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Prose Poetry Home Poems | Prose Poetry Poems About Home

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

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Details | Prose Poetry | |

A PART OF SOMETHING

God created hands for building things. Sometimes before you build something, you must first destroy something else.

Wildfires are never supposed to be put out. Their sole purpose is to burn the entire forest to the ground, transform living things to fertilizer, making room and preparing the soil for new growth.
It is almost paradoxical, 
that there must be death before birth

My hands have stared the grim reaper’s reflection inside the pool of my best friends blood. An old student I used to tutor told me that I am the best brother she could have asked for
She said she will always love me
This was after I burned every bridge that traversed the gaps between us
Stared at her from across her desk
Told her that she will never be my sister. That our bloodlines will never match.
Our gene pools are just strangers that made the same wrong turn.
I spent so much time trying to find my way back that I never realized I was home in being lost I found something comfortable, without expectations. I only corrected myself after she spoke,
because I heard something familiar in her voice.
She sounded like family.

I have the scarred and wrinkled hands of a senior citizen
I’m only 22 years old
I once got my palm read
This gypsy woman told me that my lifeline should have been cut short when I hit 17.
That was a year ago.
What do gypsies know anyway
I have defied the odds my entire life.
Been broke down and built back up too many times to count
My fingernails chewed raw to the cuticle out of anxiety
I enjoy the taste of my own pain
Sometimes I use my own hands to destroy myself just to see who my real friends are who will build me back up when I can’t do it alone

My hands have a desire to learn how to cook, but I’m not that great.
So when I am alone,
I tend to be hungry, not just for food though.
I starve for someone to talk to
It never satiates, because it’s not you.
I know what it tastes like to completely give myself to someone.
My biggest fear is being abandoned.
When I look into your eyes, I am not afraid.
I need to cook you up a feast of myself, then feed it to you every day for the rest of our lives
Please tell me what I really taste like,
Be honest.

Years after my grandfather passed away, my grandmother moved into my aunt’s house.
Since I was 5, every time I speak to her she asks me:
“Spenser, did you thank God for waking you up today?”
I think to myself, I never did tell my eyes to open themselves. It just happened.
So I don’t know how to respond to her correctly.
I tell her that I love her, that I am writing a lot.
She tells me that she puts her hands together for me every night
Prays that I will get the job I want
I guess some prayers do get answered.
Sometimes two hands in the right position, matched with a conversation with God,
Can change things.
I even accidentally call that place home sometimes.

My dream is that my hands evolve into wolves, become part of a pack and work together with other hands to make a difference
Some days they will be the alpha male.
Full of confidence, at the head of the pack
Other days I need someone to show me the right way to go
Because if I’ve learned anything
It’s that I am not always right
I can not always be in control of everything
The only thing I have ever really wanted is to know
That my hands were truly
A part of something.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Musing or Amuseing Part 1

	Now that time is getting shorter for the arrival of my new home it has put quite a 
stress on Shirlee and Fred.  They have had to do rearranging out at their place in order to 
accommodate my permanent cabin, besides working their full time jobs.
	Friday Shirlee was off and there were some fittings on the skelgas tank that had 
to be replaced before it could be put to use. (Now my days on the Nebraska and South 
Dakota plains I seem to remember our source of heat was called skelgas even though it was 
actually propane. Well that was a day ago I think) We also had errands pertaining to the 
mobile home so I went out and picked her up and we went from there. Actually she has just 
started working 4 days a week, ten hours a hours a day with Friday's off so we usually have 
this day together anyway.
	I started the day with a light breakfast (so we could eat in town) and loaded the 
things I needed to take along and pulled out of the driveway.  As I reached the end of our 
street and was gazing into the sun waiting for the cross traffic to pass I was startled by a 
sight in the distance. Probably a quarter mile ahead of me was a lake and as a large truck 
passed by on the interstate I was shocked to see... The Loch Ness Monster slowly working his 
way horizontal with the lake shore. Totally stunned I was then confused as to which road I 
should take out to Shirlee's. Finally I decided I would take the interstate.  As I passed under 
the interstate to reach my turn off I breathed a sigh of relief as the monster turned out to be 
a tractor with double appendages raised in the air and a cab with a rounded top.  I started 
laughing so hard I almost missed the turn off and had barely gained control as I reached the 
house. After greeting the dogs I proceeded to do a little chore as Shirlee went outside to do 
some of her chores.  When she returned I was all but  rolling on the floor reliving the earlier 
scene. I had shared it with the dog while she was out. After urging I finally told her of the 
incident. Eye brows raised she said, " I wondered for a minute as I didn't realize they were 
land animals too."  With that we departed for town.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Man's best friend is his dog

 “A Man’s best friend is his dog” 

The phrase receives little refute 
Anecdotal history alone settles any dispute
but he’s just a dog all he needs to be is cute

Trustworthy loyal and dyeing to please                          
in return asking only to sniff around the trees
checking if  other dogs crossed their i’s or dotted their t’s

