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Prose Poetry History Poems | Prose Poetry Poems About History

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Details | Prose Poetry | |

RWANDA'S BURIED CALVARY

A hundred days of tomb-like silence; a hundred days of blind eyes and deaf ears; a hundred days of wooden hearts and cruel minds. This was long ago, but still its stigma is there. Years may pass but MY LIFE will never be the same again.

I was barely a woman then, carefree and with smiles touching my lips. I was enjoying the view of the sun shining over the tranquil green  hills  of Rwanda. But, in a blink of an eye, the beautiful calm scenery I enjoyed was tinged by some shouts I heard from a river nearby. Curious, I went to see. Meters away, I saw a happy huge man wielding a machete butchering another man on the ground. Before he could see me, I turned round and ran.

Ran as fast as I could!When I reached our home, immediately, I was told by my father to keep on running. To run to a Hutu Minister miles away from our home. To run and be safe. To run and beg for my life's safety. Paper white and shuddering I ran and ran until I arrived at the Minister’s house. Scared but kind enough, the minister kept me together with seven other girls. 

We were placed then in a remote bathroom in the house. 

A bathroom three feet by four feet in size.  A bathroom where the other girls and I hid. A bathroom where in the next days, we alternately sat, stood and stretched. A bathroom that served as our refuge in times when the killers {Hutus} stormed inside the house. A bathroom where we ate beans and insects just to stay alive.

On the radio, we, Tutsis, heard our names  being announced as needed to be killed, too. There was a window where we could peek  and see people running and running. Clubs and spears a terrifying rain brutally killing men and women alike. Screams and cries a regular ringing requiem outside. Intense. Intense. Intense were the surroundings, I remember. In the bathroom, we maintained silence as if no one there. For at any time, we could be caught… Raped… Killed. And we knew back then that, the green hilly Rwanda was turned into a garden of bloody wails and tortured tales.

Then one day some troops came, stopping the genocide and finally we planned our liberation day! 

It was through courage. Cunning. Prayers that we are alive. Rwanda, may seem peaceful now, but for us victims and survivors, our life will never be the same again. I can't seek revenge for our loss: families, property and the trauma I experienced for it would only prolong my Calvary. I would rather forgive and hope that such genocide will never happen again.

© 
Oct. 11, 2014
*Rwandian


Details | Prose Poetry | |

'I'VE HAD ENOUGH!!!

I've had enough
Yes enough of your childish games
I've had enough
Of your lies.and disappointments
I've had enough
Of headaches,and worries
I've had enough 
Of your disrespect
I've had enough
Of heartaches,and pains
I've had enough
Of wondering if and when you're coming home
I've had enough
Of planning a future that has no hope
I've had enough
Of waking up and finding myself alone
I've had enough
Of wishing you'll change for the better
I've had enough
Of talking,and you're not listening
I've had enough
Of dreaming this dream all alone
I've had enough
Of being the only one trying to make things work
I've had enough
Of treating you like a prince,king,or queen
then in return you treat me like I'm nothing
I've had enough
Of you're not taking me seriously
I've had enough
And I'm sick,and tied of all the drama
I've had enough
Of you falsely accusing me
I've had enough
And I can make it by myself
I'VE HAD ENOUGH 
I'VE HAD ENOUGH!!!"


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Welcome To the Soup

Welcome, Ms. Valmer!!  Glad you are aboard- now you can comment on any 
poem, right after reading it....and try your hand at your own, should you choose.
Lotsa great people here.  PS- could not open greeting sent- comp. needs 
something installed - some file, I'll have to find out how to do it.  So glad you 
joined! Luv, tom


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Mocking The Raven

When I was young, I would mock the raven,
Never dreaming her harsh call was a cry
Across the water to the castle of her brother
King Bram, the Raven, ruler of the British Isles.
Never did I dream of the destruction 
That would follow this desperate plea
Sent upon the wings of a blackened crow.

When I was young, I thought childhood
Would last forever; secure in my father's care,
Content in the loving arms of my mother,
Never did I dream of the devastating war
That would follow this messenger of our doom
Carried across the seas to inflict upon our land
A war of vengeful purpose and contempt.

When I was young, peace prevailed in our land;
Our King was just and beloved by his people.
Then came a marriage, an alliance between
Ireland and England.  Queen Branwen;
Discontent, lonely, hungry for power,
Hated by her court for the intrigue
And bloody sanctions imposed upon all
Who did not obey her sanctimonious whim;
Queen Branwen, beautiful daughter of England.

When I was young, I stood beneath
The blasted pine, looking up at the black bird
As she screamed out her litany of wrongs,
Watching as she lifted her wings to soar across the water.
My father, general of Ireland, fell upon the shores
Fighting to repel Bran's vengeful warriors;
My mother, condemned by her beauty
Fell among the vanquished women.

When I was young, I did not fear the raven;
Now I live in the court of the Raven King,
He, who conquered my people for naught as his sister
Queen Branwen, the White Raven, took her life
And walks now, shriven and pale, among the graves
Of the fallen warriors; forever singing her lament
Of sorrow and regret; far too late, far too late.

When I was young, I believed in the goodness of men.
Now I am old; my raven hair is streaked with silver.
The voice of Bran echoes through this palace
As he cries out exhortations to his conquering soldiers;
As he cries for peace and fellowship in his land.
When I was young, I would mock the raven;
Now I am old and have harnessed the power
Of the raven's call.  I cry to my people for vengeance;
I wait for their rescue, as I haunt the halls of the Raven King.



[Loosely based on the legend of Bran, the Raven King of England 
and Branwen, his sister, who was married to the king of Ireland.  
It is said that King Bran speaks still in England through the cries of the raven.]


{by Deb Radke -- written for the contest 'Among the Dead'}




Details | Prose Poetry | |

MOTHER TONGUE

We had a steel-coiled fence 
that kept us apart;  kept in purity,
spoke out in purity.

We played Barbies in a tree that
bordered each side, not knowing
it had a
zone.

Our Barbie world was created; 
dresses hung on branches
little mirrors for wee doll hands;
leaves assigned our closets.

I gibbered and you jabbered, and
the worst thing happened, I learnt
English, but what happened to your
French?

Language traveled through the holes
of our steel-coiled fence.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Gertrude -- Gertie -- Gertrude Stein

-- Re:  Gertrude Stein and Alice B. Toklas, Rue de Fleurus #27, Paris --

What would Gertrude.What Gertrude.What, Gertie?Have thought.Have thought what
thought?Thought thought driving,forward,remorselessly.Remorseless Remorse?Forward.Never reverse;no reverse.No.No remorse.Remorseless,spurning reverse,seated.High!Seated high in Auntie.Then in Godiva seated. Looming.Enormous.
Looming enormous.Unsinister presence. Certain presence.Definite.Definitely not sinister.  Positively looming;enormous in brown.Brown,in brown corduroy,driving Paris.
In Paris,through Paris.Looming high in Paris in Godiva.With Alice, quiet beside her.
Quiet; always, Alice.Alice always. And zipping, about -- coming to Rue de Fleurus 27.
Zipping to Rue de Fleurus.To 27. And Alice so able.Able Alice, each a.m. transcribing.Able Alice typing.Automatic Gertrude.Typing Gertrude.Great Gertrude.GeniusGertrude.Talking Gertrude.Genius talking.Great brown Gertrude;Gertie to Alice.
Absorbing, talking, buying art --- buying Matisse.Absorbing Matisse.Showing Matisse.Banishing Matisse.Selling Matisse,collecting Picasso.Great Gertrude -- genius Gertrude at court, holding court at Rue de Fleurus 27.And Leo.Gone Leo.No Leo at Rue de
Fleurus.Not at 27 After Leo, after Mr. Stein, after brother Leo.But there was Alice.Alice
was there Among Braques.And Cezanne.(Not Matisse.)No longer Matisse, but Picasso.And Picassos, Picassos, Picassos!And Alice; alongside, was Alice.Next to, was Alice.Alice
next Gertrude,Gertie, G. --- Gertrude, Miss Stein. Genius Gertrude Stein Quiet Alice
always.And a great Gertrude.A great brown Gertrude.A leviathan. A passing ship; a
great leviathan.Gertie, a genius.A hugeness.A shibboleth.But to Alice, just Gertie.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Good Night

Good night to the smiling
moon asia land burnishing the
seascapes of you and me,

strokes of soapy filled waves
washing the shore brandishing
white sand, gleaming.

I was here before, with you and
you and you.

Twisting and scraping our way
like crustaceans lifting ourselves
parts one over the other till we no
longer were the sea but the limbs 
on trees dropping seeds back through
the crusts of time.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Science and Religion

My soul is Hindu...
My head is Islam...
My heart is Christian...
Every part of our body has various righteousness.

Every religion is teaching us the knowledge of humanity and love.
Truly religion gives us strong base of life and peace.

Similarly science means comprehensive knowledge.
Science is teaching us the knowledge of existence and prosperity.

Scientific religion is called spiritualism.
 
It's the historical contribution of science and religion.

SANDIP GOSWAMI, INDIA


Details | Prose Poetry | |

I Am As I Am


	Perhaps
	you've wondered 
	what’s up with me, 
	why I’m blue some days, 
	other times electric yellow,
	why I talk too fast
	or not at all,
	why I cry, 
	then laugh, 
	then cry again. 
	You may have been puzzled 
	by my sometimes strangeness, 
	about what makes me tick. 
	The fact is, 
	I always tell the correct time; 
	all you have to do is ask. 

	Since you asked...

	I have a disorder, 
	or two, 
	or three.
	I have bipolar, you see, 
	and I get the rollercoaster 
	that comes with it.
	The only questions are:
	how steep the climb, 
	how fast the fall? 

	I’m not crazy 
	(I avoid the “C” word.);
	I have an illness 
	(I’m not that illness.);
	I take my meds 
	(two blue and three white).
	I lead a normal life, 
	whatever “normal” means. 
	I no longer feel 
	the stigma of being different. 
	I am as I am.

	There you have it, 
	the skim of my truth. 
	Now you know about me; 
	what’s your story?


Details | Prose Poetry | |

WOMAN

Day by day we pray to stay alive, ladies, the face of this world is slowly changing, no longer do we need to hold our heads in disgrace, and it’s about time we take our place. No longer let us be connived, nor let us forget the silent cries in trees that our sista’s souls are still hangin’, see the true in others denies rather waistin’ yourself complaining. Nor keep us from strength to stand by man, strength to leave if struck by hand, no more bruises upon our face for we also help to make this race. No more scars upon our souls for only marked with beauty moles and let our stories be fortold for we are women who behold, a key to inspiration and moral pride, coming out of our hide, Gods rules are to which one should only apply, but most chose pain to keep inside, left alone and died. Your elimination of God’s creation, we are but faith to this nation. Men of ignorance we are sick of belligerence, cuz we prove intelligence, cuz where there’s no woman there is no man strong and on this land we belong as distinct and separate persons walk along. Before your ignorance get the respect that you so vainly seek, practice what you claim til' all things you do or speak shall in reality be the same, nor let us be so eased to blame and give us our well earned past due fame, all musical and sorrowful stories contained. My people, make me proud to know your name and I’ll return the favour by doing the same.
For all men whom think us fast, remember the good ones always finish last, we women are still raped future and past so personally you can kiss my ... In us your babies wombs all your life fluids we consume, to mothers growing up too soon, to those mommas babies and daddy’s maybes.....REMEMBER, when your round to actin' shady, we are the ladies of this land, women with pride we stand, I am a WOMAN and for equal respect, I would do it again!!!


