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Prose Poetry Grief Poems | Prose Poetry Poems About Grief

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

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A SLave's Cry

Stranded in this place
I cannot recognize
Abandoned and lonely
No one hears my cries
AS i walk through this wasteland
Of wilderness and desolation
I am consumed with anguish
I walk this road with hesitation
On every turn that i come upon
The is more pain than at the last turn
Agony and torment spews from my pores
With every step i take more pain i earn
Until i am enveloped with grief
Buried alive on my feet
Dirt in my eyes,nose,mouth,and lungs
I throw up my flag of defeat
Each painful blow leaves behind a deep gash
That is constantly reopened never able to heal
Infection has now set into my heart
Slashes and scars on my body reveals the detail
Of the despair embedded deep in my soul
That tells a tale of a soul so lost
A soul wandering through this wilderness
A tale of what being born black cost

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To the forgotten soul that have ever lived For their families they have lost, a new nation conceived For their ashes scattered, one blood they bleed Blessed by their stories told and memories grieved Loved for their battles lost and wars achieved Their cowardess disregarded but courage believed Their fears covered by their bravery revealed Their sorrow wept, their lives appealed Whit their bodies torn, one nation they weaved One anthem they sing for lives they screamed In the doom of battles darkness a ray of hope they beamed As our last line of defense this is how they lead Now count the numerous grains of shapeless sand In the war torn widow’s hand, understand her internal misery As every mournful tear they wept is not a locked mystery ‘Cause every jagged grain is a lost memory This simple gesture is a constant ministry That the young blood perishes but the old bones live to tell the tale The more they ask why, the harder the grave fail To cover the brave As they salute, march and wave Not knowing so sorrow they will cave With their blood they will pave And our salvation they'll save Now on our hearts they'll engrave “WITH OUR LIVES WE GAVE” Now we say: “LOVING LIVE THE BRAVE!”

Details | Prose Poetry | |

I wish, Oh I wish

A huge monstrous olive tree not giving shade nor bearing fruits, existing in pains and disappointments together with the others, they live is the exact expression of my grieve. Too hypocritical in being aggressive and defeated by the contraceptive of my try condemn and make me believe I'm failure's chief executive. How am I to know that every attempt completed is success' eve? How am I to know that more failure is effective? How am I to know that I ought to be vigilant and be patient like a detective? faulting the situation, myself I deceive and landing in this mess surely wasn't my motive I should have been more creative instead of staying sensitive to my senses and searching for palliative methods of scoring my goal. I shouldn't have used my cognitive functions this way, perceiving challenges as dangers always attentive to the red light when it is in fact yellow. Running away, when the push seems less attractive and summing up the crash to be definitive. For all these years the agony has been an adhesive to my soul. comparative to a privileged bridegroom who outslept his wedding to an undeserving bride. As descriptive as that, mine is even more corrosive. Now I pay taxes to sadness and my regret more lucrative than ever before as nature chooses my heart to be the dwelling place of sorrow keeping my self-ruin well preserved. I've tried to turn back time I've tried to apply similar energy and pretense is now my best talent but all I get is NOTHING! I'm only left with wishes a million times have I made them and a million times more I'll proclaim them but they will all stand as cup-bearers to my constant regrets. as I forever say........ I wish! Oh I wish!

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written 17th Sept 2013

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, unrepairable
 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...

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Thread of Hope

As all I’d ever termed wondrous bliss unexpectedly died -
As my fantasy of a reality with destruction did collide -
My hopes shattered around me like glass in countless pieces,
Fragments suspended in mocking beauty as time freezes…

The clock hand ticks forward and it all crashes to the floor
My knees hit rock-bottom when I could take no more
All I now see is blackness where once there was color
Gone appears the light from the sun and its fervor…

I begin to walk away from the pond of shattered dreams
But the glass is in my clothes and cutting through my heart, it seems
Perhaps I am too close, the smoke is clouding my full view-
Glance up at the tower, instinctively know what to do…

Run up the steps; one, two,three hundred endless stairs
And I barely catch my breath, or have time to fill lungs with air -
Before the ground beneath my feet crumbles into sand
Loud thunder above me rumbles as I fall back down on land…

And I hit rock-bottom again
Thinking this must be the end
For surely no human can go through this pain
And still see rainbows through the rain…

The whole world seems gray and black tonight
With not a speck of pure, identifiable white in sight
Nothing is untouched, gone is everything -
Then how do I glimpse in that crack a thin white string?

Among the dirt, surely this uncorrupted clean string is not real
But just to verify the hopeless doubts, I reach out a hand to feel
And to my electric surprise, it’s most tangible indeed
I yank it out attached to a note, uncrumple it and read:

“Verily, with every hardship comes ease” [Quran 94:6]

That white thread...
Of hope.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Forever I am You

You believe me to be an altruistic man as I smile with sneering reluctance. 
You may think me gentle as I extend my hand in goodwill, but degraded am I as I wistfully watch my hand recoil from your filthy phalanges with its foul clutch. 
You wave me off poised as I stand here in this field laden with perennial flowers as they stir aloft, but unbeknownst to you I berate you as you retreat afoot and go forth from my company into the night. 
You deliver beautiful words in my image unto your friends, but I carry your name with seething indiscretion into the fire.
You entitle me as a "friend", but I explicitly fornicate your secrets as I spitefully scathe and scoff unto you.
You divulge your mysteries but I deprecate them and take exception to your standing as I plunge you within rueful nether worlds foreboding in treachery and wretchedness...
Why? For I have no pride unto you.
You place your life you into my palm and recite proverbs appealing for my heart unto yours, but guileful am I and in wicked glee do I carry unto the grave your beauty with its secrets. 
You inscribe me as a "fiancée" into forever without recognising the falsifier whose witness bears mistaken. 
You smile as your recite dreams aforementioned in times bygone, but I chastise you, and your children do I condemn into hell for their fondling fledgling and fornicated perversions.  