You bring him home because he is oh so adorable
Now that you’ve stepped in it it’s oh so horrable
making matters worse your mutt is now incorrigible

your dog will figure out how to pass the time away 
waiting for you to come home even if it takes all day
you’ve had to toss the things he’s trashed away
 
You know all he wants to do is play 
you break out the treats and teach him to sit and to stay
but this is not why he waited for for you all day -but OK

walking and fetching may be good clean fun
but long legged  dogs really love a good run

understanding dogs is not as easy as it seems
dogs like people take some things to extremes

We soon discover our dogs are a lot like us
so get to know him well and don’t make such a fuss 

              In Memory of our beloved Samson 
  see related poem: Tale of the Dog That Licked Me  


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Murphys' Law

               Murphy wished for a Prince who rode a White horse...
               So she went back to college and took a new course...
               She met a man who drove a green pinto...
               Although he had no idea where his life would go...
               His wants and needs he wanted for free...           
               As he had no intentions of working you see...
               So they moved in together...and she paid the bills...
               He played online games and took many pills...
               While she worked two jobs, and going to school...
               Her friends told her often she was a fool...
               This wasn’t a relationship...this was just bizarre...
               And to make matters worse, he drove her sports car...
               But she explained, he needs me and I don’t want to be alone...
               Besides I have created a most beautiful home...
               The years flew by and no changes were made..
               She graduated with honors, and now had a trade..
               At the firm of Morgan White Esquire at Law...
               This was just the beginning and the last straw...
               She finally came to her senses you see...
               Of her dreams and wishes that were meant to be...
               She now had her “ Morgan “ and her “Prince” you see... 
              A Morgan is a breed of horse...and the rest is history
                 
                


Details | Prose Poetry | |

FRIEND IN YOU

(Tatyana Kasima)

Life is a journey of countless sub-destinations
It’s in stages and phases
Life is a function of time a subset of different season
Wet, dry, winter, spring, or summer
Each is experience one at a time
 
Life continues as a journey
When the journey is far
I am empowered to keep moving
When every thing seems locked up and become tiring
I received encouragement never to look down but keep focusing
 
When the sun is at its peak
I am hopeful there is a shade ahead to hide my head
When it’s stormy, heavily rainy or snowy
I know with an assurance
That the house ahead will take me in
 
Just in a land of different culture and lingual codes
I feel at home because I have a friend that knows, trusts, and believes in me
He is the reason I’m encouraged and the source of my strength
He is the house and home that take me in
He is my beautiful angel sent from above
I bless the heaven for the friend in you

© 2011


Details | Prose Poetry | |

There is Always a Sunlight to Guide us Home when We are Lost

There is Always a Sunlight to Guide us Home when We are Lost
 
We sometimes see more dark clouds with rain and storm than seeing the sunshine in nature.
Many common situations like this it could also related the nature with our life.
There are times when so much trouble are coming to us that we no longer can handle it and actually there isn’t any direct solution can come to rescue us out of the problem.
This is often the psychological side of us which make us confuse and we can get into the into  panic zone,
We have use our thoughts and tried all other option to observe it but can not lead to a solution for the problem and this makes us desperate.
This can be only materialistic problems but usually it comes combined with the disagreements in relationships which caused too much pressure on us and we have a tendency of overstrain.
This is a very normal phenomenon, because our inner feelings can have much influence on our behavior and outward attitude.
At such a moment we just lost the direction of our daily life and do not know what place we are in this world because of all the negative events happen in succession.
But how dark it will be at that time, there is always light at the other end of the tunnel, so it is better to always think positive about it.
How difficult our situation will be, there is always something will guide us to the correct direction and we will accomplish that with perseverance.
The sunlight can sometimes disappear but will always shine through the darkest clouds and it will reflected from our house to guide us back home.
 
I wish you a healthy life.
Kindly Regards,
Author Jan Jansen
http://poems.easybranches.com/


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Home schooler

I come over home schoolers house
He looks me up and down
am no looker 
But the boy's looking

"So am suppose to help you out or somein?"
I nod without a word
He grins like satan
And im burning up in hell

"So hows it like being home schooled?"
He looks at me,use to the question and knowing the answer by heart
"Ive got free food"
And i laugh,he throws butterflies in my stomach

He sits me down
and he bends down for my bag
And looks up
I seductively say:Are you high?

He nodds
And i gap
He replies:High in 7th heaven
And takes my hand

The next thing i know im trying to get on his lap
But that chairs in the way
He flicks the chair
And he carries me easily onto the couch

But before i could get his lips
He collides onto the ground
his mom staring at us wildly
No more crazy fun for us

He looks at me with a frown
"Sometimes,i wish my mom would leave off school grounds"



***Humour and lips are a great combo=) ***
For a missing friend Booboo who knows awwe to well


Details | Prose Poetry | |

City Skin

    City Skin

    A city can be so close, 
    enclosing, 
    familiar, 
    that it leaches into one’s soul,
    becomes a second skin. 
    So said the country-drawled guest 
    on Sunday afternoon talk radio. 
    Tulsa was his skin; 
    he wore it proudly, 
    bragged about it, 
    hoped to die there and stay for eternity 
    (an eternal Tulsa...something to contemplate.).
 
