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Prose Poetry Girl Poems | Prose Poetry Poems About Girl

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

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Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Child's Peace

Tell me of your peace. 
Let it tell your story now
Of trials and tribulations, a tale not of dreams
Weary from a journey of self-discovery
My child, know the comfort in your peace
You feel hope in this familiar place 
As it gently sloughs the pain away 
Tell me of your peace 
In which we all are blessed and free
Search throughout your soul sweet child
Peer not within your cluttered mind 
Look out to rest your tired eyes but do not let them see
Solace found strewn upon daily thoughts is fleeting at it's best
Lasting merely moments, in untouched souls a true peace 
Oh yes! You'll know when you arrive but only you will know 
The world will melt away as a candle left under the blazing sun
Away away, until you feel home again, an unguided familiar scene
An innocence once lost is restored, all sins suddenly forgiven
Soaking this in with relucant ease, 
Breathe it deep with a slow release
Take it in, delight in details you discover
Be calm here child, please have no fear, I am here 
You are safe in this place of yours, no hurt no tears
We share not the same peace, no no
Unique to each of us, yet stranger to none
Trust in more than what you see, know beauty is within reach
We share this unspoken bond of freedom from ourselves
Please young one, listen closer now 
I say, leave it all behind you love, it will only weigh you down
Cleanse yourself of careless words and careful lies 
I know you're weary, let go of all you carry
Don't be afraid, here you are burden free 
Trust in you, blessed one, it's easier than you believe
Sweet child, tell me now if you see
Peace resting deep within 
Waiting for you
For you to let it be


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Kis

A Kis

RICHsTgPOOR



CharlaXFabels

1one7three3
 Do eye need a kis. Eye need a girl to kis. Eye have a girl that eye can kis. 
Eye have kis her in the rain. Eye have kis her in mye heart. Eye have kis her in 
mye start of every day for years of love. Eye have only to the kis to go to read more 
into kis to find the place she dwells in this old mortal frame of yearning 
dwelling place. The kis is purple bliss of alarm blazing love waking me from 
death like a Snow White Charmed young man a captive smith to Pocahontas 
fame. A dandelion flower lost in the caverns of the depths Ianthe drowning mee 
in sea ward tufts of left and right bouts of beating on the air to keep from sliding 
to the depths of drowning in her arms of love. A leap at faith a death reprieved 
from Grounded Grave a leaping portent making waves of Gragon wings. An 
attitude of love refrained in every tuft of wind again the sound of love the beating 
of the water on the roof of tin the sound of kis inside the wind and rain. A younger 
man and woman would have hardware in the way the nose and yes the nose gay 
and the corners of the vampyrific fangs. The center of the tongue is one the belly 
button too. The snooker table has a cue it’s called the ball extender bridge it's a 
cheater it’s made to let the basest man to reach her in the wind. There is so 
many problems with people the gas is oughta sight at the pumps this country is 
no longer prominent but a third world country going south. The end of time has 
come and arrived the ruthless and worthless rule in the name of god money and 
time. Take a number wait in line what’s your name please fill this out and wait. 
The number of his namme. Have you got a credit card or payment of any kind iff 
you can give me seven dollars for an office visit eye will help you the doctor is inn. 
The man was lighting a candle in front of the computer and the lieberrian asked 
him what do you think you are doing he said eye cannot see the screen. There is 
not very many rich people in all those cars on the highway whizzing by the most of 
them is middle class or less the plastic hose on the back seat is a siphon they 
use it to get gas. Eye had too many problems at home growing up to ever be a 
father. The age factor plus the drug indicator keeps me from trying to further my 
benefactor with fodder or with mudder. The morality of this hurried fable of 
dividing documents is this a kis. 

 
  
  


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!


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Retribution

	It was kind of nice having money all the
		Time.
	Looking back when I was seventeen,
		I looked forward to going to work.
	It is unlike what I feel about work now.
		I did a lot of reading as a child.
	I read all kinds of books.
		I would consider Oak Lawn a safe
	Community then. 
		I can’t remember any times when I got beat up.

	I did a lot of running home and telling.
		I avoided a lot of suffering by talking to
		My parents about the bullies.
			It wasn’t until junior high that I had to
		Take care of a fight that went way wrong.
			I was scared to death of a seventh grader.
		I fought him, and found out he wanted to 
			Wrestle.
		I wasn’t that good of a 
			Wrestler then.

		I got better
			In high school.
		It was kind of chaotic, and the wrestling matches
			Were more “fighting” than wrestling.
		I hung in school and made a name for myself
			At Oak Lawn Community High School.
		My sister gave me a collection of albums
			My junior year.
		I was introduced to all kinds of music by
			Those.

		My first good introduction to music came
			My sophomore year.
		A friend introduced me to “The Police” with
			“Zenyatta Mondatta” and “Ghost in
		The Machine”.
			He told me what he did at his party
		In eighth grade.
		They sat around and played Gin.
			They drank soda.
		They went bowling.

