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Prose Poetry Health Poems | Prose Poetry Poems About Health

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

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Details | Prose Poetry | |

Pink Vulnerability

I continue to feel
the searing pain. 
ever constant.
so keen.
Not the kind
    that heals fast,
      open wound that closes.
But, the kind that stays vulnerably
       with the passing years.
Three decades 
        and still counting.

Woe to this pain!
With laden anguish, 
The heart's bemoaning.
Thinking it was born
     without a name.
Only to find then
     at a much later time;
giving in.
Oblivious now.
    that my bosom groans,

Copyright © Wendy Meyer | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Sweet River Man

Let's wait for the sunset one summer's day
down by the river where I always liked to play
we can kick off our shoes and bury our feet in the sand
come on please be my sweet river man
We can call the wild geese up with a little dab of feed
or jump in the water a little too deep
in that old Red River we can laugh and sing
take me by the hand, make that leap

Write our names in a heart in the sand
you can be my sweet river man
and I'll be your sweet lady river friend
we can hold on for life and scare the catfish twice
anything’s possible that time of day
my white sundress is a little bit dirty
from that red water that always stays so murky

I wouldn't want to be any other place
than down by the river where I always liked to play
and when the moon comes out tonight
and the stars shine bright
your sweet river lady
is going to sing to her sweet river man under the moonlight

watch those stars shooting in the dark as you hold me tight
until we see the sun start to rise
yeah down on the river where I always liked to play
nothing’s changed much since I was just a babe
but now I share with my sweet river man, my favorite place to play

Copyright © Danielle Wise Baxter | Year Posted 2012

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Still Around

I had cancer a while back 
and  at last year's  Thanksgiving I threw a football and I 
could barely send it a couple of feet
After a tasty Thanksgiving feast 
this year I picked up a mini football
and played catch for about 45 minutes
And man, did that feel good!

Copyright © Matthew Anish | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Slow Down the Clock

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

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

Copyright © Howard Dion | Year Posted 2014

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 she smoked her cigar...


Copyright © kj force | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry | |

What Next

The height of science and the width of commerce in my dwelling place they merge with the ambassadors of understanding giving me their pledge. Capturing the seat of the wise and sitting over it, covering its edge as I wear the garment of knowledge. So what's next? My hands are filled with gold My pockets, heavy with silver these make me the Diamond myths and the greatest team player to financial strength. I've been owned and followed and my shadow, replaced with good health as I'm possessed and romanced by wealth. So what's next? Occurrences and happenings, I'm the doer Planting the seed of what's to happen next, like a sower with all authorities and rulership placed lower is the extent of my unbelievable power. so what's next? Acquiring all possible knowledge accumulating unbelievable possessions and becoming the greatest principality the world has ever known without positively touching a life and making a soul smile is going through a clothing store naked and coming out naked with everything in the world just strings. So what's next? DEATH! Leaving behind all the attachments as they drop in command of hades vanity upon vanity; all is vanity.

Copyright © Funom Makama | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Healing Touch

There is a certain healing touch
     in ocean waves, the powerful progression of unending undulations, white caps           crashing with determination, dancing with destiny.

There is a certain healing touch
     as the salty strike of ocean air sends serenity and touches all my senses.

There is a certain healing touch
     when the cooling spray from of sea water washes with its’ wetness and soothes           my heated soul.

There is a certain healing touch
     in the silencing and slowing of footsteps as they try to run in sand.

There is a certain healing touch
     in being moved by innocence of children and the sandcastles they command.

Sitting near the surf, I watch the roll of ocean waves, soak up the strike of salty air, am washed by cooling waters, listen for the sound of footsteps in the sand, and am moved by the innocence of children in their play.

{em>PS contest: "Impress me with a small poem"   Nature  © Sue k Green

I feel healing from all five fingers of their touch.

Copyright © Sue k Green | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Elimination of Stress and Strife in My Life

Broke the Rules...
Left some clues...
I'm a fool...
Living in a cesspool...

