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History Prose Poetry Poems | Prose Poetry Poems About History

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

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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 |

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


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