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Home Prose Poetry Poems | Prose Poetry Poems About Home

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

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Show me the way Home (He's coming back) pt.1

      My Bros.' & Sister's the [Book] tell us that we are made in the image of God, made
in the likeness of him.  So why is the World suffering much to much idiosyncricie's whe-
ther you're fat or slim ?  Do you know!! Do Ya!!...  long and many year's ago, Noah
is assign an important task, that being! to build a ship (the Ark) for the purpose that
(GOD) seen the supplication of his creation.  He is sadden that sin enter into evil thought's
of mankind, and the collaboration of their choices brings no satisfaction to the reasonable
reason for Noah being choosen to finished the Ark {no satisfaction}....  My guess is
that Noah prayer's was like, "Show Me the Way Home", Lord, thou reason that the rain 
shall come, makes a consorted effort to save a generation, I am so along.  "Show me the 
way Home".  This-thiss generation ignore's the preaching for a 120-years, now water is
around their necks and the door is (slam!!) shut.  "Slam-Shut".  My Brothers ' Sister's
do you wonder why the likeness is impossible to live up too.  We choose to live to do
our own thing - our own way.  That's O'K from a selfish standpoint.  But for a spiritual
analyzationable lovepoint, sometimes the seperation is somewhat confrontationable.
     So-so my brother, the long way home is a fight that the "Anti-Christ commit to the 
principalitie's warfare against the conscience of your mind and you become blind and
you heed to the warning and now he see's (The Anti-Christ) that you are not strong:
(I'm so all along) Now my sisters that implie's to you also, your fight is a battle the ene-
my approaches from your blindside, and if you're not carefull, "you will believe in all the 
lie's.  (Be Strong)  
"Show Me the Way Home", LORD-show me.  Me and the tall and short one's and the cre-
ated of all children's whether large or small.  When we have fought against the file's of
the enemy, and we all are along.  Before the gap get wider (and ?)  "Show Me the
Way Home".

P.S....This Poem is the first of a two-part initative in God's awsume plan to regenerate a
society of any culture, that we as his children must ask him to "Show me the way Home".


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 | |

Coming home to you everyday

My best friend is just a few yards away
not feeling well she’s had a long day.
 
Right now in our bedroom watching a cooking show
I don’t under stand it, she knows all there is to know.

As with every thing else she always wants to do better
she gives it her best even when she’s under the weather. 

My best friend is my most loving wife
She has given me the best years of her life.

It’s been thirty nine years since I took her as my bride
That’s thirty nine years with my best friend by my side.	

A lot has happened since our day in September
some things forgotten but the best I still remember.

I remember the warmth and passion of our youth
I still feel it when I think of you and that’s the truth.

I remember worrying that my job would call me away
all I ever wanted was to come home to you everyday.


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
                 
                


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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


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I won't be Home For Xmas

I won't be home
not For Christmas
nor for funerals
not for birthdays
Wanted to never see you
on those days so hard to get through.

When you abandoned the sweetness
and chased your dream into the alley
When you thought it best to see me cry

When your mind changed with the direction of the wind 
I stood there with spit on my finger tips...
holding my hand in the air,Waiting for the winds of hope
to blow your love and loyalty in my direction

Home is a strange city
where no one knows me.
where no one will invite me to sit across the table
and try to smile as I play with my stuffing on china with flowers
As I remember the children laughing and opening gifts.
I remember the long silent ride back to our house.

I think back when I got on my knees
before climbing into our cold bed 
The prayers just uttered coming back void.
Ask God to just let you touch me again
I needed your body-heat to keep warm.
I needed your support to continue on 
for the sake of the commitment.

For the sake of waiting for love to remind you
Even if pity could hold you there..
I would not be ashamed of what you sacrificed
When love had given birth to pity-
I would have held on without pride.

Now I never want to come back to that town.
Where no one cares that you don't love me.
I am in remission.
Alone but it's OK.
Please tell our future to visit me. 
On the seashores. 
The sun warms me in
my new home 
where no one knows me.
All my old friends are 
dead and dying.So...

I won't be home
not For Christmas
nor for funerals
not for birthdays
Wanted to never see you
on those days so hard to get through.

Just my spirit and the ocean.
and one day tell our grandchildren
Grandma will be here walking;
With one finger in the air moistened with spit.
to see which way the wind blows.


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 | |

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 | |

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 | |

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.

 


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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 | |

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 | |

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 | |

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 | |

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


 


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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


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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 | |

~Keep the home fires burning~

You notice the trees seem grown up, so much more than you have; arms are thick, gnarled 
like they have been force-fed steroids, unlike the used pipe cleaners that hang like wet 
towels from your shoulders.

Recalling the privet hedge that your father loved: shaping bolster boundaries every fourth 
week, hoping it would dull the world into a soft subtle melody of background music; lying 
besieged by the rubble of too many feet, too many voyeurs.

Terracotta blotched across the portal to your cocoon, split like the moth had already flown, 
but you were the one who flew, singeing wings in your sense deprived flight; the night never 
felt as comfortable to you as it folded around your flames.

Your life littered amongst the charred past like a melded genetic mistake,
teddy morphed into something even your nightmares kept hidden.

You know the bubbled paper well its something you see in every shop window, a brand 
displayed as stigmata. They called you hero; you the one with hidden matches; you the one 
who craved infamy,

still burning.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

BE HOME SOON

i know where i belong
hard to carry own
without you
am so blue
sorry all i done wrong
mabe before noon
i promise 
i'll
BE HOME SOON


Details | Prose Poetry | |

NOT HOME YET

                                                    As stroll along life's road,
                                                    many hours more to be hold.
                                                    Many more hours have gone,
                                       mayb finding us right or wrong, weak or strong.
                                                     Climbing many a mountain,
                                                     passing many a fountain.
                                                     Traveling through the valley,
                                                      neither stopping long, or dilly dally.
                                                     A thought should we stroll with,
                                                one of so much truth it can not be myth.
                                                         A truth to take along the way,
                                                one that has us guard all we do and say.
                                                           So either on a car, bus, plane or jet, 
                                            remeber to fix you eyes to the sky, we aren't home yet.


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.