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Prose Poetry History Poems | Prose Poetry Poems About History

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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

Copyright © johnathon bart | Year Posted 2008

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Sadness is a Visable Spoken Word

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

The time in which these words were spoken, surely must've been a mournful day; a day showing to each of these Native Americans as a passing marked of great sadness, a sadness unique to each perspective - an end-view of a Peoples reaching eyes, ...eyes found looking back at their ancestral homeland, each having taken in this sight with great beholding, ... as if the imminent future had left out on an open grassy plain, a thousand souls in wait for final sharing of a night's thoughts under a Northen Lights glow. Sadly, for some, the last capture of a memory, this running beauty to its hold would ever show.

Copyright © dave archuletta | Year Posted 2012

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'}



Copyright © deb radke | Year Posted 2011

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.

Copyright © Leo Larry Amadore | Year Posted 2012

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

Copyright © Sandip Goswami | Year Posted 2014

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.

© O. E. Guillermo

Sponsor	Cyndi MacMillan Contest Name	
GENOCIDE: SPEAK FOR THE LOST... the FORM IS POETIC PROSE 
Placed 1st... :)

Oct. 11, 2014
*Rwandian

Copyright © Olive Eloisa Fraser | Year Posted 2014

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.

Copyright © Cromwell Mpinganjira | Year Posted 2011

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

Copyright © Mark Goodson | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Deepening Dusk

Deepening Dusk
                by Odin Roark

How might this relentless approach of final darkness
present its final moments before curtain?

The acts have been rewarding,
even as the protagonist and antagonist
missed some cues,
made a few false entrances,
and at times confused the audience
of only me.

Thankfully…

My catwalk view
where having long ago embraced
Gordon Craig’s Uber-Marionette concept,
his self-aware-life-enactment
being simultaneously puppet and puppeteer,
prepared me well for the Marcus Aurelius’ Meditations:
    “All of us are creatures of a day;
    the rememberer and the remembered alike.
    The time is at hand when you will have forgotten everything,
    And the time is at hand when all will have forgotten you.”

Such is the synchronous epiphany
with a drama’s final curtain
allowing a moment’s pause
before one’s inner-house lights
illumine yet another transition,
from “what if” to “what is”  to “what might be”.

Hopefully the staging of one’s mirrored life
becomes companionable for the journey back home,
that place in one’s mind
where comforts remain tenuous
by often reluctant acceptance,
when overcoming challenges
is beyond one’s ability.

Yet…

To prepare for the final unpredictable,
when one’s deepening dusk
no longer finds the stage lit,
when illusion and delusion applaud together
the finished performance of one’s choices,
one’s experiences delineated into one’s
inner-monologue of truth.

    “Pass, then, through this little space of time
    in harmony with nature and end thy journey in contentment,
    just as an olive falls off when it is ripe,
    blessing nature who produced it,
    and thanking the tree on which it grew.”
                                                    Marcus Aurelius

Copyright © Odin Roark | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry | |

White Sails, Dark Souls

In the hold tears are shackled
White eyes stare dark corners
Bare breasts hang limpid
Humanity dowsed in sewage

The slaver pitches, rolls
Each wave a fathom from home
Each trough a deeper despair
The screams and creaks in rhyme

Lost souls ghost the gloom 
Living meat on planked beds
The stench of shame fills the air
The cry for God but no one there

The slaver ponders onwards
With its holds of sins
Black gold, worth in weight
Only time holds their fate

Bilges slurp of piss and degradation
Chains chatter, implore salvation
But the lash comes quick
Skin and hearts so easily broken

White sails on waves of shame
Sullies forth in evils name
Devil smiles at man's behaviour
And fortunes gained on slave labour

On the quay in lines they stand
Commodity of a human brand
And brand they will, darkened skin
With each mark a white man's sin

Dark these pages of history
Have we travelled in our thinking
Just how far have we come
The nettle of conscience does it sting
As racism still festers in the heart
White sails still float waves of shame

  

Copyright © Daniel Cheeseman | Year Posted 2011

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.

Copyright © Gisele Vincent-Page | Year Posted 2011

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!!!

