has sat them round a table and coaxed them off to their beds earlier than usual,
Told them all about the story of Christmas and why it is such an important special day,
They sat there wide eyed listening to every word the very young not understanding it all,
There faces rosy from the heat of a yule log burning in the hearth and everything quiet.

They understand that Father Christmas only visits very good and well behaved children,
And the children feel guilty as they cast their mind back over the last very long year,
The children find it hard to hold their tongues hoping Father Christmas won't ride past,
And that if they go to bed without any moaning and go to sleep early he will be very kind.

Laying in their beds can they hear the the sound of whistles, penny-trumpets and drums,
They squeeze their eyes shut tight, just in case it is Father Christmas flying nearby,
A wind blows the downstairs door could that be the reindeer's and the sleigh flying past,
Gradually they tire and one by one drop into a deep sleep the sort only known by children.

In their sweetest dreams they hear the cries of dolls, singing wooden birds, gold ribbons,
The ticking of pewter watches looked at by the rag dolls, toy soldiers guarding oranges,
They are asleep and so very happy the emblems of innocence, at peace on this Christmas Eve,
And when the morning finally comes they are loaded with beautiful gifts it's Christmas Day.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Little Boy

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

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

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

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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Year Gone By

Has it really been a year gone by
Watching the flame of
The single candle on your cake you try
I think back on the year gone by
From hearing it’s a girl
To holding you in my arms
I don’t know who’s grown more
You or I
I remember when your eyes first opened
Wondering what it was you saw
The first time you smiled
I was wrapped around your finger
A year gone by of late night feedings
When I laid you to your mother’s breast
The times you needed changed
The times you needed held
The times you simply slept
I remember them all through the blur
Of the year gone by
I remember when you first left your mother’s breast
When you first tried to touch you knew not what
The first time you giggled
Your shock when you first rolled over
How quickly you learned to crawl and explore
So many things you did I remember
But my fondest memory of the year gone by
Is how I’ve learned to give love
And set aside myself
For someone much more special than I
Has it really been a year gone by

NOTE*** This is from my CD A Father’s Love Letters
To listen to the CD please visit
http://www.reverbnation.com/#/mikehamill
As the lead single it comes with a music video viewable at
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TlWpKk_J2bA


Details | Prose Poetry | |

And You

The first time I looked into your eyes
I knew my heart was gone
The first time I held you in my hands
I found new meaning to my life
I’ve known you for three years 
I’ve watched you crawl
And learn to walk
Giggled as you learned to talk
And you, you are my life
And you, you are all life means to me
When I’m, when I’m with you
There’s no place I’d rather be
There’s good times yet to come
Sure to be a few bad ones in between
Only sure thing is
I’ll be there for you
As long as I’m alive
No matter what you’ve said or done
You’ll have one sure place you can come
You’ll always have a place
That you can call your home
And you, you are my life
And you, you are all life means to me
When I’m, when I’m with you
There’s no place I’d rather be
And you, you are my life
And you, you are all life means to me
You’ll always have a place
You can call your home

NOTE*** This is from my CD A Father’s Love Letters
To listen to the CD please visit
http://www.reverbnation.com/#/mikehamill


Details | Prose Poetry | |

I Want You To Know

If I should die tomorrow, I just want you to know
Just how deeply you have touched my life
And how much you mean to me
To have been able to hold you during your first breaths
To have been able to watch you
As you’ve grown for these nine years
Is the greatest thing I’ve ever done
I was fortunate in my life
For I got to see you learn to crawl, to walk, to talk
To brush your teeth, even your hair
I was there when you first two wheeled
I was alive to hear you laugh so many times
I was able to hold you when you cried
I heard you read and learn to spell
As I’d watch you sleep at night
I knew I didn’t always do things right
There’s so many things I could’ve done better
I should’ve thanked God so many more times
For blessing me with you
I just want you to know I’m proud to be your dad
And should a time come that I’m no longer here
And you feel like you’re alone and need a friend
I want you to remember
There’s no space, time, life or death that can separate us
I will always be your dad no matter where I am
I will always do my best to help
And you must always try to do your best
To treat others like you and to be yourself
Cause you, just being you
Made my life so worth living

NOTE*** This is from my CD A Father’s Love Letters
To listen to the CD please visit
http://www.reverbnation.com/#/mikehamill


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.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Here I Stand

