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Prose Poetry Imagination Poems | Prose Poetry Poems About Imagination

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Details | Prose Poetry | |


So I walked into my local supermarket
to buy my weekly shipment of Kit Kat bars,
Cinnamon Toast Crunch,
and Ovaltine powder mix.

As I shake off the snow on my fake Timberland boots,
my skin,
coated in frozen animation,
thaws into warmth’s teardrops from
the supermarket’s 75 degree vents.

This moist sense of happiness was quickly interrupted
when I heard Wilson Phillips, “Hold On”
over the PA system.

Thankfully, the cutlery isle was just to my left. 
So, now, I had plans!

But, before I could commit felony’s song,
I saw her.

A Portuguese goddess
with a strut that can ruin a man’s dignity.

She had Autobahn curves,
dark brown curls of hair & visuals,
and thick flesh meat that even Vegans would envy.

Her face lacked Maybelline coated misapprehension.
Thank God!
Cause I never did like clowns.

After staring longingly at her,
like a crack head with impulsive eyes upon a broken/unlabeled bag of baby powder,
she breezed past my stifled posture and clocked in to work.

She didn’t even get a chance to smell my $500 cologne called “Piece of Me”.

So with new-found urges to grab all my groceries,
like a burglar who really has to pee,
I rush to express checkout. 

There she is.

Her register beeps in coupon lady’s rhapsody,
while my register needs a cleanup on Isle 9.

Now it’s my turn.

With girlish inner-screams of boy-band intensity,
I say, “Hi”.

She scans my apples, while I scan her melons.
The melons that the customer ahead of me didn’t want…
…they were on sale.

Go fig.

As if she read my mind,
she asks,
“Are you feeling warm now?”

“All I want is to be the heat in your moment”,
which I almost said.

But, “Now I am”, is uttered.

As she smiled with seductive demure,
she handed me my receipt
with her phone number on back.

As I left the market,
I began to get cold again.

These winds of change
became gusts of numbness.

I locked myself out of my heart.

I turned around to go back inside.

Only to discover, 
she didn’t have the key.

© Drake J. Eszes

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Beginners Luck



 Over 1000 poems and now seventy eye have been searching for a definition of 
mye stYle
a rendition if you will of a different simpler time
a fabel maker a story teller not just a robot

You have a unique voice, like natural speaking.

this was given me today at your website
thank you very many fables made in a certain style of accomplishment 
the proctor and the related at my home planet were elated and they did not sleep 
last nite in anticipation of this antiquation to be delivered by the eye this old 
fashioned smith and Wesson oiled typewriter is so old it makes a dot between 
each word thank GOD it does not translate to the pages but the missing pieces 
of the spacecraft have now been found and tagged. The people of this  village 
think that eye am just old homeless and so eye can carry on surveillance of the 
public eye become a new Jim Dandy very handy with a pen and with a keyboard 
flowing thoughts upon the word a document of sponging taking all eye have to 
give her she gives something in return she keeps almost every word and turns 
the pages in my future book with just a look in my direction and a genuflection 
and a big reminisce The Lifer he is so avid of a fan a clear cut game boy game 
man he roots for roots and never makes a mental happy statement he is so self 
centered the quarter back is sacked and carried off the field and his sarcastic 
friend says He died he up and died just to see what the LIFER will now say and 
this is what the Lifer says about the dead quarterback. He just can’t do that he 
can’t do this to me we have a third quarter coming up the ball is stuck in 
centerfield without the quarterback to carry it to third base then we aer ruined he 
just can’t do this unto me and while he blubbers while he cries his friend moves 
away just out of sight and he the friend is now muttering this thought so dumb 
eye did not knoe that my friend JOE was so dang dumb as to confuse the game 
of hockey with baseball no its football with a quarterback not hockey what is 
wrong with me I’m almost bad as him eye had way too many beers today please 
take me to the gym and let me play with tying socks in knots and slamming 
locker doors before the next quarter comes and they carry one more quarter back 
away. Joe is so dang dumb.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Seasons and Imaginations

Wind so cold.
Fondles my face.
The tears from heaven.
I wonder if i wish
    to stop them
From numbness,
    to waking,
          then sensing.

The little voice in me says,
Wait, don't go.
Stay a little longer. I plead.
Sing for me today, rain.
With the gliding rhythm on my piano,
                                                  I'll play.
Chilly Wind, caress my bare skin 
     with the pure coldness that you bring.
     like it's my first time in the snow.
     the fire tree never fades in the picture.
The yellow sunkissed leaves, too.
What is it about Summer and Fall
    that I can't forget?
Memories. Sweet imaginations.

The chilly rain. The misty wind.
You are here. 
Freeze me with the sharp coldness you give.
Calm me. Maybe, comfort me.
And, if you leave
Will you visit me when summertime comes?
Before it gets too late
   And again I fold.

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The Taste of a Wish

Tonight I felt the deep inner desire to conform, to feel at right with the crowd for fear of being scorned. But don't be fooled dearest reader, this ain't a story of morals and how I got consumed into a life of addiction or crap like that. This isn't a sob story, just written down at the drop of a hat. The real twist is that I didn't give in, but where does that leave me? A lonesome wanderer gazing at an infinite sea? A person dreadfully awake, in the midst of a miraculous dream? Truth be told I at times feel the luckiest, not drawing near to the most common follies of my peers. But at what price? For who, in a world filled with bubbly laughter, could hear the sound of a silent tear? Who, holding a hand of their own, following a path they love, could notice a shadow like me, so hopelessly alone? I love you all most dearly, but like the moon loves the sea... just out of reach but always in sight. I live my life as the rainbow kisses the earth, wishing for my colors to allay someone else's hurt, if only for a moment, a minuscule grain, on this sandy shore. I am really not so significant, but still I desire to be more. But in all honesty how can I? I'm simply an observer, a reporter looking in. I'm not the strongest, nor the brightest, the bravest, nor the wisest. I am just a man with an eye for beauty and an obsession for the safety of the bench. So still I watch in dread as others live and I just sink. I clutch to papers filled with so much lifeless ink! They are nothing but shards of myself, tossed and thrown in mile high piles, that none in their right minds could ever wish to file! Though the world I live in and the one which I've created, seldom collide, I sit still waiting on that perilous bridge, for someone else just as crazy, and just as lonesome, to sit it out with me, side by side. It may not be perfect but it feels right. And honestly who could hope for more at the end of the night? You have a destination in mind and a foot always in front. You have the whole world palmed in between delicate fingertips. So go on and take a swig! Ingest within you... the taste of a wish!

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Kilted Warrior

He stands proud and strong, this kilted warrior
head held high against the unending pain
of a heart born out of sadness
for the loss of those who came before him
and thoughts of those who would
continue on when he himself was no more.
Proud men one and all
vows made, till surrendered in death
to defend that which
was their birthright, the very land
upon which he now stood.
The call to battle though long since silenced
came from within his very heart and soul
blood of the ancient ones raged in his veins
his sword by his side...shield upon his back
he stood ready to charge into battle
to do what was expected of him since birth
to fight as those before him fought
without fear, but with a strength
only a battle hardened warrior
knew and understood.

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Mist Rising

As I sit alone on this rocky shore. The mist rises around my feet and I long for much, much 
more. Just to go out to sea and meet the horizon just you and me in our blazon. To feel the 
salt water as we sail away to enjoy the beauty of this day in this very protected bay.  To kiss 
the rose of early bright.  Maybe stay way into the night and see the moon and billions of 
stars. Reach up and touch the loving God.  The one who made you for me and made the sea 
and misty shores that consumes all my lonely and tiresome chores.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Mocking The Raven

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Addicted Towards Happiness

     ~Tonight A Free Ride ~

Tonight my thoughts are running towards 
my healing ocean, becoming the place 
where voluntarily I am convinced to watch 
the thousands of stars in the sky, illuminating 
my shore on arrival, to share my lively routine 
visits with this one whale friend that accidentally, 
have come to meet a few months ago. 

Approaching with a jester it looked me in the eye 
moved its head asking, why am I gloomy tonight?
come lady ride on my back let me take you away 
from your everyday thoughts let us experience our 
journey I invited the stars in the sky to lighten up 
your dimness tonight.

Yet, now that we have each other try a different 
approach towards your loneliness the wind is a 
friend and will not blow you away the moon 
promised a short visit to accompany the stars.

Accepting the proposal of that ride it will clarify
the energy of my inner body and soul the way 
my friend the whale has it looking up thinking 
counting the stars will give me the opportunity 
to dig deeper towards my senses, my spaciousness, 
peacefulness as a new approach. 

Suddenly with a falling star nothing seemed 
impossible to arouse my intense curiosity 
about life's mysteries how I ended up feeling 
that lonesome before I met my friend,
determined to lean towards my depth and discover 
my beauty and power that I have abandoned, 
when I failed to notice how much emptiness 
existed in my depth. 

Instantly I started feeling addicted towards 
my happiness I allowed my thoughts to stir
my presentiments understand my liveliness, 
after descending on shore.

Once arrived I thanked the stars that allowed 
me to enjoy the ocean cooperated to help me 
redeem an aluminous light through
my coming years. 

That voyage assembled my gladness 
to lean towards all the advantages 
that actually already exist beyond.
Thank you my friend. 

Therese Bacha
June 27 2013

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Breakfast With Ingenium

     It would be disingenuous to say that Ingenium did not have a bacon, egg and cheese sandwich for breakfast. It would boarder a lie to claim the same deity did not begin their morning exercise with a job through the unexplored corridors of the memory and imagery. The halls of memory are charted to an extent, but the cathedrals hidden down the vast tunnels of imagery seem always foreign and new. There Ingenium stopped to smoke a cigarette, leaning against a door marked "wooden". Neighboring this door were others, each with a replaceable placard screwed into the hard-wood. "Plastics" one read. "Trees" read another to Ingenium's left.
     Propped up by the "wooden" door, they watched blurred figures move behind the tinted glass window of the door before them. Dark letters were craft-fully painted onto the glass: "Office Furniture". There seemed to be an argument over vague physics terminology being held between two shadowy characters in the office space beyond the tinted glass. The abstract entity could only make out a few mumbled words, something about work force equaling applied pressure divided by ambition over availability. The banter failed to impress Ingenium, and the muse snuffed its cigarette against the oak molding of the "wooden" door before continuing its job.
     They passed other more decorative doors like "religion" or the red-white and blue striped door labeled "politics". It wasn't until Ingenium reached the door to the self that they stopped and released a sigh. Reaching down with unfathomable presence, Ingenium turned the red glass door knob and opened the door before it. A world of light and darkness poured out, flowing through the deity like whey through a screen. The curds that collected there were the substance of the soul. The cheeses that we ate that night were the mana of life, to be consumed today and gathered again on the morrow.

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A White Sheet Of Paper Part I

                       "A White Sheet of Paper."  Part1

Once upon a time I was a white sheet of paper
Pilled between hundreds on a shelf my neighbor 
For years was an old stapler.

I was full of life yet dreading never to find myself 
A home where I would achieve all my dreams 
With someone not all alone.

Suddenly I heard a murmur of a low sweet voice
Asking the sales man where he can find white
Sheets of paper closer and closer he approached 
I was praying to be chosen.

When Oh! I was in his hands pulling me from 
The pile between thousands relieved to run away
I quickly said good bye to the shelve 
I could no more stand.

My blood felt warm like after a cold winter storm
Abiding by a chimney opposite the fire.
I was thinking who is he? Where does he live?
Will he posses me? Will he become my master?
Will he take me for a ride forever to abide
Or would I be used just like a scratch
Piece of paper.

My heart stopped beating for a while thinking
All the memories of my past and the future would
Just vanish depart my end in a waste paper basket
Carried away like a dead man in a casket
And thrown in a background of a graveyard.

No; I was carried by him and feeling his strong hands
Inside of me came a glimpse of hope I felt secure as 
I wanted to belong to someone for long.

Feeling assured for the very first time happy 
Within me and with him I saw him smile while 
Walking that mile to where his car was parked 
I promised myself to comply day and night I 
Will be on stand by forever.

His radio Came on with a Melody of Waltz
Rocking in the car My fate was still Unknown.

Than he stopped assuming we arrived to a 
Home or an office he gently carried me up the stairs
Opened the door I looked inside and at last I shouted 
We are all alone we were in his home will it be mine 
too one day.

With much caring he placed me on a huge big desk 
It was a mess magazines and books an ashtray that
Was not emptied for days.

I noticed next to me was a crystal white vase filled with 
All sorts of brushes still stuck on them multiple colors of paint.

That was when I realized oh my lord! I will be famous
My master was an artist from joy I was going to faint as
My thoughts pictured a frame and inside it one day I will 
Be born I will exist created by my master I will hang on a
Wall and will be admired from the soul.

The warmth of the room filled my heart I was getting tired 
Wanting to relax while turning my head before closing my
Eyes I noticed many paintings hanging on the wall 
From the ceiling to the floor.

I got jealous and ready with a deep sigh to whisper and beg 
My master to create me in an image of a dazzling woman
Surround me with such beauty cover me with colors
Pour on me paint and make me look like a wild saint.

Taken by my inspirations to provide him an identity
I felt his strong hands holding me opposite his eyes and
Pressed me on the desk and that was when I felt it hurts
Then a second pain followed by a third and fourth pain i 
Could not move I lost my breath trying not to cry I felt
I would die.

But not very long as I already knew my fate
Being a white sheet of paper I had to be pinned 
on the Table for me to remain motionless until 
his creation is terminated.

I was stunned when I saw a pencil in his hand
Smelling his perfume when he was tracing my face
It started to feel round small ears for future earrings
My nose was tiny he started with my eyes than he 

I felt him fixing and concentrating on the spot where 
He will create my eyes excited as I loved him when
I was blind and now he will unbind the bandage 
off my eyes.

To see him more to love him more to follow him 
Everywhere to watch him laugh and cry to see him 
Dress and undress caress his body with my Eyes.

Watch him drink and think eat sitting down or standing up
Amazed awaiting his decision to start by reviving my 
Inner soul and create me as his woman I was craving 
To have green eyes.

To be continued.part 2

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Counting dimes in the coffee shop
dangling earrings peeling orange
rinds, stuffing her mouth sitting on
her behind.

She had guts in her soul enough
to face the sun and what she had
done.  Her tattoo came to life.
Loosening her hair, she kicked the
garbage can.  Shaking bells on her 
toes, she traveled the land.  Sand
neath her sandals.

Face up to the moon stirring in the 
brine, it was her season to shine.
Who else did she know who had 
become undone.  She pines, she
whines.  The geese flew southward.  

No one else gets to walk into 
someone's life and then promptly
walk out!

Counting dimes, the church bells pealed;
golden braids she made with her hands,
strand by strand.  Hand in hand, in prime
time;  shook off her golden rings letting
them stew in the brine.

Ominous signs told her it was her season
to shine.  Rolling to the sea, rolling to the
sea.  That's what she could be.

Details | Prose Poetry | |


in a moment of contented thought - the snow floats down to meet me -
like a small child emerging from a deep nights sleep - i stretch out my hand and 
receive a tender kiss - that chills my fingertips and warms my heart -
my hair becomes like frosting on a birthday cake - as tiny, perfect promises of 
laughter begin to cover my being -

too delighted with the wintry gift to shake it away - i invite it to stay and play a 
while - and as memories of a past childhood come into view - i am infused with new 
life and sweet energy - and there is a new found meaning to my day...

as long as the snow floats down to meet me - I will make time - for snow

Details | Prose Poetry | |

In The Woods

I set off along the faint trail
it was one I had not noticed before
plunging me deep into unknown territory
stomach clenched in excitement as I strode on

Tall old Oaks, Aspens, Chestnuts and Beeches
cloaked the way ahead, I was aware of silence
rather a nervous paused silent as if holding it's breath
everything seemed to be waiting for something to happen

Deeper into the woods I went, admiring the new slightly odd 
flora and fauna scattered about, beautiful flowers blooming
mushrooms two feet and more wide with red and yellow spots
sturdy enough to sit on while I took a rest

Slipping into sleep I traveled even deeper
until I came to the heart of these mysterious woods
a shout went up from elves, fairies and pixies
she is here at last, our soon to be crowned new queen

A magical glen with a throne in the middle
red carpet made from red flower petals strewn
jewels most wondrous glinting in the trees
birds so colorful that they dazzle as they fly

Clasping me by the hand the pixies lead to the throne
once I am seated, they serve me with golden nectar
tasty berries and cakes of flowers on leaves for plates
full of such excitement I gaze around the clearing

A place of tranquility and majestical splendor 
little houses in the trees and small fairy lights
standing sentinel was an ancient gnarled Oak
branches waving as it moved towards me

Shaking as it drew closer and stopped before me
an elf handed it a crown that glittered with gems
turning to me it said let the crowning commence
with great ceremony he uttered the words

"Has any here just cause as to why she shouldn't be crowned?"

A deathly silence prevailed not even a murmur
Then turning to me he placed it on my head
all around were now on bended knee, heads bowed
The oak said "Now you are our ordained queen"

As a great cheer went up I startled back awake
the clearing, throne and all the little people vanished
All that was left behind was a feather of wonderful hues
and the crashing of a startled stag fleeing into the trees

written 09/07/2013

contest  In The Woods

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Sahrah tends. Sahrah tends the bar at the Inn. The ScourMoueINn. She washes dishes 
passes out Ale to the largesse man drinks droughts ever pays. IN the corner passing 
unnoticed is the small monkish man with the leer, so eye watch young Sahrah tend. When 
approached reproaches some nervous curses foiled. Foible but talented drinking no ale at his 
table but soda just impaling his eye upon Sahrah, sure he is never noticed young love never 
notices old want. His blemishes fails. She comes laying left on the table near the old mans 
soda was a Valentine Heart full of young love twisting it turning it over the old man read 
Sahrah loves... but the namme was failing no namme was forthcoming his misunderstanding 
was in thinking Sahrah never loves him, she loves everyone just the same as she tends even 
him. The largesse man no threat head bent half asleep full of Ale on the table. They soon all 
get away. Sahrah came. She stood looking inside like all young women have there own 
interest do. Reaching her hand out to touch once the elder mans beard. Then they left the 
largesse man there asleep turned the Key to the Door of the Inn. A Valentines Heart will 
come true. At the ScourMoueINn. Sarah tends. 

Details | Prose Poetry | |

You Race Though My Veins

you race though my veins
like a manic fire truck
my eyes smodering from the engine
of your torrid passion
fire hoses squirting out my skin
let me in sweet darlin'
fling the ladder from your pounding heart
climb into my vacant mind
strip me naked and fling me
into your bubbling inferno
your liquid lava seething
every sweet cell breathing me in
as I slowly rise,
and dive into your
silky undulations 
microscopic penetrations
wrap yourself around me
and catapult me deep 
into your long forgotten sleep
let me in sweet darlin'
envelop me completely
my senses scintillating
corpuscles palpitating
drown me with your magic potion
breathe me like a dragon
soak me with your moist emotion
and lift my heart
into the tranquil eye 
of your whirling swirling hurricane
let me in sweet darlin'

Details | Prose Poetry | |

It's time to astound you

with nary a sound
I walk up behind you
and kneel on the ground
a smile on my face
a glint in my eyes
as my arms wrap around you
with a pleasant surprise
gentle persuasions
wet lips in a race
hot breathe on your back
I've quickened your pace
and now
my fingers are darting all over the place
temperature's rising
hearts palpitating
cosmic vibration
skin scintillating
I know you can feel me
I'm glad that I found you
breathe deeply my love
'cause it's time to astound you

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Good Night

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

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

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

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

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Liquid azure sky

In a dream, I walked naked through a shimmering valley, high in the sacred mountains of a
distant world. The air was warm and moist; the ice I trod upon sparkled like precious
jewels. As I neared the precipice, I became intoxicated with joy. Suspended high above me
in a liquid azure sky, three golden suns drenched my perfect body with benevolent rays of
pure liquid love. I am the sun, the prism, and the rainbow. I am soul, child of God,
resplendent, perfect and free.