You call me a "friend", but I am forever you

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Baby brot bringer

Incredible! Where could little girl of her age be going under this cold weather at this hour barefootedly and bareheadedly?What could have sent a poor girl she was to street with just oversized slippers she inherited form her mother, poor enough, jettisoned on this two line express road?These and many more were  concerns that agitated my mind.I therefore chose to spy or should i say monitor her;i wanted to know where she would enter and possibly  who she was,stealthily i followed her.It appeared she knew where she was going,the poor girl walked straight without betraying any sign of  lost of destination.Exactly  twenty minutes now that I had been following her,we had passed many streets:Macualy street, Kingsway  and the popular Lord Lugard Avenue yet she moved on.It was at the junction between Broard street and UAC that she forked right; she looked back,i quickly blocked her view as i hid me behind one abandoned lorry in my front,she did not see me. It took us another ten minutes before she suddenly stopped,in her front now was  the city refuse dump were disused items were deposited; she rolled up her cloth and brought out a  jute sack; she opened the sack and brought out a sickle and moved with a zeal to the hill of garbage. I stood behind a container that was put there long time ago by the Council for refuse collection,it was now overfilled           with refuse and this gave me an advantage to hide behind it without been seen by the girl;needless to say how stinking it was,yet i befriended it,it was the only shield i needed now. For almost an hour she was searching through the hill ,it was not too easy for her; first,it was almost dark now, again, the whole hill had been covered with snow but she was using the sickle to wipe away the white substance anywhere she suspected that what she was looking for was. As she was searching she was picking somethings and dropping them in the sack which  was now  half-full . Again, she bent down but this time she did not pick anything rather she dropped the sickle in her hand and began to look at her sole, within few seconds she started coming down from the hill; what could have happened to her sole? At the base of the hill she sat down and held tightly her sole,now I could see her clearer,drops of blood were flowing down off her heel. I could now longer hide myself,i was moved by the sadness that appeared on her innocent face,poor still, she did not know what to do.
I quickly ran to her,she was shocked to see me but still held tightly  her sole. I did not waste  time on introduction but went straight to ask her what had happened to her sole,she told me a broken bottle had cut her there. I bent down to look at the cut,it was not too deep,but deep enough to  affect the poor girl if something was not quickly done. Luckily  i had a nylon- water on me, i opened it, washed the cut and bound it with a new handkerchief I had earlier bought to use the following day when I would be attending the first church service of the year. It was not a perfect first aid but a non perfect  aid was better than none . Now I asked her who she was and what was she doing where we were. She introduced herself as Lisa, nine years and that she was looking for plastics and other polythene materials that she could sell at recycling factory. I asked why she had to do that  she said she and her grandmother had not even a brot at home and if she did not do this certainly they would be starved.  Wondering why she should be responsible for that i pressed , "what about your parents?" " My mother had been abducted by the terrorists who  killed my father and my two brothers three years ago."  Big air escaped my nostrils as I became rock-still with this unpalatable bombshell. Seconds later I gathered myself,brought Lisa up and told her I would help her back home. She thanked me for the help but insisted that she would not be going home now,she must first go to the factory to exchange her stock for money. " it is too late Lisa, i don't think any factory will still be opened by now,besides you now have a cut on your sole", i explained. "The pay master in the factory had promised to wait for me till 10pm, i already had stock with him ,i just needed to add some weight to reach the required purchase-level,i must not fail on my terms lest he loses the confidence that for more than two years now,he has in me ; besides, grandma", she paused as if she remembered a thing, " tomorrow is new year, i have promised her good meal tomorrow" ; her voice cracked as if she wanted to cry,emotion envloped me as the word grandama reverbrated in my ears; my mind wandered about : poor girl,wretched old woman; how many millions of Lisa and her grandma were out there for the stupidity of some? My eyes became red and urge filled my mind,the zeal to confront terrorism,the joy of Christmas and new year in me evaporated; what was merriment of Christmas with millions of Lisa there? What was happiness of new year with millions of her grandma in our World?