Here I stand
With no shoulder to cry on
Staring into empty space
At an unrecognizable face
After feeling so much
Why do I feel nothing now
All I tried to do was laugh and play
Tried to love and please
Did everything I could
So much more than was asked
And yet, I failed
Now I see you walking away
While here I stand
With no shoulder to cry on
I hear your footsteps and fading voice
The screams and the anger still attached
What was it I did so wrong
To make you feel so much
Why do I feel nothing now
And can’t even reach out to touch
I no longer feel my breath
I no longer feel my heart
I was just a child
As I watch you walk away
Why do I feel nothing now
Why are we both left
With no shoulder to cry on


NOTE*** Death should never be seen through the eyes of a child as you walk away… Child 
Abuse… let’s stop it! Not tomorrow, not today, but now!!!


Details | Prose Poetry | |

August Eighth

Chapter One 
Boy into the West 

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

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

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

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

Chapter Two 
Hole in the Wall 

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

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

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

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

Chapter Three
Erosion 

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

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

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

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

Chapter Four 
Facing the Crow 

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

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

I survive only by his hand... 

T.R.Sevrens


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Daughter Vs Moon

She told me she lost the luminescence that used to line her silhouette at night--the Moon herself--she was fierce, we met at night--the Moon herself--I followed the intense glow she had left behind for me, with this clear vision, I knew we were meeting on her terms. 
She wants what belongs to her! Her luminescence is now outlining my 3 year-old daughter's frame. I left, knowing that the battle between Daughter and Moon is at its birth and far from its autumn. I am biased. Unbroken from my encounter, I left her---walked back through the same streets accompanied by darkness---we both looked at the luminescence at a distance---and as it grew closer our breathes became more controlled, uncertainty and desperation began to dissolve and our confidence was growing---we knew we were approaching my daughter's eyelids.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Much Too Fast

Did I fall asleep and miss a part of your life
You’ve grown so much, much too fast
Was I so involved in day to day life
That I simply didn’t see you grow
Wasn’t it yesterday you took your first breaths
And I heard the cries of your arrival
Wasn’t it yesterday you took your first steps
And now, now listen to you talk
Where have I been, what have I done
How could I have missed
Seeing how much you’ve grown
Both the year just gone past
And your growth, has happened much too fast
Listening to you tell of your day gone by
Of all your new found friends
And all the things you did together
And what you plan for tomorrow
It’s hard to believe you’re just past four
Seeing the person you’ve become
How well you comprehend the things about you
It makes me wonder
How much you think I care
And if you truly, truly know
How much I’ve missed seeing you grow
Seeing you today has made me realize
That my struggles against everyday life
Hold very little meaning
If I don’t take the time to look into your eyes
For my life, like your growth
Goes by, much too fast

NOTE*** This is from my CD A Father’s Love Letters
To listen to the CD please visit

http://www.reverbnation.com/#/mikehamill


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Discovery

Well, you finally did it
Though you fussed and fought
Kicking nearly every step of the way
Once I turned you loose 
There was no holding you back
Watching as you tore through the grass
I saw you discover a new found freedom
And declare a form of independence
I knew right then and there
That what had fell into your tiny little grasp
Would never be let go
I could see in those little eyes
Just barely five years old
A stronger burning fire
Than I’ve seen in eyes ten times as old
It was the first time I knew for sure
My little girl would be all right
No matter where life’s path might lead
For in that instant of discovery
You did so much more
Than learn to ride a bike
You tasted what having freedom
And independence brings to life

NOTE*** This is from my CD A Father’s Love Letters
To listen to the CD please visit
http://www.reverbnation.com/#/mikehamill


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Birthdays are Important

Birthdays are important,
because they celebrate
our existence,
The genesis of our lives,
It means that we are one year wiser,
smarter and better,
It is important to celebrate
because it means the folks around 
us truly appreciate that we are here
on earth with them,
In celebrating birthdays we honor ourselves,
for having the ability to share in another's joy,
because for one day someone special has the
right to feel extremely Important.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

"Sweet Oracabessa"

Come with me and sail the Seven Seas,
on "Sweet Oracabessa" with ease,
The wind will be roaring and the sails 
will sway,
Nevermind, it will be a "Boat Lovers' Holiday",
The waves may crash and we'll end up on 
foreign shores,
Hopefully, there will be people who will
open their doors,

"Sweet Oracabessa" will glide smoothly
on the pristine ocean,
People will gawk and create a commotion,
Finally, after a long day at sea,
We will have earned a toast to bravery.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Help Me To Be