I hear the economy is bad...
And getting worse each day...
Although it hasn't affected me in any way..
I can even keep kosher if I choose.
So what do I have to lose ?...
I get three meals a day..
And sometimes a snack...
Clean clothes everyday I put on my back..
Exercise is a daily routine..
that I choose to do ..and it keeps me lean..
My quarters are small..but after all..
We have a room with a big color TV...
And a place for family and friends who visit me...
Healthcare ? not a problem you see..
As I don't pay for insurance like thee...
Problem with teeth...rectified
Education, Degree, I can even be Certified..
Because unlike you, who lives outside..
You need to work to survive...
Now I'm a part of the system you see..
And have it much easier than any of thee..
I broke the law and now pay the price...
But I'm still better off than your lousy life...
And when I'm released, I will qualify for...
Medicaid, Medicare and even more...
So you may have done it different than me...
But in "old age ", we're equal you see...

Copyright © kj force | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Health is Wealth

You are healthy
You are wealthy
Broke & poor, yet rich!
No a scratch & not an itch.
Be happy.

Copyright © Abdullah Alhemaidy | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Suicidal Voodoo

Chase the voodoo to sleep. sleepless freaks i see in the silver screens blocking the vision of me. there's no choice but to eliminate hate inundating the mind. please mute the voices haunting the airwaves making me blind. the big bad budding burden flashing red lights at every intersection. stealing away the insight i try to gain by using time for reflection.

It's a mess the way i test myself with deranged prophecies and bleak scenarios. replaying horror flicks in my head. blasting screams in stereo. all too often the worm hole shoots me to a mid evil castle of torturous devices. impaled in dreams that seem to be broadcasting punishment for succumbing to the world's entice and vices. but other times i fall victim to a good old fashioned "day-mare". people notice the self conversations and can't help but laugh and stare. I must say it's becoming difficult to blame them. if i can't learn to shake this voodoo, it's true my future's looking grim.

What do I do? they're gonna end up arresting me! Toss my ass in a padded room and throw away the key! and get i worry about getting sent away, the paranoia increases inside my head. i reach for medication increasing odds of ending up prematurely dead. I may be crazy, but don't take me for an idiot fool. and don't haze me about where my faith is, cus' this could just as soon be you. and i've learned enough to know that each and every one of us will die. and you may take me as insane, but me not taking my own life's got nothing to do with having a fear to fry. 

This is exactly why i choose to write as my mind fills up with crazy thoughts and throws fits. it's a therapy for me to try and work out all the kinks that make me sink, instead of cowardly throwin' in the towel n' calling it quits.

Copyright © JSLambert Mister ROBOTO | Year Posted 2012

Details | Prose Poetry | |

It's Great To Be Alive!

Tamera liked to run in the cold, on a whim she stopped by Woolworth and bought a package 
of hot tamale candies to eat after her run.  She loved having a reward for everything.  
Wearing her golden sweatpants Tamera decided to run laps, which she loved to do on the 
track alone late at night as the moon tipped his head and winked at her. She started this 
shortly after her divorce.   It was cathartic for her to watch her warm breath rise in the cold 
air.  Running in the winter made her feel alive to be so cold, to run and beat the elements. 
She loved the feel of the wind in her hair as she ran.

She didn’t notice the man that joined her, until he passed her.  She hadn’t seen him before.  
He had a Florida Gators jersey, orange sweat pants and a blue ski hat on. She liked his 
strides, they seemed fluid.  She had only been running a few years herself.  It was a hobby 
that she enjoyed.  Having company on the track felt good, normally she had the track all to 
herself.  She usually left after running three miles.  Tonight she felt like running more laps 
than usual.  She kept running.  Her new friend kept running too. Tamera was always 
competitive. Who knew maybe she could outrun him.

She found her rhythm and felt the adrenaline rush of the endorphins finally kick in. That's 
what she like about jogging, the endorphines. It felt freaking out of this world!  
Her heart was beating fast, her breathing was steady.  Her strides were growing wider and 
longer.  It felt so good to Tamera to be alive and one with the track.  She almost felt like 
she was flying over the Grand Canyon.

