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Prose Poetry Freedom Poems | Prose Poetry Poems About Freedom

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Details | Prose Poetry | |

TOLERANCE

                         TOLERANCE

I have little tolerance for tolerant people.
Those that will endure the corruption of
the truth, the erosion of meaning.  While at
the same time being intolerant of your
opinions, thoughts, and level of tolerance.

There is a quote attributed to Voltaire:
“I disapprove of what you say, but I will
defend to the death your right to say it.”

How many of the “tolerant” would be willing
to fight for our right to “disapprove of what
they say”?  Hush the crowd so that we might
be heard?  Unblock their ears and hearts and listen?

Does the present day “tolerance”
lack tolerance, lack understanding,
lack the ability to endure a voice that
is not in tune, does not sing the same 
song, does not pray the same prayer?

Or do they tolerate, put up with, the “fool”,
while denying acceptance of his opinions,
his beliefs.  Perhaps the fool is more tolerant than they.
Listening to what they say, watching how they
carry themselves, interact with those “different”
than themselves.

For they think him a “fool”, because they do
not know that he thinks, what he thinks,
and most sadly, they do not care to know.
They will tolerate his presence but not allow
him to be present, listen to his voice yet hear
nothing, speak of equality while lauding their
position, education, power over him.

For they are tolerant only of themselves,
of their ideas, their thoughts, their peers,
their alleged - equals.

They disapprove of us, and what we say,
and will defend their right to keep it so.

John G. Lawless – 6/9/2014 

Copyright © John lawless | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Pussy -vulnerabilities

Pussy (Vulnerabilities)

Pussy

Men sometimes put no value to sex and the sacred decision a woman might hold dear for the reason to
Submit options of letting you indulge in her essences. See some have had men all over the world and there is one thing for
Sure that pussy has a name never a face, Mumu , myse ,kisse, pepita, catellus, passera, mita it  all mean
The same thing Pussy, pussy, pussy. And the truth of the matter is your sometimes not remembered or
Even thought about once you give the pussy up!
So guard and respect your pussy and you’ll be wiser for not giving it up, I thought of all the times I
Gave up my pussy and grieving the next day he was gone, nothing but a memory of the condom he either didn’t
Or did put on! I have disrespected my body for a moment of pleasure far too valuable to get rid of, and
The 15 minutes or less or if I’m lucky an hour of pleasure soon will be forgotten as he’s on to the next one
Or back with his main love or the one whose holding out, but she worth waiting for.
Pussy is abuse sometimes tainted with the smell of semen left inside you with your naïve ass, I’m not going
Anywhere imma be here for you, trust me so the pussy stinks reeks of disappointment!
As they get dressed to leave a delicate kiss on the forehead and a polite thanks for the pussy!
Don’t be this chick (hold out on giving up the Pussy, be known for your worth)
You’re so much more than ass or pussy! I now know my worth!

Written by Monica Chrisandtras Hines 9/16/2014
You have to be selective and or practice abstinence in order to be valued ,some women get lucky and he does come back the next day ,but for how long ? Men like to chase and if you give it up too easy its a waste of time ,hes no longer interested and will soon prowl for another ! Keep it to your self till the time is right ,if he won't wait then forget about him!

Copyright © Monica Chrisandtras Hines | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry | |

AND ON THAT DAY

   AND ON THAT DAY…
   (APROPOS MLK: PART 1)

And on that day we will rise
And raise the hued shades of ignorance
And let the light of truth shine on our souls
And purify our hearts with warm rays of hope.

And on that day we will rise
And see rumors of wars sucked into black holes of peace.
And the phoenix birds shall give birth to cooing doves.

And on that day we shall confront our humanity
And boldly say to it, you must become all we can be;
And seek forgiveness for the acts that trampled the will of God;

And hope for redemption for the shredded dreams deferred.

And on that day America shall awaken from her slumber
And stretch forth her weary arms yawning a Nicodemus yawn.

And that day shall be the dawning of new beginnings;
And the chameleon shall change its colors no more.

And each hued hope shall be woven into the fabric of common destiny.
And the wheels of time shall roll us over into the New Jerusalem…

And on that day America will sing a new song;
And it shall be: My country’s tears to thee…
And on that day God will say: Well Done!