Looking down on the new born child
Our Father gave to us
I quickly looked to the years we have ahead
And asked Him, help me to be
The kind of father I should be
Lead me through the restless night
When our child lies awake
And the times she’ll need a change
Be with me through her younger years
And help me to calm her fears
Give me the words to say
When she comes for advice
That I might lead her
The straight and narrow way
When I’m about to show my anger
Over something she’s said or done
Please remind me
Of all I’ve said and done against Your will
And the love You show me still
But most of all enable me
To be a bright and shining light
So when it comes time to choose
Between what’s wrong or right
Our child will know
And want to share
In Your never ending love
God, help me to be
The kind of father I should be

NOTE*** This is from my CD A Father’s Love Letters
To listen to the CD please visit
http://www.reverbnation.com/#/mikehamill


Details | Prose Poetry | |

What The Hell { Strong Language} Prose Poetry

Hey! You little c___ sucker Get the hell out of there
 Wish you were born dead Go get me a tree branch
Going to whip the s______out of you better yet come and
Get at my feet and start picking the dead skin off them
And when your done start picking 1000 grey hairs off my head
So you want to upset your mother huh I got something for you a________
Stand up you little f and give me 1000 squats
 Then you can get locked up in basement for a few days
And if you ask to come out you can stay down there longer
I see you like to tease your brothers about their haircuts
Mom get the shaver and shave the girls hairs too that will teach em
And show them little b_____ whats going to happen if they runaway too
Was not pleasant to see my sister tied to own bed with head shaven to scalp
So we have a little pee ant in the family huh I'll teach ya a good lesson
Going to make you wear your wet pants to school so kids can laugh at you
I tell you folks does any child deserve this from a sicko From growing up in a 
abuse home I always wonder when will the pain ever stop But with God standing 
by my side I knew I still had a chance to survive I was only 5 when this happened 
to me but the abuse scared only the outter edges and not what beauty was to 
unfolded by God and given to me like a rose unfurling petals on a new day



     Tribute To
 Abused Children



Remember words hurt
So think before you speak !


Details | Prose Poetry | |

It Wasn't

Well, one could not call it a church for it was not white, pure, or religious nor could it be 
called a Police Department or Sheriff Department with the attached jail for it was not that 
bad or evil.  This place was unpainted, bare wood, and with four rock chimneys which 
sometimes smoked no matter how old or young they were but the smoke only appeared in 
the early morn and late afternoon for the occupants were about life or should I say survival. 
Making it from pay check to pay check barely getting by with nothing to spare.  Inside was 
emotional barreness, loneliness, and inferiority at the max for love and hope had died so 
long ago.  Isolation of the soul with preditory instincts to encapsulate all with the preditory 
instincts of a wild animal this being done to one so young rightly separates this place from a 
church but yet it is not a prison.  Permanently emotionally destroys the child......



(Is this prose poetry or do I need to work on it.  Be honest.  I need to know where to go with 
it.)


Details | Prose Poetry | |

DAD'S DAY FISHING'

Dad what's this medal in your hand,my you do look grand...It was a swirling day 
in early May and the weather was wild as over the bridge ran the dancing 
child.The rotting plank an unnoticed trap as the youngster slipped and dropped 
through the gap.The tall teenage scout hearing the cry dived without a care or 
doubt.The Thames tide was running strong,the flailing child carried swiftly 
along.The lad swam on and on his strength fading and almost gone but with a 
final burst as the weir drew near,the rescued tot was soon in her parents 
arms,held dear.
Dad is this the medal in your hand,my you do look like a hero grand.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Great Existence

Moving up over through 
Into
All I've known is felt through the end 
Never a beginning always ending
Falter as I may, myself I hold - alone in company 
Tress in to limestone pillars of my great hall 
Great as the Norse and proud as well
Threads of time woven with clumsy hands led by blind eyes 
Thus is the expanse of the web of life The Great Existence 
Not where but it's the being that is. Is what I am and 
What we are