She kept running and running, until she could hardly feel her legs.  They felt numb, she heard 
the crowd as they cheered for her.  She saw every handsome man that she had ever known 
standing on the sidelines naked as they were cheering for her.  She smiled at them as she 
passed them by like a blur, for she was so fast.  She imagined her ex-husband lying on the 
ground rolling around in sheer pain as she ran all over him to win the race.  She saw herself 
jumping over the highest hurdles with the grace of an agile deer.  She was in her runner’s 

After a while, she noticed she had the track all to herself once again and her handsome 
gentleman, Mr. Moon had also moved along.  When she checked her mileage counter, Tamera 
had run eleven miles.  It was a great run, the best she had ever had. It was a great night to 
be alive!

Copyright © Marie Harrison | Year Posted 2010

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Listening Closer to Myself

I give to you...
And you gave to me...
A rash, a fever, headache and the Flu...
I told you not to go without a coat...
And now you’ve got a very bad sore throat...
With fever and pain in all your muscles...
Coughing and sniffles, with draining from nostrils...
Tissues scattered all over the floor...
Bottles and pills from the drugstore...
Chicken soup is what I recommend...
But a sandwich also you did command...
And how about some chips and a nice cold brew...
For days I made you a priority...
Your every whim took seniority...
And then it happened, I started to sweat...
Became lethargic, and better yet...
You were over your bout with the Flu...
As I plopped my body onto the bed...
You stated you were going out to get something to eat...
So I could get some well deserved sleep...
As you closed the door, I heard you say...
Call me when you get better, OK ?
And that’s what brings me here today...
Perhaps I should listen closer to what I say...
" You should take better care of yourself ! “


Copyright © kj force | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry | |


   I feel as though I am lingering in the shadows of life, and whatever it is that plagues me. A mystery, unfounded within the confines of this body and mind now possess my every thought. I hold my hands towards the shadows wondering if it could be death's hand grasping for mine, waiting to take me through another life. A life beyond my comprehension. 
        I see stars, not of night, but of confusion and the grasp of reality as it sets upon me like sun at dusk. I am flushed the same shade of crimson beneath the surface of this pale-mooned skin. My appearance as gloomy as a spring morning, yet the morning clears more frequently than me.
      I feel my heart, not beating on a normal path, but pounding, as if it's trying to escape without me. It speaks to me in a faint whisper by daybreak, yet I have no answers.
    My hands are held above me in desperation and despair alike, as I feed myself several little pieces of bottled hope. I sigh within my frown, not knowing if it's a new beginning or quick end, but I edge on, lurking in the shadows, still feeling ill.

Copyright © Sandra Adams | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Though Long and dreadful, the darkness has now become Light

Her clothes soaks in a sea of sweat, her skin wet, brown and muddy, as though floating in a Lake with debris. Notorious in her screams and dangerous in her gaze Making her the worst villain of the neighborhood been greatly antagonistic to Manhood as agony and frustration befell her, comparative to experiencing a difficult means of Livelihood. Medication may be an immediate remedy but will not stop her hatred towards the brotherhood. In difficulty, she curses and swears, her sexuality, been the target and victim. Increase severity of her present situation, makes her casualty to moral decadence and deterring her ability to be sane. Her thinking faculty, substituted with rage, and naughty questions flooding her mind like the spring as she wondered why Humanity is propagated through such pain The Balloon of Life gone so flaccid, her pains, like the infiltrating effect of an Acid. Just one last push to proceed, knowing fully well, she will succeed and finally, the glorious result of a seed. She has been in a Barren Land so dry, the feeling of darkness, she is ready to fry the transition to light, she gives a try which becomes accomplished with a Newborn's cry.

Copyright © Funom Makama | Year Posted 2012

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Who Are You

In the Work That Reconnects,
we have a dialogue exercise
in which Person A asks Person B
"Who are you?"
several times over a few minutes,
as it feels right to reprime this exploratory pump;
then person B does the same for person A.