    I’ve known many people over the years 
    who have taken in 
    the soul and guts of a place. 
    (New York City and Austin 
    apparently make for good skin.). 
    Not so for me. 
    I don’t have that skin. 
    I’ve never taken on the soul of a place, 
    not even the Dallas of my childhood 
    or the city in Oklahoma where I’ve lived  
    for more than two decades, 
    a third of my life.

    I’ve given this a lot of thought 
    since the Tulsa man: 
    I’ve come to the conclusion 
    that the missing component, 
    the reason I don’t have a home, 
    is unhappiness,
    often of my own making. 
    Grief, conflict, and anger 
    have often been the driving forces 
    behind and under and around 
    my leaving this place for that one. 
    Moving is my modus operandi. 
    Leaving is never a problem; 
    it’s relief, a voluntary homelessness. 
    The space between here and there 
    with everything I own stashed in my car 
    is high freedom, 
    the leaving of one life, 
    rolling toward another, 
    time and air and the radio between. 

    Okay, I’ll come clean... 
    I do have an internalized city 
    where I may have once had skin. 
    I found it in 1983 in Kyoto,
    while sitting on the steps 
    of the viewing veranda at Ryoan-ji, 
    the “Temple of the Dragon at Peace," 
    contemplating the 15th century garden’s fifteen stones, 
    but only being able to see fourteen 
    because I hadn’t yet achieved enlightenment,
    wandering through the dappled-light bamboo grove 
    surrounding the centuries-old monastery cemetery. 
    I knew I’d been there before, 
    a monk, 
    my ashes buried beneath one of the stones, 
    cradled by bamboo roots. 

    I almost believe in reincarnation, 
    the living of another life 
    behind the one I currently inhabit. 
    As I understand it, 
    my now-life is based on my then-life. 
    I hope I lived well and kind in those lives. 
    I must have done something right; 
    I didn’t return as a dung beetle 
    rolling around Oklahoma City.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Home

Home is our fortress, our territory,
Home is our land, our pride and our glory.
Our home is our country,
A nation proud of a successful history.

Our homes are places where others dare not enter,
As my home is my castle, not just a place of shelter.

Home is where we now visit seldom,
Since nowadays we must fight for our Kingdom.
Home is where I recruited my men,
Home is from where I shall mourn again.

Home is where we dismissed defeat,
But home is where we now have to retreat.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Billy

On a street long ago 
with a sidewalk and curb, 
Back when houses seemed huge, 
In a child's wide-eyed way.
 
On a screen porch, played quietly, 
As not to disturb. 
For my mother was having 
A headache that day.

All the front yards were deep, 
Nestled back from the street. 
With a walkway of concrete 
And large, shady trees. 

Every morning, I waited 
to yell, then retreat, 
When the giant man walked by, 
never noticing me. 

All I knew was the little 
They let children know, 
That he lived with his mother, 
On the far side of town.
 
He was big and slumped over 
And walked very slow. 
Not a person remembered 
Him utter a word. 

As he passed by our walkway, 
I readied my shout, 
Then remembered, "Play quietly", 
Mom's head hurt today.
 
I recall as he stopped, 
Slowly turning about, 
Then he started his blunderous
Footsteps my way. 

I was puzzled and frozen,  
A chill up my spine. 
When he reached our front steps, 
I could hear mother say,
 
"Hello Billy", then ask 
if his mom was okay,
As she latched the screen door,
Nudging me back away. 

Mother always recounted 
What happened that day. 
And she spoke of the good heart 
That lay deep within.
 
It was only that once 
I missed shouting his way.
Billy worried, not hearing 
His four year old friend. 


Gene Bourne
08-17-14


 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Six People

The poet leaves his winter study and roams around mountains and deep woods,
The painter sold his pictures and is off to sketch on heath and highlands,
The child runs through sun kissed meadows and across dusty golden commons,
The lovers walk down country lanes and wander about each other, on mead's,
The man of the road smiles as he knows the night will not be bitterly cold,
The nightingale sings a haunting melody bringing tears to the lovers eyes,
The trees swaying in a breeze an oak drops acorns, the child collects them,
The mountains capped with snow unleashes a stream of fine words from the poet,
The heath and highlands glow with beautiful greenery and the painter paints,
The birds swoop from bough to bough the poet sees and he writes some prose,
The man of the road listens to bird song his eyes mist bringing sad memories
The evening sun falls behind the horizon a beautiful sunset the lovers kiss,
The poet sees the sunset and writes about dark golden evenings and warm nights,
The painter mixes yellow and black and that captures this wonderful picture,
The boy leaves the woods to go home as it is nearly time for his evening meal,
The man of the road lays down deep in the woods his overcoat is his blanket,
The lovers walk arm in arm as the day darkens they make their way home slowly,
The painter cleans his brushes and carefully lays down his canvas in the dark,
The poet is happy he has written beautiful words he lays in his bed reflecting,
The boy is fast asleep dreaming of the fantastic day he enjoyed in the woods,
The six unconnected people that were unknowingly were connected sleep soundly.