Copyright © millard lowe | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry | |

DECEMBER 2015

DECEMBER 2015 - "For what is our hope, our joy, or the crown, in which we glory in the presence of our Lord Jesus when He comes?" 1 Thessalonians 2:19

This year America waits,
With great anticipation.
For peace, love and joy,
Throughout the nation.

Christians are under attack,
For what is in their heart.
Hatred fills the air,
Our nation torn apart.

Death in our schools,
Murder on the streets.
Hurry, Jesus, we pray,
Before their goal is complete.

Freedom Religion,
A promise written true.
Not it's only if you follow theirs,
Christians know not what tio do.

We read more every day,
How we must suffer for His Cause.
Evil ones in control,
they pass the laws.

There was a time in history,
It was so long ago.
God sent His Only Son,
To teach us how to go.

In a humble stable He was born,
Written Word said it would be.
People given a reason to believe,
Praised Him in songs of victory.

We are lost without His son,
The Bright Star for all to see.
Please give us another sign,
To set Your People free.

RAYMOND V. MORGAN






Copyright © Raymond Morgan | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry | |

READING

READING

Always have a book at hand,
In the parlor, bedroom and loo.
Condensed thought on paper,
This is the world for you.

My daughter loves to read,
Must have something to hold.
No cover or pages,
Not even a center fold.

Electronic books these days,
For the person on the go.
Flip it on for convenience,
Living color, like a show.

Reading can entertain,
Delight the lonely heart.
Those without education condemn it,
The learned ones tear it apart.

The many pieces of the written word,
Bring light to those in the dark.
Challenge the mind of the curious,
Give your life a spark.

No entertainment is so cheap,
No pleasure lasts as long.
Your mind flies o'er the pages,
The words are like a song.

The love of reading,
Challenges the soul.
Nothing else given to man,
Can make one whole.

There are those who read,
To know what the world has done.
Others to enhance their personal life,
To be the brightest one.

RAYMOND V. MORGAN
Master Sergeant, USAF - Retired





Copyright © Raymond Morgan | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry | |

What Is Poetry

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

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

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

Copyright © Milton Robertson | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Blackbird

Trapped like a bird in this filthy cage 
Where I am starved of compassion and understanding 
Left to survive on meager crumbs 
Of affection and tolerance
Held captive and unable to fly and be free 
From the physical and emotional restrictions 
Placed upon me by my keeper
 
Who’s only reason for my presence it seems 
Is to stay its loneliness and insecurity 
To feed its selfish need for control 
Through its twisted concept 
Of love and adoration 
I am looked upon as a possession 
Other than the living, breathing individual 
That I long to be 

So now I sit upon my proverbial perch 
In my so called gilded cage
In the confines of my seemingly mundane existence 
And walk though my mind confused and alone
Aimlessly wandering through the now empty spaces 
That no longer hold the dreams or aspirations 
Which I once thought gave my life purpose 

Memories which were bright and alive 
Full of promise and hope but have faded away 
Into a past that is now grey and bleak 
Devoid of anything worth remembering 
My footfalls echo in the silence 
Giving testament that these memories 
Have been empty and forgotten long ago 

My only hopes now are that my keeper 
Will grow tired of my deliberate silence 
And obvious disdain and release me 
Whether through life or by death 
At this point either would be welcome 

How I long for the freedom 
And comfort of the clear blue sky 
The ability to soar like a bird 
High above the reaches 
Of those who only want to keep me 
And fly towards the bright and colorful horizon 
Where I know my future waits 
And new memories and dreams can be made.

Copyright © Thomas King | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Of Man and Nature, a Democratic Union

"I wear my hat as I please, indoors or out"
-Walt Whitman

I walk the land as I want,
the flutter of the dove shudders my 
eyelids, dodging my step.
My soul, linking all souls, passes through 
trees on my trail, bounding among planets 
glimpsed between the apex of pine. I have 
no fear of being beyond my body, nor 
does the seed that falls from spent flower, 
anguish beyond time. The unseen bloom, 
millenial light-years away, shares 
inherrent liberty. Many will gather these 
words and hold them to the highest light, 
that of our Creator, whose compassion 
trifles not with material gain, but with 
justice and liberty for all living things,
(equal with respect to all previous 
sufferings and triumphs centuries before) 
So it is with high diligence I value the true 
compass of man and woman, forever 
linked with our inalienable rights, as 
nature intends.