The person hosting, facilitating, enabling
this reiterative question's redundant possibilities
is merely an echo-present listener,
noticing diversity within these multiple responses,
without judging good, bad, ugly, or even indifferent,
quietly hearing rhythms of longing for love
between the crippling cracks of anger and fear,
compelling and compiling self with other hatred,

The question,
Do all these diverse self-descriptions truly fit
this same love v. anger-fear polyculturing-multisystemic elephant?
does not usually arise.
we accept all these scrabbling voices
and hats
and feelings
and ideas
and beliefs
co-occurring within one bilateral
positive-health v. negative-pathology mindbody ecosystem,
seeking diastatic fullness
polymorphic communication,
design, development, investment,
and cooperative-integrative implementation outcomes,
at the end of this elephant's rhetorical day,
if not sooner.

Why is this not always the case
when we ask our friends and families,
our public sector leaders 
and financial sector investors,
"Who do you hope we are becoming?"

What loves are we preparing to invest in 
and which past angers and future fears to divest of?

What indicators can I give
that I already invest in cooperatively regenerate health
designs and intentions,
co-mentoring therapeutic diapraxis
of which I preach so positively to others?

I know you support restoring regenerative health to our soil
and preserving clean water,
as I do.
So does it bother you,
as it does me,
that we still contaminate our water with poo and pee
instead of investing in nutrition-starved soil,
where both could be positive resources 
countering past neglect and abuse,
rather than doubly-negative pathology?

We say we support cooperatively vibrant and healthy local economies
and empowering political vitality,
so does it bother you,
as it does me,
to so often hear "either-or" deductive reductivism
and wonder why not first cooperatively consider "both-and?"

I appreciate what you just said
and I wonder if adding X might make your idea
even better.
Do you agree,
or maybe you see concerns for yourself and others
new to me,
of which we might learn together?

Could a cooperative election or social change campaign
begin with compiling interdependent hopes and wishes
and loves of Who Are You?
thereby more smoothly avoiding stuckness-traps
of fear and anger and dissonant pathological outcomes.

Could investing both-and cooperative communication norms
better lead toward co-investing in healthy wealth,
politically strong-embraced policies,
procedural and dialogical transparency,
polyculturally inclusive design and development and discernment
of poli-eco-logical therapy
v. multi-morphic pathology;
co-arise local through global health outcome networks,
diastatic eco-normativity,
embracing each and every sacred Person A and B response
to Who are we?

Copyright © Gerald Dillenbeck | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Untitled 22

The heat soaked day drags on: each daisy sweltering
every buttercup melting into the dry ground,
a golden oozing of petals. I watch them through the window knowing
that I could not be ready, this I that’s still unknown
plucked before the first blossom. The hum of the sun
repeats like an assembly line, robotic, in essence,
clawing its way into the conscience
and residing in the mind like a panther. I, too, 
am reclaimed by the ground.
It seems to pulse, reaching and breathing me in
dragging my limbs into its dark depths.
I let it go on from the white bed, sterile- so I’m told.
Even the sky dulls me with its aqua face staring vacant and shallow,
its vague features too-sea-blue for me. The seed that’s cracked inside disintegrates,
the doctors say, “it is no threat”. 
But I feel the leaking egg rise in the heat
trying to engorge itself like a cat eating its tail.
I want to grasp a handful of the straw-grass
covering the ground like a yellow wound, to watch it
infect the air and bleed into the wind. 
My hand reaches for the stomach,
cupping the heat that steams from my skin, unstretched- as far as I can tell.
I know when it happens, I knew when it fell, 
feeling the red spots, all the blotches of myself
costume my insides like a cracked cauldron, the unhatching complete.
A sea of suicides, as the dark lump rises to the throat.
If water is life, I gargle and spit its corpse from my mouth
like a cactus. I imagine the tumour deflowering,
its thorns still jagged like teeth or as black as a squatting toad.
Before the window, out of captivity, the flowers’ faces all resemble death, 
each seed trembling with my pulse, afraid to look into the eyes
of the lifeless that forsakes being. Dead trees with ringless bones,
boughs bent into unnatural contortions
like deformed ballerinas performing offensive dances
I watch with blindness. I rise and leave withered shell remains, 
the parasite shrivelled and discarded like old skin. 
In the window view, the snow rises once more as the sun turns to bone
whilst the wind passes through me. I am a mine, full of black on black
atrocities, that has dead birthed the unknown.