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Come by the Sword Die by the Sword

The Bard of the Norseman
A warrior’s fame and for glory all Norseman live worthy of life
Worthy the Norseman with warring axe to victory and spilt Saxon blood
For spoils of the serpent’s lair lie across the whale’s road
Far from the girls in the houses they love
Seeking a quest these warriors of Oden -always the dream for a bard’s song
Now set sail upon a journey –a glorious adventure- a hunting do they go
Do steer the battered sea-steed adorned by dragon’s head and tail
Endure the breaker of trees from artic northern hail
Skid the waves and endure towards a foreign mystical shore
Below a pallid sky-candle and darkening gray dim light
Nebulous rains doth hinder the rudderman’s  impeded sight
Till at last the first oarsman peers across the misty horizon 
Mystical panorama- calls acclamation unto Oden- makes call of reached land
These feeders of ravens rave honor into Oden
Lord of the gallows hath made the glory of the elves to shine
Down upon warriors the sun makes glisten- their metal horn helmets and shields
Set afoot to feed the eagles-prey on either Christian or druid-with a wounding-hoe
Seeking untold fame and glory and carry back a dragon’s hoard load
To brighten the battle-sweat of those made conquered 
And sing unto Oden- tell their tales- make legends of victors
Believing Valhella's glory to come thus hunting they do go  
Doth all Norseman perform deeds of valor with axe victory and slaughter-dew
So did live the Vikings Danes Anglo Saxons who wore warded blue


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Christ Child

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

He fought his way back

The country picked the winner; 
     Fifty percentage where displeasure
      We fought the battle and we won
We knew within our heart, he was the right one

 The choices, the excuses, the misses,
   Mishaps and misfortune 
Hurricane, Sandy might or might not help Obama win
 However, not tonight we held each other 
And whisper we did it; and we did it again

Left wing, Right wing the views from the politic world
 Conservative vs. Liberal beliefs do we really care 
  Knowing what we know today.
 The people, the lines and the togetherness
    Made it worthwhile to cast those ballots 

 The clocks where going round and round
  Thousands of clicks our votes count up 
                                                        Not down
              His words the journey have been long
                  However, he fought his way back, 
                           Now it all work
                             Jack! All work, Jack!


Details | Prose Poetry | |

RED ROSE

it be here soon
now  the flower bloom
get in the after noon
its mother love shower
it has the power
as the story goes
give her mother
a
RED ROSE


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Heroshima

Heroshima
Can ewe balance out those two final hits against the lives saved those that would have 
continued WAR on Asian Soil those days of hell of hurting men caught by bullits and the 
bayonets? Can just two bombs blasting death be counted as salvation won for all those 
young boys girls old men women who died instantly in two Atomic Blasts over those two 
cities of Japan. Nagasaki Heroshima eye have seen the END of time the BOOKS of GOD are 
open when the Dead Arrive. Arise all sleepers in those Graves can GOD usher in those 
SOULS into new places now to stay is there a place for JAPAN in Jesus Heaven? For those of 
us who sinned and suffered radiation burns lost our skins and mortal coils gone some died 
just screaming out in pain all normal living gone perhaps no time to say your HOLY NAMME 
of Jesus. Can they live there inside your heaven is it still possible that you forgive them for 
once upon the time it came to me today that a Just and Perfect GOD adjudges perfectly 
those in suffering words can not describe no time to utter words of salve; but deeds looked 
at made right by YOU salvation won given now to all. Eventide has come today to those 
whom tomb decay whom die threw no fault of there own. Just hit twice dumped down on 
Killed with anguish very slow. A special place in heaven for all those special people of Japan. 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

ApplefortheTeachor

 ApplefortheTeachor 
ApplefortheTeachor 
 
MAS come on down front you have been chosen by the frozen tender tundra to eat the 
apple i can give her. Staccatto beating in the background leaning to the south moving in the 
night polish wont make green apple to shine. The love GOD has for all of us in is SON Jesus is 
also inside us in our Souls inside our Spirit. He did this even though none of us are worth this 
a freely given gift. Something that opens up inside us each and every day. Better then the 
food we eat the apple red and green. Better then what people give on Christmas Day the 
packages wrapped and placed underneathe the tree dont open that dont shake it up dont let 
Johnny see. Perhaps its all the things that boy has stored up all year long some new toy he 
saw on television laying on the lawn. He never picks it up now or plays for very long. This 
Christmas please think of how the Son Of God must feel when we ignore his gift to us. I feel 
so guilty of his love inside this green forgotten apple in the bucket in the snow. Sorrow not 
the answer the apple catches worms so the food stored in the bucket doesnt turn to molded 
into love when I get hungry having none I go to cuppoard never barren there. I cannot eat 
much fruit anymore but mix the trail will fill me up when there is none to find in town. For 
CHristmas is two missing weeks after Thanksgiving missing one. SUnday on the November 
twenty nine untill Friday December Eightteenth then back for three more days then Monday 
the eleventh of January I solidify for more solid days activities perhaps the apple won. Bright 
red and polished up for teachor loves. Look for me with love. 




Details | Prose Poetry | |

Black In Time

Let`s go black in time
Come with me black to history
Black to the mother land
Where we rightfully belong
Black in time before the Europeans
Tried to whitewash our
Skins and minds
Black to the kingdom and ancestry
Black, way black before slavery

Black am I 
Not just the color of my skin
The pupil of my eyes or the hair on my head
But black at heart, black in my thinking
And black in my thoughts

Black in time
Black my story, every sentence, every line
Black every rhythm and every rhyme
Black the days on their slave ships
Heading across the ocean lines
Black the shackles and the chains
Black the whips that cut our veins
Black the blood that stained the lands
Black the heart of every whiteman
Black the husbands and the wives
Black the circumstances which changed 
our lives
Black the mother and the father
Black the separation from each other

Black, black, black, black
Black the struggles and the fights
Black the system which took away 
our rights
Black the midnights we tried to make 
our run
Black the rope on the tree that hung the ones
Who wished to be free

Black, black, black, black
Let`s go black and turn the world around
Let`s take black our civilization
Every continent and every nation
Let`s take black the white man`s dominion
Let`s take black our rightful rulership
No more subjection under
The whiteman`s dictatorship
Let`s black out the pages 
of the white man`s days
And attribute the praises 
to the black liberal race

Black my eyes and the things they see
Black the visions of those who preceded me
Black Marcus, Selassie and Mandela
Black Obama and the Christ
Black the life I live because of their sacrifice


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Love Not Allowed

He had fallen in love when he had first seen her, her dark black hair and green eyes had 
been what had attracted him.

Yes he knew the danger but he had smuggled her out, taken her to his home and he had not 
told a soul what he had done.

She was nineteen and he was fourtythree, he did not see the age difference and only saw 
her beauty, if anyone found out he was hiding her then he knew they would be both killed.

She had lived with him for eight days, in that time he had never tried to seduce her or make 
any advance towards her, he clothed her and provided food and any comfort that she 
required.

On the eigth night she came to his room, she was naked when she slipped into his bed and 
they made love all the way until the dawn, it would be their last night together.

They came the next morning, he knew he had to shoot her, the Luger given to him by his 
father two years ago was the weapon he had to use.

She wept silent tears for she knew what must be done, he put the gun to her head and 
pulled the trigger.

He put the gun to his own head as he heard them break down the door, he knew they would 
have both been punished to death and this was the only way.

They were too late to stop him and he pulled the trigger with the gun at his head and his 
body fell to lay with the dead body of the woman he had loved.

It was not supposed to had happened, a German guard falling in love with a Jewish girl 
condemned to have been gassed to death at the camp.


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SONG OF DEMOCRACY

Democracy In Nigeria
It’s been ages you passed into deep slumber
Or rather you were long dead, democracy
You have striven to rise but fall many times
Your limbs were over-powered by some political demons
You have been crushed in the dust by some powerful beasts
The people with green skinned body, white spirit and green soul
Are eager to see you come alive again and take your full course
Take control to the fullness you place in their leadership
They know the time has come and now is the hour
They cry, they sing, they shout, they talk, they pray, they hope and believe
Equally important, they are ready to work, support, and vote
To see the emergence of a new democratic Nigeria
The reality, evidential rebirth of democracy in a new Nigeria

(c) 2010


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Napoleon the powerful fighter

Napoleon the powerful fighter
whose mind was nimbler and lighter
than others whose malicious minds resided in lies,
and in vain and inane imaginations.
His brain's train of thought stayed rooted in reality,
Which gave him greater cogitations and a mind,
divine and higher above the rest of the world's imagination,
rooted in fantasy, and lies, in things that do not exist.

The emperor did worship the truth,
whose soul led him to detest illusions.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Forever Trail

They roam miles over hillsides
stride aimlessly cross open plains
and grassy fields
unseen and silent to all cept' those
who see with more
then their eyes,
hear with more 
then their ears,
and believe with more
then their hearts and minds.
Twilight,a gray blue haze,settles in
quiet, no sound(s) heard
but those of time almost forgotten
souls lost, blanketed by death
foot-steps hushed by time
travel now in ghostly silence
their destiny, to travel the forever trail.
Physical lives long shed in defense
of the very ground they are now one with
their cries must be heard! always honored
never to be forgotten
lest their lives were sacrificed for naught.

Melody A. Coster


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Sadness is a Visable Spoken Word

"Oh, hear me chiefs, for I am tired with a sick and sad heart, and from where the sun now stands I will fight no more forever!" - Chief Joseph of the Nez Perce

The day these words were spoken must've been a day that clearly had shown to each native American as a passing marked of great sadness, a sadness seen in their own unique perspective, maybe as the end-view of a Peoples reaching eyes, ...eyes found looking back at this ancestral homeland in a great beholding, ... as if the imminent future had left out on an open grassy plain, a thousand souls in wait - for the sharing of a final night of thoughts under a Northen Lights glow. Sadly, the last memory of its running beauty their time would ever know...


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Plaids

Plaids.docx Plaids Satan and Daniel one last word “Checked or checkered worsted or suited to be nude under your clothing is transparent apparently non existent to my naked eye think this will be easily my last try Daniel answer me what is the last word” ? “Remember it means your soul against your long and sinful life”. Daniel shuffled his feet there was only a long silent night. “Away over there in the manger”, the Devil began to sing. “Stop that” was from Daniel, “How do you expect me now to think” ? “eye need a drink a stiff one or both, ? eye need to THINK!!! The merciless Devil began to sing louder “Baby Jesus in the Carriage rhymes with perfect Marriage” yes you never married Daniel Webster but you played the bombast lots of times. Tell me now this one last test of time repeat after me “the last word is now just fill in the blank for your life ; at this the Devil Satan rocked back and forth in a Mimicry of him and then HE smiled. You always defeat me so quickly so smug in your Lawyers britches. While Christians die naked and stoned in the bull rushes of “GOD”. Daniel was smiling now. The Devil slapped his hand up over his mouth TOO LATE he realized just what he had done. Daniel seized the day. “GOD” is the last word howsoever you say it Jesus or Our Father the last word is “GOD”. Then the Devil rode a giant lightening rod back up to the Heavens and Daniel did his little Webster definition of a dance shuffle full of saving Grace. He shot his cuff out and buffed his sleeve and looked down at his Plaids.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

GREATEST FIGURES

Figures of immense reputation and popularity they were
Attracting public attention and admiration in the pursuit of their great works
Leaving behind them a legacy of some kind
But going with them their unique characters.