Details | Prose Poetry | |

A silent song

I waved a silent song
past its strongest heights
For a sating revision
of a shy sound to ignite
Asks for melodic tense,
for its sequence of time 
heaves a better song
and lights up a star-deprived 
regardless of time,
to sign a sympathetic course 
for us in bloodless keys… 
and for the lost keys 
to toe
the empty line
and reside 
in our unkempt places 

Yet reluctantly,
in defeat,
invokes a right
to fill its 
self-declared silence 
with lasting doubt
And braises a cold heartfelt petal
of pain 
To open and fit
a rising reduction of triumph
in different keys

But till then
My best bequeaths to each
of us a silent song
Our second tries aim
a daunting recourse to pasts below
We signed off
in single file
In endless cells, 
walled in our own unforgiving pasts
As they
echo beneath
a soldered 
and silent core of song
While we wait
for the sympathy of 
a melodic distance..
that heaves 
and leaves 
a silent song to die
a second time

Details | Prose Poetry | |


When ever I see the butterflies flying
I am reminded of your smiling face,
As I see them taking wing into the sky
I feel emotions which are never displaced

For deep in my heart also live the butterflies
As they come to life within my heart each day
While I count the many sweet memories of you
Which in my thoughts and dreams now stay

The sheer brilliance of their many vibrant colors
Produce a vivid rainbow deep within my mind
Which fills my heart with such an unwavering joy
Allowing me to enjoy them for endless times

And the butterflies will be my dearest treasure
Leaving me never again quite feeling the same
For the peace they bring can never be measured
As on their wings are gently imprinted your name.

Wendell A. Brown, 

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Feelings Flooding

I guess I don't write how other people do. I don't post pictures of myself and update on how my life is going... I don't have an audience for that. Honestly, I write whatever comes to my mind because it gives the illusion that I'm telling people how I feel. I'm never good at that. I have so many opportunities, but its always the same thing that gets me. How much do they really want to know? When they ask if I am okay, do they want an answer, or is it because it's common courtesy.. I don't get myself, so how am I supposed to get other people? A teacher told me today, after assigning an essay, "It's easy, it's all about you!" ...... How little she knows that I can't write about me. When people say, "Tell me about yourself," the initial reaction I have is always the same. I say that I love writing and reading, and that I love kids and want to be an elementary school teacher. That's it. I'm done then. When I write, my thoughts are incomplete, and I don't write for any other reason than to satisfy all these raging thoughts that will not leave me alone. It's worse at night. Lying awake while the house is silent, all except for the air conditioning that makes a whistle and my ceiling fan on high that clicks because the high setting makes it shake. I count shadows that the trees cast through my window, but it can't push away the onslaught of emotions and wave of loneliness. I have tried many things: music, scriptures, novels, conference talks, silence, writing.. but nothing compares to the feeling I used to get when I would lay on my roof in Maryland and look up at the stars. I felt closer to Heaven somehow, and yet at that time in my life I knew I was very far from it. I'm not there and I won't ever be again, but the loneliness remains. Some people can make me laugh and smile no matter how horrible I feel. It's ironic that I feel alone when I have a best friend like Emma to cheer me every day, but I do. I'm glad I always have people around me during the day. There, I said it. I like people. But I hate them too. I like being alone, but during insomnia periods, awake voices are so very welcome. Sometimes I wish I could tell people things again, but my trust is gone. I cannot lean on others, no matter how alone and lost I feel.

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Arabic Poem by: Abdulsadah Al-Basri
Translated into English by:
Inaam Al-Hashimi (Gold_N_Silk)
  In the book of our lives, 
  The trains wrote their eternal epic
  And kept taking our names 
  Embroidering stories and tales around them
  Train for travelers 
  Trains of goods 
  Trains for the wounded 
  Trains for soldiers going to war 
  Trains of death 
  Trains for convicts 
  Trains of prisoners of war
  Trains for water 
  Trains for inspecting stations 
  Trains for lighting
  Trains faster than life 
  Trains ... 
  Trains ... 
  Trains .... 
 And the trains are telling the story of a dream 
  Perhaps in the memory .

  the poem was written in 1999 and published in yr. 2000 in the poet’s second collection titled   ??????  (Topography) .
 Translated into English by: Em. Prof. Inaam Al-Hashimi
 * Abdulsadah Al-Basri is a poet from Iraq

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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 for part 2.."gator bait..the dream "

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I Hope You Know I'll Always Love You

I am what you call a hopeless 
But im also a lost lovers cause, my 
heart belongs to another
Yet in my head a love triangle starts 
to form, the girl I love doesn’t love 
She holds the heart to another and 
mine caged to the floor,
She isn’t afraid to fight for what she 
wants, not even when it comes to 
leaving another man torn
Trust me she’s happy, as that boy 
holds her heart ever so close
Seeing what I shouldn’t I smile as I 
wear my blind fold,
Blind to everything around, lifeless 
staring into air
My train of thought running so fast, 
the second I stop you’ll hear a crash
Derailing my hope, for ever finding a 
love so pure & rare
Wishing I could hold the hand of the 
lover who stole my flame,
Wish I could change the last days in 
which we parted ways,
Realizing now that we can never be 
the same
Finally saying it out loud as tears run 
down my face
You stole my happiness, as I walked 
away that day
But it’s because as of what you said 
I guessed I changed,
Now every relationship has just be 
the same,
No one can seem to bring back that 
Because a love likes ours comes 
once in a lifetime
Well at least it does to me,
But I mean you’re happy with who 
your with 
I mean I only wrote this as I heard 
exchanging “I love you” flow from 
each of your lips.

Details | Prose Poetry | |


For we perceive beyond the rainbow,
Beyond the shadow of gravity holding ISS.
Caught not in a void
But like bees wading in their own honey,
Pollinating space with thoughts …

Our tent did blow from on high
Exposing this nakedness.
They, uncomprehending,
A soul did incarcerate; 
Feeding barest morsels shared with rats;
Though famished eyed her fleeting skirt.
So did she infiltrate his racked dreams?
Spittle healing cuts; kisses soothing bruises,
Milk nourishing hunger … 
Tears washing away grimy sorrow.