		I got off to a late start with music,
			And I finally caught up with my tape-
		Radio I got for Christmas my junior year.
			I could have had a big party,
		But I decided to wait.
			I didn’t really have one except
	 	The one’s I had in grammar school.
			My friend thought he was going to
		Get married to this one girl at O.L.C.H.S.
			It fizzled out like my relationship did.

			That girl liked someone else though.
		I should have given up calling her,
			It was no fun talking to her.
		She didn’t talk to me at all in school.
			I’m not sure she even knew who I was
		In lunch.
			I didn’t have anymore classes with her.
			Her boyfriend went out for basketball
		Like I should have done.  I was pretty good.  Maybe just
		Doing my chess and studying was the best thing for me to do.

		


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Warrior

The strength of a woman
Is not in her tongue
Or the length of her hair
Or the songs she has sung

Control is not found
In the clothing she wears
Or seduction she offers
Or the child that she bears

Her honor and glory
Comes not from what shows
Except her reliance
On God that she knows

For God gives her power
Beyond height and length
And makes her much stronger
To display her strength

It’s there deep within her
And flows through her being
Revealing a boldness
And strength we are seeing

For man cannot crush
All the things she can do
For she is a woman
And warrior too


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Up in Smoke it's Reality

Fantasy like Reality can be a disappointment...
Clearing the Air........

He worshipped her from afar...
He had since he was three..
He hid it well , no one knew...
She was his heart’s desire...
With her big bright eyes and her winning smile..
He never thought she would beguile...
Then he turned ten and it was clear..
It had been she who did inspire...
this young man ,with his heart on fire... 
He arrived at seven in the morn...
To help prepare the feast de jour...
He stuffed the bird and chose to make..
Her favourite dessert...fresh Raspberry cake..
He feverishly cut and whipped and stirred..
Grandpa ‘s little helper was becoming quite the gourmet chef...
Then came the time to shower, and get dressed...
He chose his wardrobe carefully...
Making sure that he looked and smelled hmmm good....
She arrived and you could see him beaming proudly...
Everyone feasted on the bird and ate their fill...
He waited on her as I watched..
No one even blinked an eye..
They spoke for what seemed an eternity..
His face could be read for all to see...
Then out of the blue, she excused herself..
And went out on the patio to puff some stuff...
His face went white, I could see his plight..
She chose to be with others you see..
Who foolishly did an atrocity...
The one he worshiped from afar..
Went up in smoke...as she smoked her cigar...


 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Nineteen fable

 Nineteen fable 
Nineteen fable 
 
MUSICK NONnude Review 
 
 
CHarlaxFabels 
 
Grand Funk Railroad was a fave group of mine the best time eye ever had was in 
a house on a rug listening to this song of hard rock and rhinocerous thumps. 
Wait. FOGHAT was the best for sex but lucky mee was never a Catholic. The 
Horns blew for Chicago and there was lots of other groups to make this fable 
bleed there was the Creedence Clearwater Revival so cool so wonderful a thing. 
John Fogarty sure must have been a saint. Eye wish he had not got so mad and 
left the other members of his group. But Creedence Song became a new fave 
thing. 
Daddy had a band 
Played him a little guitar 
Traveled in a van 
Livin' that rock and roll 
Night after night 
People comin' up to the bandstand 
Say you can't go wrong 
If you play a little bit of that 
Creedence song 

It was late one night 
Cruisin' on down the interstate 
Stopped into a diner 
To get him some chili and fries 
Heard the waitress tell a guy 
Standin' over by the jukebox 
Hey you can't go wrong 
If you play a little bit of that 
Creedence song 

Well daddy took a shine 
To the lil' girl behind the counter 
She movin' her hips to the swamp beat 
Right on time 
Said could he play her somethin' 
Over there on the jukebox 
She said you can't wrong 
If you play a little bit of that 
Creedence song 

Daddy had a plan 
He asked that girl to marry 
With a brand new wife 
They're livin' on rock and roll 
Night after night 
She whispers oh so sweetly 
Hey you can't go wrong 
If you play a little bit of that 
Creedence song 




Details | Prose Poetry | |

I want you to know

I know a girl more broken than the aftermath of a bull in a china shop. She knows that her pain wont stop, so instead of trying to fix that, she only ever tries to make others happy. She puts everyone above herself and if life was a shelf shed be the ground. The most common sound escaping her lips is sorry. She cries herself to sleep every night, she has cuts on her arms as if too tally up all the hate she receives daily and if she could pay the bills in blood she would be able to afford a living. Lately all she's been doing is forgiving. 

	I want you to know that it's always darkest before the dawn, so if you have to wait another hour for the sun to rise, I will sit beside you with a watch and a red bull the size that two people need to keep them up just long enough to fall asleep together. If the weather is on our side or not, I will stay just to make sure you know you stay up long enough for that sun to rise. It's not a surprise when it does, and if it means you've gone a day without painting in blood, I will do what it takes to keep you from it another day. I suppose what I mean to say is;  

	Put it down. Just pretend its not there; let it disappear into thin air without a hair of a trace, because all it ever does is hurt you. those cuts mark the scars of your pain that will never fade. Cut into your skin, you don't remember the beginning, but you can find the end. Send a message to all the people that made you start, you're a work of art that just has a splatter; it doesn't matter, you can paint over it. Just sit down and look around you. You've built so many walls. You're trapped in a labyrinth made to keep people out but in turn you've locked yourself in. You can't climb the walls, all you hear is the echoed calls of your pain. 