Wasn’t the explosion of Christianity the work of Jesus of Nazareth?
And the burst of Islam not the work of Muhammed of Mecca?

Neither will the admirable leadership of Julius Caesar;
Nor the conquests of the unlearned Charlemane,
And the military successes of Alexander the great,
Be forgotten in History.

If the British can forget Napoleon’s continental system
Jews then, would forget Hitler’s concentration camps
And history would entirely cease recalling his mentor Mussolini.

What if Carl Marx did not propound radical socialism?
Lenin then, would not have smashed the bourgeoisie and ruled Russia
Neither would the principles of Marxism-Leninism be sustained by Stalin
Nor would Churchill seal the border between the East and the West with an iron curtain.

A grave mistake it would be to forget Martin Luther King Jr.
For if he be forgotten, Mahatma Ghandi then would also be
And the entire movement of nonviolence
Will stop covering many pages of modern history books.

Had it not for Kwame Nkruma and Hastings Banda to cut the rope of colonialism
The ambitious Cecil Rhodes then,
Would have drained the whole continent of all its economic wealth.

The ascendancy of Nelson Mandela from the horizon of apartheid
Was not the beginning of Maximillien Robespierre’s reign of terror;
Characterized by avenges and reprisals
But the emergence of Abraham Lincoln’s true democracy.

What if Caesar were not butchered?
William Shakespeare then, would not have been the greatest playwright
Causing Charles Dickens and Chinua Achebe not to appear.

For the existence of a Jewish state, David Ben Gulion fought
But for the reemergence of a Palestinian state, Yasser Arafat strives.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Blood Brothers

Blood Brothers

As one, in life, they tug their craft
Over the sun bleached sands 
Salt air fills heaving chests 
The tide beckons with friendly waves.

They float over foam, spray in their eyes,
Laughs mix with the great loon’s cries
ruddy lads on Harbor Cork
empty hunger left ashore

The fertile land that fed their folk
Has naught milk from withered breast 
A dusty tomb in barren ground 
all that’s left to give her poor.

With greedy eyes they absorb
The last stand of their youth
Amongst millions who abandon Erin
For hope of work and bread

From Hibernia they descend
into stinking metal bowels 
rife with waste and vermin;
a place for many of last rites 

Cruel, Ellis Island casts them apart;
Tagged as sick one cannot debark 
Until the final port-of-call,
New Orleans, Dixieland.

Each finds solace with a lass 
To liven his spirit anew
Numb the pain of brethren rived
quell the hissing in his soul.

Cries of squirming newborns 
Comfort two lads far apart;
tears shed for a lost brother 
bedew yearning hearts.

Shrill calls to war pierce their lives;
A nation torn in two.
Swept up in jingoistic storms,
Slaughter joined, kith forsook.

Blue and Gray, sent forth to kill,
Our lads march inexorably nigh
over hills of limbs, hasty graves;
past rivers of guts and blood.

In a massacre at Fredericksburg,
fated, they meet again.
Amid blindness borne of night and smoke 
they dance a macabre embrace.

Deathly wounded Blue cries out 
in Gaelic born of County Cork.
The other hears an unforgotten voice;
drags the body to the light.

As he sees the dead tormented face
mortal anguish breaks his heart.
Arms entwined is how they’re found;
as one, once again, in death.

 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Titanic The Unsinkable Ship

What people believed in 1912.
Was a myth in the truth, placed on a shelf.
Was the unthinkable, unsinkable..
The fourty six thousand gross tons of steal.
Would never kneel or break its bow.
The ship could never sink or rust.
Was rumor going round, we all could trust.
The crowd showd up to celebrate.
As the ship was Christened to show its fate.
But The White Star Line was cruising fine.
When it hit a berg, under a darkened sky.
There it lie, with many to cry.
At the bottom of the sea she'll die.
They said the Titanic could never sink.
Their opinion a myth, now she's on the brink.
With fourty six thousand gross tons of steal.
The voyagers finished their final meal.
To the bottom of the ocean they went.
A many to cry, while she made her descent.
The Titanic was a ship in trouble.
But now a myth, and a pile of rubble.
At the bottom's where she made her grave.
A sigh of relief, for the lives they saved.
To the rescue, and on the double.
Titanic was a ship in trouble..
Her maiden voyage, now turn the page.
Thousand of people, in a fit of rage.
The news it read that we all should mourn.
The Titanic's passengers, their lives were torn.
A myth of truth placed in the news.
The unsinkable ship..Would never lose.

Titanic-Poetry by Kim Robin Edwards
Copyright 2009,2014..
ALL rights reserved.. 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Smell the Coffee

As for a concise short history and probable sure continuance of mankind's covertly planned taking of innocent life goes, it would be the right frame of mind to think that most of these deaths having occurred, were a peoples' righteous morning's bring of their country's political stealth, having struck during the night while under a forgiving light of our moon's hire...


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Ghost of Bayou Cannot

Some folks believe it. Others do not. The legend told in the Bayou Cannot. The only witness who can swear that it's true, are the creatures who live in the bayou. The owl told the gator, the gator told the frog, about the horror filled night that changed their home in the bog. Far off on the mainland, miles from the marsh, in a large city, where living is harsh. A man's world invention sprang into life. A breath of fresh air to man's world of strife. A new deisel engine, queen of the line, would make it run for the very first time. The sunset limited it was aptly named. Gleamed in the station waiting its moment of fame. Boarded by folks going south, some headed out west, none mindful of anything, but each's own quest. New York to L.A. via the southern run. So it was, the trip had begun. Back in the bog, things were happening too. A barge made its way north with its captain and crew. The day had been hot. The night had turned cool. The fog roiled in, with its blanket of dew. The captain steered his tug, painfully slow, caution was key to safely deliver the tow. All of a sudden there was a scrape and a jolt the barge floated free, not held by a bolt. Panic seized the crew! "We've lost the tow!" "MAYDAY!" screamed the captain over the radio. Amid the chaos and moans of disdain, another great jar, "We've got it again!". Back on land not far down the track the Limited sped with a clickety-clack. Approaching the tressel no one noticed the shake. Who could blame the poor folks; the hour was late. Midway over the bayou came the tressels demise. A great shiver another great quake, tons of speeding steel, folks met their sad fate. Days went by weary and sad. Rescuers agreed none worked a wreck this bad. Twisted and bent the engine was pulled from the muck and the slime. "102" came the final count, the coroner spoke and noted the time. A weary voice shouted "Wait!" "Sir, I disagree!" Tired eyes turned, what did they see? A weary man held in his arms a child about three. Today believers say "an angel wanders." "A tiny spirit" Others agree. On foggy nights when no moon can be. A tiny light flickers so you will see. "It's a firefly!" Say the skeptics of haunt. The creatures disagree and murmur their taunt. They know the spirit of the child now lives in their swamp.

Written by my grandmother Sandra Burch


Details | Prose Poetry | |

We Expand

When I was a kid, i believed that I would never stop growing. I measured myself, and knew that everything taller was a glimpse of the future. 
We would all be giants eventually. The tallest man that ever lived was named Robert Wadlow. He couldn't stop growing. On his first day of school, 
he was taller than his father. They say, that when he tripped on the playground his knees made twin craters from falling so far. By the time he was 10, the dirt in his home town was pot-marked like a second moon. 
Size always seems to matter most when we are falling. An ant dropped from an airplane will survive with no injuries, if an elephant slips 3 feet, 
it's legs will snap beneath it, and or us, it is those dreams that we remember most. The ones where the harness breaks. 
Where you step from the roof of a building without knowing why. When a plane rushes back toward the earth like a lost lover. We always wait just before impact, unsure of shattering or survival, 
and unable to accept our own size. 
Maybe this is why we hunt the large animals to extinction; To make ourselves seem greater. In the end, the victory of the atom bomb was not in the arms raised, but it's ability to topple all of the smallest creatures. We dream of surviving as mountains; of never having to look up again. 
We long for longer conquests. 
The ship vaster than the ocean. 
The fire dwarfing the fuel. We expand. We expand,. 
Weapons add more than just inches to your arm span. When you fire a gun, you can touch someone a thousand of feet away just think of all the giants our wars have already created. Cemeteries are like an infinity of white cross hairs. Mass graves that are just twisting of what we have always wanted; A mountain built from our bodies. We expand, we expand,. 
Our empires, stretching like red lips opening into the widest sssmile, and then swallowing the face whole. We build our largest statues for our war heroes, greater your conquest, the taller we will make you. We are taller than our fathers now. We cannot stop growing. Robert Wadlow did not want to be a legend. He wanted to train as a lawyer, but his hands were to large to 
write and type with. He died at age 22, half an inch short of 9 feet from an infection he never felt, because his nerves could not transmit signals that far. So stop trying to be statues. 
Walk. 
Feel the signals your feet send back to you and say "It is good to feel this close". It is good to live in our own bodies. Our bodies are whispers. Are bodies are matchsticks in the dark that light the small parts of us; The parts of us that can accomplish impossible things.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

1Hundred6

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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

LOVE ON DEATH LINE

I have not eaten today,
But my heart is filled
Not hungry of affection.
I had a fill of you last night
A fill of you for a life time

All around us are walking corpses
Corpses of political disregard
Humans of no nations
Even when they are bona-fide citizens
Your blood and mine flows in them

The government abhors the poor
Feeds them with empty promises
Shoves them through the door
They pay the bills
For social amenities they can’t find
Pay taxes for their castles 
Government built in the air
But we know their ancestors
Filthy dogs eating from the king’s crumbs
No; Lets not unknot the knot
Soon a messiah might heed us

In heaven’s book of life,
I heard the poor names are there
In here’s book of life
It is deleted.
Thus, in your head,
Lays your kingdom and glory 
Get rich or die trying
Or; be their poor and keep sulking.

Well, like them I saw… 
I have not eaten
Flesh gone weak to skeleton
Nevertheless, 
The solitude of love within
Keeps me living; I am breathing
But I am moving,
Towards your direction
I see your beam

I feel new
When I see you
From my heart 
Seeps through the rays of the sun
Its fun; this love on death line
We survived the genocide
We survived the war
We survived love
We survived us
I love you too.