 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

What have I Seen

 have seen bright-eyed daises open and baby yellow buttercups unfold,
I have seen these spreading across water-mead’s a cloth of purest gold,
I have seen white clouds scud across blue skies changing shape as they go,
I have seen storms from a distance rain, lightning thunder, hail and snow,
I have seen pure white sheep graze and lap water beside a crystal stream,
I have seen swallows playing games over mountains in my beautiful dreams,
I have seen wretchedness far from home my longing for peace haunts my mind,
I have seen deepest sadness and search for deep and good memories to find,
I have seen in my dreams I am leaning on an old gate down in a spring lane,
I have seen may time in England and lush green fields turning to gold again,
I have seen yellow pastures where tiny silver waters flow like a silver thread,
I have seen a skylark gently flying high singing sweet songs over my head,
I have seen a dream that in my future I am free to return to my home some day,
I have seen the truth it is all just a pipe dream and I can never find a way.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Waiting for Angels The Great War

Does your coat keep you warm and dry my dearest friend as you lay still and silent,
Did your metal helmet protect you on ruined fields as God called and took you away,
Did it hurt when you dropped to your knees and your blood soaked into already wet mud,
As you dropped from your knees face down forever, did you see your loved ones again.

I will stay by your side and keep you company, waiting until the angels come for you,
Do you know it's near spring the sun will soon have some warmth and dry our clothes,
In your last spite of sorrowful desolating memories, did you go back to your home and friends,
And if you went home , did you smell the thick cut grass along old lanes and hold your sweetheart.

Do you remember when we were young, just last year, can you remember that long ago,
And the different days with our sweethearts, walking in beautiful warm spring days,
We strolled many miles into distant dales, villages and across the wild brown moors,
We sat by a moorland stream talking important talk, of our future working the land.

Soon the bugles will sound, the same loud bugles that brought you to this last place,
If I ever go home I will see your father, and break his heart, you were his only son,
Like a brother I will always remember, we have seen much so quickly in these bad days,
Walking away my feet sink in churned mud and filth, I will tell his dad gallant lies.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

ONE100eight

 ONE100eight 
ONE100eight 
 
CharlaXFabels 
 
 
www.three 
 
SUN TRAN history 
 
 Passenger Pigeons carry messages to people entrenched at 
www.wwone/ditched in doughboy britches wearing Army boots of wool 
 August 3, 1914 special free edition of the BerlinTageblatt announces "The War 
with France” The Kaiser rolled away and fell from Germany the world is saved 
they proclaim the war is over 1918   
 His hat was very black and ebon his vest hung down in back front was cut in 
western sling style his hair was off white gray an old gunslinger out of old 
Tucson days. He took a transfer out of his pants pocket and tried to slide it in the 
bus to make it work but the driver had turned it off to see his face light up he had 
been caught for this was the very first bus. NO the driver said simply with a smile 
that will not work and left it at that and up to him he did not frown but added the 
dollar paid the money for the fare the first time not again his bogus attempt at a 
free ride had failed. He took his transfer paid he learned his western lesson 
there the driver being kind and understanding could have been demanding that 
he leave the bus and March 24, 2008 has come the carrier pigeons are taking 
messages to www.wwtwo.com the war is over Hitler dead go home and live 
without a gun without a dread.  She simply simpered she opened up her bag a 
purse no doubt without a dime or dollar amount inside her friend paid for hisself 
one dollar kept the transfer in his hand she kept repeating to herself for all the 
crowd to understand eye left the wallet with the money in it at home the wallet MY 
wallet is NOT in this bag it has been left at home the man he seemed astonied 
when she said in certain tones did you get a pass for me NO he said don't you 
remember my pass and your pass is both in your wallet left at home the driver 
moaned a bit but let her be she let them ride he said eye gave to you my pass to 
keep for me she said so sad MY WALLET is NOT in this bag it is left behind at 
home IT'S EVERYTHING the carrier pigeon flew with messages to the troop in 
the trenchment ditch at www.worldwarthree.com/apocolypse 
The message simply said 
we airmailed 
 every missle 
that we have 
to hit the enemy 
the world is over now 
do not try to do anything 
just pray 
we are all going to see 
JESUS 
NOW 
TODAY 