	If you search for a while, maybe you'll find another face trapped in their own maze and you'll both smile; because it's comforting to know that you're not alone. Maybe that person you meet can give you a boost over your wall so you land feet first in grass. You don't need to ask, they're still there; trapped in the maze. Its sad how the price of happiness is almost always someone else's pain.

	PART ONE


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Girl Named Autumn

Seasons change as do people... 

A girl named Autumn….enters quietly into the room…. 
Yet no one sees her there... 
She has a certain presence, still … 
and her perfume fills the air... 
Yet no one speaks to her… 
Her colors are not light, but bright… 
reds, yellows and orange, quite a sight… 
But even though , she's more than that… 
No one approaches, some don't seem to care... 
So she quietly leaves ...before the trees are bare... 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Nothing But Chalk

She sits there in the back of the class, doodling on her paperwork. Getting lost in 
the scribbles, tuning out the teacher, forgetting all the madness around her, her life 
fading in the paper. Slap! The sound of the ruler splintering across the desk. PAY 
ATTENTION! Head jerking upward, she sits up in her little desk. Pencil dropping from 
her hand, rolling off onto the floor. She looks straight ahead, back straight as a 
board, eyes glued ahead as the teacher drones on. Drilling things into their heads, 
eyes sharp like an eagle. Looking for every chance to catch someone falling asleep, 
to catch someone passing notes, to catch someone whispering. The little girl quietly 
picks up her pencil and her mind drifts to dreaming of playing dress up, drifts to the 
path the lead makes on the paper. The curves of a woman, not a little girl. Dreaming 
of growing up into a woman. Confident, pretty, smart, strong....someone people will 
notice....a woman with a voice. Slap! The ruler across her hand. She jerks it back, 
clasping it to her chest. Instant sting, instant redness and she feels the tears start 
to pool in her eyes, her lip quivering to hold back the yelp. Pay attention! You’re not 
listening! I asked you a question young lady. Should I repeat it? She’s so scared 
that she can’t even speak so she just meekly nods her head. Hard as steel, cold as 
ice, the teacher repeats the question. She hangs her head and answers but her 
voice is barely above a squeeking whisper. Speak up! says the teacher. The class 
can’t hear you, I can’t hear you she says. The little girl raises her head and repeats 
her answer. WRONG! Slap! The ruler across her other hand. See if you had been 
paying attention instead of DOODLING, then you wouldn’t have gotten the ruler. 
You’ll make sure next time you will listen now won't you. The little girl doesn’t 
answer, doesn’t speak up. She doesn’t want the ruler again. So she carefully and 
quietly lays her pencil on her little wooden desk that bares the markings of many 
ruler slappings. And on her little wooden desk, she rests her hands that bare the 
scars of many ruler slappings. She stares straight ahead at the chalkboard, 
unwavering, searing a hole in the chalkboard. She tries to find the dream of dress 
up, tries to find the girl dressing up as the woman she wants to be. But all she sees 
on the chalkboard…no matter how hard or how long she stares...all she sees on the 
chalkboard.....is nothing but chalk.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

LOVE POEM MEDLEY PART 2

Sometimes everything seems fake to me, and I am so tired of people acting like they remember what love is. 
Everyone says it. 
“I love you, I love you, I love you.” 
No words are more meaningful to me when sailing from the lips of a true friend or a kindred spirit, but the rest of you have to be careful where you point those syllables 
because that’s like taking the closest thing to

 the Lord’s name that I ever understood
in vain. 
I was walking back from the gas station a few weeks ago and some girl I didn’t even know looked at me and said it. 
Her lip gloss opening and closing like some kind of sea creature fishing for plankton, and I just happened to be the nearest thing drifting past.
“Love you!”, like it was hello. 
Now I have just one question
“WHAT DO YOU MEAN” 
You have no idea what I am. 
My smile’s like this because my parents had the money. 
My eyes are not the windows to my soul. 
They don’t mean jack except for genetics that I had no control over, and what my mother ate when I was in utero. 
That’s like acting like my poetry is who I am. 
Like how myelinated the neurons in my linguistics center 
I can feel the right to decide that I am more or less, valuable. 
It happened again earlier too.
I was sitting on the greyhound back home, having a conversation with a girl with guys all around her like fire ants with their mating tubes out. All of them with ink, piercings, and sizing me up 
because my six-foot-four stature could not speak for itself.
I’d like to think we talked about something more important than my assets and destination, but as she turned to disappear out of the bus with her escorts, she cast the three words back on me
like throwing a fishing line on the off chance something might bite,
“I love ya.”
….what in the world. 
After this, I think of the only one whose words held their weight. 
I don’t mean no harshness, 
but if I could go back in time and have half the balls my poetry does, I’d take you aside, and tell you something you wouldn’t understand. Something like, “BAM! I am a tulip field on fire at sunset.” 
Something like, “My shirt, is from the Goodwill.” 
Something like, “You’re telling me Christ could have saved the world with His cheekbones?”
“You’re telling me I’m viable and worth a few minutes of your attention?”
“You’re telling me tall, black, and attractive is what’s in this century?” 
But let me tell you.
You don’t have any idea of the size of the planets you’re saying you want to try and swallow when you say those words to me. 
I’ve been waiting to be able to hear, feel, taste, smell, and know those words for too long. You have to mean them to say them. 
But you see, I was a philosopher before I was a poet, so I have to take that back and reflect it on myself. 
The truth is, I’m so confused that sometimes, I don’t know which end my head is at.