Details | Prose Poetry | |

FIFTYTHREE

FIFTYTHREE
CharlaXFabels
Differences
Sheep and Goats is the way the BIBLE says it and ewe can knoe them by the fruit 
some men smoke and some men drink too much
Some men eat too many candy. Poor men eat a lot of fish and some potatoes 
some men look for extra meat. Some men love to eat too much some men still 
don't get enough. When life is over comes the judgment of the GOD. Please say 
JESUS while there is still some time to ponder leave the habits far behind step 
on water walk some lines. One man kills his enemy while in fighting mode one 
man turns away and fights to live another day called a coward he is stone. 
Fighting men live the cowardice. Every time a red neck hurts another freak every 
time a fight has ended in complete harm to the survivor understand the reversal 
of our roles when you both are then transformed and standing at the throne of 
GOD eye plan to then endeavor to forgive you in the sight of a righteous 
plenteous GOD for eye am sinner born of woman and of blood. Saying Jesus 
has to be enough to save us for the Power is the Spirit and the name. Apostolic 
Teachings tell us we aer saved by our own faith. Say the name of Jesus then 
believe in GOD. Works are meant to be the good ones helping others giving aid. 
All the things a fighting man defames. Takers gamblers beggermen thiefs. Not 
goats but sheep in woolite clothing once eye wanted to attempt to fly like 
Superman and walk through the walls and once when eye was near a ditch eye 
went to JESUS in my Spirit and eye witnessed to a HomeOwner who could not 
accept the fact that eye did the impossible split for while eye was standing there 
on the side of the road and in my earthly body eye was also in my Spirit speaking 
in the living room and watching self outside yes lameba eye did split like 
Superman on one episode he was moving to save someone and even if the man 
eye met did not accept it was the attempt that was worth the try. While other men 
fight.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Divine Intervention

Beautiful little girl
Devastatingly beautiful
The birds would start chirping when she walked past
Her mother’s daughter they all said
A mirror image
 
And suddenly she was shocked by love
5 years old being undressed like a doll
Caressed and bathed so lovingly
Such gentle touches
That no one suspected
 
Mother found a new piece to her heart
Wedding bells chimed
And a new father was born
5 years old she was…just 5
 
This beautiful little girl found love in her “new” father’s arms
He held her close, sometimes too close
But no one suspected
She didn’t know this love was pain wearing a mask
She learned that love was…
Shielded from the eyes of her mother
Night visits to her room from her father
Year after year
For 15 years this was the love she knew
 
She felt invaded, alone and abused
She told her mother
About her new father…the man her mother loved
She didn’t acknowledge, wouldn’t bring herself to see
What the water so clearly replayed in her view
The mother knew, just knew
That her husband would, couldn’t ever
Never…bring pain to his daughter, never
 
Little girl, what does it feel like to be loved?
It feels warm, and wrong but gentle
Strong hands unclothing you
Caressing your body as if you are a grown woman
With a glorified body to worshipped and pillaged over
Little girl, what does pain feel like?
Closed doors…darkness…my father…naked
Hopeless
 
Beautiful little girl
Devastatingly beautiful
Pain paraded as love
Molestation masked for discipline
When your daughter cries out
When she cowers in corners
And doesn’t trust the dark
When she says love is just another word
Just another synonym to let him abuse her
Trust what she has to say…
 
I was that beautiful little girl and now I am a woman plagued with fears
Some nightmares you cannot outrun
And some memories only God can wipe away
The blood of all my pain is on my mother’s hands
"I forgive you"
Beautiful they say…
It’s a mask for something more


Details | Prose Poetry | |

20FABEL8

 20FABEL8 
20FABEL8 
 
 
THANKFULLY CHARLAX 
 
20FABEL8 
CURRANT EVENTS FOOD REPORTED 
A man quite gleefully pointed out to me that JESUS is not a dumpster JESUS 
however eye shot back at him gleefully is GOD and iff there is SOMETHING in 
that dumpster that HE wants me just to have then SIR oh eye will have it see eh? 
A survivor is the eye. 
John 6:35-36 
  