Such comfort in the bounds of direst misery …

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Why So Sad

Why So Sad?

Why do you look lonely, 
Bereft and so, so sad?
Has someone been quite nasty? 
Have you been really bad?

What lies beyond your haunted eyes,
Your melancholy stare?
Do you want to tell me what it is?
Do you want to take me there?

Your doleful gaze cements your face,
Your shoulders hanging low.
Do you want to tell me what it is?
Or would you prefer that I go?

I stand transfixed, absorbing your pain,
My breath is quick and light.
Do you want to tell me what it is?
What causes your terrible plight?

What demons grasp your very soul?
Why do they steal your smile?
Do you want to tell me what it is?
This cruel and evil bile.

Can you see through your vacant gaze?
Do you know that I am here?
Do you want to tell me what it is?
And explain what monsters are near?

What has sucked the life from you?
Who have you become?
Do you want to tell me what it is?
What nefarious deed has been done?

Details | Prose Poetry | |


An innocent soul appeared to them as someone who interfered,
But helping and caring were the only things that it ever volunteered.
It stood and gave them unconditional support,
Unbiased and happy , it was comport.
Instead of cherishing the good times ,
for them it suddenly turned into a tort.
Days passed and 
Then, came the moment of truth, 
They didn't care about the soul ,
And busted their cruelty upon it which was so bold.
Saying it was merely a delusion of being nice.
They decided to walk out  leaving it behind, 
Withered and bleeding with cries of its lost pride.
It was like getting unnecessary punishment for giving their silent lives , a 
What could it do now ?
Isolate , kill itself or remain undisputed.
That day was when  humanity lost.
That was the day when the limits were crossed. 
It's hard to find people who live for others,
But in today's world who bothers.
They still sort for crowds of disguised happiness.
Purity of soul and love are now obsolete.
Because in this world no one is absolute.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Life is a Healing Journey

The heart above all things, most fragile,
     bears all things.
So easily wounded when past scars beckon;
Unhealed, unreckoned.
Reminding me;
     of life’s journey past,
     awaiting to be healed,
     forgiveness to be sealed.

Forgiveness must allow
     the healing that I wish.
For the heart above all things, most fragile;
     bears all things where love abides,
     when healing does reside.

Today, an opportunity not to miss
     the healing that I wish.
So, ABBA, forgiveness I release
     so healing will replace,
     and love most precious will abide
     when forgiveness does reside.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Last Vacation

The sun seemed to last forever
As we walked hand in hand
My dad and I together
Our feet sinking in the sand

His smile was so bright
As he looked at me
What a beautiful sight
Of the ocean we could see

The South Carolina sun rays
Beat down on our tanned skin
Like we would feel it always
Like the happiness we felt within

The waves crashed on the shore
Grazing our bare feet
Our footprints not seen anymore
As the cool water washed away the heat

We made it to the house we rented
The beach was right behind
The morning always ocean scented
Sunset and sunrise will always stick in my mind

The week was full of relaxation
And sightseeing all around
I’ll never forget that last vacation
Your laughter was a constant sound

I wish we would’ve traveled there 
At least one more time before it was too late
For life has many tragedies so unfair
And you can not dodge your fate

I will always watch the videos you took
Close my eyes as they fill with tears from the memories
For you will never again be able to look
Or feel that glorious ocean breeze

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Martyr Girl

The Martyr Girl
Arabic Poem by: Jasem Al-Khafaji*
Translated into English by:
Inaam Al-Hashimi (Gold_N_Silk)

In your absence,
Dreariness, in every class, 
Has been the prayer of the break..
Every teacher calls your name,  
His voice falls slaughtered, in pain, on his lips..
In every standing and every sitting, 
Your class condoles with your desk..
Without you there, the schoolyard feels empty 
The bell sounds strangled as it tolls for you..
Oh, grief of all schools!
Oh, weariness of all lessons!
Too young to be gone..
Your mother wished to see you a bride..
Vacant was your stand in the lines and rows
For the flag ceremony
And, silently, 
The flag was raised..
The blackboard is missing your words
Saddened with no words to spell
“Dar” … “Door” 
Oh, grief! 
When your braid caught fire,
The kids tried to put it off with your bookcase
Their hands were too small to carry water..
May God help your mother.. 
Your mother, who, in her grief, turned white, 
Like daylight upon your coffin
Your mother, who, with slaps of grief,
Drew skipping squares on her cheeks
Your mother, who raised your hand in prayer to God
Your mother, who used to come to get you,
 At the end of the school day
Your mother, who, not even once,
Received a teacher’s note complaining about you
Your mother, who is wrapping ribbons
Around your pictures 
In madness after you
God help your mother, who, in her grief, 
 Turned white like daylight upon your coffin..