Copyright © amy epiphany tunks | Year Posted 2012

Details | Prose Poetry | |

THE MARCH



     THE MARCH
They came with vicious dogs.
They came with clubs and ropes.
They came with galloping horses.
They came with guns and tear gas.
They came with hate and fear.
Oh God!  They came to kill!
But we just kept marching---
Rattling broken chains behind;
Arms and hands fastened by bonds of love;
Our pride, dignity, and audacious faith before us---
With the glorious cloud of our precious God above us---
We just kept on marching---marching---marching---
Marching up to freedom's land:  Glory...Glory...Glory...

God!  I am so glad I was in that number
That just kept on marching on!

Copyright © millard lowe | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Joan of Arc memorials

I used to live in France, near the Champagne region.
My favorite Notre Dame cathedral is not the one in Paris;
Rather it is Notre Dame de Rheims.

After many battles, Jeanne D'Arc helped the Dauphin Charles
Be crowned the king of France there.

There are many statues in France of Jeanne D'Arc.
Most of them show her riding a horse with sword held high.
I've see that image in many Places in the north.

My favorite statue of her is in Notre Dame de Rheims.
She looks to be standing a vigil in her armor
With her battle flag posted behind her.

I've also been to Place Jeanne D'Arc in the city of Rouen,
Where the British tormented, interrogated, and immolated her.
It didn't look like a sad place, but I felt sad there for her.

I don't know if she really heard angelic voices,
But her story always inspired me--
Probably the only non-Biblical saint that ever did.

Copyright © Mark J. Halliday | Year Posted 2015

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.

Copyright © Gisele Vincent-Page | Year Posted 2011

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

Copyright © Scott Bronner | Year Posted 2012

Details | Prose Poetry | |

What Are We Learning

What have you learned from your family experience
that influences your position
on public health and safety,
national health defense
and economic offensives you might propose
for healthier individuals 
and families
and nations
and even planet Earth, hopefully?

Could you give me an example
of what might qualify as a politically satisfactory answer
for you?

Well, I parent four teenagers,
three require special support environments and resources
to foster improved learning outcomes.

I have concerns
none of the schools,
from the most elite private
to the mental health specialized therapeutic public,
seems to have deep learned their way into
how to avoid adversely depressing and repressing my kids' growth potential
into a more polyculturally articulated
and multisystemically accessible
self-optimizing ego-healthy mindbody,
much less an effective communicator,
much less an effective deep ecosystemic listener and learner.

We each seem to start into our learning lives
thinking and feeling deductively and inductively
with all senses listening for dialects of feeling and function
within ourselves,
others,
Earth,
until our enculturing institutions
interrupt with mental-physical health disservice,
suboptimizing with more didactically addicted 
quantified 
deductive memorization performance outcomes,
thereby missing days and years of lifetime healthy cooperative political
and economic
and ecological
and interpersonal relational communication potential
while investing in competitive excesses 
of Left mindbody dominant commodification 
of learning how to live into life's most regeneratively
anthro-preoccupied not-listening opportunities,
we accept unacceptable risks of unbalancing angers and fears
as anthro-supreme species
sharing primal bilateral temporal intelligence
with all DNA/RNA syntaxed living cells
and organs
and species
and bioregions.

We are of and for Earth's polyculturing cooperative relationships
and transactions
with internally symbiotic dipolar nondual ecosystemic functions
of purpose and deep regenerative meaning.
I didn't pick that up in school,
nor have my kids found any support for
this way of enculturing holistic health
to regenerate polyculturally optimal outcomes.

Aetna,
a health insurance company,
knows more about mindfulness training,
health and self-care as Earth-care consciousness,
while our schools,
which could be our kids' healthy-love-of-polycultural-learning assurance incubators,
focus more on anger and risk management.

I'm wondering if anything like this comes up from your experience
of how our social
and political
and economic
and defense
and  sometimes even our "health" institutions
do not practice basic mindbody health-medicine principles
of cooperative ecoconscious relationships and transactions,
or aspire to regeneratively optimize future cooperative learning outcomes.

Why isn't human history taught
as our still-evolving language
and nutritional enculturation
and toxic deculturation
ecopolitical healthy love-as-learning
EarthTribe's re-creation story?

Copyright © Gerald Dillenbeck | Year Posted 2016

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?