Then Jesus declared, "I am the bread of life. He who comes to me will never go 
hungry, and he who believes in me will never be thirsty. But as I told you, you 
have seen me and still you do not believe." 
On the way to this cold freezing day eye found my strength lies not in my right 
hand or arm but in my faith eye walk. Eye find things that no one else wants, as 
eye walk eye soon survive. Pizza sometimes fish sometimes coffee on my list no 
cokes no tomatoes SOK eye have some tomatoes in a can 
The list is endless in my mind and desire comes from a man and coffee is the 
plan. Cups are full or half empty is it half full or empty? Pizza is okay when found 
in cold weather a man can be the judge of whatever food he finds eye do not fill 
mee up with unpleasentness or brine eye drink but not the water that eye find OH 
FAITH will end my misery OH FAITH will feed me too bread is in the pizza that eye 
dew. 
When Jesus saves me at the final trumpet and eye make my last ditch stand at 
that time then he is not going to say WHY oh little man did you eat the scrounge 
pizza on the way but iff a loving GOD did ask me this is what eye say 
PIZZA is food and leftovers is fine my mind works much better with some eye can 
find. FOOD is never a sin or a problem to me. The eye does not eat strips of left 
over pieces he eats the entire pizzas. Eye am good at what eye dew eye can 
survive. And iff ewe ever get the word out to the people in the twilight zone just tell 
them scrounging pizza is better than the bone of chewing fat from steaks and 
living high on Hogg eye am better off alone and living with my love she knoes just 
who she is she knoes just who she loves. 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Sounds Of My Father

There are those of us who were not blessed with wonderful, or even good 
memories of their father
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Exhausted by another night of sleeplessness
Alone in his home 
Not by choice but by fate
His mind raced ahead
Like a freight train on speed
Dashing franticly 
Down a steep hill

Looking at the clock 
He remembered his father
From long ago 
And the anger he held inside
Especially the morning sounds

Yes... the sounds
There were sounds his father made 
As he prepared to begin his day

Sounds that came
From the bathroom, and shower

Sounds his father made
As he prepared himself 
To begin his workday

Sounds
That as a child 
He learned to fear

For it meant 
His father was awake
And his father 
Was an angry man

Now 
As the fatigued child
Almost sixty 
Tired from lost sleep 
And lost dreams 
Prepared himself for the workday

In the bathroom 
Where he stood
Years after his father
Had passed away
From his own lips
Came the sounds 
Of his father


Details | Prose Poetry | |

SixtySeven

SixtySeven



CharlaXFabels



The Mind Of GOD



LOVE
 He became angry, and when he refused to enter the house, his father came out 
and pleaded with him. 
He said to his father in reply, 'Look, all these years I served you and not once did I 
disobey your orders; yet you never gave me even a young goat to feast on with my 
friends. 
But when your son returns who swallowed up your property with prostitutes, for 
him you slaughter the fattened calf.' 
He said to him, 'My son, you are here with me always; everything I have is yours. 
But now we must celebrate and rejoice, because your brother was dead and has 
come to life again; he was lost and has been found.'" the certainty of days is lost 
in aggravations and in misdirected thinking abilities are missed in dreaming and 
wishing colors were not true the sky is always blue in some peoples world the 
clouds don't move in true reality the clouds fly screaming across the sky to take 
kisses from mye eye to deliver them all to ewe from the kissing place its true oh 
ewe there is many of them there still hanging from my lipps to kiss the lipps of 
ewe. The moral of the story don't get thy dandruff up until the wind blows. WAIT. 
Bulliten: This is just inn hot off the iron. Love lasts forever and yes it forgives so iff 
ewe aer just lately starting to hate me lets nip it now in the bud and snip all the 
hate away and please keep the love thorns are okay when the rose is on vine but 
when picked all the thorns do is cry. Add mee quickly back unto thy eye am 
pleading for mye heart seems to be gone when ewe linger in the ether and do 
not even come just try to find forgiveness in your heart for me today. The concrete 
where eye tried to spend the nite was stiff to muscles used to better beds the dirt 
eye finally found in a corner of the church was fine and warmer out of wind the 
sadness that eye feel is never hate but only love not found and wasted time. The 
anger comes from being left alone.
Eye would not change the way eye am eye would not want it any other way to love 
someone is to miss them when away. My time is spent in vain pursuits of 
happiness continuous searching for food and circuses the hour is almost upon 
the masses no more time to love. Please add me to your list of love as number 
one again mye friend and love the man that eye become is jealous of your love 
and time still searching for your heart and certain ewe aer there in mine and we 
aer both there inside the mind of god. LOVE.