02/20/14
© All Rights Reserved

Copyright © James Marshall Goff | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry | |

caged

like the animals
in a zoo,
we roam freely
within our allowed 
spaces---caged
and confined, yet
our cages are invisible---
we, like the unbarred 
elephant,
no longer chained---
oblivious to his power---
will not move
beyond the mental keloid chain
hooked around our brain:

today, we just march 
and sing sad songs---aping
caged birds---
crying to fly away home.

Copyright © millard lowe | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry | |

My freedom



Lying on my bed
Afraid to sleep
Crying out loud
To reveal my feelings

Holding my pillow
Afraid of life
Looking far in the blues
To reveal my heart

Locking my door
Afraid to come out
Searching my imaginations
To reveal the reality

Stretching my hands
Afraid to embrace
Calling a dove
To set me free

Copyright © Olivia Nimley | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Close enough

Closer to the clouds 
Soaring through the soft misty flocks of vapour
Higher
Touching the overstretched never ending horizons
Stronger
Closer to the clouds
Reaching for the elusive galaxy scattered with stars
Wiser.


Metempirical
Scenes
Outside my window, birds perched on window panes
Breathing the hopes of life
Burying their worries, letting them go
Soaring away the pains of yesterday
Home
The distance reassures me of the longer road I have
Waiting working of what might come
Relieving the old alleys
Streets that left me hanging, roaming 
Stranded with loneliness

Pause
Break from the fast pace of life
Dive into total surrender
Break from our shallow life filled with plans
The never ending ambitious dreams
Capturing each moment, not giving any a miss

Forgotten
The small sentiments
The simple notions
The innocent thoughts 
And the crazy bedlams
Unfortunate
Life
Thrive, we will.

Copyright © Eli Mahirah | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry | |

DAMAGED MY TRUE LOVE

When it comes to love, I AM poisonous don't let me curse another, leave me loveless For the first time in my life, I felt your pain and cried for your heart my heart finally hurts, knowing I passed this pain from the start Please find help to set your heart free trust me, it's not a life you recover from easily Damaged goods I told you, repairable but some how, you managed the impossible Unlovable for my entire life yet you had no problem, getting me to become your wife Yes, it's been more than both of us should have ever had to bear at this moment, every cell in my body is overwhelmed, so I really do care Please don't enter my life's pain and despair you don't deserve it, you are so patient and filled with such love I'm sorry I let myself fall in love knowing it would poison you soul mates forever and eternity, my love belongs only to you...

Copyright © Denise Hopkins | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Justice for All

When Christmas comes, we hope for rebirth of truth and love, man for man,
from the story spoken time after time to children who hear other (hate) words 
and wonder if it's true that Jesus Christ is the Savior and King of the Jews.
Throughout history, the world despises and slings venom as dung for every ear. 
Truth matters not; that God held Jews above every man. Jealousy reigns and 
envy turns to bile. During that "War of all wars," one man, blinded by hate 
and driven by evil, screamed death and power.The German people were victims
of lies, repeated ad nauseam, that force creates a perfect race, a just cause for
 killing the Jews, the lame, the old, the blind, "useless humanity," he called them.

But destruction snares those who hate and justice reigns where hearts are true.
Heroes are born and demons are crushed. After the horrors of war, a peaceful
era when many learn to respect the Jews and deplore the deeds of one vile man.
Only fools applaud evil or excuse atrocities fueled by hate. NATO restored 
their land, re-established the Jewish nation in 1948. Some resisted, and fought 
against them. Why can we not embrace the truth - that every man deserves life, 
free from wrath? The time has come. It's long overdue, Let us see it for Jewish
and Christians alike. For now, the misguided hate us too. We stand together 
against prejudice. 

   When Christmas comes, we hope for rebirth of truth and love, man for man,
from the story spoken time after time to children who hear other (hate) words 
and wonder if it's true that Jesus Christ is the Savior and King of the Jews.
Throughout history, the world despises and slings venom as dung for every ear. 
Truth matters not; that God held Jews above every man. Jealousy reigns and 
envy turns to bile. During that "War of all wars," one man, blinded by hate 
and driven by evil, screamed death and power.The German people were victims
of lies, repeated ad nauseam, that force creates a perfect race, a just cause for
 killing the Jews, the lame, the old, the blind, "useless humanity," he called them.