Details | Prose Poetry | |


A lady’s instincts remain under scrutiny, as though each validation 
of rationale is fodder. I’ve no interest to imitate men, as heroic and 
pragmatic as many appear. My intelligence challenges even the 
advanced gentleman. Intrigued by imagination, they ask questions, 
encourage discourse, at first, until my argumentative nature annoys 
them. It’s ludicrous. Odious, this attraction to all the irritants which 
ardor begets. Arrogance, pride and belligerence are not admirable 
traits, and yet ... and yet... on HIM each seems undeniably fascinating. 

Oh, heart of mine, I’ve trusted in your ability to observe character, 
uncover certain aspects that aloofness may appropriate.

Love is such a strain upon the illusions we attain, vigilantly, over time. 
Is this obstinacy? Darcy understands me and this alone makes amends 
for insults, for inflexibility. Should I demand of him excellence, 
bonis artibus, which I’ve not obtained? 

Charlatan!  I must acknowledge that I’m impatient, quarrelsome and 
fussy, as well.  I love a man indisputably, passionately, evermore his 
and his alone, despite arguments. How overwhelming but astounding. 

This affliction, this adoration, came unexpectedly like a will-o-the-wisp 
I happened on the other night, enchanted by affection resounding. 

**David, lol, I just reread your rules AFTER writing this... awk... took 4 HOURS! Now, I see that the vowels must be in a certain order. Don't worry. I'll pull this from your contest. But I wanted you to read this, anyway, as you inspired it. I hope to give your contest another go, perhaps next week. Cheers! 

Details | Prose Poetry | |


I have a secret place to go whenever I feel the need.  It is a place that is visceral,
dark, and so unforgiving that the joy of being there sometimes makes me want  to stay
longer than a moment.  There, I am like a beast uncaged, running free, and devouring all
that I see.  When the beast runs, there is no stopping it.  There is no leash or muzzle to
keep it at bay.  There is no place that it  cannot go, and its desire for retribution is
like an insatiable hunger in its belly.  The beast there is ever hungry.  "Where is this
place?" you may wonder.  I always try to remember to take the key with me.  For it is the
barren, lonely, and impassable door you cannot is the Id within me.

Details | Prose Poetry | |


What is it to me
that I cannot place you
in the picture painted by the years
the life has already spent?
Do you merely lurk,
and leave at a much later time?
you are staying

If you may.
I pray.
While I find a place (for us)
in the picture of eternities,
the gods must be 
themselves amusing.

Ah, the grand scheme of things -
                            a forgetting.
A familiar spirit we feel -
                            a remembering.     

(Note) This piece was inspiredly written for the beautiful souls - even the 
strangers - I have met along the way and will still come upon in my lifetime. To 
each special one, you have stirred quite a familiar spirit within. A remembrance 
of forgotten past, I suppose. Thank you for letting me peak through your 
soul's window. The veil of forgetfulness has never been thin as now to me. You 
have so given me a gift I shall treasure in the moments I may tend to forget 
who I truly am - a being with a soul.

Details | Prose Poetry | |


A noble story one that ought to be our good host laughed and swore the games begun. Come match the knights tale if you can sir monk. To bellow arms and blood and bones he swore. A noble one I'll pay off the knights tale lets do this right. You tell yours by and by either I'll speak or go on my own way. Everyone listen but first i will propound that i am drunk i know it by my sound. For I'll tell a golden legend and a lie. Forget your ignorant drunken bawdiness it is a sin and great foolishness. Tell us of other things you'll find to lack i see you are angry with my tale but why. cuz you are a fool your head is overpowered by the wine. If you are not enjoying yourselves then cut off my head but as i drink my wine and ale. Whoever won't accept what i decide will pay for everything we spend along the ride. So hold up your hand if you accept my speech reflect a little and don't hold me to blame if you choose wrong don't lay it on my head. And both of them had bawdy tales to tell theirs no sense making earnest out of game.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Main Matrix

So, if a matrix is a body substance, in which all cells are embedded?
Then can I not spiritually say that the body of Christ is also a matrix?
Well, is it safe to assume or safer to not assume the differences in such?

If I have a World Wide Web with many matrixes, there must be a main.
How does one achieve the main matrix without a conversion of all matrixes?
Each living breathing organism has a matrix, but what supplies this?
Seems how all bodies have cells embedded in a matrix,
Is it not safe to assume that the universe has a matrix?
If so, where is the main universal matrix?
There must be a connection of some sorts,
Nevertheless, what is it and where is it?
Moreover, why has this not been thought of?
If the body is the temple of the Lord,
Then He must have a main matrix.
Matrix is Latin for womb.
So in which womb is this matrix?
Only a female has a womb.
There must be one that is required by none.
Now let us get even more difficult here.
We have a World Wide Web with many matrixes.
What if the World Wide Web is an individual womb?
It obviously has good and evil in its growth.
Could there have been two that fused by one?
Could there have been a conversion of all matrixes.
Or is there only one main matrix being a female?
Let us get back to the body of Christ and His matrix.
Let us even go to your own bodies matrixes.
An enclosure within in which something originates or develops,
This is what lives and breathes inside of you every day, a matrix.
Do we not develop Christ within ourselves, and He our originator?
Is it not safe to assume that we are the body of Christ?
Moreover, that we are of a matrix that has a universal main matrix?
®Registered: Ann Rich   2006

Details | Prose Poetry | |

OXYMORON Newsflash:

"EARLY TONIGHT, according to HEAR SAY, things got PRETTY UGLY when a SINGLE GROUP of HELLS

(in a strange way, this type of wishy-washy lingo reminds me of our lovely National news)

Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Bird in Flight

Sitting there late last night! 
I took everything in with my deepest breath about me.
I could quiver feeling the warmth sinking slowly in, 
I was covered over distances which I could now see.
I had left myself. 
I was gone again.
I was above and beyond the clouds,  
Soaring deeply with every one of my though,
Higher and higher I rose, 
Reaching loftiness’ I have never once felt. 
I was a bird in flight! 
Stunning with privilege I had brought.
Feeling myself from deep within!
Standing there that night, 
The radiance beamed all around me so I took this in.
And lo and behold, there I went again.
I could feel myself while locked deep with my thoughts.
I was absorbed inside by everything surrounding me.
I felt the depth that my eyes could never ever once see.
Loosing all truth of myself, every sensation my soul had caught.
Further and further I rose, reaching capacities I had never felt.
I’m a feather in the air, 
Gathering sensations inside of myself.
I lay there that night, mind, body, and soul with me.
I was calm with the breeze, 
Inside of myself,
Feeling myself!
And once again I was a bird in flight soaring so high and much too free.
I was locked sound with my deepest thoughts.
More and more I rose and impact for impact I felt.
Feathers of a bird in flight and one of me I have surely got.
Ever since that night, many, many things have come to me.
One by one, gathered by the sensations carried all over me.
Touching inside of myself, again, again, and again!
Higher and higher I climb to reach the very tipsy top.
Gathering it all, I am more of me when more of me can be felt.
I am the breeze in the air touching the many feathers these birds have brought.
Many feathers just from sitting here, but each the soar of the wind has surely caught.
I’m a bird in flight gathering all that is real or not and all that is captured in of my-self.
I am surely the feather that fell from the very top, 
Because I am now what then I surely was not!
I am simply that feather in the air falling loose and free inside of myself.

®Registered: 1997 Ann Rich

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Lost into a deep black hole

I was trapped
and bemused
feeling sad
and confused
a subatomic particle
lost into a deep black hole
and suddenly
you stuck in your magic telescope
and I opened up
like a flower
I shot out like a periscope
a mystical kaleidoscope
like a solar flare 
without a care
my heart exploded into a supernova
and then, 
I woke up in your constellation
a phantasmagorical revelation
so ecstatic
and divine
and sublime
I'm staying here forever, 
until the end of time.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Going Through Non-Emotions

I listened as Ms. Azalea Lee spoke to me 
This is what she had to say…
I sat with the door opened catching the noon day breeze
As a package was delivered by the postman 
That stood there requesting my signature.
I hope its something good the postman said with a grin
Oh he may have been good to others, I said much to my chagrin
This package I had no desire to receive
Today or any day but somehow I knew it was the remains of him
This was supposed to be a joyous day
Expecting a newborn kinsman this eve and it being
The day of my daughter's birth -- I must state
How ironic this day has come in to play
As I received his backward ashes today
I never wanted to hold him in my arms again
Never thought I'd behold his form this way
My once tormentor, feigned lover, never true friend -- hey
No one could say I did not try
Held out the olive branch time after time…
He would just keep trying to burn that branch and my arm 
right along with it.   Even had my mama fooled 
By his falsified charms so bad that it seemed 
She did not care that it was I -- which he continually tried to harm...
Darn, that certainly should come to me as no surprise
As she often did much the same too me as a child
She, picking and pinching with her trying words 
To get a grief stricken tear from this numbed heart of mine
How absurd! Then Ms. Azalea Lee revealed some things to me that
I dare not write for indeed they were enough to horrify...
During that time, I whispered not a peep, for I thought to my self
How could she ever sleep, with all of those emotions balled up inside... 
How strange it was that after the age of 15 she had not truly cried… 
At least until the day her father died and then she went numb again… 
feeling nothing yet still managed to smile
My, how I wished I could share with her, this joy of mine….
How is it that she takes all in stride?
Without a drop of hate inside…  As I bid her goodbye, 
The answer came, she is mine and 
She possesses a strong will to survive.  
I now look back through time at Ms. Azalea Lee
Keeping her stories as they sure had an effect on me…

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Thoughts from the Mind of a Blogger

It was a chilly morning in paradise...

Autumn was already here...

A time for strange things to happen, as it is that time of year...

She was up most of the night, doing a write....

Regarding some hubs and her series titled "Legend of Fred "

Ahh the questions she had... rolling around in her head..

Were “where were her readers, her followers “ her Hubbers...?

They had all seemed to like what she wrote in the past..

But lately her hubs were falling so fast....

She had written articles on health and life..

perhaps she had targeted too much strife...

Maybe they wanted to read about food..

But when you're not a cook, that would be kinda rude..

Oh, will wonders never cease ?

So she decided she'd get some zzzzz's

She lay in her bed, not moving at all...

but breathing quite deeply, as I saw the covers fall...

So I stretched my muscles and walked ever so slow..

So as not to wake her , then I spied her big toe..

Sticking out from the was such a temptation..

And with me having such a" foot fixation".. however...

She needed the rest , so she can finish her quest..

I have some thoughts of my own...

that I would like to share in a poem..

And I would be happy to help her.. but..

I don’t think the world is ready for me...

as I am a BLOGGING CAT.. you see

So I will close for now...everyone have a great

I'm off to seek something that has a tweak and a squeak..

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Beautiful, perfect, inimitable star

Most things that we know
aren't even worth knowing,
it's all pomp, and glamor,
wicked lies mind is throwing.
The ego's all shiny,
all sparkly, and bright
as it spews forth sweet lies,
turning day into night.
The bigger the better,
no losing, just win,
we must have it all,
there's no thought about sin,
as we dig ourselves deeper,
and forget who we are,
beautiful, perfect, inimitable star.

Details | Prose Poetry | |


It's time to let it go
life passed by a long
time ago.  It went by 
so slow.

I want to stay, you're not
listening to a word I say.
HEY! HEY!  it's Sunday.
It's this way at noon 
again.  I need this and I
need that;  the smallest
voice screams at me:

It's enough!  Look at you, 
with your toys and baubles.
Where are you going with
that?  Oh;  now it's a hat
with bells ringing:  cling,
clang, clat.

The cars are rolling.  I need
change.  Taking corners,
following jumping waves,
bye, bye.  Sitting, smelling,
what's a nose for?  

I can tell you know anyway;  it's
time to leave before moontime
comes.  I pray for hours before
the sun using sculptered sand;
the sun stays away rolling tides
of cars spanning the bridge till
I go astray.

Details | Prose Poetry | |


They built the underground chamber well reinforced with concrete to the depth of 
three miles into the center of the earth. NO steel girders were used. They did not 
wish to be trapped when the atomics started dropping from the sky. They putt three 
tons of food within reach for everyone to survive. Radiation suits with water in 
drums to be used only in the event of the end of the world. They even used double 
doors like saloon doors which could not lock them inside. But they forgot what could 
happen iff Murphy is in charge. The SILO for this is the right title of this thing the 
SILO for this is the designation of this thing the SILO drifted above them only 17 feet 
away but it could not have been worse it could have been 17 miles for there were 
no equipment down there for them to tunnel up or out. The spokesman for the 
group turned out to be the worst the nerves evident in the strain of her voice there 
is no reason left to us. So now we will die here entombed no one could foresee this 
problem the concrete silo above us has drifted into the earth trapping us 
underground for the rest of our lives. Which recourse will not be much longer now. 
The lifer PFC Hice stepped up to the dirt floor roof just above them he took his 
shovel from his pack then he began to dig slowly at first then faster faster he pulled 
the dirt from the opening letting it fall behind him uncaring he begins to turn the 
tunnel to the west to begin his task of getting to the concrete Wall of the silo. 
NOTHING else matters now to most of them they sought out ways to help him. He 
turned over here he is to sleep then wakes to begin the shovel urging the others 
taking turns to come up behind him with the bucket then drop the dirt into the 
kitchen or the stove they filled up every free spot in the effort to conserve room they 
intended to win this fight for survival now. For where there is one free Man there is 
hope for the others. It took too long to get the concrete tower open. They found 
them there one September. They held open the tower door for the Prime Minister of 
the world. He took one look to the Man on the tunnel floor. He smiled. It is my son. 
He died he gave his life upp here down here trying to get them out he was trying to 
save them. He brought him out into the light only to bury him further. Such is the 
power of men. Such is there intelligence. One huge MegOHBlister.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The sunrise of your sacred love

the sunrise of your sacred love,
paints the hollow desert in my mind,
scattered grains of windblown thoughts,  
frozen remnants from another time,
your liquid brush scrape shards of pain,
from deep within my dark terrain,
and like a scarlet phoenix I rise again,
I climb your thighs,
and stroke your breasts,
I kiss your luscious, tender lips,
drink your luminescent eyes,
and dive right in,
such a surprise.
I didn't realize, 
that your love would be like this,
you've raised me from a dark abyss,
and placed me deep within your heart,
I'm warm, content and gently smiling,
lost forever,
in your love beguiling.

(from the chapter "Divinity of Woman" in Love's True Home, now available online in
hardcover, paperback, and as an e-book)

Details | Prose Poetry | |


I close my eyes and put the moon asleep.

I see lands and scopes of being mixed
from long ago rolled into tomorrow.

Circus clowns and lost classrooms,
moving caravans of little people;
creatures not knowing the way and 
I have quite far to go.

Don't leave me here this way.  Close
the cover, hide the ground neath your 
feet.  Tracks hidden from all.  Dig and
dig cover it all up into deserts where
dusty sands can play, hide and sink
in any way you don't need to close
your eyes.  Keep your mouth shut.

Close the cover we'll go to the sea
hide behind octopus, one leg for you,
seven for me.  We'll be fine leaving
it all behind.

It's been tried before.  Double buckled.
you blended with the sandbed.  Close
it properly this time.  There's no one
here who'll care to climb downward
or upward.

We're on our own this time.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Soul's stolen house

The Brain and the Heart ran into each-other one day
at the Soul's door,whose house had been stolen
After a formal greeting ( they had in common a distant respect)
they entered the house and left their presents.
The Brain had brought a cup full of reasons, ancient and newer wise thoughts,
conclusions of others and of his own,
all his wrinkled substance he had brought.
The Heart had a small bottle with a small, very small quantity 
of love essence in it.
In respect to the Soul's sorrow, they exchanged no words, and left 
each in their own direction, to live end exist separately.
Well, they knew their presents would be enough to refurnish the Soul's home.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The First Fable of CharlaX

 The First Fable of CharlaX 
The First Fable of CharlaX 
A Falcon Cry 
The Falcon Cries: 
 He spreads his wings in vain attempts to dry 
He tells me once in a whistle WHY? 
Why cannot we fly? When will the rain let up and let me in the air? 
When will the water stop to drop on feathers so wet there? 
The Falcon Cries: 
A mournful sound so loud in quiet of early morn 
His claws dug deeper in the branch to keep from being torn 
Away from perching in the storm 
His sharpened beak at work to smooth his feathers 
He was using extra care no longer talking just to me his only whistle 
Told me many things 

The Falcon Cries: 
We disagreed with all the rain both the Falcon and the eye. 
Why can't we fly? 
Eye could clasp the bird to bosom and dry his feathers there 
A bird so wild and wonderful so hurt 
With all my tears for the Falcon Cry. 

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Your crazy passion

you inhale me
saturate me
with your crazy passion
as you exhale me
I shoot out like a flaming comet
from the constellations
swirling in your eyes
exploding like a meteor shower
high into the sky
and then 
you drink me in
and cast me deep 
into your torrid rapids
my glistening wings
slowly melting
shimmering silver rivulets
liquid feathers 
into the glorious ocean
of holy splendour 
forever free
lost inside your ecstasy
in the center 
of effervescent love
your precious golden heart

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Alone on a Planet

alone on a planet,
the planet he was born on,
the planet which gave him strength,
which gave him everything he needed,
what he realizes is the planet wasn't what he thought it was,
the people weren't the people he thought they where,
the human being is not even the human we know about.

Into the deep detail of the human skin he goes,
what he witnesses is huge symbolism coming from the universe,
every form bonding with another form,
the form which bonds ,
keep on bonding as life is a infinite form.

What he discovers is he is in a delusion which is preventing him from becoming complete,
a delusion coming from the higher system such as religion & politics.,

The system which infects our mind ,
making us manipulated for its selfish desires,
the system which turns us into a auto destructive machine,
the system which is not going to let you discover the infinite and what you truly are,
the system consisting of a rebellious negative energy created from the principle of pure destruction.,

A system controlled from another form of life which wants us to remain slaves!,
slaves it wants us so we wont become complete as it fears us!. 

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Beautiful Apparition

It is not hard to fall in love with a beautiful apparition. You don’t know them, but are easily 
entranced by their chemistry. Your brain ignites a myriad of sensual wishes. Carnal exploration 
and fantasies played out in seconds, heating your heart like an oven. They disappear as quickly, 
a wisp of smoke, but you miss them immensely. A hallow feeling leaves you weak, sad, and 
alone stretching for minutes, days, or years till the next one steals your heart. Man or woman, 
boy or girl can manifest and escape around corners and be gone, but in the moment you had 
them for eternity. The Petrarchan romance you read lives in their dance and laughter. No one 
goes without this fictitious ache; it follows you as your shadow does, comes to life as often.