O God, May all bombs be paralyzed,
And all blasts be blinded!
* Jasem Al-Khafaji is a poet from Iraq,
The poem is in Iraqi folks spoken dialect 

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Trees of a Dreary Autumn

Trees of a Dreary Autumn 
Arabic poem by: Saad Yassin Yousuf*
Translated into English by:
Inaam Al-Hashimi (Gold_N_Silk)

At a light
Said to be "dawn" We got to the shoulder of the Sea book;
Our wrecked boats were floating 
As wood stained by bloody waves,
Heads of children slaughtered
By the voracity of a false 
Prophet, Eyes yearning farther than the kingdom of light,
Wooden pencils robbed of their sun color,
Withered flowers,
Pictures of palm trees, standing
Drunk on the cliff, waving to other banks,
Butterflies that lost their color of light, 
Remains of time, 
Cut-off- ears and marks of defeat.
A beach shoulder crying over the nests of its seagulls 
Mumbled:" A cheap spring 
Is what the miracle doves 
Have paid their throats a price for its singing!!! “
I loosened the ties for my steps,
But I stood as if pinned to the ground;
I tossed away the moment, in which I bereaved my sea,
And went on flirting with
The fuzz of my dreariness.
The couriers of death, 
Still in haze black jackets, 
Raised a mast stained with clay mixed in
Oil of desires; 
It’s a spring chocked with the blood of flowers, 
Smoke of the lost horizon, 
Pirates and autumn
Branded with palms 
Stained by the blood of a grassy dream
Beneath a cloud of straw
And ashes......
The sap rising in it stopped to green and give colors 
To the branches of dreariness.
Oh! How reckoning troubled us
With all that comes with it;
The jars in its coffers
Are full of
Forgotten pains, 
Fear of the moment, 
Broken wings, 
Songs shattered in the voice 
Of reed pipes trying to play it, 
And days of spring
That turned into
Trees of a dreary autumn.
 Translation by: 
Em. Prof. Inaam Al-Hashimi (Gold_N_Silk)
 March 6, 2013
 * Saad Yassin Yousuf is a poet from Iraq
Link t0 the original poem In Arabic :

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Discarded grief

Look at this leaf.

Where did it come from?

Stuck in a mud, like a

discarded grief from a weeping willow.

I like its shape.

Follows my hand. Pair it

in two and you can make a glove

or a puppet doll that says “I love you!”

It’s full of wavy hurdles,

a caterpillar’s slalom track.

Can be frozen, curled or wet,

wears all season’s colors like a traffic light.

Enjoys to float, especially in waters of Hoogvliet

rushes to meet other leaves,

while gives a ride to marsh fleas.

Once it went disguised,

I couldn't recognize it.

Dressed in the lost feathers of

floating white hearts and undived “quack, quack”

pretends to be a Sioux Holy Man.

It may come in different sounds too.

Like a bandmaster, it orchestrates winter winds in dramatic


Or, when a thickening fog occupies city parks

still dark and tainted from night,

you hear a crunchy, cranky sound as it get’s

crushed under lover’s heels or

sporadic brave joggers,

in short sleeves.

Dissipated in the air

it’ll wait for its turn,

to blossom proudly again and stare

how spring Sun in the west burns.

Hey little leaf

you would like to crawl into my pocket

like a sneaky thief?

I’m lonely too,

keep me company

in my autumn view.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Fire and the Warrior

Out of the fire,
Life grows.
The flames burn strong, 
And sear my soul.
My heart grows faint,
The pain,
The intolerable pain,

Yea, though I walk through the valley
Of the shadow of death,
I will fear no evil;
I will fear no evil in the flames,
To cleanse my soul;
To release the Light
In the dark night
of my soul.

In the fire,
Love brings forth life
Out of pain;
Darkness exposed;
Evil released;
My heart cleansed
Set free;
Life grows.

Shall I endure
For lessons to be learned
And freedom to obtain?
Shall I wait upon the Lord
To be set free?
Will I persevere?

The Warrior rises up;
To fight;
To endure;
For victory is sought.
Out of fire
New life grows.

The journey long
And narrow is the way.
The day becomes night
My heart weary
Loses might;
Becoming faint;

The Warrior,
Champion of my soul
Rises up,
To fight,
To endure;
To persevere;
For victory to claim.
Out of the fire
New life grows
Giving rise to hope.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

For Jamie

My cigarette was nearly out, 
and I exhaled smoke that whispered 
death in my ears. I had an itch.
 It called my hand toward my forearm, 
and I let a finger run across it’s inside.
 I could see the blood flow out of his flesh,
 tears soaked his skin, 
and it rained in my mind. 
I miss him so much, my brother of rage.
 He was a whirlwind, a torrent of a man 
that blew across this world like a storm. 
Now the only lightning he can offer are 
strikes of memories of people that loved him, 
I am one of them. 
When people saw that burly viking like creature,
 they gaped in fearful judgment. 
I pity them, he was a book with a heavy cover,
 with pages of loyalty and adventure inside.
 A true friend, 
it burns to think of the afflictions he kept
 within that made such a strong soul give in. 
I take one more breath of smoke, 
and throw the butt of that fading fire 
toward the sky and let it die. 

” I miss you.”

-James Kelley 2013, All rights reserved.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Beneath the Water Drowning

I guess we'll never know
if you found peace
or if the answers came
to you somehow

In the turmoil
of your life' passion
you encountered confusing contradictions
when you needed compassion

Your struggle against the flow
estranged you
to your loved ones 
you thought your
husband was a foe

I'd like to know
what you were thinking
what drove you to the point
of jumping in
after a bout of heavy drinking 

The creative gene you possessed
is in me now and I thank you
for allowing me to have it 
my dream is that in
the afterlife I'll see you

Until then I guess
we'll never know
if beneath the waters
you found what you
were looking for.