But destruction snares those who hate and justice reigns where hearts are true.
Heroes are born and demons are crushed. After the horrors of war, a peaceful
era when many learn to respect the Jews and deplore the deeds of one vile man.
Only fools applaud evil or excuse atrocities fueled by hate. NATO restored 
their land, re-established the Jewish nation in 1948. Some resisted, and fought 
against them. Why can we not embrace the truth - that every man deserves life, 
free from wrath? The time has come. It's long overdue, Let us see it for Jewish
and Christians alike. For now, the misguided hate us too. We stand together 
against prejudice. 

Copyright © Cona Adams | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Dreamer

Close your eyes for awhile my friend, I heard there lies a moon far behind the black sky, I heard lovers were dancing beneath, can you hear them singing? I can feel their tipsy steps making rhymes on floor, and smell of perfumes filling the air, I heard a sun rises to brighten up their world, and birds do sing them charming melodies at morning, they say they have roses in colors and beautiful trees in the streets, and have they told you about the sea yet? They say it smells so wonderful and the delicate air of seas caresses their cheeks with soft wet breezes, oh my friend, what have we seen in the dark but the fragile ghosts that we are!

“Hush” whispered to me, “I lighted up a moon inside my heart and I smell lilies and jasmine in my nose, my dreams play tunes my heart dance on, they speak to me all night and there I see a starry night floats above, I feel the warmth of a sun in my soul as it hugs tight, whispering to me hymns of love and joy, lightening candles for hopes which had accompanied me amongst the dark, why have you closed your eyes my friend? Look through the colorful roses I painted for you with eyes wide open, let the lights off so you would see clearer, let the lights off so you can brighten up the world that hides with you, for my friend, what have we seen in the dark but the free spirits that we have become!


* If you enjoyed this piece, follow the link and share your thoughts
http://echoes19.wordpress.com/2013/01/22/dreamer-2/

Copyright © Samar Saleh | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Old Friends

Quakers build their cooperative politics
on following consensually-held fertile lights.

Buddha adds,
Follow your TruthLight,
back through our universal co-arising (0)-spacetime equi-valence
dualdark Out/In Breathing-Landscapes BiCameral MindBody Balance,
ecology of birth through regenerate rebirth
of eco-ego-cooperative Zen-Zero-investment
Earth-0-centric Health EcoReGenerativity,
Creativity of Love and Synergetic PolyCultural LightSource.

Bucky adds,
To follow your cooperative economic and political TruthLight,
worry less about struggling against BusinessAsUsual anthro-centric systems,
invest 100% in Plan A,
as ReGeneratively Functioning Ionic Icon "RNA"
thermodynamic principle of fractal-dialectical balance
in natural dynamic syntax,
the Language of God as Time,
if you will,
nevertheless,
also ecological truths
about regenerative health cooperative design
and delivery systems
for Spaceship Earth,
and each of her little holonic Ego-Plan B bicameral-biosystems,
RNA-embryonic revolving information,
devolving, recessing, depressing
competitively dissonant disecological undersurface
cooperative confluent rational
information.

My oldest friend,
his last words to me,
You are relentlessly too generous
in your assessments of others.
You insist on discovering
how other fools
and parasites
may be doing their best,
living through their karmic grace
of opportunity,
with concomitant risks
to their future's inevitable health,
or absence thereof,
I fear this dualdark Time.

My first thought:
May it always be so.

If only because I also relentlessly hope
others will be as generous with me,
interpreting my outcomes to date,
my orthopraxis,
my co-mentoring cooperating lifestyle,
my family relationships,
which seem to have little to do with the one just above,
decomposing my nutritional value, good and true and wholesome,
and co-arising toxic disvalues,
lost opportunities to reduce risks,
not choosing to invest full-cooperative
in future generations of time.

My second thought:
Fools doing our best to entertain each other
with rumors of divine comedy,

That nondual spiritual teachers
are also Earth nature
and human-nature Elder Right-brain listeners
and balanced speakers
and co-mentors of cooperation,
and ecological teachers,
and ecoconscious scientists and researchers,
and bicameral analysts,
and designers of temporal-neural primetime folds,
unfolds,
revolutions,
evolutions of RNA-syntaxed LeftBrain
Creation as ReGeneration Story of Light's DiPolar Evolution/Devolution Language

That nondual naturalists
are also Paradise,
Beloved Community,
Nirvana,
diastatic Climax co-redeemers,
or have objectives confluent with their meaning
and purposive teleologies of nature,
evolving regeneratively healthy
bilaterally co-gravitational-balanced
ecoconsciousness of TaoTime.