Poetry flies in my eyeballs that should never make it past my lips, but I’m getting tired of trying to impress people. 
In this past month, I’ve been day dreaming about the girl smiling at me and it meaning more than
“You look like you got good genetics”
Or
“Could I please date your self esteem?”
I’ve been day dreaming of the girl who reminded me of what those three words are supposed to mean. 
Like when my acne came back, and you told me not to scratch at a handsome face.
“I love you.”
Like when my poetry departs, and all I can do is ramble things too big for my head. 
“I love you.” 
Like when I didn’t feel like just a romantic stereo type anymore. 
“I love you.” 
What those words meant to me, before I made the world make them less.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The moon, a golden doubloon buried in the midnight sky

The moon, a golden doubloon buried in the midnight sky, amongst a billion diamond 
speckles, shimmers in the warm summer night’s air, as it slowly climbs to its zenith. The 
lake reflects the scene back a thousands times on a thousand different ripples as oars 
silently part the dark waters leaving star trails in their wake. In the small boat a girl lies 
on the bottom, her long dark tresses hidden beneath a dark woolen cloak. Her sparkling 
green eyes squeezed closed tight. Her full lips hold no emotion in them only lay still, 
betraying nothing. Her delicate hands clasped behind her back bound there by a coarse 
rope which winds its way around her small soft breasts and makes its way down to her 
bare tender feet, trussing her up as neatly as a pig on its way to market. Yet there is no 
fear in her eyes. No tears running down her smooth pale cheeks. No breath quickening in 
her chest. Yet when she opens her bright green eyes, out emits what can only be called 
faith and hope, like sunbeams through holes in the clouds, as if she knows someone is 
waiting for her just on the other side of this moment, waiting to rescue her from a peril 
she knows not what. Yet no one does. She is now laying on a cold gray beach. The girl 
turns away. Not caring about the pain that tears through her hands and feet. Tears run 
down her cheeks in torrents. Her body convulses silently. And there in the first of the 
morning light, lying on the pale white sand, she fills utterly alone for the first time in her 
life. And as the waves crash on the shore, the suns rays burst forth filling the world, she 
lets herself go. Her hair is plastered to her face, she doesn’t notice. Someone has undone 
her bound legs. She didn’t even feel it. Slowly a strong calloused hand pulls her to her 
feet. She lets it. Empty now she lets them gently push her along a narrow trail that leads  
farther away from the place that use to be her home. She sags to the ground. Let them 
kill her. She would welcome it. She would beg for it if she could only find her voice, but 
she lost that when she lost her heart. Her heart, somewhere back on the sands, at the 
edge of the lake. Somewhere where the waves are crashing down on top of it, crushing it, 
slowly dragging it out to a dark watery grave, where it wont have to bare the light of day 
again, where it can dwell in the darkness that it so desperately wants to consume it.


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.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

AM STILL IN LOVE WITH YOU

AM STILL IN LOVE WITH YOU

It wasn’t easy to fall in love with you,
though your looks were always new.
You won my heart with time
but oh! then I had no money, no dine.
with nothing to offer you but my heart and soul,
you decided to go away in search for gold
leaving me in melancholy and jeopardy.
I cried for my loss; I mourned for my tragedy.
you overlooked my errors when I had affluence
but now you underlook me in every sense
you yearned for my love before
now you snoop me unlike before,
you disgraced me amidst my friends
and you broke our engagement, caring less;
You called me “sweetheart” before
while now you call me merely “Michael”
everything you do to make me hate you
doesn’t hurt me and I curse myself for it because
am still in love with you.

My father disowned me because of your sake
and I nearly drowned in a lake
you showed no care when i broke a leg
and you left me while sick in bed
you called my mum a whore
and in my absence you stole from my meagrer store
I can’t put your deeds in words for it is long;
for after all that you did to me
am really confused and i curse myself for it
for…for… for.. am still in love with you


Details | Prose Poetry | |

I'm In Love with a White Girl

I'm in love with a white girl because she's beautiful. I'm in love with a white girl
because she's sweet, kind, and I  love her. A white girl's love and beauty are so strong
and powerful, it makes me want more of them. She's the sun that shines by day, the moon
and the stars that appear at night, and my everything. I see myself getting married to a
real white girl and I also see her as the mother of my children. I want us to be more than
just friends; I want us to be together forever. When I get into a serious relationship
with this white girl, I won't run away; I'll be as kind, sweet, trustworthy, and nicer as
any other guy. And when I get into a relationship with this girl, things will never be the
same. And not only will I promise not to ever cheat on my white/Caucasian girlfriend with
any other girl, even if she's as attractive as any other girl, I promise not to ever hurt her, let alone
break her heart, either. There's more to life than just talking to white girls; It's being
with one.