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 | |

92

92
How some students grew up on the Computor? 
and can't function in the real world right click the bus mommy and place it at the 
stop it is taking much too long to come around the horn. form method="post" 
This paragraphic is free to be a space bar for mee and ewe. 
option>Sometimes in my fables there is parts and pieces of mye poems this is 
not yellow journalism or nepotism or even bad form eye can copy and paste and 
then add text eye can translate pictures into banners and banners into love eye 
can relate a page to GOD and find a way to enter clouds formed and someday 
eye will make it rain inside this idiot Computor box and it will fry all the electronic 
components of every Computor in the world then we will all go outside again and 
inhale the fresher air. 
value="Radio" 
Just now eye went to a Bravenet website to make me a new website and its free 
but of course the upgrades would cost me but the free sights is challenging and 
it gave me a code for a welcome type box and it did NOT work as it is in the form 
of a a href not a url. The idea is the webpage would bring me people they would 
sign my little guestbook too bad it does not even relate to the page it won't 
translate at all the code is wrong its backwards to a forum type webpage the url 
is too long. The HEY REF only works on websites the URL IMG thing only works 
on FORUMS how many people have followed links to there destruction. When 
eye got the thing on my FIRST PAGE of HOME the thing took off with me when eye 
clicked it open we went for an internet ride and eye lost the page eye was on NO 
fun. Eye would not want a HOME Computor user to become lost in navigation 
when he was just trying to let me knoe that he had viewed my poems. The thing 
is done the web page that they gave me is very green and nice looking but does 
not do a real function oh well in this Brave New World does anything rally have to 
have a function and so mye gentle reader ewe it seems to mee the eye the poet 
fable maker fabulist like Aesop that eye am just the new proud owner of another 
big white elephant so they will always benefit from instruction of this knowledge 
from someone please open windows as many as yew want and let them learn 
yew some. 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Gone are the Gardens

After many years a man returned home to put to rest some very dark demons,
He left as a boy with hatred in his heart and an anger to match that hatred,
A wretched upbringing the spite from his family who hated him was so harsh,
What could a young boy have done to cause this bitterness the answer nothing.

One day very early the door closed behind him the young lad had made a decision,
He decided to leave that awful place and to make his way into the big wide world,
With experiences of his existence he understood nothing could be as bad as now,
With that thought he would not miss nor be missed, off went a lonely little boy.

Making his way it was hard but and he knew that there could be no turning back,
His father a vicious drunk would come home and blame him for his wretched poverty, 
His mother hated the boy she blamed him because he was the cause of this anguish,
His brother wanted him gone as he got scared he would receive the same treatment. 
 
As a man his mind now strong living so long with a monkey on his back he returns,
Walking the streets in town the place has changed a grey place of grim despair,
People he knows walk the same streets they have lines etched deep in their faces,
Etched lines are a calender of life's events of misery hard work and hard times.

Their clothes are clean but shabby why dress up when there is nobody to impress,
Shoulders rounded and heads down their lives are wasted they are nothing people,
Hard men from his youth are beaten and pathetic living on stories of yesterday, 
Years of drunken weekends and family abuse have clouded and poisoned simple minds  

How many years have these so called men drunkenly beat wives and their children,
Count the bruises made by the connubial fist through many many years of misery,
Remember the drops of blood that have flowed since the words 'I do' were said,
How many tears have been collected as trophies since a wedding day so long ago.

When these people were young and full of hope their life was rosy and scented,
There were stores of honey in their minds and a thousand acres of wild flowers,
As lovers they walked hand in hand along paths bright with a finesse of nature,
Look at them now how things have changed their garden is overgrown with weeds.

Once in a fountain of youth happy children chased after each other playing games,
The dancing spray fell on their flushed cheeks as it gushed in the warm sunshine,
It cast its silvery beads all around but now nobody listens to its rippling tunes,
And people have fallen away and crumbled beneath the tooth and finger of neglect.

Now all the flowers are drooping and faded no footprints walk the old path of youth,
They live in a freezing emotional wilderness growing tired of each other love gone,
Their houses are now gloomy and very unhappy it is hard to pretend this is not so,
No signs of any happiness no 'smile and be merry' as they have now stopped trying.

I am glad I returned to my roots where happiness was just a dream hate was reality,
Now I can close the heavy book I am satisfied that my leaving was the right decision,
The people I saw were ruined wasted people whose lives went where the rut took them,
I left and went back to my own life and like a ghost I faded from my own past forever.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Fading Away from my Past

After many years a man returned home to put to rest some very dark demons,
He left as a boy with hatred in his heart and an anger to match that hatred,
A wretched upbringing the spite from his family who hated him was so harsh,
What could a young boy have done to cause this bitterness the answer nothing.

One day very early the door closed behind him the young lad had made a decision,
He decided to leave that awful place and to make his way into the big wide world,
With experiences of his existence he understood nothing could be as bad as now,
With that thought he would not miss nor be missed, off went a sad lonely little boy.

Making his way it was hard but and he knew that there could be no turning back,
His father a vicious drunk would come home and blame him for his wretched poverty,
His mother hated the boy she blamed him because he was the cause of his fathers anger,
His brother wanted him gone as he got scared he would receive the same treatment.

As a man his mind now strong living so long with a monkey on his back he returns,
Walking the streets in town the place has changed a grey place of grim despair,
People he knows walk the same streets they have lines etched deep in their faces,
Etched lines are a calender of life's events of misery hard work and hard times.