Details | Prose Poetry | |


Broken, scared and left alone,
The chaos that still resides
Chills me to the bone.

My soul is empty
As my heart cries 
You left so soon
Without even a goodbye.

Empty and hollow,
Two things you should never feel.
Yet here I stand to attest
These feelings are all too real.

Time is said to heal.
But time is not on my side
For with each passing year
Another part of me dies.

So until I see you again
And can feel your loving embrace
I will remain an empty shell
Wearing this mask of a smile to hide
The tears I cannot erase.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Harlan's Holler

~ Harlan’s Holler ~
Dean Kuch ©2014
The locals say, in the light of day one can visit Harlan’s Holler, stay on the path don't incite the wrath of the man who lost his daughter. The townsfolk say, to this very day, you can hear poor Charlotte cryin.' Beneath silv'ry moon, where young lovers swoon, as she lay there, slowly dyin'... In the August heat, with tiny unshod feet, Charlotte ventured into the Holler. She soon lost her way when the light of day Gave way to midnights squalor. Ripe berries sweet for her mom to eat she'd gone there for the pickin', her bucket now full, twirling locks a' crull, the creeping darkness began to thicken. She wandered for days, to the towns dismay, poor little Charlotte could not be found. Old man Harlan yelled; damned them all to hell— then placed a curse upon the ground. No crops will grow on the ground you sow, all your livestock will surely die, you'll toil endlessly, in the end, you'll be just the same as my Charlotte lie. You'll burn in hell, you'll see, in the end, you'll be just the same as my Charlotte lie... The days dragged on under the summer sun as the child withered to dust. Fred Harlan died, Bible at his side, felled by his curse and vengeful lust. Down on Harlan's Hill you can hear them still, mournful sobs by Pa and daughter, when the moon's just right, in the dead of night, stay away from Harlan's Holler. Lest you tarry there— 'neath the moon, beware, of the curse of Harlan's Holler...

Details | Prose Poetry | |


Such an ideal is the syndication of cynicism.
For in this indictment of others, they can do anything,
but they cannot escape the uncaring.
Such an ideal is sagaciously inept at showing.
For they walk throughout every day with the sun blinding,
but they cannot escape the heat bearing down on them.
Such an ideal is unmerited complacency.
For in this daily life, they have the cognizance,
but they can’t really understand the tumultuous sentiments.
Such an ideal is an amaranthine of disparateness.
For they feel nothing that they feel,
but can they care when simplicity’s complexity turns dialectical?

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Thief thy name is human

I met a hand with eyes but no vision
He touched me but only to fill his hunger
And I with a heart floated with anger
I wish I were a human 
But not of this hand
I just asked one day but only within

The muscular hand was no less than a muddle head
In life it was panting for death
And I In death panting for the former
He knew he could free me
But his knowledge is destined ignorance
Alas! His heart pumps only blood, no care.
To my one day

I croaked to his deaf ears for years 
But for one day
Neither a day is left nor a drop of hope 
My heart pounced on request 
And his on the lust to have me
I swam in his desire not in his concern
To my one day

I croak now to the world
Enchained in all this ego
Is there a hero out to rescue me
Oh I know the world is all a dark mirror of life
I know this just in one day 
That my day has come

Details | Prose Poetry | |



I wish it never happened;
But it did.

The gentle sighs; the warm smiles;
The soft touches; the spoken words:

All setting our minds at ease
And putting nervousness and fears
To rest; then we parted.

With our going, a void presented its self;
Heart, mind and soul experienced a brevity
Of discontent.

Yes we parted.
I wished it never happened;
But it did.

Now awakened thoughts
Generate ecstatic memories;

Ecstatic memories that slowly fade away
Like autumn leaves blowing in the winds,
Drifting on the wings of time:
I miss you dear friend; I miss you.

I wish it never happened;
But it did.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Positions: Part Three

Positions: Part Three
Arabic Poem by: Bushra Al-Bustani
Translated into English by:
Inaam Al-Hashimi (Gold_N_Silk)

The Position of Grief

Was the sky blue in any day?
 I have never seen it clear! 
 Sine the time of the Mongols to the Amiriya** day
And from the Amiriya day to the muddy days of the plot.

The two rivers are pouring from your fingertips, and I am thirsty
 There or here
 There is no difference 
 Since the globe is a ball for the blind to play with
 Forgetting that Earth is the inheritance willed to us
 The night is dark, as the stars have fallen in my blood.  
Since you departed, 
Moaning of the words has been obscuring the light from my paper
And digging a cave for my pleasure in the trunks of trees
Since you departed, 
The night has turned into a silent old man
Falling asleep on his cane
And I am withering as a wish did not come true 
As I court the tears of my waiting. 

Since you departed, 
Your voice has become an aching child in my blood, 
A burning flute
And a never drying tear drop in my wound.
Since you departed, 
My coffee cup has been extinguished
And two seats have fallen of the terraces of the stars.