This poem is dedicated to the abused tribes of Rwanda and Nigeria during their respective civil wars resulting in near human annihilation. Though time has passed, we still feel your pains chilling our bones. The survivors.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A reference for every thought

A reference for every thought

Deconstruct all you think and find the link
To the last time you felt that way
Heard the words
Learned that fact
Disassemble the pieces of the things and 
Actions you hold to be true
Find the place in the litany of your life
And note down the author, the theorist
The lover and map the route to the
Conurbation of storehouses and pyramids
Of belief and time
Track each thought, each breath, each moment 
That constructed these towns of ideas
And live the informed like evaluating each
Placement
Fortify only the foundations of these that
Hold under such intense surveillance


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Legions of Rome

The legion march quickly north, 
armed with glaudius , pila, and, scutum.
Prefect Claudius Flavius was in command of the First Cohort.
Vanguard in the lead, flankers to the sides, rear guard looking behind.
They marched steady and strong under a blazing hot sun.
Each man weighed down with 60 pounds of armor, weapons, shield and rations.

They did not falter, 
and they did not stop for water.
Such is the discipline of the legions of Rome.

At the end of the day they made their camp.
That night the equites legionis scouts found the enemy.
 and the battle was planned.
The legion was up before dawn and prepared for battle.
The First Cohort, four hundred eighty men in all, marched to the battle site ahead of the others, and formed four maniples.
When the rest of the legion was formed,
Flavius commanded the First to move forward toward the screaming enemy. 

They did not falter,
and they marched in good order.
Such is the discipline of the legions of Rome.

At the command of, " Iacere pila". they hurled their spears at the enemy shields.
At the command of, " Contendire vesta sponte" they drew their glaudii and engaged,
attacking the left flank of the enemy formation.
Armor and spears, swords and shields met in a horrible clash.
The centurii and optio shouted orders above the blare of the bugles.
Pilae were hurled. 
Scuta banged against scuta.
soliders pushed, shoved, yelled and cursed.
Glaudii thrust forward in unrelenting, grim determination.

They did not falter, 
and they gave no quarter.
Such is the discipline of the legions of Rome.

In the end the enemy line unraveled, and those who were left ran for their lives.
The equites chased them down.
The battle was hard fought.
The list of the slain was long,
and the lesson the legion sent was clear.

Those of the enemy that got way brought this message home.

The Roman legions are strong and disciplined.
 
They do not falter,
and they give no quarter.
Do not test the power of Rome.






Details | Prose Poetry | |

THAT OTHER CHURCH

People rushing ~ church on the corner
being on time ~ sits empty all week,
I walk there, around the building
new parking lot ~ I could roller skate!

My friend, she attends, I used to
remembering my legacy, as a kid
big Cathedral, choirs, altar boys
family reunions ~ stock principles!

It was strong, loud voices, even then
finding cars in parking lot,
the War (the big one) was ended
we forgot strife ~ remembered being together!

Years past ~ family almost gone
a survivor, Son who doesn't worship,
go to Church ~ big oil company employee
taking over U. S., ruining waters!
`
And I fight back, Nebraska midwest,
where once we fought & stood together
now land marks are at stake
not just church worship!

But it seems demeaning, churches full on Sunday,
Then fighting for land, water quality
why doesn't big Pharm and Ag pray with us,
we won the big one!

Why are we fighting them now,
equal rights for nature, God at rest,
maybe picture changes overnight,
Nostradamus gone mad from insight!

Are end times just a vision
land at stake ~ churches empty
and it's still a social issue,
politics and presidents ~ never good enough!

One man, putting his life at stake
used to advisors, good and bad,
is anyone's conscience driven back to God
Every day ~ every way!

Or is it ~ just that other church 
~ they're in the way!






Details | Prose Poetry | |

STUYVESANTOWNE

Across the River, West 'tis that 
at the cliffs & clefts of Victoria above
blackish waters slick as Legislation, of Verrazzano
& not-so-merried ferries, the promontory sits of
visage, resplendented of red deer & red bear &
white Eagles' scat from Lady Liberty!

Why, in the glare of where, opossum
& red squirrel, vied in-passioned
imposters of small virtue in deed  
sought, wrought of purloin
for some vertu & bijouterie 
for Manhattan!
(The Chief Islander) - so the Mythic goes!

But hey!, it's up-on the BigScreen, now
playin' @ The Bijou, & in the dutri-plexes
& plexes of plexiglasse & 
MegaPlexes of Tribeca, in the Tri-boros+2...

Avaunt! Above Verrazzano visage    
tramontane, there! the Filth & Flair
of City fare, miasma which got us into
insouciant Dutch!


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Fresh and Early


the weekend arrives fresh and early
I do not know what to do for dinner
so I sit around and wait, playing solitaire
holding my breath for answers that do not come
I am mesmerized by the sudden quiet and that
dog in the next room is not barking incessantly
so I guess I am lucky for tonight.

Other than that it is a strange evening full of mystery
the endless schemes of the week far behind me now
I can concentrate on the card games and super-bowl Sunday

I guess I am a fair weather fan always rooting at the end of the season
I crank the heat up in my room and it gets hot quickly
I am waiting for the rain to come or some sign of change
it always sneaks up on me and leaves me surprised when it comes
so I want to be prepared for when it finally gets here


Details | Prose Poetry | |

BOOMERS

They were hippies 
and societal dropouts.
Scholars, poets and 
pot smoking draft dodgers.
Civil right activists,
and anti-war protesters.
Patriots and soldiers
fighting an unpopular war.

Relationships were confused
and marriage became open.
Morality lost meaning and
God  was largely forgotten
except to grape Kool-Aid drinkers.
They liked to “groove”
on a Sunday afternoon
and kids hid under desks
for H-bomb drills.

They were good and bad
and pretty and ugly.
They were raised on Dillon, 
Joplin, Hendrix  and Doors.
Motown was happening 
with The Beach Boys,  Zeplin,
and the Rollin Stones.
Paul Revere had his Raiders,
Love was a Spoonful and
Three Dog was the Night.
The Beatles reigned supreme.
Sullivan was a king maker,
Elvis was a soldier,
and Archie and Meathead
were "All in the Family."

They welcomed the British invasion
and hung out at Woodstock -
sometimes in the nude.
Many were students 
who got high and
routinely cut class.
Most of them were psyche majors
trying to “find themselves?”
LSD was a bad trip 
that many took.
Sex was free 
and there was a lot of it.

They were spoiled, selfish,
lazy and genius.
They grew up late, 
but at least grew up.
They hid their past
and regretted much of it.
They were artistic,clever 
and very  inventive.
They are also to blame for 
much that is wrong.
Many are in denial
and most have regrets.
They were the boomers
of the baby boom generation.




Details | Prose Poetry | |

March From Broodseinde

I heard the whispers of superiors,
saying how prepared we were walking into battle,
flashes of the combined destruction witness,
tell my young, bruised mind differently,
maybe I am too immature to understand,
someday it may make sense to me,
with every foot step, that day is not today.

Without proper rest because of impending rain,
our division was ordered into attack,
alongside our brave New Zealand warriors,
two days earlier than the organized plan.

On orders, we advanced on our objective,
to capture the Blue Line, not far beyond the crestline,
legs trembled with every silent step,
mind hoping for an easy travel to our destination.

Dreams crumbled into dark reality,
with the first heard gunfire from afar,
defences up and prepared for our arrival,
as we were ready to encounter them.

Moving forward, a few hours played like hectic minutes,
every movement was at an advanced speed of chaos,
each step forward had less than the step before,
as I watched mine and their countrymen fall,
each passing bullet always took a life away,
whether the intent was for the enemy,
or considered from the friendly.

The allies of the British Empire said it was a victory,
one more step in the Passchendaele Campaign,
but I was unsure of what constitutes victory,
we took what we were ordered too,
with thousands never waking from their eternal sleep,
countless more never moving or being the same,
lost limbs never recovered,
shrapnel that will always be there.

Images play in my mind,
in this slow walk home to Australia,
carried by a band of unknown brothers,
trying not to trip over new, torn open bodies,
that are blending with old ones.
My missing foot feels every stumble,
of the steps of boys holding my cloth stretcher,
trying to be men marching home from Broodseinde.

August 25, 2011
© Andrew Scott – Just a Maritime Boy


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Cadeyrm - Battle King

The battle hardened warrior
stood solemnly upon the war torn land
the battlefield before him covered
with the life's blood of his warriors
battle armour, sword and shield
lay strewn across the land.
Flags fluttered in the breeze
as grim testimony to the fierce
and bloody battle which before
his very eyes had been bravely fought
with his fellow countrymen giving their lives
for that which they had sworn to defend
the very land upon which death now ruled.
His warrior Queen by his side
her allegiance to him the same
as those who had come before her
she swore to give her life, if called upon
for her Lord! her King! her Husband!
The ground, soaked with the blood
of warriors young and old
lay open before them
like that of a bloody wound
received victouriously in battle.
The once pristine beauty of the land
upon which they now stood
lay clenched in deaths mighty grip
a stark reminder of the ravages of battle.
With a warriors cry long born of anger
his sword raised to the heavens
he vowed his life's blood
that those who lay before him would be avenged.
As he turned to walk away
he heard the shrill call of an eagle overhead
this was to him a sign
felt throughout his very soul
that his cry had been heard
and he knew he would be victorious in his quest.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

the poetry

image and rhyme evolve of stillness.
one heart beats its rhythm;   a fluid pulse.
rain, brain, tongue.
the poetry in my poem.
feel the passion of flesh upon a tree
giving the rhyme and the reason to the disguise
of  little hands learning ignorance and
the ways of fire and rope upon flesh. 
find the poetry in my poem.
feel the passion of flesh; tattooed and numb.
frozen in still life,  the concentrations of humanity.
captive and fallen prey to answers searched for still;
in and between the lines of ‘mein kampf’.
find the poetry in my poem.
feel the passion of a flesh consumed
by a pox woven into the fabric of broken promises
and diseases of alcoholism and the reservation
and the wounded knee.
find the poetry in my poem
feel now the passion of  flesh, poor, in america;
exempt, when seeking justice in a system
where the dollar is the god we trust
where defense budgets and space shuttles and social reforms
have  higher priority than the hungry, the homeless
and the working poor 
where is the poetry in my poem?
feel the passion; ...the horror of  flesh,
vaporized and poisoned by  the fallout radiation 
of  ‘the fat man’ and ‘little boy’, the day they fell from the sky.
the day  nagasaki and hiroshima became “ground zero”
find the poetry in my poem.
feel the passion of flesh attempting to reconcile natural selection;
trespassing the spiritual and carnal realms
dwelling there where truth is all at once lost to the emotion
and the memories retold.
find the poetry in my poem.



Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Bad, Bad Boy My Dear, sweet China Flower

The Bad, Bad Boy 

My Dear, sweet China Flower :

   The Oriental fragrance of you lingers on, it has permeated the very fibers of my mind and my home.
   I am, oh so very sorry for over stepping boundaries, going beyond my place, in your life. I am sorry for letting my passions, my desires become the flames that defiled your beautiful innocence.
   I really feel bad for the BAD, BAD thing I did to you and for leaving you unsatisfied. I am also, so very sorry for pollinating - planting my seeds deep within - your beautiful flower,
and for doing so without your desire, your consent as I slipped between your stems and into your dreams .
   I do hope that you can find it in your heart to forgive this old fool for - in the heat of moments of desire to taste, to savour the flavour of your liquid honey, honey that felt so good I could not resist - defiling the innocent beauty of your womanhood, in desecrating a beautiful Flower, of China. All to satisfy my own lecherous appetites, appetites that violated the purity and innocence in you, broke the trust, that I believe you placed in the hands of this foolish old stranger.
   I am truly sorry for my acts of indiscretion, and even more so for my not
bringing to fruition, the blossoming of your beautiful flower, feeling it, seeing it explode in a brilliance of rainbow colours, that would have lit up the hours of our late night, early morning.
   Please do not think to badly of me, my Dear .