Their clothes are clean but shabby why dress up when there is nobody to impress,
Shoulders rounded and heads down their lives are wasted they are nothing people,
Hard men from his youth are beaten and pathetic living on stories of yesterday,
Years of drunken weekends and family abuse have clouded and poisoned simple minds

When these people were young and full of hope their life was rosy and scented,
There were stores of honey in their minds and a thousand acres of wild flowers,
As lovers they walked hand in hand along paths bright with a finesse of nature,
Look at them now how things have changed their garden is overgrown with weeds.

Once in a fountain of youth happy children chased after each other playing games,
The dancing spray fell on their flushed cheeks as it gushed in the warm sunshine,
It cast its silvery beads all around but now days nobody listens to its rippling tunes,
And people have fallen away and crumbled beneath the tooth and finger of neglect.

Now all the flowers are drooping and faded no footprints walk the old path of youth,
They live in a freezing emotional wilderness growing tired of each other love gone,
Their houses are now gloomy and very unhappy it is hard to pretend this is not so,
No signs of any happiness no 'smile and be merry' as they have now stopped trying.

I am glad I returned to my roots where happiness was just a dream hate was reality,
Now I can close the heavy book I am satisfied that my leaving was the right decision,
The people I saw were ruined wasted people whose lives went where the rut took them,
I left and went back to my own life and like a ghost I faded from my own past forever.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

This is Home The Great War

Walking along a maze of muddy walls stepping over rotting young men their boots gone,
Taking the scenes for granted as this is all I know and cannot even remember my home,
The trenched walkways are like the streets I dream about when my eyes close so tight,
Not long ago I dreamed about a house it was warm and there such lovely rich smells.

My garden is muddy, wet the earth turned is fresh and mellow but has many dug outs,
Look closely at my garden and there is beauty in it's blackness but not in the smell,
In tiny enclosed spaces my flowers spring up so very delicate and shimmer in sunlight,
I am looking at a snowdrop it has lifted it's graceful head it is lonely on its own.

In my new world my home is mud, my chair and my bed is made of wet mud it's noisy,
People cry in the dead of night such gut wrenching long sobs I wonder where they are,
Do they think of their mums and dads, or could it be a sweetheart having a great time,
Maybe it's an older man married with children if he ever returns will they know him.

Back in a small corner of my confused mind I see Almond-tree blossom on leafless trees,
There catkins from plants and trees I don't know their names one might have been willow,
In that same corner there are woods with warm banks and green things starting a new life,
One name I remember is the star of Bethlehem in moist meadows but the rest are forgotten.

I am lucky I have always been here my mind knows no home no loved ones nobody nothing,
This is home these people I live with are family and friends they do not last very long'
They disappear for ever new people move in every day most stay away from me at first,
Once they have been here for a few months they talk to me then they are my new friends.

Every day we have to run across the muddy fields and we get shot at I just walk across,
Men around me fall down and are left, all that remains are bones, uniforms and tin hats,
Hands reach for help and plead to their god to help them in this their last few minutes,
Another whistle blows and it is time to walk back and leave my friends sleeping forever.



Details | Prose Poetry | |

pouch poetry 18 - 19

18.

who has lied in the box 
made up of the temperature 
of god 

all on a sudden 
there is a hue and cry 
in the abdomen of the time 
wearing a dirty pajama 

actually that has been filtered up 
from the voices of rock-songs 

the roaming 
of a fatigued traveller …

the lies 
within their wishes 
write my existence 

and then run
to buy vegetables 
from the station-market 

so many lay-offs 
come to the body of paper-weight 

to listen to all those 
is not improper 

walking through the traffic-jam 
gradually 
this home becomes solely my home 

one day the golden of 
human 

then it is i 
who is you 

and walking through the 
monsoon 

on either side of the field 
it is all autumn

19.
when borrowing the religion of
the night-queen  
i fall in love
 
then is it real 
that our mangos and jack-fruits  
can make the perfumed-soap 
vigorously from the light of the 
blood-line 

i count the bells of the churches 
ringing repeatedly 

and piercing the image 
of your prominent face
 
rounding through lots of old 
the love becomes exhausted 

and the love comes back 
in the form of college-classes 

there are you myself 
and so many notes 
of the body 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

My Angel

The day you wore born my whole word became complete. We toke you home for 
the whole family to meet, you never left my side until the night you turned blue 
and almost died. We rushed to the hospital hoping they could save you, I 
wondered in my head was I a bad mother, what did I do to hurt you? We waited 
three hours before we could see you. They said there is hope for you. We toke 
you home with all the little machines each one was attached to you. At night I 
would lay a wake looking at you. If I could not hear your machines I would jump 
up and awake you.  We would go for walks; your big sister always wanted you. 
You looked like your daddy, but with mommy’s eyes. You have the cutest laugh 
that would make any one smile... I thought we where going to make it. We where 
going to have a great life. Your seven months now, you just got your first two 
teeth. Eating baby food. Playing with your little feet. I knew you where still sick with 
all the trips to the hospital. I thought you would be fine… but the last time we toke 
you, they said you could not breathe. My heart fell into pieces, but I knew I had to 
be strong. I set there think you where going to be ok, that we would be going 
home in a few weeks. But your body was tired and to weak. You needed bigger 
machines. It was time to sign the form. And let you be. They tried eight months 
and a day, but there was nothing else they could do. I held you one more time as 
your little face turned blue, Ooh how I mourn for you as you lay lifeless, cold in my 
arms. I said my good byes.  But when my little angel left the room apiece of my 
heart left with him too. That night we drove home, but in side I felt dead too. Till 
this very day I still cry for you.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