Copyright © Jack Jordan | Year Posted 2013

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

Copyright © charles hice | Year Posted 2008

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Macchu Picchu (German/English/Spanish)

Du Einsame, 
in den Bergen getrotzt,
versteckt in den Wolken
getragen vom Geist des Inka,
hochgepriesen,
wie von Geisterhand
überragst du das 
zerklüftete Tal des Urubamba.
Stein auf Stein,
gebaut mit großem Geschick,
geboren durch die Kraft
der Inkas.
Zufluchtstätte 
der letzten Überlebenden,
verborgen vor den Augen 
der Eindringlinge
aus dem so entfernten Spanien,
die Feuer und Tod brachten,
dich aber nie sahen.
Umhüllst dich noch heute
mit nebelgesponnenen Rätseln 
wie neugeboren
aus tristem Gestein.
Deine Seele,
lebendig,
strahlt Erhabenes
und über deinen Mauern,
jetzt nur noch Heimstatt 
der Götter,
zieht wie einst
der Kondor 
seine vibrierenden Kreise.

---------------------------------------

You lonesome,
withstanding
in mountains,
hidden in clouds,
carried  by the spirit of Incas,
highly praised,
as from ghostly hands
are you extending beyond
the rugged valley of the Urubamba.
Stone by stone,
built with spectacular craftmansship,
born by the power
of man.
Retreat
of the last survivors,
hidden from the eyes
of the intruders
from far away Spain,
who carried fire and death,
but never saw you.
You cover even today
in foggy-spun mystery
like newly born
from solitude stone.
Your spirit,
living,
radiates nobility
and above your murals
now only home of the Gods,
a condor is drawing as once
his vibrating circles.


------------------------------------------


Sitio  solitario, 
resistiendo en  las montañas
escondido en las nubes
protegido por el espíritu del Inca,
egregio elogiado
como de una mano de fantasma
tu te levantas 
sobre el valle hendido del Urubamba.
Piedra por piedra,
construido con gran destreza,
nacido por la fuerza
de los Incas.
Refugio
de últimos sobrevivientes,
escondido antes de los ojos
de invasores
del tan distante España,
que traeron fuego y muerte,
pero nunca te veían.
Te envuelves todavía
con enigmas hiladas por nieblas
como recién nacido
de rocas tristes.
Tu alma viva
brilla altura
y sobre tus murallas,
 todavía sitio
de dioses,
gira como antiguamente
el condor
sus circulos vibrantes.



Copyright © Gert W. Knop | Year Posted 2010

Details | Prose Poetry | |

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.

Copyright © Victor Chavez | Year Posted 2012

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

Copyright © Leon Pryce | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry | |

SHATTERING THE SHACKLES

     SHATTERING THE SHACKLES…
     (APROPOS  RESURRECTION)…

I shall no longer be your tragedy
     or divine comedy;
Nor the phantom pain of the fake penitence
    you proclaim.
I will no longer wallow in despair
     nor put down the me inside.
Today, I am a phoenix rising
     from the ashes of shame; rising 
From the ‘buked and the scorn of today!

I am the new sunshine of the old rain,
     created and molded 
By God’s hands; anointed to bring back
     peace and the love; and
To shatter the shackles from children’s minds.
     Today I am the needle.
The needle in the eye of injustice;
     the needle re-stitching the ripped veil
Re-stitching the ripped veil of our unity:
     regaining community.

I am the new child of the old songs the ancestors sung:
     a healing hymn!
I am the new talking drum…echoing…
     de dump…de dump…de dump…

	“And before I be a slave,
	I’ll be buried in my grave;
	And go home to my Lord
	And be free.”

Yes, I am a new day begun.  The dream’s reality won.
     And I shall not be moved.
I shall walk the green mile as a new Nile child
     And by His hands,
I shall survive the tribulations and the trial.
     By His hand,
I am the new light of the day, guiding us along the way.
     Send me I said!
Roll of thunder…echo my cry.  Roll of thunder echo my shout!
     Rise!  My people…Rise!…
Let Peace and Love ring out!   Shout!