LOVE BILL .

   As I look into the above, I come to realize that I painted a picture of what must appear, to you the reader, an aggressive, forceful, selfish, inconsiderate,monster who is lurking among the shadows of my rhyme ?, / poetry ?, but let me assure you that that is as far from the truth as is the closest universe . 
   The above poem ?, / rhyme ?, came on the heels of my lack of understanding, an inability to read the signs and the over active imagination of this author as I was looking into the beauty of the first times I made love to this Beautiful China Flower, in a bright light at night's darkest hour and again in the soft glow of dawn's first sight of passion's delight . 
   The truth be told, taking poetic license, an active imagination, lack of verbal communication - for there is this language and cultural difference as well as only three months of Canadian culture and the English language under her belt, at the time - told me one story while I neglected to take into account all the none verbal expression that came, and came from this Chinese Flower, as she expressed in the silences of her physical participation a truth and that truth has blossomed many, many times since under the green thumb of this old gardener, so what is the true reality ?, the rhyme ?, / poem ?, this statement ? 
   In the light of this, the poem ?, /rhyme ?, does not a reality make . A monster ?, a fool ?, a blind man ?, an artist ?, does any of this tell what this author could be under all my words ?


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Billingsgate Fish Market 1900

It so early it's only four o'clock and it's dark on a freezing cold and wet morning,
A man with a cap rings a bell to let us know times getting on and dawn’s dawning,
As the bell rings all the lights on at Billingsgate Market famous for it's fish,
Lighting all the fishy stalls and the dark walkways selling seafood's for a dish,
Haddocks and plaice packed in boxes with ice for many chip shops, frying tonight,
Fresh the same day for a restaurant for weight watchers who want something light,
A strong smell ozone wafts around the whole fish market from the prostrate cod,
Caught in big trawler nets by weathered fishermen on the sea with nets not a rod.
Sellers in this market shout aloud fishy slogans like, ‘Wink-wink-wink-winkles’,
Have em with some salt, pepper and vinegar that you can ‘Spri-spri-spri-sprinkle’,
Railway carts shunting, clashing, banging rolling along tangles of narrow streets,
From the Monument to the market their shouting is matched by the seagulls shriek.
A fleet of horse drawn carts take fish to nearby shops dropping off boxes outside,
Over cobblestone, waking all as they thunder along bouncing in uncomfortable rides.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

TAXES TIME

have no regects
you can bet
its time do it on line
have to be done
 mabe you won
 lump some
so be blind
its
TAXES TIME


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Who Needs You Now

You have fought for your country
You have heard the calls of death
And felt the loss of blood
And now, no one hears or cares
About the tears you cry
You fought a fools war
Inspired by heroic deeds
Majestic words of honor and fame
From people who never knew your name
Many were those who fled
And endured behind their protest signs
But you, you fought the war
Lost your limbs and gained insight into reality
It was you who came back less than human
And now you stand alone at night
Lost and forgotten men
Tell me, tell me who needs you now
Where are the people
Who gave you hell
Where are the people
Who cried to bring you home
Who marched for your life
While you marched to your death
Where are the people
Who loved you when it was the thing to do
And fought for your cause
While you wondered what it was
As you watched your buddies fade away
Heroes and medals
Tell me, what does it all mean
Now that you stand alone at night
Lost and forgotten men
And tell me, tell me, who needs you now
Now that our memory fades
Of those who served and the reasons why
All we seem to do
Is stand aside and watch them die
And tell me Brothers
Who needs you now?


Details | Prose Poetry | |

to The Public

Not really a poem, but the truth of my being.

To the Public
WLM
Wildncrazy555
June 28, 2011

When I write the words just flow. I get an inspiration or a thought and have to write it down. 
Why, I do not know.  They just flow and all follow a story.  I write my innermost thoughts with 
the deepest passion imaginable and all are TRUE life experiences which have occurred in my life. 
I am diagnosed Severe Bipolar Disorder and disabled and draw SSDI. I no longer have to work 
from over 40 yrs in Maintenance and 2 degrees in Electronics and Electrical maintenance. I do 
draw disability now for over 2 yrs time and depression is a daily bout which I face every day, 
but try to be positive. The medicine I take is for my head and helps with mood swings and 
depression. As to date, I cannot read many of my works as I Bawl like a baby at most of 
them.  I remember when and how I felt when I wrote them.  But all of them follow a story to 
the end.  I cannot recite a single one because once written they are gone, otherwise they eat 
my Brain.  I am crying now as I write this and divulge my deepest thoughts and experiences of 
my life. I feel better now that it is gone from my head folks.  When a situation arises, I just 
know which ones will deserve recognition to be told.  I suffer from arthritis on my left side, my 
hands hurt all the time, and I practice herbal medicine for the pain.  I create my own remedies 
from my herbologist named Daryl Collins here in Okmulgee, he gives me the herbs and I am 
the guinea pig first and foremost for the experience.  Anyone else who suffers from this can 
contact me at trenton6896@yahoo.com.  I am willing to tell you the recipe for my
Creations.  I hope all appreciate this testimony of mine.  All I say is true to fact.
							William Lewis Moore
							June 28, 2011


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Bella

Bella
       by Odin Roark

The air is cold
I wash the udder with warm water
Milking begins

Bella
So giving
Her liquid life ever faithful
Even as she bears aloneness
Day and night

Straw
An icy water bucket
Her only friends
Until milking time

Is there warmth and tenderness here
Does she dream at times
Fleeting memories
Perhaps sun on her back
Green grass between her teeth
Fly and mosquito agitation
Seasonal parts of her life

What of the calf
Once hers
Pressed lovingly against her legs
Warmth and tenderness
Enjoying fragrances only mother and child can know

I look up
Her brown eyes blink
Our mute conversation pauses
Both knowing another winter day
Has passed

She sighs
Memories rising from
Her heavy body
Driven beneath the cold
Deep into her sluggish bloodstream
Preserved in summer's hideaway

I stand
Stroking her large head
Scratching the roots of her horns
Rendering huge moist eyes to linger
We reconnect
Even though
We'll never know much of each other

Lifting the bucket of warm milk
I lean in and whisper
You are loved dear Bella
Truly

I step outside
Darkness sets in
Like the eyelid of despair
Closing without desire to open

At my heels
The cat tilts her head
Her tongue anticipating

Bella settles
Holding faithfully to
Night's ever promising pledge
Tomorrow's dawn will come


Details | Prose Poetry | |

That Was Once You

I run all the stops signs 
In my mind to get to you
You who are frozen
In our minds 
Once in a while 
I catch a glimpse 
Of you dancing 
With the fire
For a moment 
You come alive
And I can feel you
And then once again
You become
Frozen in mind
I grasp at words
To express my pride
I grasp at words
To express the tears
I cry
I grasp at words
To express the losses
We share 
There is no space in between
We are all naked
Bare wires
Of raw emotion
Of love that pours
Into the emptiness 
That was once you


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Forgotten Love Found

Forgotten Love Found
Wildncrazy555
WLM
March 31, 2011

I thought she was lost
I did not know at what cost
She did not want me
So she let me be free
But now I have no more fear
For now she has returned here
Do I really know to see?
That she really does need and want me
For now I will think and just sit
This is her chance to prove it
I will truly be very strong
And she must show me that I was wrong
Should I let go of the slack
She must show me she wants me back
Will she really come and show 
If so my heart will have such a glow
As the sun is so hot and bright in the sky
I will lose all my fears and know why
I want to hold her so bad
And by doing so I will never again be sad
All my love I will give to her now
The amount she will never know how
We will make love for the first time
It will be so exciting and so extremely fine
I hope she will want me forever
If to be we will always be together
We will have to be till the end
This is the best time we can begin


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Rain begins again

Rain Begins Again
WLM
Wildncrazy555
June 28, 2011

Dizzy Lizzy sitting in the rain
Waiting for it to sustain
Hear the thunder rolling
The giant in the sky is bowling
The rain is so cool
As the mourning jewel
The birds in the trees
Feeling the cool breeze
The rain gives new birth from the heart
It quenches the earth from its start
The rain feels so fine
It makes my head feel so sublime
The earth needs the rain
So all life can sustain
The feelings that we share
Surely, do we dare?
Revel in the glory
Of the never-ending story
With the land and it’s age
From this to another stage
The flowers so much in bloom
With such a beautiful flume
Surrounding our earth
From the beginning of it’s birth
Will be the rest for me
For all time and my destiny


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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Greater 'Minds' Than Mine

 
  Greater 'Minds' Than Mine; 
Have left the 'Earth' and walked away.
Einstein as a troubled child, 
lobotomized, 
mixed socks and locked away.
Hubble and his visions eye'd, 
are seen across the sky.
D.N.A...must free more how...
When freedom lies barred now.
Worlds within a world within a world, 
his world one waits.
Within our dreams.
We do not wast our time on germs, 
untill they show us how. 

Is It Poetry 
 
 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Helen Keller

 Helen Keller 
Helen Keller 
 
 
88 
 
CharlaXFabels 
 

 This is what eye remember about the MOVIE of course eye never knoe her. She 
was moving constantly moving at least the actress who was portraying her but to 
a boy it WAS her it seemed so heart wrenching a thing to just be blind there is a 
SCHOOL for THEM they do not function in the real world and there she was big 
as life the boy in my had that CRUSH upon her from the instant eye saw her it 
was strang puppy love. Winner of the 1960 Tony Award for Best Play, “The Miracle 
Worker” tells the incredible story of Helen Keller, a young woman trapped in a 
world of silence and darkness. Deaf, blind, and mute, with no way to 
communicate, she fought anyone who tried to help her with an intense, furious 
desperation. Then Annie Sullivan came. A strong, determined, half-blind woman 
fueled by her troubled past, she began the daunting struggle to reach Helen and 
bring her into the world at last. She was so pretty in an odd sort of way swaying to 
the tune of musick only she could see and hear the idea that she tried to 
overcome her handicap and live was so nice to this little undergod. YThis semi-
sequel to William Gibson's The Miracle Worker recounts the early adult years of 
the profoundly handicapped but brilliant Helen Keller. Helen, played by Mare 
Winningham, enters college, with her friend and mentor Annie Sullivan Macy 
(Blythe Danner) by her side. As Helen's international fame grows, she must 
withstand the pressures of those who'd treat her as a freak rather than a human 
being as well as Annie's near-strident demands that she excel at everything. The 
multi-faceted Ms. Keller lived too much of a life to be squeezed into a mere two-
hour running time; the script betrays the strain of trying to show us more than it's 
able by wrapping up everything in a hurried, unsatisfying conclusion. see part two 
ED.NOTE


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Santa Monica Pier

Santa Monica Pier

I remember watching 
the ocean roll on the shore,
wave after wave, 
crashing down on the solid sand
and I idly staring back
wondering if the Atlantic was as blue.

I watched him light a candle
and move in the swaying light
from a bygone age.