pouch poetry 10 - 13

10.
the  apparent golden pot that i thought 
to be the underneath of a kadam-tree 

in the dim light i can notice that 
the stars in the sky are disappearing  

this session of poetry 
is coming to an end 

now where would i
go 

to that little home 

the home 
a tiny word of 4 letters 

within that home 
the children are giggling 
playing … and making funs 

when i entered 
with a tri-cycle in hand 
for them 

i have been perplexed 
many old persons are waiting there 
to shake hands with me

11.
almost most of my desires  
are very much hurt

to show it publicly 
i wrap bandages 
around all over my body 

i keep on the stage-drama  

in our programme of reading poetry 
tea is served twice 
current has gone off for three times 
for four times the mobiles ring
 
to pick up love  
some people think about returning back 
from today’s dais to the ancient stage 
of performing folk-drama 

then they are also sympathetic 
to my sufferings

12.
everyday 
on my way to return home from the school 
when my mom took hold of my hands

i could see in my body
the dancing of an unforgettable 
aura 

even now that mystical halo is walking 
on the leaves of the trees 
to fulfil my mornings 

that wayfaring along the road 
is ringing far and far-off 

thus taking bath in every day’s  
dust smoke hue and cry 

many such love 
gradually gets aged 

is it true 
in the long run 
i too
would be the ingredient 
of a fairy-tale

just because i love 
that paddy field 

some time later 
she will also become 
human 

13.
then she will make all of us  
join her walking 

those inmost feeling 
those memories meditations

the loneliness  and solitude…

sans the touch of the imagination of
a crater… 
a creator…

this blunder… 
this socially outcast white …
 
this type of uneven… 
and irrelevance…
 
sume words 
when peep in the mind
i surprise to see that 
it’s ten to 2 at night
 
then in the balcony 
my father is crying
 
he always notices some grave-yard men 
in front of him 

and sheds tears  


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Home from Broodseinde

I can hear the shouts of celebration of joy outside my window,
people steaming the streets,
crying in happiness, holding one another,
this has been the way for hours,
since the simple message that the Great War was over,
parents, brothers and sisters lining the streets,
waving, shaking hands of neighbours,
with the news of victory and those returning home.

Trying as I may,
I am not sharing everyone’s excitement,
been laying here since I arrived home from Broodseinde,
fighting chills, fever, or infection,
never all at the same time,
that would give a day of rest,
I do not have that now.

Most of my days are spent moving from bed sores,
blisters given to my back from the sweating of fever,
not being able to move from this dirty, soiled bed,
in this warehouse called a hospital,
that has bed after bed lined one after one,
with bodies worse than mine,
the stench, at times, let us know,
when another will not be woken up,
only to be replaced the next day.

The poor nurses cannot be blamed for our conditions,
there are so many of us lined, laying here,
that losing track is common occurrence,
so we rest in our own filth,
as yelling for cleaning does not help,
many voices of high screams or low moans,
just get lost in the echoes of the high ceilings.

My leg is now gone above the knee,
because my cries were silenced by others,
tingling of gang green taking more and more,
doctors have removed these pieces twice,
I pray they find no more and the would closes.

From the outside, most would believe I am fortunate,
I am alive and not screaming towards death,
like those around me with deeper cuts and burns,
I have skin where other soldiers no longer have theirs,
they even say that one day I will be able to leave here,
not like some countrymen,
carried home from Broodseinde.

September 19, 2011
© Andrew Scott – Just a Maritime Boy 2011


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Footsteps

Footsteps! which swallowed up many cities while roaming,
Swallowed by cities.
It's the end of the no end!When the earth little shaken and cried,
When the directions! prevent footsteps from the country's sun.

When a flock of gulls! passing, holds in the wings:
The smell of the country ,the jasmine blossom,
The look of beautiful bird, the old mountain, the sleeper river,
The legend city, the visible ,the invisible.
The most lighted, the most craziest and the most burnout.

I kneel to touch the moment of joy that never stop.

When a flock of gulls! passed,held in wings
my four windows,the sun,the paper,
the ink,the Word and ( the hurricane love ) that trembles
when I tremble, and refuses to die.

I kneel to touch the moment of joy that never stop.