Since you departed, 
The water turned yellow
And the fingertips of words have been dry.
In the last watch of sadness, I hear your footsteps
And see shadows walk away

The tavern keeper Sidori said:
“Pamper the boy who holds your hand!”
I replied:
“But they kidnapped the boy
Taking his hand away from mine...
A history of colors was sparkling in his eyes
And writing canceling writing
Amidst the ordeal whispers were faltering
But they may not dig graves for his heart and mine
As long as there are veins for water in the sand of my soul
And lamps that refuse extinction in the erased script.”  

Translated by: Em. Prof. Inaam Al-Hashimi
*Bushara Al-Bustani is a poet from Iraq
** Al_Amiriyah refers to a shelter used by civilians during the Iraq-Iran war in the Amiriyah neighberhood in Baghdad.  It was bombed by the USA Airfirce  with two lazer-guided "Smart Bombs" on February 1, 1991 where more than four hundred civilians mostly women and children were killed and a thousand were injured.

Details | Prose Poetry | |


Back to the days of the first encounters,
Back to the pictures with the zoom effects in full.
Back to first names hanging from those innocent lips.
Back when the earth was singing with the fool moon.

With each glances under the whispers of hearts.
With each letters of innocent beliefs like the dawn.
With each stroke of dreams under the stars of the Milky Way.
With all the blessings of the purest hearts around, from down memory lane.

We promised to keep the track clean 
Like the heaven installed in the heart.
Keeping the flame inflamed in humility.
Even everything becomes dark.

But when everything was waiting for our touch.
The sky to color in blue.
Water to overcome the thirst.
Breeze to fly with oxygen.

Light to overpower the dark.
Dawn to nurse the night.
Peace to settle the wars.
Truth to start the fight.

Words were fallen from the hope.
Promises died out of doubts.
Dreams were shadowed by experiences,
For wisdom prevails at last.

No more sentences for dreams.
No more words to count.
No more promises to keep, 
Between you and me. 

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Positions: Part Two

Positions: Part Two
Arabic Poem by: Bushra Al-Bustani
Translated into English by:
Inaam Al-Hashimi (Gold_N_Silk)

The Position of Love

Your love is the twin of clear water
It sprays aromatic mist on the wing of an angel
Staying up all night to guard our two moons. 

All my bare-foot poems
Play in the terrace of your heart.

If you were not at the door,
All these roses on the terrace 
Would not be smiling.

If it were not for my hand in your 
The curtains would not be trembling in fever.

Your love is a tear drop
I defeat once,
But it defeats me times and times.

Your fingers are smart and intensely glowing 
Their wandering in the mazes tempts me.

Your presence in the pulse of my words
Teaches them how to dance in far away courts.

The violet is sad
With open arms, it waits for you. 

Your love 
Is the only sin 
That refused to disown me,
Therefore, I dwelled in it.

In your arms, my safety lies
I wake it up whenever my pains waken.

Your love
Is the arbor that I have not reached yet.

Your love
Is the bias I refuse to free myself from 
And am not afraid of getting lost in it. 

Your love is the privation
The springs of which I seek to quench my thirst
I am she who is haunted by the bliss of ecstasy
Always leaving and heading to places you do not know,
As the routes of longing take me to the warmth,
I wonder, like a yearning garden,
Are you with me?
And without waiting, the sky pours down gifts,
Glimmers on top of each other,
And my garden unfolds lilies and anemone. 
So I ask my god,
How could fire produce lilies, nightingales and butterflies?
Why does the universe dither
Like your waves that stumble on my stupor?
In the stupor, I no longer fear you.
I discovered that the eternal light is your fire,
My paradise without you is a mirage and a chunk of the night
So, I choose eternity
Since it is the start line for two forearms 
Committing the act of shy shells  
And these forearms are yours.
So, teach me,
Teach me a game of more suffering
As our skins, germinate nothing but torment.
Teach me a game, in which you are the only winner,
So that I have the sense of victory with you.

(Part Three: The Position of Grief follows)
Translated  from Arabic by: Em. Prof. Inaam Al-Hashimi
*Bushara Al-Bustani is a poet from Iraq

Details | Prose Poetry | |

I lost my Way

                                                  I lost my Way

                                        I lost my way through life,
                                        Because I refuse to bend with sacrafice.
                                        Left in a world of doom's pleasure,
                                        I missed the mark of goodly measure.

                                        With bad decisions and a rebellious pride,
                                        I dangerously lived on the other side.
                                        Causing my ruin and depliting good,
                                        From lifes golden hand I was misunderstood.

                                        Now I am living a life of sad lies,
                                        Knowing that I've caused my own demise.
                                        Still their is a place I must see,
                                        That my decisions are a real reality..

Details | Prose Poetry | |


Faith walks with Sorrow and Suffering.
It’s Light buffering 
their weight,
too heavy to abate.

Why journey with these companions so unpleasant?
What purpose to achieve?
What must I leave

Faith walks with Sorrow and Suffering
To transform
All that does not conform
     to Love.

Faith allows my choices to be made.
Will I trust?
Will my heart not fade?

Faith beckons my blind eye to see
Far beyond me,
If I will but trust
And hold tight to Love.
It’s magic to behold;
Worth more than gold.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Far Beyond

                                                           Far Beyond

                                       Far beyond the stars and morning dew,
                                       Their are things know man will ever do,
                                       Even as the morning does settle,
                                       There is that invisable tone of battle.