The flame flickered, so fragile,
it leans and sways in the cold breeze

My burning love is the flame in the lamp
From antiquity--a pre-industrial artifact

An oil lamp of glass from Rome
Bronze from Carthage
A terra-cotta from Athens

He smiles at me 
in a flicker of light and 
knows all my past like a line from Virgil
A chronicle from Homer
An essay from Milton, a history of Herodotus

And me, ignorant,
knowing nothing of him 
can only quote 
from Ovid, 
	Beowulf, 
		Caedmon and Gilgamesh.
 
The flame descends,
From the nape of the lit candle,
	 and we are lying in darkness on a spring night.

Everything in history is forgotten 
	and yesterdays are not so many 
	as night descends, 
		the lit moon cast in the glow 
			of the lamplight of our love.

 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

NOT A BLACK OR WHITE THING ITS THE RIGHT THING

it gods land
all made from his hands
you have right to  stand
white or black don't step back
put failure on the rack
to be is what love brings
ITS
NOT A BACK OR WHITE THING
ITS THE RIGHT THING


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Don't Let My History Dye

Don’t Let My History Die

Don’t let my history die
Dear children of tomorrow;
The accomplishments of our peoples’ past
Their heartaches and their sorrows.

Don’t let my history die
The stories of picking cotton with bare hands;
Through the extreme heat and many rainy days
They spent traveling through this land.

Don’t let my history die
The story of how far we as a people have come;
Praying all through those days of slavery
Asking more strength from our God’s Son.

Don’t let my history die
Thinking only of today;
For we never know what tomorrow will bring
Therefore we should always pray.

Don’t let my history die
Thinking thyself wiser than our God
For our people of the hard days past
Paved a better way for you to trod.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Jack

Filled with spite
He hides from the light
Ready to rip - Ready to tear
Merciless, without a care
Prowling the streets like a pro
He knows just where to go
To find his next victim
Wait for the dark lined eyes to dim
Shell of another thrown to the ditch
Never enough to scratch the itch
Burning inside his mind is a flame
No amount of death will tame
Cycle of death and pain
On his hands the permanent stain
Dripping red
He will not stop until he is dead
Filling the streets with blood and gore
Until he becomes naught but lore


Details | Prose Poetry | |

I Look For You

????? ???

In the corner of the bookstore is a man playing dominoes
the crowd outside doesn't notice the confusion,
there is the sound of firecrackers and people turn
in all directions, the cameras searching for an answer

??????
no one will ever know the truth, it is well hidden
they will look for it in all the faded photographs
but it is a mystery to the world, that fatal day in November
some will say it is this, some will say it is that

 
the love, that inspired it
???? ??????
 
I say to the handwriting on the wall,
it was you all along, 

anchoring away, marching through Marseilles
with your epaulets and caps on.

 beauty in the eye of the beholder.

? ??????? ???? ??? ?????????


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Victorian Christmas

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

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

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

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

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

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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

GIFTS

IT WON'T BE LONG
you'll be comming home
with bags
that will be sage
fill to the top
with a red boxs
for friends  and stiffs
thoses holiday
GIFTS


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Lovers Of a Hundred Decades Ago

They had dreamed. They had gone so far with their dreams. Yet, so deprived they 
lived.
Like them, I have become a denizen of the desert, ever since I laid my eyes on 
you.
Like them, lovers of a hundred decades ago, I was destined to wake up everyday 
in a new shelter, a new tent.
What would my shelter be anyway, that ceases lamentation.
So far from here I have gone. An inhabitant of the moon perhaps have I become, 
ever since your love was seared in me; ever since I started missing you like 
the desert misses the rain, I have been unutterably agonized.
Now, it has been a month, an eternity shall I say.
Now, to believe that you’ll be back, it would take me as many trials as there are 
miles between the moon and us. “Us”.  What a soothing word. As soothing as it 
is for you to realize that a series of flaws have been nothing but a lame 
nightmare, and as queenly as stereotype works.
Like the sand under the misty skies that I have seen from my window, scattered 
grains either cemented or carried away, is my salvation.
Waiting to be held closely, with cuddles and a sweet lullaby, the immutable child 
amid my exhaustions cries in grief…
…and when it rained, I had to believe…at least to recall the hope that I had lost.
Yes, today it rained, amidst the scalding and the warmth, it came; I believe it did, 
yet I still don’t know whether it was sent to heal the pain, or cut the line and cease 
the chain.

Jessica J. Hanna
November 2006


Details | Prose Poetry | |

WATCH THE GOOD GUY

some smile
treat you like a child
don't fall for the smile
its a fact 
you are stab in the back
thats why
you must 
WATCH THE GOOD GUY


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Death to Caesar

“Death to Caesar!!!”

“What!!  What did you say???”

I said:  “Breath to Caesar!!”
“Long and healthy and contented breath.”

“So which of his Legions are you a part of?”

“OH!  God, if there is one, they call us the freezing legion.
“See these fingers, well where they used to be, well
they got lopped off.  It was so cold out they didn’t even
bleed.  Saved my indentured frigging life.”

“Those that died froze so quickly we didn’t even
need litters to carry them off the field of battle.”
“Just picked them up stiff as you please and threw
them in the cart.”

“So What made you join up?”  “Trouble with the law?
or In-law?”  “Too many tarts?”  “Eh, C’mon.”

“Damn, same old story.  Dad’s a senator, always bragging
about his son, you know.”

“Agricolas this, Agricolas that.”  “Dammit, stop snickering.
He thought it would be an advantage to have an outlandish
moniker.”  “So he hung this one on me.”  “So one day I just
got fed up, said screw this, and went off to become a legionnaire.”
“Guess I showed him what he could do with his stupid name.
Now I kill farmers, well not just farmers, just about anybody
that gets in the way of the Legion.”  “Not a bad job though, as
long as your not the one frozen stiff and tossed in the cart.”

“Well, I bet your dad’s proud now.”

“Nope, hasn’t spoken to me in three years.  Says I spend too much
time hanging about with the lower echelons of humanity.”  “I told
him we weren’t partying, that I hacked their limbs off, crushed their
skulls, decimated their homes and villages.”  “Last thing he said to me
was Nail Caesar!!”  “Ya gotta love these loyal subjects.”  


for Isaiah Zerbst, The Roman Legion contest


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Helen Keller: The Miracle Continues

Helen Keller: The Miracle Continues was initially telecast as part of the 
syndicated Operation Prime Time package in 1984. ~ Hal Erickson As Annie 
Sullivan and Helen Keller, Anne Bancroft and Patty Duke could not have been 
better. The battle of wills and wits between the two is engrossing, becoming 
quite involved and very interesting. The lengthy dining room struggle alone would 
make any movie worth watching - it is worthwhile even beyond the interesting 
action itself, as it brings out aspects of human nature and human learning that 
go beyond even Helen's own trials. 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Lessons taught

Long ago on rolling hills
And endless plains
Stood men who fought
For a cause beyond common understanding
Bound together by integrity
They persevered 
When odds gave no chance
Led by a man
Whose name was always half whispered
They made a vow
From that day forth
To stand as one
For in so doing
They found the strength
Lost on thousands
And won the day
Freedom they earned
From the blood they sacrificed
In defending a land
Not all their own
Thus were legends made
Respect of generations earned
Handed down from father to son
Mother to daughter
For all to hear 
How strength is found
When standing as one
Throughout history
From the example made
Nations have been born
To see freedom reign
Overcoming such odds
That would defeat weaker men
All brought forth long ago
On rolling hills and endless plains
In the lessons taught
By men who stood as one and persevered
For a cause far beyond
Common understanding of mortal men


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Forever Free

In the land
Where brave men die
Stories are told
Where these men lie
Of how they fought
And what they sought
Glory not for themselves
But freedom to die
As they chose
So they did
And gave their all
So those that follow
Might know free will
Brave men in troubled times
Who lived not to count
Rich men’s dimes
Lived lives full
Rather facing death
Than to live as slaves
Men of honor who drank their fill
Feasted on life
Till filled with hope
Riding into battle already won
Free to feel the sun
With the wind in their hair
Free to choose their day to die
Oh to be so free
May we always be
To always remember the legend
Of a man and men
Who so believed in integrity and honor
In the face of challenge and strife
Rode off to face death
To put their lives to the test
For a greater cause
That we might live
Forever free


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Take me Back to the Time

Take me back to a time when have a Pepsi was for merry people at Christmas,
When General Electric fairy lights hung on real trees and pine needles fell,
Father Christmas smoked Pall Mall cigarettes because they were the smoothest,
A present of Tupperware for your mum was the very best present in the world.

Back to a time when Lional train sets made a man of a boy and a boy of a man,
Sammy Davis took Alka Seltzer as it eased his holiday headaches making him well,
Where Tide washing powder made every husband the most smartest man in every town,
And another happy chubby Father Christmas drank Coca Cola because it was the best.

A time when lorries slowly drove along roads selling wood for Christmas real fires,
A new Hoover would take care of any mess that was caused by the most crowded party,
Carlings Red Cap beer was the perfect drink for the perfect party with no hang overs,
And Crushed Rose Lipstick and transformed every woman from a house wife to a princess.

Woman should gain weight stop being skinny and tired with a plan that made you fat,
But the best of all were cock-eyed, cross-eyed glasses that made your eyes look normal,
And Woolworth's was the shop to buy all your Christmas presents to delight your family,
But for a young boy the best present he could ever get in his life was a new bicycle.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Whiff of Canterbury Tails

85
 Feedback comes to those who apply and post and expect to receive the same 
when you place a silver dollar in your mouth you scratch it with your teeth to see if 
it is real a man bites down upon it and then looks and frowns or looks and 
smiles upon the quarter he has found not silver or even golden but just metal of 
some kind its zinc and copper mixes made in Betty Crocker's Kitchens. She has 
a tray of circles all lain out upon her divine divan the tails side up for luck she got 
this from the JESUS man who tossed his penny in an arc and tried to hit a mark 
a line drawn in the sand and made his feet go march to live a different plan a 
lifetime being mended his only love he found she makes the things he feels 
inside brand new. She stirs her better batter up with a long and spindly spatula 
she marks each coin with edges with the cheese garter greater. She takes the 
grater to the table and turns each coin by hand she makes four of them for every 
dollar in this land. They asked her who is on the image of the coin she laughed 
and dimpled smiling she said it must be Dollar Bill.  The George Washington 
Dollar is the image used for the quarter he gets to be on two. When yew become 
the President Of America you can be their two. She stamps the quartered dollars 
on the side that just says heads with the handy dandy stamper set she got from 
her Uncle Jed for Christmas Past. She turns the coins at last and makes the tails 
with her old eagle eye she uses her new leather set to scritch and scratch the 
bird the lines formed from habit of making millions in a set in just one day she 
filled the Island of Manhattan with 24 additional sets they said they needed them 
to buy Manhattan again the previous treaty had run out from the statue of 
limitations set back in Washington against the law must be obeyed by every 
man. When eye am making a bus ride and eye find a lot of pennies eye ignore 
them when eye find a quarter eye do a little more than dance in place eye jig eye 
jog eye trip on every log in my haste to find three more it costs one dollar just to 
Board the Tran. Betty declined to speak just to the press for she is very shy she 
said she knoes now who the image is on the flip side of her coin and eye did not 
keep a dry eye when she smiled at me and said without a tremor or a miss it is 
Washington, D. C. 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

BE PART OF RIGHTS BAND

make  a stand
go hand to hand
sit and make plans
together
to make thing world better
bang on ccan
BE PART OF RIGHTS BAND


Details | Prose Poetry | |

St Nicholas

Every ones heart is open happy and glad that's if they have a heart,
Every ones purse is opened wide whether they have much money or not,
This is the sunny good side of Christmas and he is a jolly old fellow,
St Nicholas can dry up most tears quieten sighs, clear up any storms.