Footsteps! that accustomed many cities while roaming ,
Never accustomed their own. And never returned.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Lighting The Road Back Home

Through the old screen door 
Her tired eyes widened 
As she watched the familiar figure 
Drawing closer to the house 

Even from a great distance 
It was easy to see 
The way he meandered 
Was a walk that was his alone 

Years before a pledge was made 
That someday he would return 
And now… after the war was over 
His home grew larger with each step 

It was like a dream she had many times 
During the days, months and years 
That had passed without a word 
A dream that she knew would come true 

And though she could not see his face 
Or hear his voice from so far away 
She could feel his smile 
Lighting the road back home 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Kizmit

Any home with a dog in it,
is a home I'de like to visit,
from the moment I walk in the door,
It's cofortable within a minute,
dogs make your heart feel light,
they make your soul feel free,
working with animals, feels right, to me,
I knew it to be my destiney,
wheather a gentle touch,
from a furry paw,
or a kiss,
from a great big snout,
animals are made from everything good,
if you've ever had a doubt,
dogs come to me with ease,
they know when I'm around,
when our eyes meet,
I'ts like a treat,
and there need not be a sound.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Hot Chocolate

   
 
    A neighbor returned home early from a vacation in Switzerland.  When asked 
about his trip he seemed a little hesitant to talk about it.  Finally he shrugged his 
shoulders and said, "I found it rather an unfriendly place."
 
    Puzzled about such a statement I asked why?
 
    "The first evening in Geneva I asked for a cup of hot chocolate and they kicked 
me out of the establishment. 'Sir we'll have none of that in here,' he told me."
 
       "The next morning I decided to eat at the hotel where I was staying and the 
same thing happened.  Only this time they kicked me out bag and baggage and 
told me not to come back.  I found a rooming house and spent the night there.  
The next morning the same thing happened when I asked for a cup of hot 
chocolate."
 
        "Soon my presence was known all over town and I couldn't get another 
room.  So I had to come home early.  It was as though I had a bad reputation or 
something."
 
      I was totally shocked.  How could such a straight laced religious man cause 
such an up roar?  And this was so out of character for the things I had heard 
about the Swiss people.
 
       "If you ever go to that country don't order the Hot Chocolate.  It must be taboo 
to serve it."
 
     How could a simple cup of Hot Chocolate cause such a commotion?
 
      
     "Are you sure it was the HOT CHOCOLATE that caused the problem?"
 
      "Of Coures it was.  I'd go into a restaurant and ask for an extra ' HOT SWISS 
MISS ' and they'd throw me out."
 
       
 
 
Gotcha__ Didn't I?     


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Fabel Twentyone

The city was under snow encamped in ice and wet the water never ceased to fall 
for days at times we cried my friend and eye. 
The poor were never satisfied with bread they always cried for meat to feed the 
lust replete now buried in the caverns if the sleet came near the hydras of the 
long forgotten faded flowers in the snow marking time to be considered luck. A 
Penny tossed when drinking drunk not stoned. A Penny lands in jail on tails and 
soon the food will come. Poor not poorly educated just missing love. 
 Christianity - 30+ CE PARTTWO
Flipped a penny turned to tails changed the luck to better days moving down the 
road with no heavy loaded gun shooting only wishes at the stars. Eye have a 
solar powered outlook not on life but down my nose. 
Girls at home still not in collage need to play with Barbie leave the Ken doll in the 
box. Alone. He is not the chieftain of the dolls. Fallow fish are useless days are 
wasted lost seaming calibrations find the reason for the rhymes.The science that 
deals with mental processes and behavior is sometimes revered as psychology 
the moderators quite agree the thought process is interrupted in some people 
call them crazxy treat them normal feed them house them bury them in wasted 
places sweep them up in boxes marked for burial let no one get away. Murder 
rules the day. 
Play games and get mad take the ball and bat back home save them for the next 
day come. Dress up in your finery hose smelling like a rose in purple jaded livery 
repose upon the couch in linen and in majesty her majesty arose. Toss a 
penny “is it tails?” read the poem prose the CharlaX Fabel Twentyone and love. 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

But For A Short While

They were with us but for a short while
Their good works now live on in memory to make us smile-
Their joys, their tears, their hopes, their dreams and yes, even their sorrows and 
pains still linger on; they still remain in the portals of the minds of all whose lives 
they have touched-whether little or whether much-

And as they have now gone and left us in body, gone back to dust-
In spirit, it's only but for a short while.

For they who die in the Lord, one day they must:

       At the sound of the trump, as the clouds roll back, meet us in the presence of  
         the Redeemer, Christ, when He returns to gather His Father's children      
          home to the Kingdom of God where we will all prepare together to return 
           to the New Earth from the New  Heaven  to dwell in Eternal Righteousness-
Where joy and peace will be forever and ever, for our eternal home will be 
restored to a place where we can join together to live, worship in praise  to our 
Lord, receiving our crown and  reward of Eternal Life.

So, sleep on sister, brothers, friends, and loved ones; it is but for a short while,   
 for the  Day will come when we shall meet together once again, and all of us will 
be at Rest

In the Presence of God's Glorious Eternal Bliss!