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 "










Details | Prose Poetry | |

Away

Mostly I care about my heart 
But always crush my heart
I don’t want to know if there is anyone for me
Just sad for losing everything who was for me
All things going wrong out of that

Away! Away! Away! Away!
 


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 | |

Beginnings

Copyright 2012 by David Archuletta 

    As for this faceless girl of destiny, she wouldn’t need to see this dark-side of irony, but it was to spite the past - when its due had now shown this girll every worldly right to present her life’s history as the same awaited future of other children as well. Now, standing there on stage, nervous was she; this teenage girl now suddenly struck uneasy to speak ill of those who would try to haunt these new beginnings…
Once upon a midnight’s clear…
   Yet, nevermore, would destiny itself put her in this position to administer such repayment in kind. A requiting long overdue and witnessed by many, including some who would soon feel as if cited by an Edgar Allan Poe incarnate of the cruelest kind; all finding themselves ill-equipped to deal with her soon spoken words!


Details | Prose Poetry | |

BECOMING A WOMAN

BECOMING A WOMAN

Someday...
I will be all woman...

I will be the mother...
A mommy who will tenderly care..
A mama who will prepare..
A mom who will be her "kid's saver" .

I will be the wife...
The lawfully other half..
Who will stand on his husbands behalf..

I will be the light of a home..
Each will feel happy not alone..
Giggles; laughters will be heard..
If there are tears, sure it's rare..

Despite these, still i'll be a lady..
Even if there'll be malady..
I'll remain gentle yet sturdy..
I'll be jolly ready...

I will walk in grace..
I will attempt "eloquence"..
I'll not live in tight fence..
Rather i'll be alive knowing sequences..

Even if wrinkles will steal me..
Even if illness claims my health..
Even if old age squeezes life from me..
I know, i have live as a woman..

***Hope you can check my personal blog as well: http://myblossomingthoughts.blogspot.com/... Thank you so much for reading my composition… God bless us always….. >> Olive Eloisa ? 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Love Letter to TA

I told my therapist the story you told me
About the French student you tutored in high school
How she mispronounced words 
And kept accidentally saying,
“I want to f*ck” 
At that moment I’m sure you felt me blush 

I was hoping that story came out from your subconscious,
Perhaps an underlying crush

You should know I come to office hours
Just for more time beside you
I don't much need the help
After all, you keep giving me 98’s
And I’m not so sure I deserve those grades

I am only somewhat brilliant—
Barely as clever as they say

I tried to tell you that I was going to be a writer
Because I know that’s something you are, too
I saw the poem you published at your last school 
And oh, how I wish you knew
How absolutely perfect I am for you

In lab you always take my hand to show me how
I get clumsy when you’re around
But don’t mind redoing things throughout
The others must have it figured out

You touch me a little too often now

My friend suggested I turn in a quote
Kafka is who I naturally chose
But of course I feared it was not place
To mention the divine qualities in your face

You are a goddess even by name

Dear Athena—
I hope one day you will be mine
I’ve fallen hard for you in time.

--
Paraphrased quote by Franz Kafka from his letters to Milena:
"So many divine qualities mingle with the human ones in your dear face."

**PLEASE DO NOT LET HER EVER FIND THIS, GOOGLE! 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Dashing Blade

In a house high on a hill an old man grows weak, many years have gone, he lays in his old bed,
Back in the day, a dashing young officer with a brilliant red uniform he had many girlfriends,
Flowers scattered across the mead's and meadows the heaths and the glades and over wide glens,
Those days bright and hot, the occasional thunder announces itself in the seasons sultriness,
Today it is summer again trees rich with green leaves now darkened and oaks have little acorns.

Laying in his bed the French doors wide open, summer greets him warmly for just one more time,
White haired and thin his skin yellow and his eyes sunk into wasted sockets his lips quiver,
He remembers the woods well, sitting by a sheltered warm bank, new greenery bursting through,
He tries hard to sit up and to see his long ago self in the beautiful green ripening gardens,
Sweet flowers know him well, respectfully they nod to an old friend who is going on a journey.

As a man who liked to be outdoors he walked and tended these landscapes even as a young blade,
He casts way back to his youthful days when he would walk in the sun a sweet girl at his side,
Running up a woodland bank, his hands on hips, he would wander miles enjoying wonderful views,
His heart raced with joy as the carpets of the forest grew around tall trees along the floor,
Now the songs of the birds grow faint the nightingale is hushed and the cuckoo bows his head.

A nurse tiptoes in she quietly shuts the doors, he whispers, she cannot hear him but she looks,
It is so faint she goes to his bed bends down to listen her ear to his lips they barely move,
He says don't shut the doors the beauty makes me feel safe my old friends are out there waiting,
She lifts him higher, puffs his pillows adds another blanket she smiles, 'you are a lovely man',
The blackbird and the thrush perch near the French doors and sing a musical goodbye very softly.