                                       A battle that makes love see God,
                                       And those many whimicials that seems odd.
                                       That oddness that makes love feel,
                                       That most important part that heals.

                                       For if love had a soul to hide,
                                       It would surely make sadness my pride.
                                       That pride far beyond sadness that seems stalled
                                       For sometimes sadness makes a man fall.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Journey Through the Valley

Yea, though I walk through the valley
Of the shadow of death,
No evil will I fear;
For You, ABBA, 
     are here
     with me in this fire
where freedom may be sought
if these flames I will embrace
     with grace.

I feel the pain of grief;
     the desperation of control.
Despair clings tight
Choking delight;
But faith holds deep within my heart,
Its desire unyielding –
	the grip of control to depart,
        my fear to release,
        and find Your peace.

Yet, in the fire,
A thorn plunged deep within my heart-
A seed.

This seed of faith grows
As Love burns away the fear,
	Purged from my soul;
grief washed away by tears.

ABBA teaches me
In the valley of flames 
If my eyes will see

Will I be broken bread
       and poured out wine
       while abiding in the vine?

Yea, though I walk through the valley,
Life springs forth from death 
In the ashes;
If I yield control;
If these flames I will embrace
	with grace;
        to cleanse my soul 
        and let Love grow.

Details | Prose Poetry | |


mabe poor
going door to door
trying to get food
wasn't cool
they won't a better dance
help them prance


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Dear Gram

I've known you all the
years of my life.
It seems like only 
yesterday that you
were drawing pictures with
that tiny grin of yours,
showing your grandchildren
the "true" meaning of fun!

No matter what, you
will always be my
beloved grandmother.
And above all, you made me
see that strength is an
important, yet necessary
facet of life.

I know that you
would not want me to grieve,
but your absence has created 
in me a VOID---

And remember, as you're 
smiling down from heaven
with tears welling up in your
beautiful, glossy eyes---

Through the storms and rain of life,
a rainbow doesn't come
around that often!

I love you and you are greatly missed!

Love Always, Julie

c2013 Julie Rasley

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Sad Heart

Poet:  Ken Jordan
Poem:  Sad Heart 
Edited by:  Sparkle Jordan
written:  November/2014

on my


rain -

Details | Prose Poetry | |


it was a pain
standing in the rain
it was on a corner
i was aloner
waiting for hours
in the shower
i felt like bad dust
on the take
i was a

Details | Prose Poetry | |


we hearyour voice
you were our choice
your gone
your sprit lives on
you had a tone
that will gon on and on
your picture on the wall
with a love fist

Details | Prose Poetry | |



The long hot summer has disappeared over the horizon,
Yielding to the arrival of the cooling Fall.
Despite their approaching fate---the annual leaves’ excision,
the tower trees proudly stand firm and tall.

The steamy sticky sweaty nights have all gone
giving way to the cool ebony breeze;
horny crickets and frogs no longer sing their eerie mating song;
squirrels organize their cupboards in the hollows of the trees;
and mushrooms grow on the graves of the Fall’s fallen leaves.

In the early evens’ mist, sun of change ushered in the close of day
leaving flickering shadows hovering over time’s footprints.
Birds---angels of the sky, have spread their wings and flown away;
leaving behind empty nests to catch the winter’s coming events.

Strange, how nature’s circadian rhythms bring about change;
but in the winter season of humanity, so much remain the same.
Even in the winter cold, sable blood flows from the rape of justice:
No matter the season, the blind goddess remains a scheming mistress.

Details | Prose Poetry | |


do you shot or toot
or you a game foo
do it drive you sane

Details | Prose Poetry | |


think him for anuthe day
think him everyway
for all good deeds
and covering your needs
say lord
make my enmeny pay

Details | Prose Poetry | |



In chilled onyx morning 
Silicon tears flowed
Down the plowed valleys
Of ebony skin.

Silicon tears
Leaking from sunken craters:
Red orbs bleeding residues of pain.

In the cold guttered streets
A father’s son lays dead:
A lifeless body riveted with lead.

Another father must now defend
The cardinal sin
Of a living son
Who fired the fatal gun.

Details | Prose Poetry | |


as you walk
ot talk 
or move around
from city or town
watch what you say
as you go this way
kept a tight lips

Details | Prose Poetry | |



There is nothing left here
for death to claim; even hunger
has abandoned the swollen bellies
and parched skin of the walking dead:
eyes of gigantic pupils sunken deep
into desiccated cranial caverns.

In this fenced graveyard of waning life, flies
soar to and fro---depositing metaphoric maggots
in the midst of the festering wounds of despair.

In this God forsaken place, the flame of hope
grows dimmer with the wrinkling nipples of the breast
of time---her hourglass---haltingly emptying its self:

There is no refuge here
for the refugee.

Details | Prose Poetry | |



I cannot cry for the children
of others---
the deaths of my own have drained dry
the wells of my eyes---
red orbs sunken deep in dark caverns
of growing grief
echoing wailing cries 
of the ghosts of my womb:
wailing cries
falling on lifeless auricles
flaccid to vibrations of ebony pleads
of mothers whose babes
die daily deaths
of sable genocide---
blood dripping down fingers
of sons who would rape 
their mothers and pimp their sisters.