Copyright © Daniel Dixon | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry | |

This Tree Was

I kept listening to beliefs:

“This is the way things are.”
“This is the way things have to be in order to…”
“You know, if you do this, you will receive that…”
“That’s just the way it is. That’s just the way I am.”
“What I really want for you is….”
“You’ll be happier if you would just….”
“If he really loved you, he would…”
“Well, if you really love him, you would feel…”
“If you do this for me, then you will get this…”
“If you don’t do this, then I will talk about it until you do.”

I not only listened, I became them.
My choices were based on the list of phrases.
I had to “do the right thing.” Or….
Or I would die?

Well I am dying today.
Not dying like my body has fallen and is breathless.
Dying like full of breath, full of grief.
Dying like; “I hate dying because I keep thinking it’s permanent and that I will always feeeeeeeeel.”
Dying like; “I think I am becoming weightless with all of this heavy gunk junk falling off of me.”

Kerplunk kerplunk

The pu-u-u-u-u-u-u-lling like picking a stubborn apple.
And the plops of rot thudding the surrounding ground.
My expanded branches open out and up
Free of knowledge that once grew on me
That looked soooo pretty
But sour and fused with poison 
this tree was…

Copyright © melissa mesch | Year Posted 2011

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Untitled 30

I portray the mother of dust:
the rattle in our empty nest,
echoing, echoing like the bray
that escapes the moon at noon,
the shrieks from soft white rooms.
These unhatched eggs cry,
crawling to my windows,
peeping in, trying to frost
each dirty sheet of glass
with their shallow dirty breaths.
Is there humanity in this reflection?
I am a factory assembling
cadavers: cold glassy eyed dolls
all wearing the same vacant faces:
blurred, blurred, and terrible.
Their little fingers stain the walls
like the pages of blank novels.
I try to hold them. They go.
They let me go, for now.
I don't fear the darkness anymore,
but it is their tongues of silence
that leave me unhinged.
Remembering is to ache
like a shadow. Mother
mothering dirt, a stranger to health.
My cramping hands pray and
hope my past can eat itself.

Copyright © Daniel Dixon | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Health and safety

 They giggled at the meeting.
 A first for heath and safety. 
 A serious issue: 
 Dirty rats only carry the disease,
 Canoeing and spelunking,
 With clean ones is ok.

The lady was doing grand,
In the face of grown men and women
At school for the day,
Serious technical folks
Bored or torn from fee-earning work
Out for a jolly in the conference room,
Out to disrupt, and delight to deride.

The core or the soul of the issue,
Was the ladies desire to prevent harm
To her fellow man 
Was there a deep hurt
Or worse a loss
Powereing her enthusiasm
Through the waves of cynicism?

Copyright © pete Bemment | Year Posted 2011

Details | Prose Poetry | |


The constant ache throbs through my being,
Pain dragging me down into despair and depression.
Knowing there is a solution but being made to wait.
Impatience at a system that doesn't care that your in pain.

While waiting could cause more problems as it grows inside.
A cyst, non malignant, but getting bigger and causing havoc.
Head aches that knock the strongest to there knees, desperate.
Exhaustion mentally from trying to go on normally, fight the pain.

The pressure on the body is unbelievable, hard to stand or to sit.
Not an emergency, considered elective surgery, but I am suffering.
Hard to digest food, hard to go to work, and hard to sleep.
Frustration builds with each day as it gets worse and still waiting.

Over four years before properly diagnosed, not imagination, real.
Eight months from diagnosed to see specialist, and then for cure?
A simple surgery to remove the problem, not important enough.
What if it bursts? What if they say not going to fix? Am afraid.

A medical system spiraling down, to many abused the system.
Now those who need help sit in desperation and frustration.
Trying to live as if all is well, going on with daily jobs and routines.
It is not okay, and gets harder with each passing day, am so tired.