Looking serene a placid lake reveals a reverse world where everything is as real as the earth 
you tread, as vivid as those memories you hang on walls. Veiled in disbelief as a mere image 
those waters taunt you with their likeness. The ghosts you long for are down there, but there 
they know you as the beautiful apparition

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Epiphany At Union Station

The Station was littered and in disrepair, 
'Out Of Order' signs bore witness. 
Discarded chewing gum and empty bottles, 
and the smells emanating from unemptied 
trash baskets... and in the midst 
of all this dislocation there he was,

huddled in his wheelchair, 
his tray of trinkets proudly perched 
on a cardboard box, a makeshift table. 
Always cheerful, greeting commuters 
as they hurried past, but they never returned 
the smile forever gracing his weathered face. 

One day I stopped to say hello. 
His eyes brightened as he said 
"Good day to you, good sir!" 
Can I interest you in any of my treasures?" 
I noticed he was shoeless, sockless, 
and made a mental note. 

"Right now I have to catch a train, 
but I'll return when I have more time, 
you have my word." 
"I'll be here, this is my world, you'll 
always be most welcome!" he explained, 
as I disappeared into the teeming crowd. 

Foregoing my schedule I returned the next day, 
anxious to peruse his wares, and continue 
our conversation. It turned out he was a Vet 
who'd fallen on hard times. I sat and listened 
while he told me his story. A man displaced 
by a society who would forever be in his debt. 

"I'll be right back," I said. I had a plan. 
Returning from the store, armed with sneakers, 
socks and a sponge, I cleaned his feet, 
pulled on his socks and laced up his 
brand new Nikes. He was overwhelmed, 
and by way of payment gave me a pendant 
bearing the inscription, 'Semper Fi.' 

"This will bring you good fortune, my friend, 
wear it, and your heart will be free of strife, 
and your days will be filled with sunshine! 
Remember me and treasure it, that is all I ask." 

Next day, as I was crossing the concourse, 
I saw he was no longer at his station, 
my friend, his wheelchair, and his tray of trinkets 
all were gone. I hoped that where he went 
he was cared for and comforted, and if he had shuffled 
off this mortal coil that he was in the arms of God. 

Was he seen by anyone but me? 

I believed with all my heart he was an Angel... 

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Before They Came

  	Before They Came
  	Sitting here with my daughter between my knees, I braid her hair, One by one I place the lucky shells in her hair.I hear the call and response in my villiage.. The roll was being called. This gathering was different, The drums tell us we must gather to meet, as we will have guest to greet.
" Habari-Ghani -'' What's the news'' The news is, strangers are here, to look for wives, they want to take us away.                                                                                           The news is, our ways are not there ways, Father says we girls must go away to have a better life.                                                                                                                    Your husband died and no one in this Village will marry you he said; You have a daughter, you must think about.  
                I have many daughters and I cannot take care of you for life.! Things were Fine right before they came, We had our own way of solving problems.                                                                                                                            I want to smell the wood burning on the open fire, I want to dance in moonlight with my sisters, I want to eat from a coconut Shell.                                                                                                                                      I want things to be the same as the were; Before they came!                                                                                                                                       Simmering pots of love, burning wood and coconut shells....Bathing in rivers..weaving our love in baskets. Its been Five-hundred years and I am still here in my new home, holding onto memories of sun filled oceans.                                                                                                                                  Trying hard to hold on to the times of happiness...Before they came. Mamas Laughter, grandmothers wisdom, came with me on this journey. For dear life I am holding on, unashamed, I long for my life...before they came!

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Missing Mouth

On a warm Thursday morning
my mouth leaped off my sleepy face and eluded 
my messy apartment.

It went absent for years.
All the “missing” signs with $100 dollar rewards
did not pay off.

So I had to cope with people’s kind aid.
They ate off my food bite by bite,
verbalized what was on my mind,
and smiled instead of me.

It was awful being lipless.
The joys that came with my mouth were suddenly omitted, like:
Leaving smooches on people’s cheeks.
Laughing, (when I wanted to.)
Centering pouts to my foes.
Smiling to strangers.

Until one day, while reading the morning paper
the headlines said that a mouth had been found
So I went to the center where they said my mouth was
being taken care of.

When I got there I was flabbergasted with
what the Dentist had told me.
“Your mouth needed a leash,
that voiced tongue and
intimidating full set of teeth.
So we plucked out some of its fangs.
Oh, and its Wise teeth too.
You know all the commotion genius could do…” 

I frowned.
“And that vindictive tongue! Would
not keep silent. It screamed poems 
about licking society-inflicted wounds,
self-righteousness, individuality,
and those crazy things. So we chopped that
off too, until it could no longer sing.” 
he spoke with a hiss in his 

“I am proud to say that this is our 
greatest work so far.
Maya, you are finally healed.
This mouth was going to get you into a lot of trouble, young lady.
Now, would you like your mouth back?”

I shook my head with disapproval,
gushed into tears and stormed home.
I let my mouth go and set it free.
What use would a speechless mouth
have been to me?

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Whimsical Thoughts

The winding lane twists and turns
as it meanders up hill and down dale
stretching far ahead, a silvery thread
glistening and glinting, beckoning me on

Peaceful countryside noises abound in the air
cooing of woodpigeons, rapid tapping of woodpecker
raucous cries of rooks nesting in the trees nearby 
low mooing of cows and bleats from the young lambs

As I journey onwards beneath the vibrant blues skies
I come to a brow and there stretched out before me
a landscape so picture perfect it moves me to tears
verdant hues of green from the meadows, scent filled air

This is where I want to be and to grow gracefully old
to put down my roots and settle in this peaceful vale
to wake each day to the glories of nature each different
something new to catch my eye and fill me with delight

A place to rest with natures bounteous treasures spread
to revive a weary soul, to heal the ravishes of every day life

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Riding on the Coattails of a Pebble

The universe revolves around patterns and numbers.
Like an insomniac knowing not the meaning of the word slumber.
To say it's a big place would be a gross understatement.
If it were a face we'd be living on a farthing of a freckle,
a speck within a speck, in a weak attempt at communicating
with other fellow specks.
So where does that leave us,
being little more than dust riding on the coattails of pebble?
In the grander scheme of things
are we just the byproduct that some entity imagined one day
from a place both incredibly near and far, far away?
One who is a whiz at math no doubt...
Just look at the population,
how in it's in a constant state of progressive multiplication,
born into a world yet only to be divided into petty categories:
White, black, brown, yellow,
short, tall, slim, fat,
Asian, Caucasian,
European, Indian,
Yugoslavian, Brazilian.
It's a wonder we are recognized at all
living on this ball within a greater ball.
You wonder who holds the strings
or if we're all just windup toys;
alive and exciting for a time
only to run into the last gear,
the last programmed function.
Just what in the world are we doing here?
The universe may practice it's progressive multiplication
and subsequent division. That doesn't bother me.
What I personally like to do is find the GCD (greatest common denominator)...

... the fact we live and breathe. Ears to hear and eyes to see. So pick up the pieces... we have a long way to go if we can ever hope to solve this puzzle.

Though we may be a speck within a speck
riding on the coattails of a pebble, rejoice
with me. That you ARE, that you BE.

Take a good long look
at what surrounds you. It is much more than
it appears.
I don't know all the answers, but I do believe
we have a purpose here.

For the Nationality Contest.

Details | Prose Poetry | |


I knocked the gate of hell 
No one answered 
I knocked again and no one answered 
I thought it was a mistake 
But suddenly I discovered 
I was knocking from inside. 
                                               Soumit Dey 

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Chounds like

 Chounds like 
Chounds like 

 Eye chased mye deer into the rough the golf was tough and leathery the ball 
wound up in the gulf near the coarse leather coat the top coated layer of infinity. 
When every internet address is placed into the category suited to it best and 
every number has been named and everyone is best at what they do not just 
where they are could it be hard to let them off to la la land to make them just to 
understand the slot the slotted place therein. The lob lolly cained there was two 
of them they rub and shudder expectantly in exctasy like twine boarding a fence 
posting to the dead letter offices in all the land. The firmimentnation of the united 
stations was attacked with hate the rabbit tripped over the log anon and said 
quite frankly my dear eye don't give a darn who who is. They drugged the maiden 
dragged her screaming from the bed the water stain will set in the rug don't ewe 
understand it was to be this afternoon not later in the day not tomorrow anyway it 
has to be soon after noon. The goon dropped a cup and he grumbled and he 
gripped it in one hand and it slide like the banana peeling from the tree shaded 
oasis banana vines green black men picking them forking bales of hey what was 
that noise a student in the background just redialing all his porn so sure that all 
those girls are doing time to make him worn. Egads the Chounds are about us 
they have been released on Edgar come Allen forward POE. They foxed the 
kittens and sometimes the medical officer gets some extra hush money to look 
the other way is danger danger warning warning the alien is coming. When you 
must explain anything a joke or silent laughter a penny for your thoughts the 
hidden manna best sometimes to leave unsaid the thing so evident for iff she 
has not gotten it a lenghty explainnation will not further it along the windsome 
parapet the jester faking it has lost the thread the limits of the outer kind 
surpassed in unbelief. Nothing is perfect in scrabble blast eye have noticed 
sometimes there is only one tile left over but it still gives ewe the option of 
scrambling the letters and it even tosses the tile up in a vain attempt to move the 
thing in semblance of the shuffeling required by law in this game. Survival 
dictates like a witch brewing portents in the ditch poor and sinful man disgraced 
walking to the human race the chounds to chase. 

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Forking River Dam, Illinois

Forking River Dam, Illinois

Forking River 
Forking Dam 

John M went camping and took his friend Timmy. Off they went to the Forking River Dam. They 
went to the Forking Campground near the Forking Dam. They decided to visit the Forking City. 
They had to go to the Forking Market. It was near the Forking Gas Station closer to the
Forking River bending near the Forking swamp turning into the Forking Quicksanding place 
there where they turned off the Main Forking Road. They turned Forking right there. There
is a 
Forking left turn as well but they had to get to the Forking Store. They bought some
Forking Beer 
made in the Forking Brewery. They were still in Illinois. Forking, Ill. Ill is the
abbreviation for 
Illinois, so we aer all Forking, Ill. For now. The men were Forking camping so they bought
Forking beans made at the Forking beanery. The Forking Meat CO. provided. The Olympic 
branch of the Mount Olympus Water CO. Donated the Forking Water. They went to the Forking 
River Motel to steal the soap and the towels. They paid for the room and took two Forking Dam 
showers. They kept the Forking Dam Ashtray. It has a picture of the Forking Dam River. The 
Forking Dam Police were searching for the Forking Dam Campground to arrest the Forking 
men. They were not from Forking at all but just out of townies they had come to Forking
Dam to 
Fish for Forking Fish. They went to the Forking Boat Dock and rented a Forking Boat the
Man in charge of the Forking Boat Dock said you out of townies speak with Forking tongue. But 
money green in Forking Dam. Good to see you Forking men. The Men in Forking Dam City are 
Forking gay. The Forking City Future Club is Oddfellows Hall. 
Eye am Forking, Ill. From all that Forking Fish they gave to me the nibbles and the bites
the love 
all tied up in Forking Ville. They said that visit day is FrYdaY at the Forking Prison
Institution they 
have a Forking Fish fry for religion they want me to go to Forking, Ill. And visit.

Details | Prose Poetry | |


OVERCOMING FLAWS I heard laughter in a distance and wondered why this annoyed me. Then I realized that what they laughed about was what did not define humor. Therefore, who laughed twisted their senses. This morning, as each, I awoke with a mood swing. Things were going as they should from what had previously occurred. Let me explain. I go through this twilight form. I am zone via income. You may go ridiculous but this is done via the government. Quite an annoyance... What annoy are mediums that are formed from corruption. In a storyteller form, I developed the imagination. To implement, I tell a tall tale through the lens of non-fiction. However, true accounts are hidden within the excitement. The tale goes, once upon a time, in the world of expression, lived a woman who was quite annoyed. If you spoke to her, she became annoyed. When you smile at her, you found that she was annoyed. This would annoy you; therefore, I begin to not speak to Maxine or smile at Maxine. Maxine had Graves’ disease, which caused bulging eyes. She was a refined woman but wanted you to see her otherwise. What annoys is that she made it seem as if you caused this negativity in her life. Aggravation makes an annoying situation. When your life is not as you want, whom do you blame? What annoys me the most when you blame me and I do not have any means to cause you any pessimism. Provocation of such states you have not done what you should. You are liable to you own self-identity, self-worth, and self-esteem. Do not accuse me. Inasmuch, this is what annoys me!

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Rag Doll

A rag of dreams
is loved and cherished... 
Yet, what is not seen
is a small tear in the seams

Passing days 
and times of play
drop small grains 
of pain and reveal delay

In loving hands 
days have passed 
more grains drop
becoming part of the past 

This rag doll....once full of dreams
now empty from a small tear 
in the seams, sits lifeless
on the shelf eternally smiling

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Sorry I Was Thinking About Something

A man sitting across  from a woman; while in conversation gets close and closer to her face. the closer he gets the more his skins just melts upon and morphs onto her; becoming a human blob of sorts while consuming her. people walking down the street start grabbing their chest as if were obtaining the results of a heart attack; start having upright siezures and transforming into monsters. some elderly fellow answering his doorbell to a man in sunglasses that smiles, just smiles at him. his grin becomes wider and larger, just becoming a face of teeth. golden retriever puppies playing on a grassy field, bouncing around over white small moths and butterflies. two viking brothers sitting at a wooden table talking about their battles of old. a young boy standing across from a microphone on a dark lit stage, with empty chairs infront of him; wondering why he never spoke. A teenage girl whispering to a teenage boy about how fun last night was and she pulls away and laughs for the memory made. a boy dying in his hopital bed playing with his superman action figure, the life supports machines echoing through the halls. a giant hole appearing in the sky, slowly sucking away the color of the earth...
want to play a game?
1 2 3 4 5 6 9
eve ry one is fee ling fine.
stars are bright.
for they burn.
touch them. and see. what. you. learn.
1 2 3 4 8 9 10
chil dren should go.
straight. to. bed.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Walk

It was a long walk, with time heeling at my shadow. 
(and somewhere miles away the garage door closed, and the exhaust flowed,
and a small dog died in her limp arms)
I was friendly with God. Only with small trepidation did I drink from the sordid 
chalice, minutes before, and decided that a walk, skip and a jump to nowhere is what I
needed the most. And so it was.

Block after block, stones in the pavement, the smell of creosote poles.
Delicate foil wrappers, industrial petals, She loves me not, she loves....
Sidetrack with backpack, it doesn't matter. I don't care. 
I'll be there when I damn well find myself somewhere. Which is where 
the trees grow bright, and the birds flit without flapping.
And the water forms misty and bejeweled, laying my mind out flat
like steam would fine linen. then I will sit and breath with an "e". You bet.

But first a small lap in a languid pool of solace, a tip toe through the forest afire with
colors borrowed from alien hands, a taste of spring time cum. Let me wallow.
God, friend, let me wallow in your mess of beauty, before I call it something.
Let me roll around like a goddamn dog. I want to itch and draw forth honey from my veins.
I want to suck sap bleeding from the tree, and dine on the lost sound of the whippoorwill. 
God, let me die a small death of beauty, and be reborn in an orgasm of **** all get out!
No qualms. Buddy. I love your work. It looks like you ****ed yourself a good one. 
And what came was all this edible goodness. Like Dali, I want to eat it. All. 

Now, like I promised you, I'll give back. I'll play your hypnotic song 
and sing to your soiled minions. I'll take heed in your loving whispers 
and open up my heart for your midnight snack. I'll clean up your moonspill
and read to you that silly book of yours, the one about the golden rule
and those twelve dudes. (Sorry God, not my cup of tea). 
Draw a bath for your daughters, and draw back the bow for your sons, and ready the bed for Venus.
Sit back and relax, ol buddy, I'll do the best that I can
then I'll grow tired 
and fertilize
your garden.

Oh. Now I can breathe. The song has left my lips for now.
I walked myself into a lovely stupor, and you showed me
the rainbow. And I raised your worms.
I played your song, God.
(I hope that somehow, she heard it over the din of engine and whimper of dog)
I played that timeless song, or you played me.
Either way, it's still the day
that the trees grew bright with sun
and the birds flew without flapping.

Details | Prose Poetry | |


When night falls it brings rise to my smile and mood, I rush for bed; sleep is the time 
where I am most alive. I smile into your eyes as I kiss your forehead then your nose 
and down visiting your lips for an extended stay before once again smiling into your 
eyes as I pull back. I roll you over, your back now pressed against my chest and I 
continue to firmly hold your body. The closeness ignites the heat, now open hearts 
in open hearth we melt; ingot moulds; we are one. One body, one mind; one smile; 
one love and we at peace sleep. I am in love inside this nightly ritual and dream, 
when morning arrives and your absence is once again discovered, thus triggering 
the nightmares clock punch until once again night falls and brings rise.

Details | Prose Poetry | |


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

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Gray Prince of Romance

I set my foot on the saddle of heart
But all were shaded, blurred, and scratched meaningless
I heard a whisper and tempted
Who was wandering within the fog?

This world seemed to be collapse ...
Or was it hiding?
Would it be stated in the relevant of logic and a conscience?

The heart says yes
The cavity of mind says no

A contradiction which fails to take the truth as the end of a fact

Lips say yes
Eyes say no

Will you be able to break through the hypocrisy which was anesthetized in it?

This must be a dream ...
And I hoped it would be ended as a dream ...
A dream which described about a big whirl
An endlessly linear which revolved upon a life

Which I hoped I would never be involved 

But it was too late ...
I am here, standing as the pivot of a dilemma ...
For a moment I stood on my silence
Try to analyze the situations ...

For a sudden I speak to an empty room
What are you searching for?
Is it a black or white instead?
And the breeze of wisdom back whispered

"You're looking for an obsolete"

"You're looking for the gray prince of romance"

Author's Note:
You may see the other version of "Grey Prince" by Richard Lamoureux

Details | Prose Poetry | |

How Did Santa Claus Broke The Reindeer Back

How Santa Claus broke the reindeer back

I am just disappointed he is such a play ball; he refuses to joined the community gym, he have no consideration for a hard working reindeer like me. Please do us all a favor and stop telling everyone that you’re tall and slim Mr. Claus
Santa put this in your pipe and smokes it. I am forming a union; you can contact my Lawyer Mr. Tin Tin

 I need some Fringe benefits else I am going to quit; year after year after year I chauffeur you around
This is not a smooth ride on green grass, it’s cold, cold snow “please looked around.
Breaking into people houses late at night, dropping off toys, we are plaster on every walls and poles
Santa this reindeer is off radar; you get off your fat ass or hire Casper the friendly ghost.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Prose : Black and white world

I woke up into a world of black and white, in a field with ghostly fog and antique trees. 
Seeing the world with the perception of a dog, I ponder this reality I ended up in, how I 
arrived here. My mind won't admit to the answers I seek, unsure if it knows them and just 
won't speak. How funny the mind is, an alien in my own world. 