Where Yang-P always tries to equal YinYin N(NP) values
and norms and neutralities of ecometric-nutrient
fuel of bilateral time as space dimensioned,
(0)-soul dipolar bilateral open-dynamic temporal-syntaxed
regenerative memory ecosystem.

Naturalists
often develop polynutritional health v. pathology
listening skills, noticing with all five senses,
co-redemptive co-arising absorbers,
and facilitators,
and eco-mentors
and permacultural teachers
and mystics.

My third thought:
(I know, but this is ReGenerative Threshold Counting)
There is no more the possibility of nature
without dynamic spirit of energy,
co-arising primal-temporal relationship,
than there could become the possibility
of Spirit
without nurturing nature,
and sometimes not really all that much nurturing,
ecosystemic form with nutrient optimization function,
teleological intention as positive-regenerate-health.

Just as
We could have no spacetime matter,
absent dynamic temporal-bilateral energy,
No Yang-Space without Yin BiLateral Time.

My fourth thought:
We would have no Left-brain dominant culture
with capacity for deductive languaged processing,
without prior cultural baptism in Elder RNA Right Embryonic MindBody
Temporal-Development Dominant,
Time's dipolar root-systemic co-gravitation
fueling nutrient balance,
4-season light/dualdark equi-valence,
dialectical regenerative WinWin
Universal Open Systemic Game Theory
of (0) Zen TaoTime Economic and Political CoOperative Investment.

My final thought:
We are notnot angry nature,
so notnot fearful spirit,
but spirited natural ecosystems
of dynamic spiraling,
stretching toward diastatic Climax emergence,
(0)Mega Paradise of regenerative TaoTime's
bi-landscaped Twin Rivers
of Rich UCAG-temporal syntax
produces nutritional/toxic becoming
dipolar bicameral
ecoconsciousness of light as health
and dualdark as opportunities to reculture pathology,
to co-arise our global RNA/DNA Cooperative
for Economic and Politically ReGenerative
Balance of (0)-interest Time,
paying-it-co-arising invested evolving
revolving reiterating forward,
Earth LifeTime Health Rights,
lowering investment risks
in not quite so balanced wrongs.

We are spirals of revolving-evolving
lights and darks of time remembered
through timeless autonomic Elder memory,
dipolar breathing feeling out and in,
nutrient blood beating and ebbing and flowing,
and stereophonic listening for harmonic balance,
and seeing in full color octaves,
then thinking bilateral endo-Ego/ecto-Eco symbiotically,
bicameral deductive/inductive freedom of ecoconsciousness,
following time's generosity of light.



Copyright © Gerald Dillenbeck | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry | |

COME, LET US BEAT THE ANCESTRAL DRUM

  COME, LETS BEAT THE ANCESTRAL DRUM

Sitting here flowing
through the meters of time
like a smooth spring stream
meandering through forest greens,
I peruse the many folds
of the caverns of this fluid mind of mine;
searching for words that would rhyme
to tell the stories of illustrious dreams.

Life can sometimes be void,
emotionless and quite stoic; but
such cannot be the condition or position
of the darker hued poet.

We too, have stories of old to be told too;
the eager minded needing to know.
So rise you mighty Griots; and
weave the tales of our great kings and queens.

Let us hail the coming of ages
of our beginnings here; landing
packed like sardines in a can---
we have still survived;

And now here we stand rooted in this land;
no longer shrouded by the veil of fear.
Body and Soul, we‘re still here;
a new day has dawned and we’ve arrived.

Come children, beat the ancestral drum:
Ba Dom! Ba Dom! Ba Dom! Dom! Dum!
Its Jubilee time!  Liberation time!  Beat the drum:
Ba Dom! Dom! Dom! De Dum! Dom Dum!
		
		The freedom bell has rung:
		Ba dom dom dom!