He can now see the Coltsfoot and cardamine in the fallows with green moss in the moist meadows,
And the star of Bethlehem gleaming from the copse the woods, a special beauty from shady places.
The celandine and kingcup glow in golden lustre he watches them his eyes rheumy and tears fall,
Daisies scattered across lawns like patterns in a carpet of lime green, smelling of spearmint,
The elder flower, corn poppy and the viper's bugloss with a rich azure smile from his garden.

He begins to smile shakily at the crocuses spreading a purple flood over the greenest meadows,
It's a sight you have to see, to take it in, color returns to his cheeks on his ashen old face,
Above all the favorites of the field is a violet, many times he picked one for his lady friends,
White, purple diffuse sweetness under hedges, a landscape painted in mind, those were good days,
Young girls would walk arm in arm across the glades to listen to his wondrous battle stories.

These pictures of beauty he has known since his early childhood days, his memory so very clear,
Whispering do you scent the hay, do you hear the scythes ringing, do you hear sweet laughter,
The joys of running across green fields like young breeze and smelling sweet newly cut grass,
Scented breezes fill his room, his eyes close, happy to return to his precious long gone days,
And with his last breath he walks arm in arm with a beautiful young girl in sweet old meadows.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Sweet Lucy - Final Part

Lucy, sweet little thing, life was boring for me,
She made me wonder. She woke me up
A sweet sound, barking excited as always.
I reach for the door for my daily newspaper, 
On the back I saw an ad, a picture that looked like Lucy.
The owner was a little girl, quote “Please, if you see her, bring it back to me”
A reward was posted, 500 dollars! 
Money was something I was not interested in.
Lucy, Her name was actually Susie.
What should I do now? Deciding to stay true to myself,
I took her to the rightful owner,
I drove all the way to the little girl’s apartment in Manhattan
Room 307, I must have hesitated at first, I could just walk away.
But to see a sad little girl, because of me…is not what I do.
I looked at Lucy, sweet little thing, 
She stared at me again with those eyes of hers
That sweet face of hers’ made me gloomy. 
Barking and wagging her tail.
Even before I could ring the door bell, the door suddenly opened.
And I knew it was over between Lucy and me.
Little girl must have recognize that sound of sweet Lucy.
She ran towards me and pointed and said
"I found her, Susie!" I was saddened.
Lucy sweet little thing, I looked at her for the last time and pet her saying goodbye.
She kept on making a noise, the same noise when I found her on the alley
But it sounded different, like she knew this was my goodbye.
As I got on the elevator, I saw her playing with her real family
With the little girl parents, I didn't bother about the reward, for I have already gotten my reward from Lucy…that is when I met her on that alley.
She gave me a new look at my life…Lucy Sweet little thing..Goodbye!


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Dead White Things and Recurring Dreams Two

Suddenly - same as in the last dream, the seal pup eyes again, had 
metamorphosed into two oblong pools of a flat blackness. They now showed deeply 
vacant, unreal, each one filled with certain emptiness ..., each one devoid of 
characteristic implying of life within…
In this little girls’s mind, the pup had now transformed into a ghoulish image. Her 
vision of the apparition had now taken on an eerie out-of-place look and feeling. 
This was a feeling much the same as if a sudden appearance of a clown had risen 
from out of the sea ice; a desolate vision that had always posed to the little girl as a 
face of terror. She had her reasons...
In this dream turned nightmare, the motherless pup always chased after her, crying, 
pining, yet to avail its seek. The nearest this whelp would ever manage to get, was 
to lay in the little girl’s shadow, a taken offering in a desperate attempt to 
suppress the horror that lay ahead. – While still frightened, it would be at this point 
that the pup fell into a self-induced trance, losing itself in a deep blue memory while 
in the vastness of a white world...

...as the little girl opened her eyes, she instantly knew that it had happened again. 
Earlier it was her birthday, the clown had now left, but she knew that it was 
him. “This cannot be right,” the little girl would think. Tears welled up in her eyes, 
yet only an ensuing silence flowed.
White seal pup teardrops same as her own have no tell, only do they vanish, only to 
then reappear...
The little girl closed her eyes again, only this time, - really falling asleep – alone, but 
yet still having to dream...
...Therein, the pup woke up to a horror scene; everywhere in every view, were 
splotches of blood-covered snow. The Harp Seal colony had vanished, leaving only 
the red stained ice that now nearly encircled the white seal. Yet, once again, the 
pup would dive into the ever-receding safe confines of an eight-year old girl’s 
mind ...; miraculously having survived, to yet, – another close remind...that they 
were one and the same!