He piles the yule-log high upon the hearth and beckons his brother's,
But there are tears that surge upwards from a source too deep to dry,
Clouds too dense to drive away and deeper sighs too sorrowful to bare,
He finds he cannot banish all pain so he begins to sympathize with it.

He has a gentle hand to lay upon a troubled heart he can weep and feel,
He also feels for the unfortunate and help bear the burden of the weary,
He also listens to the thoughtful retrospect its return awakens the mind,
He hopes on this one day every year people show they care for each other.

After the feast happiness ensues a season of deep reflection and good will,
Many last night enjoyed a dance, dance cards full struggling with admirers,
Some were under the kissing bush or picking trinkets from the Christmas Tree,
Playing games like blind man's buff and reveling in the best time of the year.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

BIG CITY MIDNIGHT BALL DROP

its at top
waiting to rock
watch the clock
its going fall
from that wall
watch at the parking lot
BIG CITY MIDNIGHT BALL DROP


Details | Prose Poetry | |

EASTER FOR THE WORLD

it had to fall
for us all
so we could begin
he died for our sin
he raise his head
for all our blood is red
its for me you too
and boy and girl
EASTER FOR THE WORLD


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Lucky Ones

We were born...
Of the Greatest Generation,
Who wordlessly showed us...
Valour, integrity, honor.

Unflinchinglessly sacrificing
their lives,
To fight back the greatest evil
the world had ever seen...
We've had our challenges,
though few compare with theirs.

The more I've learned of those days,
The more they surpass the greatest fiction,
The bravest heroic tales,
Were everyday things...
The women ran the country,
outproducing all others combined
Their war was as real, and valued...
As those who fought from their fox holes.

We grew into our little "Levitt" homes,
Expecting to eat every day...
And few of us concerned of such worries,
We hadn't experience the great depression,
We had been blessed enough,
To escape that lesson of humility.
 
We worked for a new status car
to impress our girls, "wow!" our friends,
Not for merely avoiding starvation.
Somehow, for some reason, 
We had missed that particular life lesson...

And now our torch has passed
May it long burn
The future is now out of our hands.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Trees

 
  1) ..Every time... I take a breath.
2) ..I think about... the trees.

3) ..Knowing that....deep down inside.
4) ..Each breath you take...no longer can I clean. 

5) ..Is it True...your love I sought. 
6) ..When on my skin... you carve your heart. 

7) ..When here...upon my limbs birds nest. 
8) ..While knowing that each root...I need.

9) ..If leaves are words...one poem makes.
10) ..And making none...you strip my branch.

11) ..Where then will you..hang your swing.
12) ..Looking up..why do I see..a heaven without trees. 

Is It Poetry 
 
 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

GAME OF POOL

its pssa time
get it on line
where to play
its everyday
they shot this ball
at the pool hall
some do it for fame
and to buy food
the
GAME OF POOL


Details | Prose Poetry | |

SixSixtySix

666
Somewhere in the sky in an airdome is the real liberry there is 5000 computors 
for the public eye and no waiting for seating the shuttle makes a bubble seal and 
you can sit there forever no leaving no plug ins allowed no laptops not no cell 
phones in mye sky the invitation only given to the poor among us the man that 
eye become is almost too wealthy just to qualify as poor to even go there the 
games are never worthless the pictures all of ewe no boring conversations next 
to yew the many flirtations of the masses of the freshmans newest classes they 
still rule the halls of commons making all the little rules and smiles become the 
machinations of all the foolish pride become the day the flaming balls of fire that 
fall from heaven from the bowl fall way to close to eye as the earth turns slowly 
bye too near the lieberry dome portents of the judgment day to come there was a 
statue of the JESUS near the mountain near a bay of water it was hit by 
lightening  wish that eye had saved it very good sign of the times there will be 
signs in the heavens signs in Earth and sky portents of my Jesus getting ready to 
come back he will miss the lieberry dome and let me leave this world to come to 
his feet and worship him to finally come home but there is blue sky in the end of 
time the birds still sing even so the end will come the birds still sing the grass is 
dead the life is hard but the birds still sing. The number of his name the Mark on 
head or hand is 666 the computor asking us for dress codes for passwords and 
for security ones just the other day mye friends eye logged onto BLOGGER from 
my photobucket account to try a new thing to make a picture slide show and it 
very nearly locked me out it told me to wait for five days and try the security 
question then. Shame. Confusion reigned and even eye so well endowed in acts 
of password retrieval was at a loss just how to continue
then when eye remembered at the last moment to ask for the password to be 
sent to me in email and then eye went to log in and logged in anyway 
remembering the enter then laughing then bragging then deciding it's a good day 
once again how lucky are we they could require a number just to enter building 
they could make the screen go dark without a number parted into computor they 
could carry Willy clubs and beat us off the thing down to the floor and straddle us 
and do their wicked thing to us you are not a student anyway. This is my fantasy 
computor fable number SixSixtySix charlax fabel.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Whitsuntide in London

Bells burst across the town, the city, all over London's workhouses and minories
A world of glad and beautiful things rush into mans hearts bringing back memories,
Days of darkness and trial, scenes of fraud, faithlessness fade away and disappear,
A world of hard iron men and all that is sad and oppressive go away, hope returns.

Blue skies and far away woods carry the sound of these merry bells to a toiling race,
Workers rise from the foggy atmosphere of the care paved cities to stand in greenness,
Back to a land of pleasant memories, the sun was always shining, the air always clear,
Away from machinery noise, the books of learning where tall office stools stand empty.

To streams of pure water flowing in harmony with happy larks, tits, the thrush sang,
Nature waits to receive all, its arms wide open to protect workers from dismal dreams,
Dreams can become a reality of beauty and peace, time away, from all worries and fear,
Men break the spell of town dreariness and once more enjoy being in the midst of woods.

People take their first flight into the near forest of Epping on a bright summers day,
To walk in green glades under a green covert of the close boughs of the hornbeam tree,
Along to a highway where Londoners dance, in the heat and dust, outside public houses,
Red as lobsters, working harder at their dancing then they would do in grim factories.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Ashes of Our Innocence

A song can be heard tonight
Swirling about me beating down my strength
Enfolding the whole of me with thick, terrifying captivation
That chokes a city with the roaring thunder of despair
Of the innocent obliterated in the unforgettable heartbeat
When we died with our friends and families
Slain from the once impossible that shattered our world
Tossed aside the veil of our innocence forever

I can stand no more and I fall
My weary gaze heavenward for I have no answers
With my heart weeping, my soul burning
My mind alive with a desperately hungry vengeance
I scream out all of my searing pain
I scream out with every fibre, every pore of my being!
I scream blinded by this maelstrom of emotion
I scream!
I SCREAM AND I SCREAM . . !

Until my voice runs ragged
Until my anger simmers
And here amid a shattered ruin
I find inside the depths of my soul . . .
That which is fierce in us all

I stand and glare beyond the horizon
Where I know the object of my hatred hides
Feeling safe in his pit of woe
“No,” I seethe
“No,” I burn
“No!” I say through clenched teeth 
“I will not falter!
I will not give up!
I will not give into the swallowing lament of night!
I WILL NOT LET YOU BREAK ME!

I will see you held accountable
I will and I do defy you!!
I DEFY YOU!
And everything you represent!”

I . . .
I like my people, believe in a merciful God
Our Lord forgives and loves us all
And this is the God I believe in . . .
But I am a man, just a man . . .
And I cannot forgive you for this, I will not
God may forgive you
But I do not

I . . .
I hate you!
For the lives you have destroyed!
For the fear in my heart!
I hate you for existing . . .
I hate you because now I cannot help but to hate something

It’s lonely where these towers have fallen
And in this solitude I pick up a stone
I move another stone and then another
For I know not what else to do
I find that this stone is not a part of the rubble
I understand that I am not really clearing debris

I am rebuilding

And this dust covered stone now within my hands
Is the first
In a new foundation of our lives
I see my friends
Doing as I do, lifting one stone after another
We are rebuilding our world
Our ideals

And I whisper to the horizon
“Know this
Today we mourned as people grieving for our loved one
Tonight we mourn as a race having just lost our innocence
Tomorrow we will mourn as people defiled by atrocity one last time
But soon . . .
We will weep and mourn no more
And on that day

We will end terror.”


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Bolton Street at Night 1900

Walk down into Bolton Street strolling unhurried enjoying the pleasant square,
Turning off along a small side street with lights no people, nothing is there,
Then in a window a golden cube it's the main window in a night black as coal,
A small glow of light appeared and for a moment, etched it's image in my soul.
So I stood and filled my pipe and rested near this glowing window full of light,
Then to my amazement cool drops from piano keys tinkled so softly in the night,
I stood there listening to a maestro a musical genius playing a familiar tune,
Greg, Schuman or Chopin’s music played so sweetly under a full harvest moon,
Out of the same window an angel appeared and sung with such a beautiful voice
Beating of keys on wire made hairs on my neck stand, the tune a lovely choice.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

My Aim

As I look thru this scope 
this, rifle if you will
I still hear that whisper (Corey shoot to kill)
today could be my last meal 
like Christ last supper so like the 
word of God my floetic lyrics bypass
flesh and cuts thru souls like a hot knife thru butter
and as a black man I don't know what it's like 
to be a black woman and imma father so
I can't imagine what it was like for my mother
but my scope, my aim, my trigga finger 
is nothin like yourz. 