Walking under nameless stars down a rustic road,  the simplest details bathed in contrast 
and shadows. Without color, everything had inherited soul over substance, striped away of 
it's surface to reveal another depth: previously unnoticed.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Secret Ladee Of The Night

I remember so well  
   dancing  that last, wild dance
A journey across the essence of time 
   Once  upon  a midnight clear  
I danced  beneath the waning moon 
   wanting to drink 
the sweet wine of  forgetfulness
   The sometimes, bitter fruit 
left a taste of regret 
   upon my tongue.
Now, in my older years 
   I’ll reclaim that woman child 
I’ll believe in faeries and flying saucers 
   and wash my face in fresh, fallen rain 
I’ll wear bright, wild, plume feathered hats
I’ll  have  a  secret name
   that no one knows but me
Then I’ll  laugh at  those 
   whose  judgements‘ and absurdities' 
so riled my fury
I'll pray for the sweet nature of other spirits 
   to take up their beat within my heart
I’ll be… 
           The Secret Ladee Of The Night
                                                                ~ *~*~

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Words From My Thoughts

I spent the days looking at the ground
I thought the world had clipped my wings
I spent the hours saying I felt down
I had no strength. I felt entangled in things
And then I hear you called me (Godson)
I set my face into the breeze
I lift my head. I spread my wings and I am free
My heart was heavy in the valley down below
My soul was empty, void of love

My sight was cloud by the dust the world blows
So I set my mind on earth not things above
But now your lifts me up 
From the sick bed in which i lie groaning
I will not be conquered, I am destined for your love
Courage is three letter words
Real courage is saying YES to life
Not backing down when faced with adversity
courage is acting with fear, not without it
Angel! I really love you deep down my heart.

Life is filled with challenges and opportunities
Mountains to be climbed conquered with others to follow
When you are no longer interested in climbing mountains
to see other mountains to climbed, life is over
Vision sees the invisible
Believes the incredible
And then receives the impossible
This makes the blood never to run cold
Because loves for the path of the future lives
A mind that makes Success my QUEEN

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Cobwebs that Smiled and Tick Tocked My Teeth.

I wondered about midnight, with the


of my tongue standing straight up in between my teeth, my hair fell to places that were
begging for his fingertips, for the smooth warmth that occurs when he kisses my skin...

I laughed at moments we shattered, because destruction is amusing when you are in love,
and I was untouchable then, my breath sounded like time and time...

bit me...

leaving bruises that resembled....


I wanted to submerge his inebriated head with the secrets I hid behind my smile, and if
spaces were eventual then surely I'd reach for him, but he'd never remember the corners of
my mind when he slept, he'd never have nightmares from the knowledge that my cobwebs have
captured his smile...

I walked through us as if we were ghosts, I saw the images of our every mistake, I bit my
lip and threw my shoes to the bottom of forever just to see if I could hear them tumble,
so I'd know what I'd sound like if I...

were to fall in.

I begged for quiet with the twisting of rings and my thumbs seemed naked despite the
donning of Seattle, and you know the mountains there, they whisper secrets when you're too


to hear them, when you're too caught up in the beauty of possibilities to listen...

so I found myself quite possibly caught and I wondered if his webs glistened in the
moonlight that dropped from sleep

I wondered if they smiled

if their tongues clicked

if they felt



Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Matter of Creativity

Capital letter …

Right now, please note: it is time to dust, not write.

Dust was eating away this besieged body;
Amassing with all the misery that delights in ambush.
It crept into secret crevices,
Quietly dulling senses, as it blended in;
Softly choking, mimicking flu,
Before weaving a blanket so thick
It embraced and insulated;
Gently burying body under the weight of
An elephantine duvet with speaking tongues.

Write now, right now that house pride has succumbed to ash
As caked and empty cans and bottles decorate.
The dustman hurried by the empty drum
For rubbish barricaded the front door.

The inconvenience: to eat, drink, shop, to pay bills
Without leaving one’s desk these days.
Friends and adversaries seep out of pens,
Alphabetically springing to colourful life.
Who dares miss a thought so precious, so elusive –
Might never occur again.

So grasp it, rack it; right, left lobe battle dire emotions and reason.
Let dust prevent thoughts from leaving from whence it came.
Incarcerate all grey matters. 
Now one can write how it feels to have dust as qwerty companion.
Then fling open the door,
Let light and the world in.
Shout: “I write because I can.”  
Full stop … Exclamation mark!

(PS: begin again.)

Details | Prose Poetry | |


Mirrored images of ourselves
In the water, in others,
In the window glass
Of the building as we walk by
Captured just for a moment
Until we stop and stare
And look deep into our eyes.
Our souls temporarily in stasis
To allow a glimpse, a glance
Or perhaps a good long look
Of what is and remembering what was
As if we were an open book.
A look back into time
Of the ways we were
The good, the bad, the indifferent
All the changes we went through
Basking in the glory of how
We managed to get through it all
As the day comes anew.
A smile peers from our lips
When we think back in time
Of that special someone
That made and impact
In our daily life, the one who
Kept us glued together making sure
Everyone and thing stayed in tact.
A teardrop surfaces
Glides down our cheek
As memories of loved ones lost
Refill our minds, visit our dreams
To ease our pains, give us the strength
To move on no matter what the cost.
So as we slowly come back into focus
All the memories reclaim their rightful place
Back in time for future detection
The stasis releases us back to the present
And allows us to fully understand
The true meaning of reflection.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

my shell

I closed my eyes with anticipation for sunrise,
I wanted the daylight, illuminating my shell, and me
But when i opened my eyes, it was still dark
I realized, i must have awakened earlier.
so i closed my eyes , again , this time my eyes felt heavy , however i closed 
them , with a fear somewhere in my heart.
I slept
I slept and slept for as long as i could
My bones started to ache
But i tried…
I wanted to prolong my sleep just to look at the sunrise, the day, a new 
But when my heart started to tremble
I felt as i lost my breath
This compelled my to wake up, so i did
I opened my eyes
And looked at my shell
I looked and kept looking
It was still dark
There was no light, revealing me
There was no breeze blowing my hair
there was no humming of life
I kept looking -at the dark room, the dark shell
It turned my eyes gloomy and apathetic
Empty, empty as the shell
Without winking but watched
My gaping sight struck something
It was a broken mirror; it was hanging on the side wall
Just beside my bed
While it’s every broken sharp wedged piece but clinging to each other,
As a whole, struck my sight
Every broken pieced reflected
Reflected the ambushing of my misery
It reflected the darkness
It reflected my dark shell
And my empty eyes kept looking at it
Darkness of my shell reflected in the mirror, somehow made me feel, that it 
exists in me.
And As I kept looking, I looked at my face reflecting,
Broken, and my lips uttering without frowning,
Convincing _ it all exists in me and darkens day by day,
Emptying me

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Fable 666

Fable 666 


The good news is THIS, Salvation has come to EARTH. 
The bad news is to some of you; it is only found in JESUS. 
There is a prevalent personal jesus in the CHURCH today 
So that people have confused the works of the spirit with Salvation, judging 
others by what they themselves of course are doing wrong even neglection of 
Christ as the cornerstone. Also there is an inflated self-important personage 
inside people, not as something special made of GOD, but as something 
fashioned not from GOD at all, but from their laws. The first thing to remember is 
the wooden thing the CROSS, how JESUS stretched his arms and gave to us his 
life, HIS DEATH is saving us. HE laid inside a TOMB of absolutely stone in a 
place no one really ever wants to go. 
Conflict comes when people live in houses and drive cars money is the plastic 
jesus ruling all their lives and hearts. 
Let me tell you Mister LAW if you have murdered to further your influence and your 
wealth you just may someday wake up in a burning HELL. For the final chapter 
written in the judgment hall of GOD is the Hell of GOD to come from judgment to 
them all the naked and the dead shall stand there and give account of everything 
they done to a JUST and living GOD. No badge upon your chest no belt with 
bullits and with guns. No one to take your place for HE is sitting on the throne 
judging everyone. The Trick if trickery there is to come is to say the namme of 
JESUS and just do it quickly for there is horror waiting in the afterlife for someone 
misinformed in LAW. Rich men seldom win the battles with the sin. Everyone 
needs JESUS. Say JESUS and come in to a Heaven made of LOVE. 
Fable 666     

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Doorway

I’ve cut my hands on the broken screen door
of dreams meant to be deserted;
I can feel the rush of inclusion in a state of decay
as it gasps open against tucked in eyelids.
Smiles caught in dim headlights,
before the empty sway of drunken iron
drips from my palms as
inertia drives it all to fruition,
abstract revelations come to life.
My eyes stutter, fighting to 
keep them alive. 
I press reddened palms against 
the dusty doorway, count in
cadence meant for a heartbeat,
and breath in harmonic patience 
with something I wish I could understand,
but my sort of muscles are too weak to make an 
impact, my palms have become imprinted with the wake 
of trembling foundation’s sorrow.
               ….I look at them
pruned by the sour chaste of possibility;
rivers of emptiness run through my 
own imperfections. 
I’ve mended nothing.
they’re still…
These dreams are stone,
and I am only flesh;
Pounding my fists against a doorway
that has long forgotten I am here. 
-James Kelley 2014, All rights reserved.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Secrets in the Cinema

Persuaded by it's concepts 
Seduced by it's allure.
The promise of temptation. 
Shaping ideals. Shaping our world, you continually strive to shape.
Politics and romance excite you. Families find comfort in your story telling. 
Hypnotising us with fiction and non. 
A film is an intimate process, you deliver splendid.
You can expect a change in our physic,
Buried deep. 
Cinema, you have challenged an army.
Film, you have influenced behaviour, expectation and fascinated us.

Copyright © Christina Clark

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Forever Trail

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

Melody A. Coster

Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Night of Dreams

I sit here at two in the morning
with pencil in hand
for the poem I am penning.
The lights are low 
save the one on my desk.
In the ashtray 
a cigarette is burning.
Gentle spring breezes blow
cool but not cold
wafting scents
of a lawn freshly mowed.
The sheers at the french doors
billow and dance
as the wind puffs and blows.
In the background
the music softly plays,
cascades and flows.
A clarinet, violin, french horn,
and now an oboe
fill my ears
as the fire in the fire place burns low.
Smells of the cookies I baked
nearly an hour ago
still linger and mingle
in and about each nook of the room.
The Jack Russel at my feet
lightly snores
as the cat stretches and circles
for a nap on the hearth floor.
For my public,
what shall I write for them?
What is in store?
Then Bam
a book falls to the floor
and I am jolted from my nap of dreams.
You see 
nothing is always quite
what it seems !!

This poem is part of a series including   Sunset Reverie, An Evening by The Lake, 
Days End, On Comes The Night and Tiny White Canoe

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Necklace

My mom and dad bought a necklace for me from
Scottland. It is sterling silver with a pendant and in the 
middle of it is my birthstone. A purple Amathyst stone.
I wear it all the time and never take it off, because I love it
so much and it is a gift from somewhere I have never been
to before. If I get to go there someday, I have no clue.
This necklace is my favorite one also because it is chosen 
for me, with love. I hope it never gets lost or broken, or I will
be very upset. As pretty as a sunshine on me and as bright as a 
star shining at nighttime out in the still beauty of the background.
I believe it means alot to me to keep me calm and to remember
My mom and dad, all of our good times together, as a family.
They are getting older in age , and sometime we need to
think about how much time we are spending with them.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Confetti of Flesh

Would I rather go too slow,

Damp breath feeding the soil, 

worms to grow, an

old mans toil.


For me the answer is clear;

Though not today and I hope not here – 

To explode with love and feelings gold – 

Not too young and not too old

Wise enough to see my growth

But not old enough to have outgrown 

My sprit, 


this place called home

That’s how to die


A confetti of flesh ruptures the Sky.

Feeding the air, water and earth.

Why you ask do I care how I die –

My love, that is the whole reason -

We’re here

to ask why.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Fred the Legend been sighted part 3

It all started one one knew what it would mean...could it ? was it? just a 
dream ? Follow the " Legend of Fred " series and you'll see what I mean...

Everyone’s asking where is Fred..?

Has anyone looked under their bed ?

I’ve heard tell he disappeared on this night filled with fright..

Many said he was taken by the things that go bump in the night…

But things of this nature don’t happen around here that much….

Has anyone out there seen a little red headed clown ?

He has a red nose and a smile turned upside down…

The chocolate and sweets from his trick or treat…

Still lays scattered all over the street…

I know he wouldn’t have gone on his own..

Cause he came from a very happy home…

Some say they’ve seen him, running down the street..

Yelling at the top of his lungs….

Hey everybody it’s time for “ trick or treat “…

So on that night when you go out...looking for some fun..

Remember the little red clown named Fred..

And all the things this poem has said…..

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Easel Tower

With closed eyes I lay back naked to surroundings and noise, escape. Pencil inside 
the soft grip a slide show of mind displays beauty, I see each mole, scar, shine and 
blemish as though touchable live flesh. Knowing the lids of my eyes and mind as the 
creator and opening my eyes will erase the art. I choose to sit in darkness.

Details | Prose Poetry | |


As he began to kiss her, she stood in awe with the most pearly poise, mirroring the petals of a primrose that danced with an evening zephyr she once loved. Her cheeks reddened like the rose as she tasted his lips and her smile glistened with a sparkling lustre. She closed her eyes once again and approached his mouth with the most sightly smile.
As they kissed, she began to recite his poem in her heart and continued it's melody but for all eternity:

"Caressing cue in sky-lit blue 
In eternal dreams I long for you 
Dancing dew's red poured petal
Glancing pew as pollens soared settle"

Details | Prose Poetry | |


 There is so many inventions being worked on it is not surprising to the mee the 
eye to see a listzapper being developed at least in some Chinese factory. Add it 
on the computer next to the inversion control next to the hypertext transferor near 
the over stimulated granule hardware where the windows refresher is at. The 
internet picture convertor was the newest completed inventory. Now there is a 
need for the minds at MIT to make the eye a way to zap a list without doing the 
separated items just one more at a time. The items are usually removed by right 
click one at a time. The listzapper would be the answer to this modulated 
problem just hit the link once to the linkzapper then hit the first item in the list 
instead of just that one item open the linkzapper gets them all each and every 
one of them all in a row even iff there is 1001 of them all told. The information 
scrambles into the hardware forms a list again at the other end and becomes a 
new worded document again. Then hit the zapperlist@ the newest test of time 
the list is saved into the single files. The need to spend more hours at the board 
is gone the keys we need are now limited to only two or even one. Just make a 
giant button in the middle of my keyboard so eye can hit the linkzapper and then 
upload the zapperlist my work would thus be finished the need for typing gone 
the hours that we spend inside the lieberry can be used for having fun…visit 

Details | Prose Poetry | |


I have always dreamt of flying
Lifting my legs off the ground
Running in the mist of clouds
Carried in the arms of the winds
I know I don’t belong here
That’s all my mind tells me
I am an eagle though not fully developed
Up I look unto the sky top of the mountains
There I belong my soul sings
I run for awhile, lift my wings
Up I go and down I return
Never give up lifting my wings
And at last, I stretch my wings
Up I go and never to come down
And now I am there where I belong 
Above the cloud in the sky. 

(c) 2011

Details | Prose Poetry | |

There Was something

There was something in her eyes
That said to me
That what she was listening to
Couldn’t be heard
And the words being spoken
Couldn’t be said
There was something in the way
She held her head
That said to me
She really wasn’t where
She appeared to be
So I quietly whispered
Would you care to take a walk
She didn’t question why
Just quickly answered yes
Held out her hand to take
And I never said a thing
We walked through the night
Just listening to the stars
We felt the warmth of passion
Against the chill of night
And never spoke a word
For eyes, arms and lips
Say so much more
When the sun broke upon the day
The grass told where we lay
As time and years went by
I saw her eyes again
They were so much younger
As they reflected back my smile
There was nothing much to say
In the way she held her head
I just remembered how in the sun
The grass showed where we lay

Details | Prose Poetry | |


Level Of Intention 
eye had to pay for internet by the hour the word the line 
eye ran out of money in 1995 
the Computor had a dollar slot and a coin changer on the side 
the people eye worked for had all the consoles set up to lock me out 
the internet worked for my anyway if eye fed them enough coins online they let 
me out of the dungeon chamber long enough to smurf someone gave me coins 
for blood eye dripped enough to make the online hound sit up and beg inn 
Eiderdown the motel stray the bed is bound and wet just toss it out the bed 
cannot be found to dry it takes a never day just burn all of the buildings down In 
2003, lecturers and students from the UP Media Lab Arts course used a £2,000 
grant from the Artistic Console to study the literary output of real monkeys. They 
left a computer keyboard in the enclosure of six monkeys in a ZOO in Briton for a 
month, with a radio link to broadcast the results on a website. One researcher, 
Mike Phillips, defended the expenditure as being cheaper than reality TV and 
still "very stimulating and fascinating viewing". Not only did the monkeys produce 
nothing but five pages consisting largely of the letter S, the lead male began by 
bashing the keyboard with a stone, and the monkeys continued by urinating and 
defecating on it. The zoo's scientific officer remarked that the experiment 
had "little scientific value, except to show that the 'infinite monkey' theory is 
flawed". Phillips said that the artist-funded project was primarily performance art, 
and they had learned "an awful lot" from it. He concluded that monkeys "are not 
random generators. They're more complex than that. … They were quite 
interested in the screen, and they saw that when they typed a letter, something 
happened. There was a level of intention there." 
Given enough time, a hypothetical Monkey typing at random would, as part of its 
output produce one of Shakespeare's plays (or any other text) when the eye was 
a boy they were saying it was the Gettysburg Address. Placing 100 monkeys 
inside the computer room and letting them type the sound of the keyboards is 
deafening making a poor noise of institutionalistical importance. They did not 
type the Gettysburg address they typed and typed and this is what they typed they 
made it gibberish there is nothing much a monkey types that a poet can ever 

Details | Prose Poetry | |

An ode to a window

Behold the window that provides the view
It holds back the rain and the dust but allows the bright sunshine to pass right through.
A door is alright, may let in some light
It will swing to and fro and let in the snow. It can shut up tight or swing open to be out of sight.
But to get the job done right, it is the window not the door
on a cold winter day that will hold back the snow and let the warm sunbeams play on the floor.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Deep in the Woods

Deep in the woods, far from the crowded places
is a tranquil glen that Time itself has passed by
a place where legends still live and even grow
 If you walk there with heart and eyes open wide
amazing things will pass some even nodding hallo
poets of days of yore sit scribbling their poems
fired by the inspiration that this sacred place brings

Sit awhile at their feet ponder the words with them
then go to your own corner and pen with fresh eyes
tell of the array of wonders spread out before you
how silent from human sounds is this peaceful glen
the thrilling chorus of exotic birds joyfully fills the air
stroll awhile with Zeus, Thor and other gods of old
listen to the wisdom that they teach as they speak

And when the day is done and nightfall overtakes
lay down under the star studded sky and drift away
follow the paths of your mind as eyes closed you listen
let your soul run free and totally unchained, no fetters
become one with your surrounds in this hallowed place
when you leave you will take with you a very special gift
that of open mind and heart and a better understanding

Details | Prose Poetry | |


Copy and Past 
 Like a Euro dollar or even Canadian Money there must be a way to save lost 
sentences the web pages erased with restarts and hastes to find them again in 
the World Wide Web so many people are learning to master the art of the 
internet. Eye like to copy and past most anyold things pictures of dandelions 
seeds and poems. Reminisces of grace. Restated problems. Restarted 
boredom. Sometimes the mouse clicks and then doubles the problems begin 
when the green SQUARES start crawling the lag monster eating the web page is 
seen as a physical thing. The length of a title box grabs my attention this is the 
message not hidden in my fabel when the number of characters was limited eye 
used to copy and past the whole fabel then past it in the title box and there was 
the title. The woman was Filicia she was making her last name too long with 
circles and arrows and clicks sounding like beetles it looked something like this 
Jamearrowsonmormonbreadlongfellow so she called all her markers inn she 
went to the Yahoo offices and stayed in California until they lengthened all the 
TITLE boxes on the internet so she could copy and past her namme inn them. 
Now when the fabulist CharlaX copies his fables and past them in the title boxes 
the whole dang fabel is pasted in the boxes and HE losses a lot of time in 
erasing the crinkle paper then going back in the boxes and adding the title to 
fabel again what a chore no small thing to do depending on the length of the 
fabel so true some are short some are long but they all have to do to make 
children to smile and old women to weep to make young men to sleep and old 
men to smile. GOD bless ewe Filicia Jamearrowsonmormonbreadlongfellow. 