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Shall we e'er be one like the moon

My love I know not where you be
nor if you love me verily.
I only know you like me now
for the moment, this present time
till we part ways like loving clouds
that drift apart in the wide sky.
Shall we e'er be one like the moon,
our hearts firmly together, our boon?
I hope so, for you are my dreams.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Porn Without Sound

"Porn without sound
Is not nearly as good," 
The girl with the scorpion tattoo 
Turns and says to me.
"Duh," I comment.
"It's as if a part of our 
Brain 
And sex drive 
Are turned off," she tells me.
"Turned off,
Would be 
The right expression," I smirk.
"I wonder," the girl ponders
"If deaf sex 
Doesn't feel as good."
"That's ridiculous," I explain,
"Deaf sex would feel better...
Haven't you ever heard that 
When people lose a sense,
Their other four senses 
Become heightened."
She smiles, "Did you ever
See that pizza commercial?"
"The one with the family, 
Where one guy has a
Big NOSE,
One guy has a
Big MOUTH,
One guy has 
Big EYES,
And one guy has
Big EARS?" I ask.
"Yup," she says, "I love that commercial."
"That commercial speaks volumes about senses," I say.
"How do you mean?" she inquires.
"Well, there is a NOSE, MOUTH, EYES, EARS, but NO FEELING.
There is no part of your body that 
Could be enlarged to emphasize FEELING,
Because you feel with your entire body.
FEELING is a superior sense.
It is better than the other senses.
It is the gateway into intuition and extra-sensory perception."
"Really?" the girl asks.
I can see the outline of the scorpion 
Underneath the hem of her dress.
"Well, that's what I think," I tell her.
"So?" she comments.
"It's also what I FEEL."

By: Joseph DeMarco


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Bride Credentials

Girl you always stand by me you’re always by my side. You’re always more than willing you’re always down to ride. You’re about as good as it gets, you can quote me I mean worldwide. You got excellent credentials the potentials of a bride. I don’t think your human, you’re a masterpiece your art. You got brains you got beauty, you are pretty you are smart. So you deserve the truth but I don’t know where to start. Still with everything you give me she’s the one that owns my heart. I miss her smile I miss her laugh I miss her smell I miss her hair. I want to change this feelings I’ve been trying girl I swear. But I can’t lead you on in God’s eyes that isn’t fair. Cause to you Ill never lie I can’t do it I wont dare. On my knees I apologies if I brought you any pain. It also hurts me to if not more at least the same. I really tried to love you but my attempts all came in vain .And staying with you but loving her that action is inhumane.I always got your back were friends against the fo's. Don't worry about the wound cause trust me is healing slow.I hope someone can give you the love I couldn't show.Cause from the bottom of my heart ,your the only perfect girl I know.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

mit kirschen an den ohren


ich schau dich an und sehe dich 
ich sehe dich kind
sieh es reiften dir 
die kirschen an den Ohren
und meine hände 
kneten noch dein fleisch
memorieren formen
ich sagte es dir
ich sagte es dir so oft
das ich liebe
ich liebe jede wölbung an dir
ich lernte sie auswendig
alle der reihe nach
ich kenne dich
wenn ich dich ansehe
sehe ich dich mit kirschen 
an den ohren
kind…


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Oh my spring girl

Oh my spring girl, who walks in boots
made for the intended winter;
you who picks the first rose, which
bloom with the first month of spring.

Oh my darling spring girl, come in my
deep dreams and come into my weak arms,
as I see you in the flesh come to me in my heart,
with your brow painted with lilacs and roses
in my dreamland where we can be-
safe and sound;
come now my spring girl,
leave your winter boots at my door,
and come with me,
come now my spring girl-

.2.10.2014.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

paper buckles 5 - 6

4.
on this spine 
having a mouth of crocodile
always jump down 
the climate     

everyday 
the sunglass changes 

look at the soil and the sky 
no one of them has any body-guard 

the open mouth of the light 
swallows the grey coin 

here the wall becomes more tamed 
the wild jasmine comes nearer to the heart 
and hums 

then ripping open my veins 
should i also vomit the blue elocution 
accumulated on the cock-pit 

after recovery of the flower-mill from fever
the harmonium is being played on  

even introduction with the gas-balloon 
has not been done yet

5.
arrangements are being made
 
the green shirt will gradually 
turn reddish 

the culverts that have become exhausted 
within the travel-format
will get recharged again to sit up straight 

and the hawker will get passed the silent-home 
shouting with undressed coconuts in hands

from the lap of the stand-still rocking-cradles 
of the children-park 
the amaltas will say 
i’m ready 

then to escape the sun-shine 
the boy who comes to attend the private tuition 
will embrace… oh margosa … its your pierced-heart 

you may tell him that the name of the girl 
who is eating guava and swinging her legs 
sitting on its branch is munni 

6.
the horse is running 
just above 3 feet of the yellow cornice
 
his back is full of dreams 
or a girl named miss dorothy  

around it is the mid-night 
around it is the wind that wants to be printed 

and in every corner of its flying 
are hundreds of skirts
  
all are of free-size 

what may be their market-price 
there is no shop-keeper there

in that valley 
a shadow is proceeding on 

do you know whose shadow it is
he is philip the teacher who gets irritated easily
 
this time there is no thin cane 
in his hand 

in the pieces of papers dumped in the waste-box 
under his window there is a manuscript eaten up by the worms 

there is ‘darling’ there 
and ‘yours beloved greta’ 

in which skirt 
a touch of that greta does remain  

is it being searched even today 

is it greta or margaret or eliza  
there is no bar if it is dorothy
 
in whose smell there is no greta 
who has no such horse flying just above three feet 
of the yellow cornice  

each mid-night fills the fountain pen 
with the flow of blue ink 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Because she still clung to his promises