You see my heart too was once cold 
now I'm back on solid ground 
like the concrete floor, I can hear 
the angels in heaven now still
shouting for my encore
I still hear em praising God's name
when the doctor cut my umbilical cord
I can still see Saul on the road to Damascus
being used by the Lord I can feel the ancient history 
of my ancestors when whips tore thru their ligaments
I still see the devil speaking blasphemy to me 
acting so belligerent, so take a long look at
me this here is black history 
because honestly you couldn't walk thru 
my shoes if I let you in my memory


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Piccadilly Dawn

The vitality of Piccadilly slowly ebbs away until it gets quiet at about three A.M.,
A human figure becomes enigmatic and provokes an interest when it’s empty of them,
Hoardings in the center of the road are now dark and dingy look like an ugly scar,
Then there is is a noise a beam that washes the Circus it's the lights from a car,
Piccadilly at three A. M. looks much like a big empty theater after the final show,
The cast have gone their separate ways and the audience too all had somewhere to go,
Bottles tinkle in the dark the noise of flapping paper it’s all part of the night,
Talking and footsteps from afar then a loud cough, laughs from revelers out of sight.
On the corner is a pillar-box standing guard, tramcar rods flash as they rumble by,
Big Ben four gold faces shine the four points of the compass, in the darkened sky,
Soon alarm clocks will ringing all over the city getting people out of their beds,
London at night, in the pitch dark, is the same as anywhere a wise man once said.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Rebirth

Landslides, earthquakes, strip mining, deforestation, tornadoes, blizzards,
floods, volcanoes, hurricanes - some of these are man-made intervention -
recipes for disaster.   Our planet is depleted and dying, we must find a new
home, Searching - searching - - - through endless space.  After months we
see it - THERE - in the Milky Way Galaxy - third planet from the sun - virgin
wilderness with vast oceans, tropical forests teeming with life, we can 
colonize here and thrive.  We leave some colonists and move on searching,
but we leave runways in the earth to commemorate our passing and, perhaps
to find our way back again one day if the need arises.  It is hoped these
colonists will learn from the past and honor the new planet so it may shelter
them for aeons to come.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

ICB (PARTONE)1

ICB
FABLE4TW0
IDENTITY
CharlaXFabels
For all intents and purposes man is now the number of the beast.
Is the Poet yet aware? Did he knoe that men were killing men that wars were 
being fought again whilst he dared to dream even pen love he felt inside for 
them? Words so eloquently displayed for all the students of the English 
Language to critique and study how many poems does the English teacher use? 
in classrooms long abused by drug and alcoholic use the poetic foibles of a 
systematic killing of the individual pursuits. Completed in the Identification 
system is the number of the beast the system is the thing. The use of numbers 
to Identify the people is nothing new the Military in Ancient Worlds numbered 
troops on the Identification Chalk Boards the ICB were set up in the surrounding 
rocks so that the Trolls could change the numbers during the battle they had to 
be quick whitted adding and subtracting the smarter ones soon figured out to 
count the men’s legs and divide by two. The Roman Government even instituted 
the Social Card but the elite only had them they used them to get in the better 
areas of the Roman bathes. The Poet Edgar Allen Poole was made most 
famous by his Raven died it seems after the Cival war was over. Poole, (-----), 
Mr. - PE 16 Nov 1889. Walter Whiteman was next One Time People Search 
Report for Walter Whiteman unfortunate this search wanted money to complete 
the search this Poets death remains uncertain.
Get full name and addresses for all displayed records. Perhaps he is still alive in 
Arizona and continuing his poems in another place and time. 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

SPRING FLOWERS

it the time 
you see the wine
grow you no
you everything
that brings spring
and the love shower
that blooms
SPRING FLOWERS


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Whitechapel 1870

The wretched street-haunters of London tell me where are their vile homes,
The gin palaces alone invites them into a warmth that burns their hearts,
The dreary lodging houses scenes of filth they spend their nights in hell,
And in these dens of hate humans heard together with a rudeness of beasts.

No songs of olden days no romance, the city has poisoned grace and beauty,
No tenderness or love breaks through the darkness of their bitter spirits,
Nothing to look froward to with no hope, nothing soothes them into virtue,
Degradation is hideous with vulgarity the most revolting of life's gifts.

Theft with cunning, murder and brutal violence, crowd and crouch together,
They dream of more successful lies grander theft more infamies for tomorrow,
Tossing and turning through the bitter night half sleeping and half guarding,
Such is this a grand triumph of our great civilization, our countries wealth.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Bethnal Green 1850

It is a Sunday morning in spring the bright sun shines in Bethnal-green,
Wander along a path between the church, the railway towards Whitechapel,
For one day there are beautiful flowering gardens thrown open to anybody
And at their gates there are beautiful plants and flower-roots for sale.

There is every flower imaginable radiant under the English morning sun,
Old flowers to take you back childhood and your grandparents childhood,
There are lads loves, sweet williams, daisies, pinks to warm your heart,
Wallflowers, polyanthuses, thrifts, tufts of sweet-peas, with daisies

Tufts of larkspurs, violets with columbines all for sale at one penny,
For one penny the poor can stock a small plot by a door, or corner tub,
Or it could be a pot in the window, where these poor plants will fade,
Under the admiring eyes of those who are older and fading themselves.

Out of the alleys and courts and unknown streets many people come to see,
And those pale and sickly weavers are streaming along to feast their eyes,
Different from stenches and factory grime, miserable times over the years,
magical, beautiful and delicate, for a moment their grim lives forgotten.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

BEAT DOWN

must say
life got in my way
no longer do i play
i've be up
been thur lots of stuff
its been ruff
up down and around
guess you can say
been
BEAT DOWN


Details | Prose Poetry | |

NO BLACK NO WHITE

this we must face
we're one race
mabe difference taste
roots you must traces
in every case
you fine this is gods base
for who do right
its a fact
there's no
NO BLACK NO WHITE


Details | Prose Poetry | |

How Mark T Made His Mark

Money for nothing...
Newmark & Lewis you see
Was where Mark T worked
And was visited,
By a famous rocker
Who likely got the idea from him
I long wondered if true
And have been more than satisfied
With the proof.

I thought this tribute was done,
Then I realized I'd missed
the mark...(and I do miss Mark, believe me)
Mark's mark was really on those 
He shared the earth with.
No one ever influenced me musically
more than Mark.  What he taught me,
I couldn't have learned in Juilliard's.
And not just music.
Mark was way ahead of his time.
Way ahead.
He had his weaknesses, who doesn't?
But he did have a good heart.
He was a good friend.
I am sure he was a good father.

I was in numerous bands with him.
Like I earlier stated, somehow
his presence calmed me, even
when we were facing unscaleable
obstacles.
Once he brought over two albums,
pre- band practice.  I was introduced to
Floyd's "Atom Heart Mother", and the Dead's
Live Dead version of "Dark Star"

To this day, these are my favorite
pieces of music, particularly "Atom Heart".

How I wish we could have spent more time together.
How I grieve, with his family.
Only years later learning of this.
Countlessly trying to reach him prior.
Someday I will.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Fabel Seventeen Part Two

Eye left some bags underneath the moonlight with some messages from me to 
ewe if someone finds them please just not to worry eye will say the thief just took 
them and thank them for finding them they never play detective like the rangered 
rangerer. Remember to tell this next one to an atheist the next time the question 
GOD? Take the Concept of GOD and then think really hard about what that could 
really mean then think how it would not be really hard to write a bible for a GOD? 
He could have made FOURHUNDRED GOSPELS not just FOUR? He could 
make FOURHUNDREND bibles each one different then the one before the Four 
Hundredth Bible Chapter 21: Verse 3 says 
Jesus saves the rangered and the rangerer? Oph please. Marshall Thompson 
was a Texas Rangerer when he rangered all the crock pots was full of meat and 
set too hot. Chuck Kobasew is a Bruin but he has a secret desire to be a 
rangerer and live in a BIG APPLE and eat little Johnny Appleseed’s all day and 
when he played against the New York rangerers he rangered them. The Blue 
Power Rangerer was hard afoot to kick the evil treasoner the Harly sidekick. The 
Harly was the yellow rangerette now in disguise. She sidekicked the poor blue 
rangerer and then he rangered the yellow rangerette with a royal blue sidekick to 
her motorcycle footrest. Then the commercial came on.
Buy a Ford Rangerer either yellow or blue and you will be the rangered rangerer 
come true.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Last Call

Last call at the Trees Lounge
Been there many times
Buscemi movie of it,
Wonder if I ever met him
Odd how pieces of your life
Just show up unexpectedly
Scene of places I knew well
And a good movie to boot
Some places are worth remembering


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Toast of the Town

in this small village,
we have but one diner
I've sampled their menu before
and have but one complaint
the toast they serve with breakfast
seems like it came from bread
baked at the time of Ramses II


Details | Prose Poetry | |

BUCKINGHAM LACE

Sussanah,my great grandma,times three,a pillow puffed up on her knee;with 
daughter Ann in cobbled Cowfair,daily shaped their homespun ware.In such 
humble women,cottage-tied,a rare and dextrous art did reside.Fashioned 
out,stitch by stitch,pillowed lace in patterns rich.Tinkling bobbins with bewildering 
skill,inch by inch grew the intricate frill.Twisting threads in pairs and 
groups,knitted together with interlocking loops.An established craft of world 
renown grew around this county town.Plain or decorative old point lace,a lost 
rural industry of which there's no longer a trace.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Fabel Seventeen Part One

Fabel Seventeen
CharlaXFabels
Rangerer Rangered
There is many words that seem like they should belong to the English language 
but actually on closer examination they do not appear in the dictionary today the 
word is Rangered. If the eye were to try to brag about the flesh it would not help 
the things that happened were to someone else perhaps the rangerer. Now that 
eye am free and in love with the ewe eye am just the rangered not endangered to 
be lost but entitled to be found by the love within us both. A man was talking to 
his spouse “eye have found GOD” said the man “OH tell me where is GOD?”  
Said the woman and the man said “GOD is upon the internet it's a Charlax Poem 
come and see.” The lone rangerer was riding SILVER to the entrance of the mine 
where he makes bullets’ and the shine of a penny caught his eye. The Scout 
pony stopped behind the rangerer and TONTO said “what’s UP 
kemosabe”? “The CharlaX told me that a penny turned tails up is lucky can you 
tell it to me old friend TONTO?” said the lone rangerer. Its heads kemosabe and 
the old Indian kept the coin. The moral of this story is to check pennies for 
yourself the luck will then be thine. The Airborne Ranger was jumping out of the 
tower when the sergeant kicked him out he was heard to yell out “TONTO” 
not “Geronimo” as some are in belief. He fell too earth and broke his rangered 
leg.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Fabel Sixteen

 Fabel Sixteen 
PART ONE
Fabel Sixteen 
 
CharlaX Fables 
 
Famous Charles' 
 
Historic “Charles” 
 
WE now explore the the Charles of HIStory or HiSTORY LOLZX. 
The History of Charles County 
________________________________________ 
Where can you find great seafood, enough history to fill several books, top-flight 
golf, first-class fishing and acres and acres of some of the most beautiful forest 
land on the East Coast?? The answer can be found just eighteen miles south of 
Washington, DC, in Charles County, Maryland -- an area that has become a 
Mecca for heaters and anglers, and a magnet for history buffs and seafood-
lovers .ed.note. This is a love poem of some propulsion to see iff she is looking 
closely at the mee. 
Saint Charles Inn 
The Inn, formerly known as the St. Charles Hotel, was built in 1913 by Mr. and 
Mrs. Charles Barthle. It was widely known for its' hospitality to commuters on the 
Orange Belt Railroad, which came through San Antonio. Many visitors came and 
stayed for the winter season. Word soon spread about the family atmosphere 
and delicious meals prepared from their garden lover. She is so faithful and so 
blessed and gives my heart a rest she loves me best. 
          Charles Demuth (1883-1935) 

                     
"Deem" as some of his friends called him, was born in a Lancaster house on 
North Lime Street. At age 7, he and his family moved to the King Street home 
where he spent most of his lifetime. Demuth's health was frail; from an early age 
he suffered from lameness and as an adult from severe diabetes. He graduated 
from Franklin and Marshall Academy and studied at Drexel Institute and the 
Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Arts in Philadelpia.P.A. Lover. She travels hard 
and she has to work too much she needs to rest. 
H