Details | Prose Poetry | |


 There is a personal testimony and everyone's focus is on the group and on the 
self and not on JESUS where it was supposed to be the reason eye won't go to 
fellowship with rich working Christians meeting at a SUNDAY SUPPER to drive to 
a pizza place where everyone pays something for the food even if they share it the 
cost is still beyond the pocketbook of yew. The added price of fellowship with 
world is loss of spirit functions eye am not suggesting we have meetings in the 
desert with the hedgehogs but there could be a meeting place for all the 
Christians like the fish doors of the early days of meetings they were in and out 
so furtive searching alleyways for soldiers avoiding arrests and fighting and 
bringing lots of food in the bags of fishes and the loaves of breads in pockets of 
the tunaes fishes smile eye could just not resist this in almost every Church 
there is a Kitchen and in some of them is love the people make the soup for the 
homeless and the court appointed prisoners and even important people come. 
Hang a fish upon the door of every kitchen in the nation make a place with tables 
where the poor can come in love do not forget the love the soup is  nice but even 
slabs of raw meat are not enough with hate. 
Eye could not write a word on yesterday the things that eye had wanted to write 
left on the flight of lost ideas and night came again without a thought and then the 
day came back this fable was born and eye decided to try religion again. The 
focus of a lot of people is the congregation the error being life is not a middle 
class house with people making money in a paper plate of life some people 
need a cup of soup just to survive please open up your love first open up your 
hearts then open all them kitchen cupboards up. There is another thing that eye 
must say to all the bible thumpers not yet in the grave what does it matter what 
the date and day of this my own salvation come the day of JESUS was 33 AD the 
date that GOD was saving me. 

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Magic of High Tide and Butterfly Wings.

On wings and above oceans, in the days where it rained to the left while the sun peeked
from the right, and underneath magical dewdrop butterfly breezes, she stood in the wind,
in the freedom of imagination where windows were doorways to heaven, and fairy dust fell
from the ceilings that contained her heart...

above the roaring of high tide and next to the balcony where the winds untied the braids
her mother had placed carefully in her hair, her tiny hands lifted, up, towards storm
clouds and hidden suns...

and she blew, exacting her breath to dandelion seed releasing, and counted made~up nursery
rhymes, as she fluttered her heart...

and out of her mouth flew a butterfly, wings beating in the rhythm of love, her eyes
opened and she reached her palms to the ceiling, watched drapes fall from wings and....

fairy dust...

take flight, and she whispered in a voice intelligent enough to only belong to a little girl,

“Goodbye, my heart, flutter your wings to the sky, then find me one day, sprinkle me with
smiles, find me and take me...


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The initial day

It was the actual day
i met with the world.
The month of July
in the year of '96
Truly it was month of cold
but a very special and most treasured day.
A date i left the enclosed world,
and visited the outer world.
The first date i used my nostrils
to locate oxygen to my lungs.
A date i captured organism like me
and most effective than me.
A day i located my meals through my bucal cavity,
A true day that  actually i was surrounded by clothes.
It was hard to go back to the initial home,
course out here it was just luxurious than the inside.
A date that will always be treasured.:-)

Details | Prose Poetry | |


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 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 
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 

Details | Prose Poetry | |

We Expand

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

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Reality coming true

Reality coming true is my dream
As one day I hope to achieve big
Courage eager makes me work like steam
Once I lose a chance I will sit like a pig

I hope to be a neurosurgeon
So that I help a lot of needy people
As I never want to others dreams fall in a dungeon
Since I don’t want problems to stick on them like a pimple

My dream to travel over seas
To see how other people live
I will never want it to be crushed like peas
Since I always work hard so that I will jive

I always dream no fighting war
As we lose a lot of innocent women and men
We will result into family of the lost to fall
As they have no where to write with a pen

I dream a world of no hunger
As most children are suffering a lot
We result into the locals anger
The anger grows until it red hot

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Heart of an Ocean

My love in you  
like the ocean,  
I want to dive into your soul,  
never resurface.  
I’d drown if I could.  
Breathe in, never let go,  
explore the very depths,  
into the heart of the ocean,  
to see what lays at the bottom,  
Unrequited, until I touch it.  
the further I venture into  
a territory unknown,  
the more I discover,  
the more I love,  
the more I am enthralled and determined  
to see what mysteries await me.  
The more I penetrate into  
the gratifying abyss  
of your heart that seems  
to have limits boundless, 
the more I want,  
the more I seek to reveal.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Timeless Reunions

Timeless Reunions
                    by Odin Roark

Regret mingled with other flotsam,
Longing found a corner and wondered,
Mistakes were numerous, all grinning confidently.
Knee jerks were like always,
Their passion without reason at the ready.

What an affair,
This reunion to end all reunions.

He had made himself the center of attention long enough.
His ego-mirror was worn and beginning to blur.
It was time, he knew.
After all, everything and everyone
Had sent him an invitation.


Applauding disappointments,
Thanking them for introducing him to paradox,
He next shook hands with injustice,
Thankful he’d avoided its wrathful guillotine.
Gifting a wink to fate hovering overhead.

Spotting modesty and humble keeping to themselves,
He enjoined them with some bubbly,
Toasting them for their perseverance
And apologizing for not being more attentive.

As the night grew long,
He continued looking for love.
He knew its nature well,
Having often experienced Tennyson’s maxim:
‘Better to have loved and lost,
Than to have not loved at all.’


There seemed little tenure left
Before time would…

And there She was.
There He was.
There it All was.

Love’s state of being
The reflection of semblance
He’d heard so much about,
Tried so hard to find and hold onto.

His dance card remained full for the night,
As he spun through his illusions one last time
Before dawn broke and the bright light embraced him,
Guiding him to the other side
Where further trials and errors for celebration
Were waiting.

He smiled.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

I Googled my self silly

A popular trend today is to google the names of friends 
A phenomenon born of curiosity and not a little trepidation.
They could be criminals on the run or worse it all depends
May be they’re contributors to the poetry foundation
As soon as it begins my query ends
because my name seems to be all over creation
yet I find nothing about the me that I know
so It’s time to end this fascination
For me it’s time just to let it go

Details | Prose Poetry | |


Winter Survival 
In the Winter of 83 they used to tell me stories the snow was over the telephone 
lines and they rode horses there and walked them OVER the lines see eh? Oh 
ewe beware the stories of men and read only the charlaxfabels over and over 
again. The worst one was back in 2005 the snow was four feet deep they took 
machetes and tore my roof off my survival tent. 
1 Peter 3:9 
 Do not repay evil with evil or insult with insult, but with blessing, because to this 
you were called so that you may inherit a blessing. 
Eye moved my shelter somehow avoiding a fight and learned just to survive 
survival is eating food. Men eat and fight and eating becomes the more important 
of the two what kind of neighbor would eye be if eye had fought with thee and not 
learned the Golden Rule. Eye lived several different lifetimes sack lunches do not 
suffice to rule the hunger in one man. Once eye was worried for existence 
seeming Death was at my door. Women thought me evil not suited up just for 
they love. Fruit is not my forte orange apple even pomegranate found 
persimmons rot on vines in trees not meant to live. Eye ate so many meats they 
kicked me out of storeage land and chased me from the parking lot with nothing 
in my hand. Potatoes is a fruit and not a veggie in my world. Golden throbbing 
corn is afforded to the poor ed.note @39 cents a can at most retail outlets. 
Hominy both gold and white is my favorites. Eye just decided to detective the 
students many behavioral ways and iff eye had three classes in the afternoon 
even if they were staggered over SIX hours the eye would not be in the library 
more than thirty minutes at a time. Be that as it may or as it were the ending is 
the same eye am a student of life. Walk in an endless path with snow up to the 
waisted place then dry the socks in bags and tie them to the feet and hope the 
dry will stay to un rot the flesh and hope the shoes will work and not develop 
sticheing of the holes in the side of doors and tankards full of glass. Coyboy is 
the last to understand a memory taken in the hand. 

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Writers Tail liaT sretirW ehT

The Writers Tail liaT sretirW ehT
by Charles Robert Hice on Wednesday, November 28, 2012 at 12:22pm ·
The Writers Tail
the poor writer can not post a poem anywhere to be recognized himself as a poet unless he writes a longish Devels tail complete with hooks and forks and splitting hoofs and tines in tomes you realize these publishers drink large amounts of alcoholic beverages and seek people to turn down they love to see someone saying homeless poems the frown and then the delete button when will they come to some conclusion that the ether thinking is the faulty mind life is better lived poor and sober how can any one help others to be someone iff they are drunk feet upp on the ottoman ice clinking against the windows and the glasses always half full and half empty ready at any moment to delete all details of any poor peoples emails so you want to post in this magazine afraid knot click delete delete the extra page is missing the long appendage added on is gone they removed all of the appendix index we told you to send an attachment means a file a doc or a document eye tried to attach my soul to my heart but there just is no space is taken up one old woman no pets allowed someday every item that eye write will flash before my eye it will be broadcast on heavens wifi for all the angels there to read each dot and t is crossed there no time lost to read eye will post my items on the heavens wifi for all eternity you stupid people who cant publish me make photostatic copies of my work and glue them to the bottoms of your shoes and stomp them in the dirt you walk back and forth on your thrown rug down on the floor until you cannot see the words and then you toss them into doors threw cracks and howl with glee cause Johnny cannot read me YOU CARACKED MY READING GLASSES BROKE MY TEETH  AND MADE ME GASP FOR BREATH TO BREATHE now little Johnny cannot read. Three shoelaces to make two shoes how many feet does little Johhny use. This tale hath a tail like the INcan Comet of Destruction can you see it in the sky it will be there the day we die. HOT ROCKS FALLING FROM THE SKY the day before the world turned green and died. Here is the cannonical mathmatical equation now. Take the INfinite lights in the sky what they really seem to be and move them to the end of time try to see them falling down. Tumble to the sea my lasting problems will never get ahold of me to hurt me whan they tumble to the sea eye will be set free whan my lasting problems thay tumble to the sea

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Fire Dissolves Ice Yet You Can Make Fire With Ice

There comes a bloodless slaughter
There comes a day turned into night
As they toil with their dreams, their fodder
As they face an immortal might

Watercolors awash with orange, yellow and red bleeding
Seeping and dropping little rainbow jewels
On dewey fields coveted by man, fertile for seeding
Under the rising sun's heat, searing and brutal

Mystical ideas threaded into a life of woven seams, splitting and ragged
Vision and sound colliding, though silent and soothing like in winter the snow falls
The skies meld the ancient stars, and drowning seas, and there moves the glaciers
Lands become barren and flooded, borders great thick rock solid towering walls

Built by tired human hands
By those who once worked in bands
Now separate and crawling
Under a god who has fallen

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Rationale Of An Animalistic Mind

I’ve been good for too long,
   my finger 
have become permanently curved
and I growl
     with every other breath
so in order to gain control
I release the beast.

Running into a field
   I tear out of my shirt
as my bones begin to shift
      locking into a sleeker,
   primal form
reawakening the wolf,
 and as my jaws extend
I raise my head to the moon
    and howl
        at the sight
of my aluminous friend.

I slide to a stop
as the last of my fur
finishes extending 
through my pores,
sit and cock my head
  as I listen,
catching a rustle
off to the right in the near woods.

Instinct decides
to head towards it
and I begin at a ground eating pace.
I can taste its scent in the air,
Reaching the edge of the forest
  I delve in full tilt,
      mere inches from the trees,
so close
   I can feel their presence
on my skin.
There it is
   bolting across the path,
I snap my jaws
  catching its right hind leg
and swing my head up
lofting my prey into the air.

Back legs sliding 
as I turn around,
dirt and rocks
spraying away from me
I leap,
   its still trying to run in the air,
I feel my mouth encircle it
and clamp down.
As my teeth meet
  I feel the head pop off
then I come skidding to a stop,
   splattered blood
dripping from my muzzle,
breath coming in pants.
I hunker down
to my feast,
desire sated for now,
   next time
I’ll have to find
                larger prey.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Alabama Snow

The long never ending landscape of southern Alabama never runs cold. Today it decided to. The wind was at 
ease and all the snow flakes were about. The cold ground shuddered beneath me but I could tell it was a good 
kind of shiver. The snow fell down in a hurry yet it still took it's time swaying in the wind. All the snowflakes 
danceing around soon started a low tune far off on the wind. The band played a song that the world has been 
playing for centerys. One of love and peace. One that has no bounds or experation date. The song was cold 
enough to freeze the earth but here I stood warm as I basked in my happieness. The world seemed still as the 
orchestra played it's beautiful tune. The wind swirling and twirling as if it were a finely tuned violin. I couldn't 
bare to close my eyes for it was just to beautiful to look away from. As the wind picked up in it's gusts the 
snow felt ever so heavier and the skys begain to melt the love within the snow as all the snowflakes fell down 
as rain. "What a beautiful conversion" crossed my thaughts. The snowed over feild grew dreadfully quiet as the 
beautiful tune escaped into the wind. This was when I sudenly realized I was soaked and freezing. Almost killed 
me but I steped inside away from the Alabama snow. But I knew she'd come back for me.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Job Well Done

Job Well Done
June 27, 2011

Got my job done
Now sitting in the sun
Tried a computer to pawn
Treated me as the devil’s spawn
Met a man
It was so grand
I looked and I spied
Ronnie gave me a ride

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Ink Stains

Taste the ink
that runs from my veins,
    through my pen,
       staining this page
as I set
my endarkened imprint on society,
the signature
           of a melancholy soul.

I spread my mists of verse
across this parchment
to tickle the emotions
of the masses,
   awakening them
from the doldrums of routine,
 their own hidden thought
like I had clawed them
out of their heads.

Those destructive intentions,
    severing flesh,
        splattering blood
and little morsels of meat,
       creating impressionistic art
  on the walls
       of their safe little dwellings.

Hellonic landscapes,
    reddish smoke
  seeping from fissures
in a volatile ground,
twisted trees
  barely seven feet tall
hanging on
    like a gnarled old man
on life support
    sparsely scattered 
about the sandstone bluffs,
spiraling dust devils
   dancing about
       spitting dirt
in the air
   as if it offended them,
leaving dull tan voids
    in the sky
distorting the crimson hue
that clings above
  the deteriorating,
        jagged spikes
that scratch 
    at heaven’s gates,
  holding back 
the water laden clouds
that have been trying to cry
       on this parched earth
             for eons.

The instigation
    of my imagination
 is a mere speckle
in the nuances of the night,
         a slight glitter
    that my cataclysmic mind
  preys upon.
These stanzas
    have been developing 
since time itself,
I just snatch them out of the air
    like an Archer fish
launching a stream of water
  to score my next meal,
laying them to bed
         as I see fit,
tucking them in with punctuation
and my unexplainable determination
         to release expression.

Taste what flows
  from my quill,
    it might entice you
to be the next scribe.

Details | Prose Poetry | |


I dont understand how i Saw some things...
Like the origin of language on walls
        And the begging of time..
Is it only in your brain,
    to bring value and meaning?

I do not understand some things like 
   Where does it come from and how
Does it surface?
                       Does everyone feel
                           Or only the ones who know...??

I do not understand some concepts such as Doom, which i have seen.
Is it Good or Bad?
Can it bring quality of life?
It doesn't make sense to me and often times you can't even remember but then all of a sudden it bites you again! I just forgot what i wanted to write about Doom, but I've seen it
It's gone..
I had it explained to me once.

Are the answers written outside?
I see a lot of signs, but makes no sense 
Let the thought count, and not the word

I do not understand why I got to see

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Helen Keller

 Helen Keller 
Helen Keller 

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

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Charade Parade

Hate begets hate,
Fatality it’s sure fate,
The belly of the sated,
Churned by hatred,
The lame marching in defiance,
Gossips in one alliance,
The mute raise their voices in harmony,
As partakers in the ceremony,
Eavesdropping was the pastime of the deaf,
Whistling amused the children with lip and palate cleft,
The blind bystanders look in awe,
Stunned by the things they saw,
Acid bath victim ignored by the law,
Hides behind layers of make up in an effort to conceal her flaw,
Nuns soliciting on the avenues,
Parading as women of easy virtue,
Best friends maintain strangle holds on each other’s throats,
While arch enemies raise glasses to toast,
Sterile men make a show of their genitalia,
Putting post menopausal octogenarians in lustful hysteria,
Making boast of their sexual prowess while puffed up with self importance,
Despite their impotence.

Details | Prose Poetry | |


His frosty grasp conveyed shivers down my achy spine
My weight as thin as air; cold air rushing past me
I stood apart watching down to earth, where I had dwelled
A different chill down my spineless soul
The light led me on to a beautiful spectacle
None as pleasing as that grandeur Mansion
I moved an inch closer; it moved twice away
It was in sight but far within reach
There stood another, a much disturbing figure
It looked as torment, it’s hurt as Tartarus
Hades saluted at its opening
And sin, its shame in one word
I remained suspended, in comparison of the unlike
In clear vision of sorrow pending guests of Hades
In plain vision of joy awaiting those of the Great Mansion
Earth lay drenched in its past greatness
Bathing in sin; choking in black dirt
There stood anew a fine build
A voice as loud and thundering searched through me
The Ultimate question, “How many can I bring ashore?”
The clock ticked on more than deafening
Each loose second, an additional wasted life.
I looked on pleadingly, my life and many others to implore
A great commission to realize. The alpha? Me!
I was fading, I was tearing beneath
A fall as unhurried as midnight
Transporting  into my departed limbs, life
A new dawn planted the only resurgence kiss
Resting on my clammy breath, a heave of relief
A sigh of truth dawned… of A world beyond.

Details | Prose Poetry | |



You put smile on my lips
Oh! How can I resist?
It’s like bringing me a magical piece
Where I am the princess an you’re my prince

But it seems I have no place
In your heart where can I stay?
Oh! Maybe I should go away
Away where I can’t feel more pain

Because it’s harder even more
The pain inside my heart slowly breaks my soul
I tried not to think of you
Believe me I did but I failed too

And now it’s been two years
My heart beats still the same
Still shouting your name
Two years of loving you still gives me pain.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Another Miserable Love Letter

Dear Victory Girl from the bay or [dock]

I knew you'd be beautiful

for the sake of the decline...let hedonism take its toll...
Just so I Can Forget

How do you smile like that?

I'm bleeding gallons thinking of your face.