Copyright © doreen cyr | Year Posted 2010

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Salted wound

Put off that cigarette, please,
Your health and mine are at risk.
Cause that white smoke to cease
The earth needs not the heat,
Or do you want to sink beloved Greece?
You endanger humanity’s haven and meat
Each time you light that match.
Soon many will have no food to eat
When the incubated icy lands hatch.
Oceans pregnant with storms draw nearer to labour
As your kind rise to pipe, batch by batch.
Hold my hands as a friend and neighbour,
Let my companionship bring you warmth
And lift you high with its ethereal flavour.

Copyright © Onwuka Akuma | Year Posted 2011

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Used To Be

I used to be a somewhat normal American. Divorced, three kids, and a job. Looking into others souls. Making evaluations. Notes in charts. Different backgrounds, circumstances, degrees of madness, more true than some realities. All had one thing in common. A need for love. Though searched for high and low. Not found in the liquid, shot into arms, or the spirits contained in a bottle. White puffy powder, not snow. Legs uncrossed, inviting love that doesn't last. Now receiving medication, served up in a cup. Disillusioned. In need of a solid love, like a tree they can climb up in. Well rooted and grounded, stable and secure. Fed by living water, to quench their thirst. To help them back up when they fall, or are pushed.
A locked away society cry, and the government doesn't hear, doesn't see. What will become of all these people, or you, or me. Looking to be broken out, from without, by what is only found within. Playing a game of hide and seek, some times no one wins, yet others are found.

Copyright © Laura Oster | Year Posted 2012

Details | Prose Poetry | |

My Pa

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

Copyright © James Long | Year Posted 2012

Details | Prose Poetry | |


its nice with rices
don't think twices
to eat with collardm green
and green beans
its in my head

Copyright © kurtis scott aka curtis futch jr | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry | |

What Wakes Me Up

Monday – just happens 'round 5 am.
Tuesday – pretty much happens, but set alarm clock just in case.
Wednesday -  alarm clock more often than not.
Thursday -  alarm clock if I hear it, but sometimes I don't.  Thursday's a perpetual late day.
Friday – Fear of repercussion from being late on Thursday .
Saturday – what for?
Sunday – The sunrise the bird chirps the cats wanting food.  The garden, the neighborhood, breakfast with who knows who.  My religion's quite offbeat, I recognize that.  And Sabbath means something to me where I'm at.

Copyright © Nancy Jones | Year Posted 2011

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Apart From Me

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

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

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

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

Copyright © James Long | Year Posted 2012

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Damage Will Always Be There

The Damage Will Always Be There

I cried,I bleed,And now my heart longer beats the same way it did before I meet you.My heart feel broken,i feel like a rag doll played with over and over again only to be thrown away.I miss your love but now your gone and my hearts ache the most it has ever.There are time's I wonder if  I have been lying to myself,I must be because my heart should fee lighter it should feel like a free winged bird but it not.The damage the cuts the sores they shall be with my from happy time to sad time because you put them there.You who I looked up to you never promised I know but it aches from every thought of you.How come how come I must be alone in this world? It sound selfish but I only want you back to be here beside me and tell me you love me and I'm doing a great job with everything.Why does it hurt to think of you?why does it pain me to want to be lose to anyone?why does everyone leave me behind when I need them the most?why am I so closed up with a stone wall full of hate surrounding my heart?I know it shouldn't be there but do you? In time the cut will heal and the sores shall vanish.But what about the feelings and the damage inflicted upon them will never leave.Yes it sounds so cliche yes you've heard it all before.But really and this is know this is said this is everything I know.The damage is there no matter how much it seems to have healed.

For my grandmother who i lost now 5 years ago Granny i miss you i wish you would have fought for us a little longer then you did.