Copyright © millard lowe | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry | |

AMERICA'S NOBLEST MOTIVE

AMERICA'S NOBLEST MOTIVE
"The noble man makes noble plans, and by noble deeds he stands" Isaiah 32:8

Decoration Day, declared,
For homes and everywhere.
Flags and flowers now in vogue,
Want us to be aware.

Battles rage, war goes on,
When will it cease?
Americans died in uniform,
Remember our own, please.

Memorial Day it now is called,
Our heroes names we read.
The sound of Taps, a mother's tears,
A sorrowing time indeed.

June 14th comes along,
Our flag to honor true.
For those colors many bled and died,
The red, the white and the blue.

Soon now, we do it again,
Independence Day is nigh.
Freedom bought with lives,
Raise the flag up high.

In November we honor Veternas,
All are heroes now.
Every gender, race, religion,
To you we humbly bow.

Are four days in a year enough,
Their service to recall?
Parents, families and friends,
Will kneel and praise them all.

Lord we give them back to you,
Your Promise to fulfill.
Thank you for sharing them here on earth,
We miss them still.

RAYMOND V. MORGAN
MSgt USAF Retired

Copyright © Raymond Morgan | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Rain the Clouds

bring home a sweet memory in every doing
leave back nothing but take them home
a saviour waits in your midst never forget
take them all back home where they belong

from your heart to your soul its always yours
no matter when your time is right home surely is
no matter how far yet with a hope they wait
all for a home one waits, like a rain and a cloud

nothing breaks it apart day or nightfall it comes
even sometimes to a surprise like a thief at night
do not forget take all back home on a Calvary hill
where it all begin waiting to take you home

peace and security, love and joy
free at will in his arms as he waits
remember your heart alone it matters most
for its you and for you like rain and clouds

never leaving you out of his sight, a sinner or not
it doesn't matter only your heart to draw you home
give it all you have till you have no more
its all free for now just take me home.


Copyright © Dr. Paneer Selvam | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry | |

An End to Aloneness

In my life I often feel I am alone; alone in my thoughts, alone in my musings, alone in my day-to-day movements and unsatisfying activities. I move like a ghost through hallways and down sidewalks, unnoticed and, at times, gratefully so. 
I do not wish to be eternally alone. I long for togetherness. But despite this desire for a real connection, I find myself regularly retreating from that temperamental beast that is human interaction. 

“Come on now, sweetheart. Don’t lower your head. Don’t look away. Look up! Smile at someone! No! Don’t go back into your bedroom. Don’t lock the door! Why are you doing this?” my brain will plea. 

I can’t help myself. Aloneness is comfortable. In being alone, I don’t have to worry about anyone but myself. I don’t have to please anyone else. I can think anything I want, wear anything I want, listen to anything I want, and laugh at anything I want. 

And still there remains that nagging desire to be loved and wanted and needed by somebody. I do not know the feeling of being truly desired. I do not know what it is like for someone to crave my company, my smile, my kiss, or my touch. 

                                                                              But I would like to…

I cannot make someone love me or like me or want me in some primal way. It may hurt, but I cannot make that handsome boy want to hold my hand or brush my hair back behind my ear. I can only struggle on. I can only work within myself. I can only try every God damn day to hold my head up, keep my eyes fixed ahead, a give the world the best smile I have. I and I alone can bring myself out of the safety of my bedroom and into the bright world that lies beyond that locked door. 
	
I often find myself alone with nothing more than my thoughts and the ever-strong glow of a computer screen. But no longer will aloneness be the constant in my life. It is true that never having known the caress of a man’s hand on my thigh doesn't make me any less of a woman, but I fear that if I stay confined within myself much longer I will begin to become less of a human. A flower cannot grow if it retracts its leaves and petals every time it feels the warmth of the sun or the kiss of a gentle spring rain.  
	
And I want to grow. I want to grow so tall and blossom so big and beautifully that every place on earth is touched by my shadow at some point in the day. And I will grow. I will push myself and share myself with the world, and finally
							                                 finally
								                                   finally
know the closeness and comfort of love and honest, unabashed companionship.