The girl was legend

All empty eyes & purple painted smiles. Every sweet white inch of her. And everyone knew 
her name

She danced in satin skirts that only moved when she took them off. She was everything 
delicate, everything demure. She was beautiful even when she wasnt

She watched the world with terror filled saucer eyes & the world looked right back with eyes 
that were unmistakably green

It was clear glass, they envied her & she wondered why

She knew they hung up her picture, plastered her to walls&books&frames that made her 
their prisoner. They stared at her when they were alone & forged a kind of intimacy she 
could thrive on

But it was temporary & in the morning she was left to sing her own self to sleep since no one 
cared enough to do it for her

The people that loved her, that glimpsed the real her when she uncovered it, all those people 
left her at the end & she saw what they'd done

They'd led her down the wrong track but they peppered it with glitter & held her just right so 
she was blind to every bit of it

She was the diamond dying in the night, she was the candied rose melting in the morning 
dew. They lured her with promises of love & took her innocence before she even knew it was 
there

She hated them but started to love them almost obsessively. The love hate became another 
prison & she thought she was free because she always got nine seconds of pleasure before 
the sun rose

Back bars catered to her kind & she walked in just to stand there & let their hands go places 
she'd never gone herself. It felt like the past & she convinced herself it was right

One night she walked in, skirt past the legal limit & eyes bright like they used to be. It was a 
shock-making moment, she hadnt looked so sweet in oh so many years & they were afraid 
to touch her

She'd been their girl forever, passed around & used like an old movie that cant be rewound. 
They knew every mark on her body, every scar where they signed her, a kind of "I was 
here" of the human body. They couldnt recognize her. It was the first time she walked out 
alone. Faintly she hoped to be pressed against a wall & killed but it didnt happen

She kept turning around haunted by phantom-feels & ghost-touches. Her body just wanted to 
suffer. It was instinct & who was she to fight it?

Every step was agony. She walked so carefully as though she was afraid of falling in a river 
of her own dark thoughts

But it was hopeless, darkness followed her wherever she went


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Lunar Plateaus

"I would get so high that I couldn’t breathe. My mind is so intent on making others 
comfortable, on guessing where the comfort level is in others, that I, at times, tend to fry up.

This about one of those times. I was sitting by myself, as I am now, and was leaning over to 
grab a strawberry, fresh Manoa strawberries, from the island, and ready for our mouths, 
when it suddenly dawned on me that I could not remember my last content moment.

Preceding the strawberry was a week’s worth of carnage. An emotional tackle box getting 
kicked down the street. And I wasn’t the tackle box. I wasn’t even the guy (or girl [lady for 
that matter]) kicking the tackle box. I was the one watching. I was the one watching the guy 
or girl or lady kicking the emotional tackle box down the street all week. And I wasn’t just 
watching. I was shouting and moving, and kicking and I felt like the tackle box most of the 
time.

In the store with my brother buying groceries swimming along aisles crunched together 
brimming and bending with massive swelling food I get spun up and around again. Running 
and dodging at the great modern bazaar. Here I am tangled in energy with the potential 
torpedo-speed of diverting into any singular focus, cause, emotion, empathy, wonder, or 
pity. So I walk with trembling fingers through the bardos.

Groceries are like an animal that eats you more than you eat it…”

The six eyes glared at each other.  Finally one of the two heads underneath the giant upside-
down light bulb exclaimed: “Then what?”

“The transmission ends.” 

She waves the document she was reading in the dead, extra-terrestrial air.  She loses grip 
with it as the ancient rag falls from her like a frightened dove feather if feathers could 
be frightened.  The other two space-suited light bulb heads chase after it.  The Lady In 
Command walks to the end of the lunar plateau and dreams, ‘What if I was a towel?’


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 | |

likes a girl in trinidad

He likes a girl in Trinidad


He likes a girl in Trinidad
Meet her on maracas beach
Before he came back to New York
Take her number so  she can be reach

He wish if he could skype her
 She won’t let him buy her a computer
He wants to take the relationship
To the next step he’s fallen for her

She won’t accept gift from him
She’s such a decent girl
She said if they married 
Then he can offer her the world

And he wonders what she’s doing
Right now at home
Is she thinking of him
And feeling all alone

 He wonders what she’s wearing
A dress or a skirt
And if she knows he miss her 
So much it hurts

 If He didn’t need his job
 He will be in Trinidad right now
But soon as he get vacation
He coming to Trinidad he vow

She tells her mother in her gallery
Bout a boy in New York
Her mothers said get   your food
And eat while we talk

She said she loves him
And he ask to marry her 
And next time he calls 
She will give an answer

Her mother said 
You have to follows your heart
If two people love each other 
Then nothing should keep them apart

He come form America
The whole street attend
It’s about a hundred 
Invitation was send

Amanda eating an ice cream
Watching from the street
The mother tells her when you finish
Come and sit down and eat

I could not go to the wedding
To busy over here 
But when the couple comes up
Will carry my gift, sit down and have a beer


 


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