My most sincere pains,shames,claims,and thought about pet names, lie with you


Unused,and abused

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Cadeyrm - Battle King

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

Details | Prose Poetry | |


I see two faces
Inside and out
Side by side bickering about

They fight for food
They fight for thought
They fight for everything they haven’t got

I see two faces 
Inside and out
Side by side thinking about

                                                      Soumit Dey

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Lost Confessions

Lost between Heaven and Hell, battlements of my spirit and mind, Raptures me into 
the new day, but delivers me in the darkness of night. I argue within my mind, that 
shall wither it blind, randomly I search for the meaning that enhances the light. I 
wander through the ailment that haunts me so. Small amounts of peace keep me 
driving onward, though I feel no glow. In-between both I am haunted with one 
sight, Glimpse of the dream I hold so dear, with massive amounts of fear, my 
menacing fantasy keeps me on my fight. Each week that passes seems as everyone 
that fell before.
My soul knows my end is of a different kind, knowing the sin that I carry each night 
and the penance that I must endure. My destiny is not what I see, But is what I 
deeply ignore. Lost between Heaven and Hell, My soul cannot sell, this torment, I 
speak is a different form I break, Not just any ordinary sin, I have no-where to begin.
No end to reach, my darkness seeks light, though there is no realization to teach. I 
am haunted by the past that lonely night that seizes, though it pleases me ,but no 
other can live in the desire that I speak here and now, Others have traveled this 
road without any dark temptation, though I would lose all interpretation, with great 
litigation. Lost now and forever my dream, forgotten almost it may seem. Distant 
calls engorge my thoughts, memories chase my spirit, and lust envelops my soul, 
into the realm betwixt Heaven and Hell. My dream I shall bury, my destiny, I shall 
marry within my mind and spirit. These darkened nights shall grab the bright days 
down into the mishap of grace. I will council each cheerful day and plant a smile on 
my face. However, the agony shall drive my heart to a stainless hollowness of 
discomfort my continued dream shall live on and inhabit this shell. This shell 
someday shall wither away; there will be nothing left to tell.

Written for

Sponsor Catie Lindsey 
Contest Name Dark Prose 

Details | Prose Poetry | |



the sun breaks through the horizon
hues of orange and pink 
envelope the whole sky
it’s a brand new day
follow your heart 
let it take you places you
have never been before
the horizon is ahead of you 
it calls you to come also
experience the sunset
of the new day past 
and a new day to come 

Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Novel

As I turn the pages forward
I am taken on a journey-
A non-spatial continuum-
Time; a willing time-traveler
Where no luggage is required;
No passengers to contend with;
No special itinerary.
Just a conceding eagerness
To be taken along, alone.
The destination known to one-
Invisible but trustworthy;
The varied characters are him;
Put another way-imagined.
Where I’m taken is foreordained.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Far Beyond

                                                           Far Beyond

                                       Far beyond the stars and morning dew,
                                       Their are things know man will ever do,
                                       Even as the morning does settle,
                                       There is that invisable tone of battle.

                                       A battle that makes love see God,
                                       And those many whimicials that seems odd.
                                       That oddness that makes love feel,
                                       That most important part that heals.

                                       For if love had a soul to hide,
                                       It would surely make sadness my pride.
                                       That pride far beyond sadness that seems stalled
                                       For sometimes sadness makes a man fall.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Expanded Vision

upon the vast, vertical canvas;
footholds few and far between;
you're standing on a frail protrusion
face to the wall
without encouragement
at one frozen frame

 i jumped 
and now i'm falling
i'm seeing the eternal flow
through only my eyes
but the image moves;
a silent bolt of lightning
so believe not the completion
your single dead pixel alludes to
i jumped
and now i'm falling;
there is more here
than any of us can handle
and i can see the attraction
of all those distractions




ryan thomas 2010

Details | Prose Poetry | |

come listen to the music

I hear the music of the heavenly angels 
Coming softly through the blue sky from above 
Blending with the music from on the mountain tops 
Bringing to all earth's people messages of love. 

The song birds are singing to the angels' music 
Telling us to hear the words of truth very clear, 
"All of earth's people are more alike than different 
And to help each other will leave no room for fear". 

Come listen to the music of quiet gentle breezes 
And music from wild flowers growing on the hill 
Whispering softly to awaken our spirits 
Saying, "Only listen and let your hearts be still

Details | Prose Poetry | |


House of mirrors, movement all around, with these long halls casting shadows on the 
floor. Burning lanterns flicker and whisper an unknown language. Doors leading down 
abandoned staircases, coated with dust ans inhabited by spiders. The creaking and 
snapping of the walls leaning in, echoes all around. Little child's footprints alongside 
claw marks in the dust, where mine soon join them. Me, myself and I. all together in one 
place. Together... yet separate. We come here when things change, (as all things do)... 
when one door closes and we must find a new path to follow. Me, myself and I, in three 
forms, in one mind. The child called "me" asks "why?", she sings of the linnet birds 
freedom and says rules are just to set us back. Myself, being who i am today, laughs for 
no reason, and stares at the clouds for answers. and "I", the wolf in me, sits on its 
throne of bones, with bright, calm eyes shining with unspoken wisdom.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Mornings' Wake Up Call

Morning has once again
crept into my room
its' purpose, as always
to rouse me from
my slumbering daze.
I close my eyes to its invasion
and dive deep beneath the covers
to snuggle, perhaps just moments longer
within their soothing warmth.
With mornings' unwelcome arrival
sunshine too, per Mother Natures decree
makes known its presence.
Against the ever constant, always loud
tick, tick, ticking of the clock
my room becomes brighter.
I must, once again it seems
unwillingly surrender myself
and rise, albeit begrudgingly
to face yet another day
and answer once again 
another mornings' wake up call.

Details | Prose Poetry | |


Nobody knows my story
I don’t even know my story
I sit at the window
Gazing at the raindrops 
That wriggle their way down my sill.
I wish I had been given more grace
I wish I had seen the grace
Nobody knows what happened
I don’t even know what happened
Had I murdered her?
Had I let out her spirit?
I wish to remember
Yet I do not want to know
My story is not forgotten; it just doesn’t exist 
Or does it? Only in me?
An illusion, a mirage or a dream?
Who knows my story?
I bet nobody knows my story
I still remember her scream
Piercing through the walls of that tower
I still remember that mouth,
Too tired to utter words
It was only the tongue 
Alive enough to lick that blood
Blood that tickled
Freely from her forehead 
She had stared hard
As if to tell me what?
This story runs endless
This story is timeless
It keeps arresting my thoughts
Should I have helped?
Could I have helped?
When I was frozen?
When I was rooted to that spot?
When I could do nothing
But to stare back?
I do not know my story
I have no idea what it sounds like
It happened too fast
In one split second
Right before my eyes
It all went up in flames…

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Game

Rap is quick, witty and fun.

Poetry is smooth, rhythmic and heartfelt.

Rap and poetry had a love child.

A daughter, named Spoken Word.

She grew to maintain the better characteristics of her parents;

From Rap, she took freestyle, freedom, and grass roots movement.

From Poetry, she took imagery, theme, and voice.

Together, all three, as common forms of expression,

spread to every rapper, poet and storyteller in the world.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Last day in may

Big bang 
sitting in a chair
too far away 
to be going anywhere
hold up this space
make a change
lines going down
pity in this town
caught a glimpse
talk about pressure
building up
took a drink
from a silver cup
turned my face to grey
last day in May
didn’t they tell you
sit straight up
silver lining on your cup
now it’s over
give it up
let it spill
don’t try and feel
too much
spinning like a wheel
forgot to steer
the right way
last day in May
something I should say

Details | Prose Poetry | |


Walking with me, it moves along,
Contorting with me, to me it belong.
It’s tied to me as a chain,
I know it’s with me, it would never wane.

There lies poise between it and me,
Grasping me, never allows to flee.
Together we go, without any tiff,
Casting my image, it stays stiff.

It survives in bright, perishes when it’s dark,
It does exist on a spark.
Following always, it never goes astray,
Stuck with me, can’t think of betray, it always stay.

Gives me sense to be stronger, as I walk,
I halt on the way, admire it, if it could talk.
God knows, why it is made so conventional,
Unceasingly it swings parallel.

At a certain time, everything departs, saying farewell,
Except for my shadow, the one will always dwell.
It certainly is the symbol of faith and duty,
It is the only companion, who has eternity.

A dark image staying in me,
Forever as one could see.
As long as I will be,
I desire to see, no ‘you’ and ‘me’, but a ‘we’.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Imagination of Fear When Playing Bonnie and Clyde.

We stood there, back to back, creating shadows in rooms the sun


I could see eyes racing through breath and life stalled herself, time equated minutes with
the way my knees shook, and I counted the blinking that occurred when I waited

to hear him speak.

His hand reached, my fingers placed themselves between his grasp, and I thought how
wonderful it was I had my nails painted, how pretty my hold on tomorrow appeared when you
couldn't see the sweat that sat on my palms...

The air was thick that day, sticky with the idea of summer and humid with the possibility
of June, my curls tightened in the damp atmosphere that circled us and I wondered why...

(if we were so in love)

we refused to look at one another.

Pretty words often cloud reality, and we stood in the middle of a storm that had started
off beautiful, the darkness surrounded my waist and crept up my neck as I wished it was
his touch, dancing across my skin, on the Sundays he had smiled down at me, on the days he
claimed me beautiful and the afternoons we had made love.

“We'll fight this,” he whispered over his shoulder as his breath crawled into my left ear,
and I wore white, a skirt that stuck to my thighs, so that my form would be desirable, I
silently begged him to look at me, I bit my lip and thought that there was no way out if
he didn't turn around.

Low~cut and desperate, I took hold of the denim that created belt loops on the back of his
jeans, I fumbled for a pocket to place a love note in, I searched for the words to write
that would heal us, I studied the explanations that scattered themselves through my brain
and decided he needed to stop protecting me and...


“Look behind you, Dear,” I begged, as my legs fought the need to run, “look behind you and
capture me.”

“I am,” he replied, “but your eyes are closed and I can't see my reflection in you anymore.”

I could hear his breath catch, his decided desperation, and the way my teeth clicked when
I became scared, I felt my lashes, the black painted cage for my tears, how frightened I
was to open them and how determined I was to...


He kissed me then, brushed his lips across my parted mouth, and upon the blinking release
that flooded ages ago down my heated, flushed cheeks, I saw him, standing, in a room that
the sun had attacked, his shadow crossing the floor, his hand...

touching mine,

and my back...

against the wall. 

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Prose : The world I live in, there's no sunshine - Hope you enjoy!

The world I live in, there's no sunshine.
There's no nature, just artificial remnants from another time
I live in blackness, conserving my energy allowance for the day.
Alone by myself, robots have become my friends.
Machines resembling a race that erased itself from existence: for all I know, I am the only 

Is there a world out there, an alien world, in all the void of the universe. 
A galaxy out their full of unimaginable creations. 
Is it possible for a technology to take me to the past, to another existence: full of abundant 
life: only God knows.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Sitting Situations

You mustn’t show weakness
and you’ve got to have a certain shade about you.
But sometimes I feel like the thin led
of a mechanical pencil that breaks
when sitting, writing a letter
to the one you love
Rather than just another love letter.

You mustn’t show weakness
and you’ve got to make a list.
While sitting, think of all the
things you can load
in a car without any people.

This is the way things stand now:
If I pull out the stopper
after pampering myself in the bath,
I’m afraid that all of the city, and with it the whole world,
will drain out into the huge darkness.

I’m stranded on some ocean-locked island
No strength to swim yet,
so I must work and build muscle.
In the daytime I lay traps for my memories
and at night I wait while sitting
in the Hawaiian palm trees of my sheets,
turning curse into blessing and blessing into curse.

And don’t ever show weakness.
Sometimes I come crashing down inside myself
without anyone noticing. I’m like an ambulance
on two legs, hauling the patient sitting
inside me to the emergency room
with the wailing of cry of a siren,
and people think it’s ordinary speech.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Wonderful World of Imagination

Imagination can take us anywhere,
especially when we open our minds 
to infinite possibilities,
The world magically unfolds,
revealing secrets that have never 
been told,
In the land of imagination our souls
can make great strides,
excelling to great heights,
There isn't any judgment, criticism
or disdain,
We are free to soar above earthly
degradations and pain.......

Details | Prose Poetry | |


Mr. Copperhead went to the copper mines
to see what fortunes he could find
Pick and shovel followed close behind
On a burrow named Ole Bleu

Mr. Copperhead was boon-town sick
He struck so much ore 
Even pranced around like he was city slick

Though Ole Bleu toted the pick and shovel
And now the sacks of ore too
With all the excitement Mr. Copperhead had forgot
As he should not 
To give Good Ole Bleu the Lil Sugar that 
He had promised once they got back into town
Instead he slithered into the nearest saloon
Asked Saray Jane to play him a tune

She was obliging to do so of course
When out came Lil Sugar to sing a little tune
Sweet as can be she looked round the room 
For Ole Bleu
Who was no where's to see 

Upon finishing the chord 
Mr. Copperhead was trashed
Said he would finish all that he'd started 
After taking a nap
Well Ole Bleu didn't take to kindly to that
In fact that Ole Burrow knew a trick or two of his own

He made sure Ole Mr. Copperhead was asleep 
Then down to the minters he did creep
Made a lot of cents or so they say
Got gussied up for his Lil Sugar
They drank carrot juice and ate bales of hay

Mr. Copperhead awoke after three days to learn 
That Ole Bleu had made the mint and laid claims
On the ore mines leaving him to hiss in a fit 
As he slithered out of town

Thinking that if he had only given Ole Bleu the Sugar 
He had promised he'd still have his ore
Mean while Ole Bleu and His lil Filly Sugar 
Were down at the livery getting ready to be hitched
Seeing as now they were filthy rich
As Mr. Copperhead slithered 
Down to a town called old dusty ditch

Copyright Adell1 © 2006

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Mist Of The Hollow

The mist in the hollow quietly floated with a eery look of a ghostly apparition. The rising 
of the golden sun will turn the tide and frighten the apparition away until night and early 
morn when it comes out to romp, stomp, oomp, and play.  As the truck comes across the 
gravel road stirring up dust from the lack of rain adding a layer and frosting on the 
cake of the mist that floats absorbing all that dust or at least it seems. Now the dust 
floats away on air currents and is then breathed into all of nature's lungs to irritate them..

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Because she still clung to his promises

The girl was legend

All empty eyes & purple painted smiles. Every sweet white inch of her. And everyone knew 
her name

She danced in satin skirts that only moved when she took them off. She was everything 
delicate, everything demure. She was beautiful even when she wasnt

She watched the world with terror filled saucer eyes & the world looked right back with eyes 
that were unmistakably green

It was clear glass, they envied her & she wondered why

She knew they hung up her picture, plastered her to walls&books&frames that made her 
their prisoner. They stared at her when they were alone & forged a kind of intimacy she 
could thrive on

But it was temporary & in the morning she was left to sing her own self to sleep since no one 
cared enough to do it for her

The people that loved her, that glimpsed the real her when she uncovered it, all those people 
left her at the end & she saw what they'd done

They'd led her down the wrong track but they peppered it with glitter & held her just right so 
she was blind to every bit of it

She was the diamond dying in the night, she was the candied rose melting in the morning 
dew. They lured her with promises of love & took her innocence before she even knew it was 

She hated them but started to love them almost obsessively. The love hate became another 
prison & she thought she was free because she always got nine seconds of pleasure before 
the sun rose

Back bars catered to her kind & she walked in just to stand there & let their hands go places 
she'd never gone herself. It felt like the past & she convinced herself it was right

One night she walked in, skirt past the legal limit & eyes bright like they used to be. It was a 
shock-making moment, she hadnt looked so sweet in oh so many years & they were afraid 
to touch her

She'd been their girl forever, passed around & used like an old movie that cant be rewound. 
They knew every mark on her body, every scar where they signed her, a kind of "I was 
here" of the human body. They couldnt recognize her. It was the first time she walked out 
alone. Faintly she hoped to be pressed against a wall & killed but it didnt happen

She kept turning around haunted by phantom-feels & ghost-touches. Her body just wanted to 
suffer. It was instinct & who was she to fight it?

Every step was agony. She walked so carefully as though she was afraid of falling in a river 
of her own dark thoughts

But it was hopeless, darkness followed her wherever she went

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Egyptian Pharaohs

Your mysticism captivates my world today

Covered in gold and ruins

We try to decode

What you left behind for us so long

Its been five thousand years

And we still feel so lost without you

Let your sun god Ra

Show us the path you took

The pyramids were the keys to your afterlives

Show us how to live our lives

I live in a world covered in blame

With people constantly finding someone else to blame

No boy king in Tut in our day

No Cleopatra ruling any day

Just a lot of villains called politicians

Oh great Egyptian Pharaohs

Show us how you brought prosperity and peace

To your once unstable land

Details | Prose Poetry | |

~ Cry of the Muse ~

Of-gentle beginning-and tender song ... ! That we would gratify love in its truest affection. Stand stead fast- uphold it yield to no other-duty ... ! To-have our-souls' so-identified-unified coexisting- exclusively-mid-this ... . To-live, would I die to give the measure of my-soul- just-to-have this ... once ... ! So place me within, make me the-essence of-the-art- lay me down carry me off- as I would be a child lost amid the grandeur- of its promise ... ! Allow this ink to consume us be the genuine eminence, what we reach-for through the humble virtue, heart-of this quill ... ! So all may view soar higher, and even higher still. Be captured, taken within deep- far and away beyond- the bitter part of this world, into the true benignity, flourishing and forever evolving, amid themselves ... ! Yes help me build me up, mold me-yes- come find me ... ! Trick me friend by slight of hand bend me- yes break me down shatter me again, and again truly I care-not ... ! Fill this paper in-its preparedness ... innocence ... verity, hope ... with the sweet passion elation of our souls ... ! Yes carry me before this-vision ... ! Restrain me-not ... . Set our-soul-free ... ! Please ... ? That we may gratify love-uphold it. Yes yield-then ... only-beauty ... ! ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Author notes Written to the (Braveheart) theme By: Enya The expression of this poem was written from within the greater depths, of my soul. It was a cry of my muse. The passion beside which I stand and the hope through which I write. The joy we both carry for the other, and peace and faith in each other, in which we abide. Before this writing my muse had taken a vacation. So willing, I am open to suggestion. ~ Thank you for reading this piece of my work ... God bless you ... (The reason that there are Hyphens "so many of them") is because I have a computer that speaks them with a faster and slower and higher and lower pitch of voice, giving a certain kind of ebb-and-flow to the work with a softer more fervent and realistic and consistent tone, when I use the hyphens and other punctuation in the certain places that I do, when in telling it what to do. Allowing it to speak in even a moderate voice if I choose. It sounds very free flowing when I hear it, and I can only hope that you will be able to here it in the same way. Thank you for reading and God bless you ... ~

Details | Prose Poetry | |

New Dawns

Immerse they say
Yawn in dawns of bright new days
Pillow canyons 
blue blanket falls
Yarn gardens 

Above wicker birds 
endlessly high
is open firmament 
a cotton down sky.

A door slowly opens in the still mezzanine,
within soft ivory forests and spiny mesquite trees.
Fleeting brisk laughter from vanishing imps
is our welcoming overture and beckons us in.