 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

POEM FOR MY DAD

dad what you done
my repect you won
you show me the way
and what to say
this is your day
am so glad
your the best akid ever had
this is a
POEM FOR MY DAD


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Fabel32

 Fabel32 
Fabel32 
 
 
Man or Dove 
 
 
CharlaXFabels 
 
GOD is Jesus. A living GOD does not have to frustrate Him self with a man at all 
but he does what a GOD wants and no one can tell HIM anyway. He could have 
done a different planet and never made the man the ADAM. He could have been 
a DOVE and ruled the WORLD of DOVES nothing moving on the surface of the 
planet except food for DOVE. 
John 20:30-31 
 Jesus did many other miraculous signs in the presence of his disciples, which 
are not recorded in this book. But these are written that you may believe that 
Jesus is the Christ, the Son of God, and that by believing you may have life in his 
name. 
The written word is given not so perfectly it seems the detractors of the Gospel 
will agree the BIBLE has been written by the men and not the DOVE. He does not 
complain of feathers colored wrong he does not jealously assume the plume of 
other birds he never drinks too much or eats too many seeds of grass he never 
wants a different colored shirt of blue upon his back he has feathers mostly gray 
and brown a DOVE is GOD in FORM of FLESH and LOVE. Today eye discovered 
a dove a thing of beauty made in love the GOD most certainly seems to me to be 
a creator capable of form. The feathers around the eye. The way the dove tried to 
see me from the side she turned her delicate head just like a lady in love. The 
feet seemed too large on her for dove but seemed like duck perhaps this dove 
was just malformed an egg in need of more attention in the nest but not the fault 
of GOD. On DOVE WORLD there is one tree where DOVE the GOD does live. She 
preens her feathers and she rules but yet she loves them. When a DOVE dies 
and falls from SKY she moves herself to see just where it lays and then SHE 
Cries a mournful sound in otherwise so pretty of a face she can raise it from the 
dead and send it into Heaven then to live and fly forever no more in need of world 
of food or anything. One day upon the Dove Earth the sky was filled with war the 
demon doves were killing all the poor. They called a halt in vain attempts at 
peace and then a most marvelous thing. The DOVE GOD she flew to high and 
spread her wings in a hurried dive she slammed into the ground at Supersonic 
speed and then she died and then she screamed eye am alive eye hold the keys 
the poor will soon come and live with me and then the SOUL of GOD the DOVE it 
flew to Heaven where it grew to be the JESUS GOD. 
He rules in love. A DOVE,MAN,GOD. 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Each Neurotic Blink, You Think

  
 
  Each neurotic Blink, you think; 
Encouragement it needs a little more.
Too pull it much, much quicker to the top.
Your doctor knows how you deeply, very much.
And in sleep the windows open, 
even wider, as it drifts by.
Do you cross one leg around it's
other, 
while the other fights off 'Group' therapy.
or Are they mostly open, 
like four corners of your mind.
Each dropp of sweat and how it builds.
Coming out of each those many hollow 
heavy hand made doors. 
and it Falls Off like yellow dust, 
each one seed a tiny pearl.
and why it's nose it knows, 
your breath and how each kiss it must redefine.
To a host of hospitable southern ways, 
it will you know, turn out all right if it finds out 
you did.

Are you blank, 
Do you stare off outside this windows, 
broad light, there at some tree.
The noises that you make, 
are you afraid that he wont, my 'dear', he can.
The rumble that it makes, out back.
They make you shake, he thinks you know
and this is where your now at. 
Do the questions that I ask, 
all end there, bound up in why.
I will always suspect that as a child, and I assume 
you said you were, just, all a little, 'Dears'.
Then he probes a little deeper, does he not.
Have you forgot.
now Close your legs, 
and get it up and pull it out, and mosey off and, 
hurry up and pull them on, 
Your sessions at it's end
It seems so clear that all the money you have brought
is now all gone.
Your mind seems now fine, call a cab. 

Is It Poetry 
 
 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Super Quiz and Other Bell Bull

Shar- sorry, vacuum is not correct, although I sure could use one for my home!!
Thank you Jaime- I will read your works tonight.
Shar- re Kitchen Perfume- I admit , baking bread from scratch; flour, yeast, etc.- is 
a labor intensive house perfume- but I tell you, you will then be considered the 
best cook by all your kids, and your husband will brag for years.  I like to use an 
old edition of Betty Crocker Cookbook from the 40's- where there is no such thing 
as a microwave; sometimes the old ways are better.  Make sure the whole family 
is there before you put it in the oven.
As for lamb, I only made it once, for my father's sake.  We had a huge yard, and 
wrap-around porch, part of which he screened off.  That was his favored spot- 
and that is where I'd serve him meals, usually, with his little B&W TV on a Mets or 
Yankees game.  Oh the hours of happiness there.  Love, tom


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Being (Part Two of Two)