Copyright © Molly McCarthy | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Freedom

 

I am an old farmer . I cannot see my figure only on the water face of   our  lovely rivulet  . It was small like my dream , at that time I was child ,   dissolved in the butterfly colors . Oh the purity which they steal it , they take our smooth olive , make missile and death  from it , then they told me that I am a serious criminal  plants the olive .
Yes , such that , and without tiredness I shall repeat the birds songs , I shall not care about the world brassy  face , nor the one-eyed city . Yes I shall learn the earth the rose voice , and the lonely  winds will not find a place in my  skin . I am a free bird ,  I love the mud smell , and I like the noon sun when it  touch my face  , may be because my father plant me with a wheat seed  in our small garden .  
 

Copyright © Anwer Ghani | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Thomas The Jefferson's Train

In my dream
Thomas Jefferson pops out a pilgrim
in The Jeffersons family,
proprietors of Chinese laundries
on the best end of Main Street’s forested path
emerging toward Sanford Sons and Daughters Recycling Dump.

Here, midst polyglot stone soups
both informing and deforming,
occasionally reforming,
Thomas declares revolutionary interdependence with Earth’s dignity
as his senior honor’s thesis
read out boldly to collegial students
teaching cultural enrichment,
hoping for co-empathic network surges
of WinWin political ecological outcomes.

Thomas, sometimes called Red behind his considerable backside,
discovered repurposing as national economic thesis
and recovering recycling paths of golden intentions
as political antithesis
of terrorist fascist Christians
who had hoped to grow up
to join SuperJewish kibbutzisms
which was merely a more high-toned reference
to the pilgrim’s village recycling crashdump
of at-risk people looking for more inviting places
with sufficient space
for the entire upstairs-downstairs Jefferson Tribe
of Arabic DayDream stews
and stud muffins.

When Red heard young Thomas hoped to revive Taoist MidWays
all along pilgrim’s Main Street sonnets and plays
he prayed to Martha Washington
“My heart, my heart,
I could not survive such disrational empirical deconstruction!”

Somehow SuperHero Thomas the Jeffersonian Train
regenerated a multicultural chain of fools
to revolve this foxy precycling plant
into a WuWei forest of sweet and sour bodhisattva delights,
currency accepted up as down NurturingWay’s carnival street
in Jefferson’s NoShirtTicket-NoLaundryService busy mess
of humanity deforming Earth’s Rights
to procreate recreation of poli-eco-normic education,
schools of synchronic swimming Red Jeffersonian fish
remembering how to pilgrim surf thru interracial plowing seasons
to turn out hot melting stone soup feasts
of uniting nation futures
invested in laundering unhealthy wealth
until Thomas redreamed rainbow cream.

As Thomas this Jefferson Train
pulled away from FlyAway pilgrimage station,
he called out to all repurposing Foxes,
Merry CoMessiahs to all nations
and states of recycling benighted dreams.

Now there’s a good night’s sleep
you’ll never address backward inside-out again.

Copyright © Gerald Dillenbeck | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Caged Lion

Poet: Ken Jordan
Poem: Caged Lion
Edited by: Sparkle Jordan
written: June/1986


    He raised his head above the 
cell from which he had been 
caged for many years -

    Out beyond the locks, and 
chains, shuffling visions of 
freedom waltzed before his 
ageing frown, and vacant
stare -

    To him, it seemed that hope 
whistled between the bars, only 
to die inside his heart -

     But, the lion inside him 
roared! and would never stop 
fighting to be free, from the 
cage with black steel bars -

Copyright © Ken Jordan | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Becoming The Ruler Of Zion

You have the gene in you and the potential is indeed luminous but you want to roar while still a mere cub. Wait and pass through the test cos if it's not a Lion it can never be a Lion. Being a part of the family isn't enough being mentioned in the roll-call isn't final if this makes you satisfied then you are simply an added number and a completer of the table like the inert gas, neon. You need not be a relative to achieve in magnitude the successes of Celine Dion. But effective networks and good friends are the only way or else your hard work will reap no rewards in eon. But take note of your cliques and peel from afar before coming close or else your sight will be bitten by the onion. Dining with loud mouths toiling with scoffers and having a fool as your companion are worse than sleeping with a red hot Iron. Cling unto the tree of these lines and chew from their sour produce then shall you be a champion and the mighty ruler of Zion.