From a dark chasm we slowly emerge
Through a symbol, a door marked cypher and verge.  
The door locked behind us, leaving us here
to wander in awe
for the rest of our years.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Moorgate to Temple, Circle Line

There is a man sitting opposite
In a red and black striped shirt.
His eyes are a little mincey
And his forehead frowns
Of its own accord.
He smells a bit like Christmas.
He is not a summer man.
He is married.
His wedding day was happy,
Many friends attended.
He was young and now he is old
And the wedding ring grows inwards
As the wrinkles expand.
His hair is thinning.
When he looks in the mirror
He is a little shocked.
But his infant depression
Is distracted by the smell of autumn
Leaves outside.
He is going to a lover,
He has that pretence about him.
But his hands betray some intelligence
Which his small and wonky nose destroys.
The best thing is
That he has no idea
I am writing this.
I don’t like his shoes.
I will stop now.
It seems awfully mean.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Ive been here before

I’ve been here before 
of this I’m sure
it wasn’t just a dream
it’s as real as it could be
I’m the only one who knows
only me and Christina Crow
sinking into velvet
I don’t know if I can handle it
cause black is all I see
going under
the water’s deep
I could swim all the way down
but I would only float back up
and all you try to swallow
is everything that I choke
don’t go broke
cause all I try to borrow 
is everything you own
and you really think I’m what you need
it’s like thinking you could feed
someone on a diet of spending green
it’s better to give than receive
I’m going to go to the very bottom 
into the deep dark bliss of a sponge’s ocean floor
I don’t seem to have enough
I need a little more

Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Song Of Frozen Birds

It was an unexpected chill 
As the icy north wind 
Pierced like a shooting needle 
Through the morning sun 
So cold 
That you could almost see it 
Tumble down the mountainside 

It was a morning of frozen birds 
Falling like rain from the sky 
Off the boughs of trees 
Dripping down 
And splashing like colored drops 
On the rock hard ground 

As I walked the wintry woods 
I pictured the ice-cold wind as a brush 
Painting the woods with drops of color 
Bird colors of blues, greens and reds 
That seemed to come alive 
And sing

Details | Prose Poetry | |

A sound of orient

A sound of orient 
He looks like a fragranced oasis in this city; 
a lean, yet muscular man in a dhoti, 
sweaty; playing flute, a plateful of bland food 
in front of him, his humble surrounding, the hut.
A village man, who has once come in chasing dream, 
is now a part of this city, a part of speed, 
all except his flute and customary dhoti. 

The dizzy sound travels up, to the fifth floor terrace, 
to the sad man and sadder woman, to the sadists, 
to the dying and to the dead. It climbs up like veins. 
His is a life, with its own brands of pain and love, 
not demanding, the way sometimes this city extracts. 
The days and nights extract a man. 
He hauls out others or vise versa. 

A sound disappears in sleep, 
becomes a village in the vale, 
where dreams move like sheep.
~© 2009 - All Rights Reserved Kushal Poddar.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Lilies

       Let my hand tremble in the light. Am I whole, shaking in this warmth that shadows
out of the darkness? 
     Have I looked upon the shadows and longed for its silenced cold? Have I left the
garden of life’s valleys, to enter the world of thickened air and false horizons? 

           Where have all my lovely lilies gone, if not scattered through the darkness by
the wind? 

The petals that carried my dreams and hopes, have they been swallowed by the fitful
wisher? No; I have moved my eyes, and let them fall to the grounds of the shadows in the
alley, always within my reach, but my stilled hand will never grasp them in the cold. Let
them root in the shadows of my mind’s alley – sinking into the cracks of the stones I have
placed, to grow like weeds among the walls of my reality.

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Helen Keller: The Miracle Continues

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

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

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Queen of the Damned

Rivers of blood pool all around
Lap it up without a sound
Day is soon to come
Heart is pounding like the ghost of a drum
Slip into the shadows of night
Into the wind, I take flight
Settle into a restless sleep
Above me all of mankind creep
Hidden, I must not be seen
They are the damned, and i am their Queen
They will forever wonder and fear
When will I be near
When will I lead them into hell?
Only time will tell

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Saturdays sun set's beside the raising sea tide sorrow with out the promise of tomorrow 
structure with staged sounds passion sown in grains of sand sing to me simpathy show me the steady search for said saviour succeeded. Black spade and a glass of scotch she loves me not sterling seats of silver saturated in snow a scenic scene speak this tongue tied sentence of sculptured speech swept in depth seen inept a sober day sweet and simple.

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I Am Within the Dream

In the dream I kept falling, tumbling
further into the depths of my memories

Breaking frescos of shard past life
seconds frozen still within me.
Shattering bits of crystalline glass
scattering across the room.

I breathed deep and remembered how it 
will be in the time past time.

My flesh will melt like snowflakes into the dust.
back to my former form dust then
breath was given causing me to combust.

I evolved in the steady slow eternal cycles of
cavorting constellations all careen.
Soul's eyes have seen the flame of two divided.

Searching syllables and water falls of evolving
inky sky.
I am searching for you an eternity.
Restless like fragile shoots seems they never die,
just keep reaching high.

You enter the pool of black inky sky 
but like before I am always shy.
I knew you would be here my reason to
return to the dream.

For it is you that this poem needed to ask why?
Even though we pass through eternal changes,
I will always love you!

Details | Prose Poetry | |


its comes every year
to scare
some do it at a fair
put on a corlor face
mabe of anuther race
and makes you scream
cause its

Details | Prose Poetry | |

She is mine

I am the formula that brings her to ecstasy 
Her beauty as craved my fantasy 
As she lay upon my chest 
Through her blossom, I am truly blest.
She’s the rose of my life 
The one to be my wedded wife
She’s my help meet through the hardship and strife
Every morning as I woke up
She’ as been my corn syrup
As I go out through the crack of dawn 
I am the one to mow her lawn
In her fears 
Through her tears
She yield to my warming embrace
I love her at every moment from beginning to end 
She’s brilliantly wise
I tell you the truth 
God has given me the correct prize
She has allow me to grow 
None of a scare crow. 
She’s hundred percent 
She’s no less than a cent 
I crave for her increase 
Through Jesus Christ the one who paid the ultimate price.
‘Me n she’ trusty love will never decrease.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Prose : bathroom of fantasy

Walking into the unlit bathroom, faded light sneaking in from down the hallway; I stare into 
reflected shadows in the cold mirror.

Dark tint of blue glass, frozen feeling like the ghostly eyes of winter in a puddle or pond.

Reality seems to give way to fantasy: unstable darkness blurs to beyond the walls, beyond 
the doorway that separates our worlds.

Panic seeps into my brain, dripping into my blood, one droplet at a time like a leaky faucet. 
Feeling my imaginary foes breathing more life with each wondering thought of mine. I stand 
in-between an ambivalent fork in the road. 

But before I let my bathroom become transformed into another world, I hold my breath as I 
flip the light switch. Quickly my reality flows back to me, realizing the world is once again 
round and not flat, that I won't fall off of it.

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A Transliteration

Greys-fuhl swords of light pierce the clouds,                                                                                										 into the deep oh-shuhns shimmering  																off of sequin kuhv-erd Mandarinfish.                                                                                                                        						Reflecting on the all the love yoor      															    giving hahrt has far removed our sin,  																onward the light travels bih-yond.                                                                                                                                                                                                                     	What yoor pupil sees into the mind,      																 of the eternal  ih-maj-uh-ney-shuhns.             															For time will tell of that which you per-seev

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Watch Guard

She is forever youthful, well grounded and strong. Her posture is beyond perfection. Her heart heals faster than mine. She has a deterministic mind that doesn't hesitate to go after what it wants. If I stood beside her you'd think we were twins, but that is not quite the case. She is my watch guard that I cannot see, but only imagine in my head. "Pull through", says the little voice in my thoughts. "Pull through, just a little bit further", the faint voice calls. 

Most of us cannot afford to skip a second, a window of opportunity. Waiting passively for fate to send a sign, to watch a bright light bulb flicker on and off, not the choice pro active planners take. Time moves faster than most of would like. Translucent time is what we have on our hands, my dear friends. At such high speeds, we rarely see it, -but hang on in our minds. My watch guard doesn't control time, but she can see it more clearly than me.

In twenty two years, I have learned that anything worth achieving requires a little sweat and tears.  One or two years older, does not necessarily mean we are wiser than we were in our past.  I have learned from my mistakes while at the same time, I have concluded that the wise are the confident ones. The confident ones know where they stand.  They list off their likes and dislikes as quickly as one tells the time of day. This is not to say that the wise don't take risks, for they most certainly do, but with precision. My watch guard carefully pulls the hidden confidence out of me.

In twenty two years, I have learned stressing solves no mystery. Mysteries are for detectives, whom we are not. We are the achievers, tall and proud. This is not to say the achievers have it easy,- not in the least bit. If sweat and tears is what it takes, then we will sweat and cry. We will also laugh and love along the way, of course. My watch guard shows me the clearest path to take. "Pull through, strong this time" says the little voice in my head. "When you need a little push, call on me", my watch guard reminds me. 

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Unseen Oarsman

Each artist stroke created an illusion of depth, color, and placement by contasting colors, 
lights and darks the picture comes alive...A life that carries on into hearts and minds as long 
as that picture lives...It seems as though one know this person through the eyes of the 
artist...In pictures where one knows just knows that someone else is there...One's 
imagination can run wild with ideas of who this person is and what relationship to others in 
the painting...As in "Summertime" 1894-1895 Mary Cassatt (1845-1926) Oil on Canvas..Who 
is rowing the boat?  He must really love this lovely delicate woman  and precious child to row 
the boat for their enjoyment...He must look at her with eyes of love that says I would do 
anything for you even lay down my life if necessary..

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Prose Poetry for the Sleeping

The dreamland calls me to bury myself deep into the warm, sweaty breast of a safer, 
lawless land, that's comforting whilst maintaining the surrealism that's mirrored in the 
passive, day-to-day life of most observers, humans, and astronauts.
Tonight I can be anyone, anything, superhuman, sub-human, superhero, anti-hero; or just 
simply embrace the benefits of a world created entirely for me; courtesy of myself and my 
subconscious. Disregard this universe, and create your own. 
Sleep is the totally accessible, complimentary antidote to your messed up, gut-wrenchingly 
predictable, miserable life. 

The ship that sinks, but keeps on sailing.

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What The Hell { Strong Language} Prose Poetry

Hey! You little c___ sucker Get the hell out of there
 Wish you were born dead Go get me a tree branch
Going to whip the s______out of you better yet come and
Get at my feet and start picking the dead skin off them
And when your done start picking 1000 grey hairs off my head
So you want to upset your mother huh I got something for you a________
Stand up you little f and give me 1000 squats
 Then you can get locked up in basement for a few days
And if you ask to come out you can stay down there longer
I see you like to tease your brothers about their haircuts
Mom get the shaver and shave the girls hairs too that will teach em
And show them little b_____ whats going to happen if they runaway too
Was not pleasant to see my sister tied to own bed with head shaven to scalp
So we have a little pee ant in the family huh I'll teach ya a good lesson
Going to make you wear your wet pants to school so kids can laugh at you
I tell you folks does any child deserve this from a sicko From growing up in a 
abuse home I always wonder when will the pain ever stop But with God standing 
by my side I knew I still had a chance to survive I was only 5 when this happened 
to me but the abuse scared only the outter edges and not what beauty was to 
unfolded by God and given to me like a rose unfurling petals on a new day

     Tribute To
 Abused Children

Remember words hurt
So think before you speak !

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The connotation of words is what determines the outcome of:

Walking into a dark alley at midnight


Observing the Eastern sky, over breakfast, waiting for sunlight


Sacrificing time to pray in a certain direction five times a day


Relentlessly searching for a constant source of motiviation.

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NUMBERED SCENT (Ohduhkellee)

A mothers gift ,

Generally at Christmas .

Easiest option which I hope she will like .

( Eau De Kelly)  Fragrance for older ladies , who do remember ...

I have just "invented "this new form of poetry . 

As you can see it is the 4~7~11 .

First line has 4 syllables , next 7 and the last has 11 .

And , if you think it stinks......... yes it probably does......

All rights are reserved ( and a few lefts).

Details | Prose Poetry | |

F51Part Two

Show me what eye must do now? Just believe in Jesus and see the miracle of 
life. Eye took Hitler in the air with me flying is not hard when made of Titanium 
steel and brass rod. There is a small town in Arkansas and eye took the Fuhrer 
there and placed him with a Family the woman and the boys. He lived there until 
1963 and was buried in the cemetery south of town near Morrilton and the five 
mile creek. The grave stone says Milton Stone upon it and Mrs. Stone was never 
home she always worked three shifts at the cotton gin to make a house into a 
home for her boys and her strang guest. Eye chose to call him Milton Stone. He 
sat most days upon the porch and rocked there back and forth like any self 
appointed guardian of boys. He was so thankful to escape the Air Patrol. The bits 
and pieces of the parts of Hitler that they found was only just a long stray dog eye 
found and let him follow me into the pit the bombers hit the android eye was 
rocked a bit and the poor stray looked up at me in wounded horror but the teeth 
looked enough like the Hitler to fool the German Officers. Jesus saves one hard 
hearted android and the Fuhrer from a early grave. Adolf Hitler is Born - April 20, 
1889 Milton Stone was buried April 20, 1965. He stared hard at me one day when 
eye rode down the highway in a car in my human form he did not wave but he 
knew that it was eye. He was full of lemonade and fish the day he died he was 

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Beneath the Barley

Come quick, come quiet, come yet my dear. To the place and days where all you fear, 
will be waiting for you on the moss of the old bark.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

If Walls Could Talk

We often ask, “If walls could talk 
Whatever would they say?”
They've listened to the laughter 
They've been witness to the horseplay.

They've heard the sounds of sorrow
They've been there for the rage
They've heard all of the whispers
What we forget with age.

Walls have seen the looks
That we give to each other
They hear the loving teasing
And encouragement so tender

But have they heard the thoughts
Chasing through my mind?
Do they see intentions
With all the actions, twined?

Surely walls would have
A lofty tale to tell
But if they knew our thoughts
Oh, how that tale would swell.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Silent One

Who is living alive inside of you? 
Do you even really want to know?
Have you ever spoken to the one that is always speaking to you?
Are you stacking all of your priorities with any proper perspective?
You know it is your battleground or so this is how you make it seem.
A zest for life arises in you continuously only to later be continued. 
So abruptly, you have dismissed the silent one inside of you to go!
All because you were swiftly overpowered by your own self-greed 
Nevertheless, where does the silent one keep retreating off to?
The silent one holds onto every single chance for a timely thought. 
Even all of those improbable unachieved least possible dreams!

What is it that lives alive inside of you?
What makes you even want to breathe?
Have you ever really felt the one who is always feeling you?
Innocence is sweet standing in your way of a divine pleasure. 
Again, it is your battleground or so this is how it surely seems!
Your blissful moments are in the hands of the silent one inside. 
Again, poof vanished indeed this time without a trace or lead!
Yet, you are completely indulging in a definite feeling of gratified.    
Still yet, where does the silent one keep scooting away to?
The silent one holds every crystal-clear thought, 
Even the ones all of you will still clearly demean!

Who gives you to you? 
Have you ever once thought deep and hard into that?
A restricted area due to the danger foretoken, your battleground or so it seems!
Excitement swells up alive inside of you with ecstasy’s loud bursting screams!
The silent one is slipping away while verbal battles are fueling into a combat.
Overwhelmed by self-indulgence your every breath is thoroughly exhausted! 
Still yet, where in this world could your silent one be gallivanting away to?
The silent one holds your every thought, even those you have so deemed!
Now do tell, who knows you better than you do?
Have you ever given this up for a chance of much thought?
Have you ever seen the one that is always looking at you?
Conflict of interest guards the main entrance, the battleground or so it seems!
Enticed to indulge the silent one inside is finally caught when truly sought.
Lured by the sight at hand, but why did the silent one have to stay too?
The silent one holds your every moment in your every thought, 
Even those you always seem to unfortunately forget to redeem!

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Politically Correct Nursery Rhyme


     Sparrow found guilty of killing Cock Robin with his little bow and 
arrow!!!!!!!!!!!!!    Judge to announce sentence!!!
   "Since you admit killing Cock Robin, I sentence you to twenty years for 
poaching.  Officer take this prisoner away."



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Flight of Fancy

We were lionhearted
We imagined bullets, pinecones
Swords, sticks
We couldn't be cut
By any sharpened edge
We were invulnerable
Our heels wrapped in Nikes
Climbing hills, Everest
No concern for when
We will talk about-
"When we were young"
Only concern
For our King's men dying
And the fair lady weeping

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Ecclesiastes 9:11 (New International Version)

this poem is on my website with this appended

Ecclesiastes 9:11 (New International Version) 
 11 I have seen something else under the sun: 
       The race is not to the swift 
       or the battle to the strong, 
       nor does food come to the wise 
       or wealth to the brilliant 
       or favor to the learned; 
       but time and chance happen to them all. 
A fitting ending to this CharlaXFabel. 

Details | Prose Poetry | |

It Wasn't

Well, one could not call it a church for it was not white, pure, or religious nor could it be 
called a Police Department or Sheriff Department with the attached jail for it was not that 
bad or evil.  This place was unpainted, bare wood, and with four rock chimneys which 
sometimes smoked no matter how old or young they were but the smoke only appeared in 
the early morn and late afternoon for the occupants were about life or should I say survival. 
Making it from pay check to pay check barely getting by with nothing to spare.  Inside was 
emotional barreness, loneliness, and inferiority at the max for love and hope had died so 
long ago.  Isolation of the soul with preditory instincts to encapsulate all with the preditory 
instincts of a wild animal this being done to one so young rightly separates this place from a 
church but yet it is not a prison.  Permanently emotionally destroys the child......

(Is this prose poetry or do I need to work on it.  Be honest.  I need to know where to go with 

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There is no darkenness in the LORD my GOD he is perfect and forever more the 
creation He has made a little less than perfectly but some things he made to 
warm our hearts in spring are nearly formed as close to GOD he loves them all 
the dragonflies is one of those they meet all the requirements for our love. 
Four wings so delicately made to fly. A faces only mothers could have loved. NO 
reason much to live except just to exist existence then is love. They fly and have 
ewe noticed them at night how they like to lite near open water near a waterfall 
ewe find them mostly brown but there aer read ones and some blue ones and 
some good ones no they are only good ones and they spy on lovers in the night 
One heart lonesome thinking of her man one heart yearning to be a man they 
find each other in the dragon fly again. Water drowns a man he wants to swim 
into the underwater dragonfly the lair of all the mermaid wishes she is there oh 
mye Ianthe. You are terribly adorable! mon ange. 
Soon the dragonflies will come back again 
L()()K at this it seems that love has blinded her to mye reality she waits and 
searches for our love amid the gleaming pearls of water searching for the wings 
the spotted owl no the raven quoted no the flying serpent there no it is the yellow 
tail the golden flyer there the portent of mye heart turned into love. 