Copyright © Marcedies Rhodes | Year Posted 2012

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Impact of Radiation

my knowledge on the
impact  of radiation 
is quite limited

but I do wonder
if radiation would be
in a brand new car

that was produced in
Japan after the earthquake
and the tsunami

if the water has
radiation, would the paint
on the car be safe?

do we realize that
dangerous radiation
impacts the whole world?

do we realize air,
water and nature will not
be safe for mankind?

sadly, inventions
without preparations for
disasters proceed

and mankind welcome
each with great expectations
to increase comfort

until the next time
a tradgedy occurs, and
many lives are lost

Copyright © Cathy Ncube | Year Posted 2011

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Choosing Safe Hands

Like you,
I make choices each moment
of each day.
we review those choices each dreaming moment
of enculturing memory.
We choose within a range
of permacultural resonance
--regenerative polycultural long-range potential for nutritional WinWin resolution--
or cognitive/affective dissonance

Dissonance between our
Left Ego's Exterior Landscape,
a land of deductive self-preservation,
of WinLose hypothetical consciousness,
of eisegetically held personal knowledge,
of relevant and significant "fact" beliefs,
of ionic-iconic comparative truth maps
with familiar BusinessAsUsual neural networks
of rhythms and patterns of deeply cultured language;

and our Right Eco's Interior Relational Landscape,
of empathic inductive Self/Other dipolar function,
of polycultural therapy as DNA regenerative WinWin syntax default,
of eco-normative correlation, 
electromagnetic octave frequencies, 
and thermodynamic co-gravitational bionic balance 
co-arising LovePeace v. AngerFear as LoseLose
double-binding unstringing irrational bipolaric dissonance
merging back into death's forgotten threshold
between Interior and Exterior surfing timeless regenerating+decomposing(-,-)
information's dialectical DNA-iconic way. 

These two Primal YangYin as Exterior/Interior Relational Landscapes
of human natural identity
cooperate toward polycultural outcomes,
preference for WinWin self/other-perpetuating 
eco-political choices for outcome design
and personal through global redevelopment.

we will continue with BusinessAsUsual
bicamerally endosymbiotic competition-driven evolution,
lack of ecoconsciousness most of our days and moments,
reserving this sacred space for moon lit dreams,
within each moment's co-arising elational time.

Human cultural evolution,
for regenerating health and therapy purposes,
emerges choice of Left and/or Right MindBody
BiCamerally Balancing EcoConsciousness.

Emerging freedom to cooperatively will
what we each regeneratively intend
to polyculture our Interior and Exterior Landscapes together,
and freedom to step back
take a cooperative time out
to compare our deductive decompositional subeconomies,
to research diverse tributaries of time's co-arising river,
to calculate comparative health costs
and safety risks right now,
for our children's children,
and for all Earth Tribe's children.

Fortunately, and unfortunately,
we have arrived at a transitional moment
as a human-natured bicameral species,
inviting more of our Left-Right Balancing Interior Landscape moments
so we can share more ecological health;
LeftYang is to RightYinYin
as Exterior Landscape reception
is to Interior Landscape resonance,
balancing regenerative health choice
each now of time's revolution.

That narrow optimizing +Love of Health choice
lies MidWay wu-wei tipping reiteratively back and forth
as Present waves namaste gratitude 
between AngerPast and FutureFear

While this may sound loud and pretentious,
I readily admit wrestling with my 120 pound daughter
psychotropically puffed out
while she wrestles with her instinctive addiction 
to negative synaptic drama investments,
trying to stick a diaper on over her pull-up
and under her dress
feels like trying to force a build-it-yourself thong
on a crocodile.
Even so,
I have a range of choices,
to wrestle against this crocodile,
assuming I am on my own,
a victim of adverse circumstances,
or I could ask her if she would be mindful
of her teeth and claws
and might she possibly pretend
to become an opossum
for just fifteen seconds. 

Like you,
I make choices each moment,
of each day,
and review them at night,
until one morning
we get it more right,
deductively decomposing our inductive regenerative trend analysis
into a more cooperative future integrating plan to practice
another day unfolds
another night to refold.

Copyright © Gerald Dillenbeck | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Whole Bowl of Soup- the whole story

Soup tv, soup, soup everywhere.  Nice spoon, no bowl.  Talking weird 
cause somethings are weird.  Suddenly printer works...little else on me does... 
there is no clue to my problem...well at least I got free tv for a day...only in 
America- $4 for phone, $5 for TV, or get combo deal for $9!!  It gets way weirder, 
and it'll take some time to relate.  Wow.  bye, later, tom

Copyright © tom bell | Year Posted 2007