Copyright © millard lowe | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Mary Fields

Poet: Ken Jordan
Poem: Stagecoach Mary
Edited by: Sparkle Jordan
written: January/2014


 Mary Fields,
(1832-1914).

born a slave,
somewhere in
Tennessee,

on the 
Dunnes
Plantation -

She  became 
the first
African American
(male or female)
to deliver 
the U. S. mail
in 
America -

She was 
a tall
 woman, 
over 6 Ft, 
and 
strong,

weighting
over
two hundred
pounds,

who 
didn't shy
 away 
from 
a brawl
or
two
if need
be -

She rolled 
cigars, 
chewed gum, 
drank 
plenty whiskey, 
and
was famous
for
caring 
a pistol, 

and
rode a mule
name 
Moses -

Mary,
had 
also
a
pet
eagle,
and
a
penchant
for
baseball -

She
wore
buffalo
skin
dresses
that she
made
herself -

She
must have
been
an
intimidating 
figure
to 
behold -

In 1892,
Benjamin Harrison,
was
President -

During
those days,
Wells Fargo,
had
the
U.S. mail
contract,

and
needed
a 
stagecoach 
driver
with 
a
strong will,

and
survival skills
for the 
rough route
between
Great Falls,
Montana 
to 
Fort Benton -

They
chose 
sixty year
old
Mary Fields,

who was 
more than
capable 
of
doing
the job -

It was
rumoured 
that
she could
hitch
a team
of
horses
faster than
the boys
half her
age -

Mary,
became
a legend,

tales
of her
adventures
was
well known

in
all the
pioneer towns
of
Central
Montana
and
neighbouring 
states -

 Her
reliability 
and
work ethics,

earned
her
the 
name
"Stagecoach,"
Mary,

by 
the folks
along
the mail
trail -

Mary,
and
her mule
Moses,

never missed 
a day
of 
work
in 
nine years,

and
was never
held up -

Mary Fields,
retired
in
1901,

paving 
the way
forward

for
African
American's
to
follow -









Copyright © Ken Jordan | Year Posted 2014

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.





Copyright © Ralph Bruzzichesi | Year Posted 2014

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

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

Details | Prose Poetry | |

TeaTalk

Do you share my concern that your happiness and healthy life are too ephemeral,
short-lived?

No! Why? Do you know something I should know?

Not likely.
Just wondering,
awed by your capacity,
your relentlessly positive energy for life,
despite the odds of too-soon demise.

Do you share my concern that your happiness and health are ephemeral and short-lived enough
to harvest their wealthier sustainability through more cooperative logistics,
strategies of love,
designs of recreativity,
plans for healthier social and economic policies,
domestic and otherwise?

Of course.
Who wouldn’t.
Oh, that’s right,
perhaps someone substituting yangish eros for yin’s full-flowing agape.

Hmmm?
I know agape as Greek for Tao-balanced Basic Attendance.

Yes, well same transformational difference.
These language distinctions become complex
because of our continuing struggle with Yang dominating Yin,
Eros dominating Agape,
culturally responding by basically becoming a climate-change bitch.
Sorry,
I can’t find a more civilized English translation
for yin’s revolutionary anger with yang’s culture-dominating eros
when we could remember our Earth-balancing agape primal relationship,
not just in bed and during tea time,
although those do come immediately to mind,
but also more politically, economically, ecologically,
systemically harmonic,
integrative, if you will.

No offense taken,
but this reminds me,
what is your relationship,
if any, between boredom, basic attendance, and bliss?

Other than all those bees,
it seems basic attendance lies between boredom and bliss,
a midway, or tipping point, perhaps.
A “wear your everyday clothes, having tea in-house” way
of balancing yin’s excesses of sensory-cognitive internalization
with yang’s excesses of ecoconscious elation,
which is very nice, and beautiful,
but can be distracting for Business As Cooperatively Usual,
everyday-wear purposes.

Rather like now.
My basic attendance neither grasps for happiness,
nor despairs of ego’s ephemeral absence,
lack of interest in whatever you just offered as a mix of nutrition and sometimes more dissonant pathology
in the too-slow time of my under-investment in our more active agape.

I believe we both want what’s healthiest for this tea right now,
appropriately wealthy cooperative attendance
to Earth’s multicultural voices,
most certainly including each other’s.