Copyright © Funom Makama | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry | |

From Seed to Shining Seed only in America

There is a plant that is making the news...
It has so many names,  you might be confused...
Mj , hashish, pot, reefer and weed...
Just to name a few and it grows from a seed...
A drug that’s been illegal for many years...
And when mentioned put’s fear in a parents ears...
There was a President, however, that stated he...
Lit up once , not thinking you see...
Tried it in college...but never inhaled...
Lucky for him, no one ever blackmailed... 
So for a number of years , it has been Taboo...
To smoke this plant , and if anyone knew...
You might lose your standing in the community...
However, now it’s up to the government you see...
To pass a bill for you and me...
So  we can smoke it as we wish...
Alas...it would become a legal “ fetish “....


Copyright © kj force | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Always Remember

Their journey towards our freedom 
began the moment they chose to serve.

Our freedom hurt,
It hurt to leave the warmth and security of their homes.

It hurt to participate in the grueling basic training exercises.

It hurt to leave the tear-stained faces of their loved ones,
not knowing if they would ever return.

There was no comfort on the hard, cold metal floors 
of the transport planes that flew them into the heart of danger.

It hurt, to have raw, festering blisters on their feet and ankles....
but there was no time to stop and heal.

They marched forward anyway....

It tore their hearts to shreds to witness the horrific suffering
and gruesome deaths of their beloved brothers in combat.

The ones who lived; often bore painful, debilitating
permanent injuries.

Their once innocent minds, now carried hellish images.
A tattoo on their very souls!

Let us never forget....a heroes heart bears tremendous pain.
Pain we may never be able to understand, or feel.

Always remember the selfless sacrifices that they made;
for the love of family, friends, freedom and country.

It hurts to be a hero.

They marched forward anyway.











Copyright © Kimberly Shaw | Year Posted 2015

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?

Copyright © Miya Fontaine | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Gator Bait Series 1st Cold Snapped

The wind was blowing when she left the city...

I believe it was twenty below...

Where she was going she already knew...

But... first she had things she had to do...

Get rid of the body that was clear....

There were no options, it had to disappear....

The heater was broken and blowing cold air...

She could feel the ice, building up in her hair..

She had cleaned up the blood as best she could...

As she had hit him hard with that log of wood...

All she had asked him, was to light a fire...

To take off the chill in the house....

Do it yourself if you are cold...he snapped

And while you’re at it get me a cold beer...from the fridge..




It was early morning when she finally arrived at the bridge..

This was his favourite fishing spot...

She pushed his body off the pier...along with his ice cold beer..

And suddenly began to shiver and sneeze.....

Oh well, she said...this too shall pass..

When I get to the Florida Keys..


PS..this is the first in a series..watch for part 2.."gator bait..the dream "









Copyright © kj force | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Freedom of a Child

When life was easy 
Because you knew it all
Rainy days weren't a hindrance,
It was just the ocean's way of sending a postcard.

Instead of treading through sludgy puddles like it's a minefield 
Happily splashing through them, 
Because the wetter the better.

And when the sun comes out 
And a vibrant rainbow pierces the clouds
It's not the refraction of sunlight through raindrops,
It's simply magic.

As the sun gradually disappears into the endless horizon,
It's not time to mourn over the passing sun,
Because now it's the stars' turn to dance.

As those moments of puddles and rainbows grow more limited 
Make sure to catch the moment
To live free
With freedom only a child can possess.

Copyright © Danita Windy | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry | |

THY FREEDOM COME

Am yearning  for  freedom,
A space of mine to thrive,
To have a decent and happy home,
And a swimming pool when hot I can dive

 
I wanna join the dots to form a straight line,
To establish a fine career path,
Avoid corrupt tenders to sign,
God gimme courage to calm the rage of the psychopath.

 
Lemmi break free from this love triangle,
Still deliberating on the escape angle,
Hey,Miley  gimme that wrecking ball,
Finally decided to break this gable wall.

 
Hey problem,you’ve made me cry,
Endlessly agonizing me  night and day,
It’s time I shout a bold “DIE”
Infact,in my opinion you are nay!!

Copyright © Moses Wanjama | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Pleasure in Possibilities


Writing my prose,
unmeasured.
Sometimes I try poesy,
another pleasure.
Untrained. Unskilled.
But, what a joy!
to freedom,
my thoughts I find.
And so, as day by weeks
would turn into a lifetime, could be
the possibilities concocted by gods
may be.

Copyright © Wendy Meyer | Year Posted 2013