You … Are The Epitome of All Existence
Ypi… Are The Optimum – Pulse – Presence
We Live in Your Radius – Residence
and You … Are The Preserver, The Palace, The Promise
The Peace,  Pretty Perfection,  and  Providence
The Rightful Owner of Our Obedience…

‘… The Being ’

The Father’s Fingers, Were The Spark of Genesis
Flowing –  The Full Splendor of Continuance
Rousing Radiance, Beauteous Brilliance
Somewhere With ‘ Word ’,  ‘ He ’ Pronounced A Sublime Sentence
… and Time Arose and Fell in Universal Reverence
Marching Each Moment – In  A Consecrated Cadence

to…  ‘… The Being ’

Unapproachable, Blinding… Is His Light
Eyes of Holy Glory – Magnify Prophecy With Sight
… to Us, Is Invisible, Yet Invincible – The Spirit
And  The Son of This Source,  ‘ The Word ’… Hear It!
Logos Said:  “This Is Truth!”… we’re Speaking of…
His  Name is  Jehovah … ‘ He ’ is ‘Luminor’ Love!...

… This Is… ‘ The Being ’

… Sun,  Moon,  Stars…  Space
Earth,  Oceans,  Sky…  Heaven’s Face
Genuine Evidence – At A Generous Pace
Emitting Precious Waves in Everlasting Embrace
To Us… Was Given This Tremendous – Touch – Trace
Of  The  Sovereign  Lord  God… Oh, Your Merciful Grace…
May We Ever  Love,  Pray Allegiance  and  Praise…

… ‘ Your Beauteous Being ’…


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Eighteenth Fabel

 Eighteenth Fabel 
 
Eighteenth Fabel 
 

 



Praising Jesus 

 

CharlaXFabels 



Wondering uncertain from one day to the next working for survival never needing 
any rest building no foundation that has not already been prelaid but marching to 
my final curtain on the strength of HIS shed blood on the price of life HE paid. 
Rude self centered people all day long are teaching me a path not connected to 
my song the love inside of me is taken when they stride in perfect ignorance they 
glide on oily fingertips like some forgotten hide left in the center of a hunting 
camp with maggots all at work no one can use the hide for clothing no one can 
make it work. Suddenly remembered pain of death intended oh Jesus take me 
make me whole and well and keep them all away from me the naked and the 
dead they rise in misery to foster they beliefs upon a lame and morose figure a 
aged creature just as eye am beneath a clouded sky no moon is visible no sun 
but sonshines down on me today and life is hard and life is stirring in the clay. 
Devoid of Human life they are only interested in the personal perspective seeing 
nothing but the end of own nose and looking down it at others prose. 

Society of man is living in ignorance and darkness no hope but the grave 
atheists and deists marking time by taking up worthless spaces meant for 
others to occupy if you cannot do the work assigned to you get up and let 
someone else try the end is near oh GOD the end will come too soon for some 
of them. A half remembered song about the lyrics sung you cannot petition the 
LORD with Prayer? Yes eye can and hopefully it's there the Thorny Crown 
replaced with silver gold and brass or just the light that shines from Inside place 
of GOD? 

Not meant to ever resemble money not meant to be much more than love. He 
kept the life. He Loves. Jesus Lives. He Rules and as he Rules HE loves. 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Always

An errant wind ruffles the
surface of the lake,
disrupting the satin sheen,
quicksilver becomes watered silk.

The breeze caresses the old man
and he looks up in wonder
as he sees the spirit of God
moving across the face of the water.

                      He loved you always.

The wind is no more than a gentle sigh.
The old man sighs with the wind.
Memories plague his psyche.
Ruefully he smiles, he must protest:
Life is not short, it is interminable.

                      He  loved you always.

A grey cloud scuttles across the horizon.
He rubs a weathered hand across his face.
His heart sits like a stone in his chest.
The lake and the sloping yard and the
ancient trees and the old man long for you,
for the gaze of your eyes,
the touch of your hand,
for your mere presence.

                      He loved you always.

He ponders the errors he knows he made.
He is wounded by your impatience.
The sky begins to weep as the tears
run down the old man's face.
The surface of the lake pings as the
old man rises wearily.
The sky is shattered.

                       He loved you always.

He slowly makes his way up 
the broken path,
laid with such great love
so long ago, hardly able
to bear the weight of 
his memories.
He was once your resident hero.

                        He loved you always.


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.


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.

Yeah…
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.

Today…

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,
Rhythm,
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.”