Yes, so tell me more about this blend of AsiaticTao and GreekAgape,
your perfection of imperfect love,
always both too enormously grand,
overwhelmingly much,
and yet never deep and stable enough to fully follow,
boundlessly insatiable agape
as quenchingly ravenous eros thirst.

Oh, that’s too dear,
communicating about my imperfect life,
or even my personal agenda,
my hot issues of our immediate day,
or trying to,
prior to remembering our love,
mutuality,
our cooperative intent,
basic attendance as CoMessianic Occupiers,
hosting a civilized and proper tea
but without any hot water yet.

Having all ingredients,
knowledge,
resources needed for such an ambitious and worthy social undertaking,
while our best benign hosting intentions evaporate,
undermined by failure to establish communication’s foundation,
a primally mutual presence of engagement,
bilaterally enthymematic,
or even multi-laterally,
with larger rhetorical and therapeutic events than this simple bilateral tea.
I’m thinking even tribal events,
familial,
but also big political and economic systemic events of enculturing history.

Hot water fuels a civil politically cooperative tea
as passion fuels love,
as agape fuels life,
as life remembered and reflected,
experienced together becomes creative expression,
articulation,
transaction,
transportation of information between tea-time mindbodies
sharing our mutually-held Basic Attendance gestalt,
for and with myself and others.

I would add others as Earth’s interdependent Tribes
when discussing ecosystemic communication,
although here, for our larger sacred purpose,
yin-flow of water’s bilateral function,
freely shared and loved and known to compose DNA’s gestalt,
need not be quite so warm,
within these less domesticated circles of Tribal communication.

Water as Basic Attendance baptism
mutually recognized as our shared heritage of environmental history,
becoming Earth’s language biosystems steeping our genetic tea leaves
in and through Earth’s co-empathic waters.

Most certainly including a proper tea
lived, loved, and communicated therapeutically
within EarthTribe’s empathic trust
extending back through regenetic healthy Elder Commons
and forth
toward shared nutritional teas of tomorrow’s predicted cooperativity.

I love our freedom of time and capital to invest in cooperative frequencies,
functions, and rhetorical forms of life.

Cultural scars awake yin’s too dormant flow,
leading from extended familial tribalisms toward Yang’s dominating empiricism,
EmpireBuilding Totalitarianism,
leading from nature’s evolving equity 
toward Yang’s ruthlessly domesticating Slavery of Self and Other,
hubris of “owning” bio and ecosystems,
leading from Earth’s nature-spirit of cooperative basic attendance
toward contractual Welfare States of Mind
exacting indentured servitude of decreasingly valued self-commodity,
leading from Earth’s civil rights of ecobalance
toward too-Yanged civilization through empire-building reductive competitions
to control Earth’s domestic events,
revolving teas of integrative empathy
cooperatively served throughout each of love life’s warm-poured moments.

Do you share my concern that our tea is growing cold?

No. Why? 
Do you know something I should know?

No. Just wondering,
awed by your basic attendance capacities,
your relentlessly positive energy for agape,
despite the odds of too-soon love’s imperfect demise.

Copyright © Gerald Dillenbeck | Year Posted 2016

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.. 

Copyright © Kim Robin Edwards | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry | |

White Man's Good Ole' Days

White Man’s Good Ole’ Days

I’m the law in these parts;
This here is my town son.
You better learn your place;
Listen up until I’m done.

You can’t eat at the tables;
You can’t drink at the bar.
You’re not welcome in this establishment;
Shouldn’t have gotten out of your car.

Whites only;
Can’t you read what the sign says?
No Negros, Indians, or dogs allowed;
Go back to your rez!

We don’t want the likes of you;
Moving to our Christian town.
Corrupting our women;
Bringing our property value down.

Look at me boy ;
When I’m talking to you!
I’m the man around here;
What I’m saying getting through?

Guarantee you won’t like it much;
When I string you up from an oak tree.
You can’t come here like you’re on Indian land;
Don’t make me use my authority.

I am the one with the gun and the badge;
Don’t even need a sheet to cover my face.
My skin is WHITE;
I’m God’s chosen and superior race.

By: Darlene Doll Smith ~ Cherokee

Copyright © Darlene Smith | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry | |

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

Copyright © Joshua Akinwande | Year Posted 2011