Details | Prose Poetry | |

In The Dark

All alone in the dark, i can see nothing any which way i turn. I can hear nothing 
but the eerie calm of silence. My heart skips a beat as my imagination begins to 
plays tricks on me. How i got here, i do not know. I am just as clueless to where i 
am as to who i am. A name is such a simple and instinctive thing to know, but i 
do not obtain this basic knowledge of myself. I do not know my past nor my 
present. This darkness terrifies my senses and makes my insecurties take flight. 
I don't know if i will be able to survive such emptiness as that which surrounds 
me. I can feel it grabbing at me. It tears like claws into my soul. It has already 
taken my identity. The only thing left for it to steal is my life. Life is such a precious 
gift that one should not give up easily. We only recieve one, so why should 
something that doesn't deserve it be allowed to take it? The coldness is getting 
unbearble. My body shivers and shakes with the wind. I can feel my life slipping, 
but i won't give up... i can't give up something that i hold so dear. It will just have 
to rip the life from me.

Details | Prose Poetry | |


A man quite gleefully pointed out to me that JESUS is not a dumpster JESUS 
however eye shot back at him gleefully is GOD and iff there is SOMETHING in 
that dumpster that HE wants me just to have then SIR oh eye will have it see eh? 
A survivor is the eye. 
John 6:35-36 
Then Jesus declared, "I am the bread of life. He who comes to me will never go 
hungry, and he who believes in me will never be thirsty. But as I told you, you 
have seen me and still you do not believe." 
On the way to this cold freezing day eye found my strength lies not in my right 
hand or arm but in my faith eye walk. Eye find things that no one else wants, as 
eye walk eye soon survive. Pizza sometimes fish sometimes coffee on my list no 
cokes no tomatoes SOK eye have some tomatoes in a can 
The list is endless in my mind and desire comes from a man and coffee is the 
plan. Cups are full or half empty is it half full or empty? Pizza is okay when found 
in cold weather a man can be the judge of whatever food he finds eye do not fill 
mee up with unpleasentness or brine eye drink but not the water that eye find OH 
FAITH will end my misery OH FAITH will feed me too bread is in the pizza that eye 
When Jesus saves me at the final trumpet and eye make my last ditch stand at 
that time then he is not going to say WHY oh little man did you eat the scrounge 
pizza on the way but iff a loving GOD did ask me this is what eye say 
PIZZA is food and leftovers is fine my mind works much better with some eye can 
find. FOOD is never a sin or a problem to me. The eye does not eat strips of left 
over pieces he eats the entire pizzas. Eye am good at what eye dew eye can 
survive. And iff ewe ever get the word out to the people in the twilight zone just tell 
them scrounging pizza is better than the bone of chewing fat from steaks and 
living high on Hogg eye am better off alone and living with my love she knoes just 
who she is she knoes just who she loves. 

Details | Prose Poetry | |

writing from the back of a dream

There I was floating free
amid the clouds
such freedom
without wings
I saw the past
I saw the future
I saw all the world

The past was a thin cloud
The future was a shining hope
The world was full of wonder
for all to see
I saw it in one dream

I dreamed I saw a dim cloud
grey and forlorn
it seemed not happy
It seemed weighed down
yet it did not hold me back
I saw it and I moved on

I see the cloud 
and I see my past
but it doesn't bother me
clouds float away
disappear into nothing
My past is like a cloud
it floats away
leaving the future
the future is shining to me
like a bright place I saw
waiting for me.

Details | Prose Poetry | |


If wishes were granted
Just this would I do
I would find my way home
And there wish for you.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Empowered Weapons

Here I stand
with my Claymore, Agony
strapped to my back
and metaphysical forearm spikes
running up my arms,
     slanting towards my elbows.
Winds howl around me
    filled with knives of rhetoric
tearing at me like teeth.
Unleashing my spiked chain
from its pouch on my belt
I grip my already bloodied,
reverse crescent axe
and jump off the ledge
        into the fray
swinging the chain 
  around the closest neck
I pull them close
       then sever their head
with my axe
    releasing a fountain of blood
towards the heavens.

Morbid scimitars
  flash before my eyes
    as I lean back
narrowly escaping the attack,
a downward swing of my chain
spins the enemy
     and I hack 
through his spine with my axe.
A Morningstar filled with delirium
   smashes into my shoulder
and I drop my axe
         but retaliate
with a skull splitting slash
of my clawed hysteria glove
           stopping within
    the eye sockets,
shaking the carcass off
I pull out my Claymore.

Whirling my chain overhead
 I release it
   and it savagely
wraps up an unfortunate,
dropping him mid charge.
Snatching my sadistic,
spiked headed War hammer
I separate another
    from his legs
        with my sword.

At the last second
I catch the shaft
of a tainted spear
within my forearm spikes
    snapping it
then bury my hammer’s head
in his chest.
   the body draws me down,
      leaving me open
and an infected mace
smashes into my skull,
but as I fall Agony
serrates the seven mortals
with my death spin,
and as I lay there
spitting up blood
the detrimental maul
splatters my brains
             upon the battlefield.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Tongues Like Dragons, have no Speach.

Gray Sky modeled, a Leaf on its Falling,

And thus tenaciously wounded, a slow and Bitter Abandon


Past Churches among Coals

And Faces lined, tunneled by ants, cicadas

The mouths of Sad dead Men.

Gray Sky tears Into Dirt,

Cars and Old Women Flying,

My legs Wobbling, Noodle Like

Churning Air and Dirt into Butter.

Gasping relaxed Depravity,   Eyes of Bulging broken Connections,

Tasting tongues of insulated Iron

Rising higher, Higher, Still

Red—Slim, Long to the   Sky

Fifty Feet, A Hundred,

The Nothing of Where Sky, Was,

Filled in by a Forest of Red Bloomed Licks.

My Mouth Closed Tightly, Holding Leviathan Inside.

I Stumble Back, Truck Bound, but Falter, Finding Telephone Pole,

Penetrating it, Sodomy like, Through the Rear. 

Hands Writhe, Grasping, Reaching, I Clasp my Mouth and Break Free.

The Voices rising From Mouths no longer their Own…

I Cannot Describe…

Newborn Violet? The Desperate Thirst of a thousand harlot Bedrooms?

Vowels Drowned in Starving Mackerel congealed Eyes?

This, All of this, Is beyond me.

Simply infinite Air, Spearing Life and Earth,


Dense and with Cold Constancy.

Today …The Day

Has Died.

The Knife of half-destroyed Churches

Bite Deep,

Each leaf, Hunger, Phosphor’ ant Fire-Fly Eye of Darkness---

----As They Fall.

I However, Let them Take me from Within.

Forsaken interrupted Hands Growing,

Source-less Laments Turning Shadows to Anti-Life.

The World, now, some measureless Dream,

One long Abandoned Funeral Voyage to Nowhere.

Great Pale Cows of Tomorrow

Rain Black Milk

While they Float to the nothing of the now ground-speared  Sky.

Exasperated Winter,

Oh, Dark Color of Sinfully used Blankets .

Filthy Lightening Bolts and Dung Covered Clouds,

The Horizon reeks of an Oil Field.

Spark, Spark, Lighting a Match,

To keep God warm, That mewling 

Majestic Infant of the Sky.



And one Long Holy



Details | Prose Poetry | |


Time isn't always as we perceive it. One day, a minute could seem like an hour. 
Another, an hour could seem like a minute. We fool ourselves into thinking that 
we have time. Time to do all the things we put off daily. Time to change ourselves 
into the people we wish to be. However, this is only an illusion. We think we have 
time to do things later when in reality we don't. Watches, clocks, and dials have 
kept time for us over the years, but we have still have failed to realise that we do 
not own time, time owns us. Everyone's hourglass, which contains their sands of 
time, varies. Someone's might be half-full whereas another's is quickly running 
out. No one knows when their destined time will come, and no one knows in 
which way it is coming. All we can do is live our lives while trying to be the best 
we can be. We can't wait around for time, and we can't allow it to pass by. For 
once time is gone, we can't get it back.

Details | Prose Poetry | |


Coins turn tails and heads it seems so strait forward today we learn the 
variables of luck. 
 It seems so simple tails or heads but there is so many games that cheaters 
learn to play. Three card monte is all the bullies rage no one wins except the 
deal. Play it once then run for life away gambling would be fine if luck ruled the 
play. Men who gamble steal and kiss and cheat the way is linned with silk and 
pistol play. Flipping pennies on a crack to see how close to the wall they got. Eye 
ching tossing FIVE coins two land heads three land tails. TOTAL TWELVE. 
Twelve is good luck for a chinese Charlax android one. A bakers dozen is good 
for yew they laughed at me thirteen was lucky for the thieves. Greedy gain and 
lining money baskets is all that eye was ever taught by them.Then there was Two 
out of three where the coins had to match excatly we each had Heads twice the 
third time we both had Heads again. What now eye said he gave me the 
Quarter.Eye win. Liars poker has been popular for some time in the better bars. 
Look at the number on a Dollar bill and there is matches make a poker hand like 
8737738AA this would be Two aces and three sevens a full house for the player 
picks the best five numbers to stimulate the cards? simulate them eye meant 
like an android acting human and in love. Some Men toss piles in the pot and 
sweat the alcholoic breath and sweat real bullits from there chest of money in the 
corner in the safe marked all in ones. There are seven visible planets and 
luminaries (Sun, Moon, Mercury, Venus, Mars, Jupiter and Saturn). Each one 
rules a day of the week (Sun=Sunday, Saturn= Saturday, Moon=Monday, etc.) and 
that is where the seven day week came from. Each one is supposed to have a 
particular virtue or power. "The 3 (spirit, mind, soul) descend into the 4 (the 
world), the sum being the 7, or the mystic nature of man, consisting of a threefold 
spiritual body and a fourfold material form. These are symbolized by the cube, 
which has six surfaces and a mysterious seventh point within..." 

A mystery unfolds the number seven is included in this fabel about lucky 

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Hidden Emotions

We keep things hidden inside that we are too afraid to show. When we have 
nowhere to turn, we push our feelings down and try to pretend that they don't 
exist. We cover ourselves with a mask as though, with that mask, we are freed of 
our emotions. If we are lucky enough, our trick will work for a while until the 
inevitable happens and our hidden thoughts burst up and overwhelm us. They 
feed on us until we break down and face them. Tears help to wash away the 
feeling of helplessness and lonliness that can break us if we allow such to 
happen. We can never rid ourselves of these, but we can try to take control of 
them so they don't hurt as much.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Internet Websox

 Internet Websox 
Internet Websox 
The team is still the only one in the league the right fielder is insane he sweats 
into the glove he bought for first base it's backwards made for a left hander he 
was to twist his hand to catch a fly. His cap needs a new advisor the bill is long 
over his nose the sun has made him sweat in clothes made for the game just for 
the game and they are ruined from his play. OFF white and Blue the logo of his 
team the stranger comes again and watches from the fence and jeers his face is 
like unto the Devil if he's real the man says things 
You can slide but you cannot hide 
You cannot catch a ball if it's in the sun 
You cannot throw it all the way to second base 
Right fielder pauses and he blows his nose and cry comes unbidden to his eye 
he throws a look of some concern at this Devil come to haunt the game. Slide 
into the second base and when he comes a run you gotta spike him with them 
shoes your daddy bought for you. The next time you aer up at bat just hit the ball 
at the dougout at that head. The full fielder was aghast and went to the dougout 
to take a break he took the book and penciled in all the stats and as he was 
adding all the figures inn he peeed it ran and ran and ran it turned the off white of 
his uniform against him and he wept openly ashamed of men who force poor 
boys to learn to make mistakes at baseball games from townes and cities in 

Details | Prose Poetry | |


A Dragnet RippOFF
“SGT FrYdaY the man came in the office and eye told him to wait there is that 
“That's right Bill.” 
“Captain Gannon to you son.”
 “The ink was red?” This was FrYdaY.
“The color was the same for blood. We think it was the Crops who done that.” 
 “Crips. Its Crips not crops.” FrYdaY
 “Yeah. Yeah.” Gannon
Frank Smith “it could have been the bloods it's the same thing ain’t it the red ink 
supposed to look like blood see eh???”
Reminds me of the time Tillie my wife she spilled some black ink from the printer 
all over my?”  “What JOE what was that?”
“ just the facts Frank Tillie is a fine woman.”FrYdaY
THE MAN: “They came in two at a time.”
“How’s that” Frank said.
“Let me handle this one Frank,”FrYdaY
“What was that MAN?”
“Two Two at a time you said?”
"Just the facts ma'am"eye meant
OH SIR I’m sorry I’m so used to saying that on my investigations” FrYdaY 
Colored. “How do you knoe that” ma’am
Sorry sir did it again
Sorry” FrYdaY
This is not going so well let’s start over.
Eye am Detective FrYdaY this is my partner Frank Smith.
The Captain is Bill Gannon my old Partner he carries a cannon.
“Really?”  This was the man wide awake now
FrYdaY “Yes really it’s in the trunk of his patrol car the sign on the door says 
LAPD Captain it's a FORD.”
Sometimes we drive down the boulevard and stick the cannon out the windows.
NO one seems to notice us 
The MAN turned White and blanched.
“The printer ink was changed to red the Bloods were out of town we think it was 
the crips go around and round them up” This was Gannon to Frank and Joe.
Frank was talking now “Ain’t they the ones with the blue bandanas and the 
tattoos of the Gay sailors?”
“Yeah Yeah that's it” FrYdaY said.
“The Bloods have red bandanas and tattoos of Gay Marines” Frank almost 
Joe smiled it looked like a flat fish going south.
Frank and Bill both stopped at the door and smiled at Joe.
“You coming Joe?” they laughed in unison.
Episode One Printer Blood is over. Come back later for the results the finding of 
the Los Angeles courts. DUM DE DUM DUM.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Pastel Dresses

Young ladies in their pastel Easter dresses pooffed out with crinolins dancing in the Eastern 
Sky on this early Sunday morn added a aura of cold to the frosted grass in the pasture. The 
sun was brought up by the constant crowing of the roosters across the creek. Their necks 
must have been stretched to their full extent for it to be possible to produce all that powerful 
sound and bring such color to the morning sky...

Details | Prose Poetry | |


As the rooster crows with vigor, I wonder was it on a morning like this that he arose from 
that cave tomb?  A morning like this where the angel touched down?  Peter as you heard the 
roosters that morn after you had wept in disbelief of the weakness within yourself, the brave 
soul that would die with him, protect him, but then in horror at yourself you coiled as the 
third denial left your lips and Jesus looked at you_____How may times and how many ways, 
how many days do my action and thoughts deny my love, dedication, high calling...So many 
that I can't number them.  As the sun rises on the distant horizon and mist rises from the 
earth especially on  the creek, does the stink of the sins of humankind float upward to your 
home in the third heaven?? No, for they are covered by his shed blood____Acceptance is all 
that is needed and turning around__repentence..Now the sun with a blaze rises that fire ball 
that now has turned orange__vibrant orange__Heat for the day will wilt my Spirit  but now in 
this present moment it is wonderful  ___The feeling of God's love.....

Details | Prose Poetry | |


My eyes don't even dare look at my reflection. It is not my outside that bothers me, 
it's my inside. No one sees what I do not allow them to. I do not show them how I 
really feel and I do not show them my true self. I fear that if I show them my true 
self, that I will become vulnerable to them. If I do not share my heart, then I do not 
have to deal with the inevitable pain of it breaking. Lately, I do not know what to 
do. I feel myself becoming weak inside. I have allowed the outside world to 
influence my emotions. Sometimes I feel that if we had no emotions, that we 
would be alot better off. Emotions always end up ruining things and hurting us. I 
wish I could just become hard on the inside so that it wouldn't hurt or bother me 
any longer. If I had a shell around my heart then nothing could come close 
enough to harm it. Nothing would hurt me ever again.

Details | Prose Poetry | |


I've waited for you many winters,
A face of an angel beheld in my dreams.
Soul that's pure, etched in the flight of my fantasies,
Heart that's noble, too good to be true?

Not to risk in my mind's delirium,
Being left a "damsel in distress" by her window...
Sent my horses away...till they came...
Bringing less than a knight to stay.

Winters do come and go, alas,
I reflect as my sweet child grows,
I betrayed you in flesh but never in heart,
Sitting still by that window...

Details | Prose Poetry | |


Hitler was running for his life he was near the depression in the road the sound 
of falling bombs was deafening He was like an animal now sure that he was 
about to be destroyed and that is what happened in our lifeline but there is a 
Watcher. He stepped out of the clouds like a JESUS. He touched Hitler on the 
sleeve and Hitler paused. His narrow eye was scanning the Watcher. WHO what 
how Hitler was monosyllabic. Eye am an alien from your Future 
CharlaxAndroidOneSeven. Eye am the Watcher sent to save you. Do you want to 
live in a different timeline Adolf? Yes the Fuhrer nodded. State & Party Leader 
Hitler Führer was the title granted by Chancellor Hitler to himself by the Enabling 
Law which gave him supreme power in the German Reichstag (Parliament), as 
part of the process of Gleichschaltung, following the death of the last 
Reichspräsident of the Weimar Republic, Paul von Hindenburg, on August 2, 
1934. The new position, fully named Führer und Reichskanzler (Leader and 
Chancellor of the (Third) Reich), unified the offices of State/Party leader 
(Germany becoming a one-party state at this point) and Chancellor, formally 
making Hitler Germany's Head of State as well as Head of Government 
respectively; and, in practice, the Dictator of the Nazi Third Reich. 
Nazi Germany cultivated the Führerprinzip (leader principle), and Hitler was 
generally known as just der Führer ("the Leader"). One of the Nazis' most-
repeated political slogans was ''Ein Volk, Ein Reich, Ein Führer' - 'One People, 
One Empire, One Leader'. See Part Two now see eh???

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Tale of Time

Clouds of despair pierce the lights of hope I bear. In one I hold a flute. In one I hold a sword. The flute looks ahead. The sword looks back. Back to when troubles made my reality. I still hide beneath thy blade to this very day hoping the melodies of time will sing to me. Alas I drop! Dropped against the pressures of hardships. I play my soul out in despair and I noticed something. The flute shines of light not to my eyes, but to my heart. Then the sun glistens and the larks whistle their tune. Hearts of others look forward as mine will too and all shall begin anew. My sword reminds me not to turn back. The flute to push me on. I gaze up at the stars tonight and say aloud, "I strike this note for all to hear to bury thy blade. Depart from my distant pasts I may and embrace my future with open arms and broaden mind."

Details | Prose Poetry | |

ICB (PartTwo)2

Pablo Naranjo Golborne / Pablo Golborne / Pablo Naranjo Nordau Neruda   
Pablo Neruda (1904-1973), This poet was alive during the World Wars One and 
Two. In 1943, Neruda returned to Chile, and in 1945 he was elected senator of 
the Republic, also joining the Communist Party of Chile. Due to his protests 
against President González Videla's repressive policy against striking miners in 
1947, he had to live underground in his own country for two years until he 
managed to leave in 1949. After living in different European countries he returned 
home in 1952. A great deal of what he published during that period bears the 
stamp of his political activities; one example is Las Uvas y el Viento (1954), 
which can be regarded as the diary of Neruda's exile. In Odas elementales 
(1954- 1959) his message is expanded into a more extensive description of the 
world, where the objects of the hymns - things, events and relations - are duly 
presented in alphabetic form. There is a disclaimer on the SSS card that says 
this is NOT for identification purposes please keep your card in a safe place and 
signed. Conflicting thoughts the police back home always asked me for mine 
when on the road they ran it like an ID the numbers was instant on the radio. The 
Students at this University take the Cat Card and swipe the strip into the slotted 
door it makes it seem to me just like the Mark of the beast has come perhaps 
early to some. Charles Robert Hice 429-04-1680. Deceased on May 13, 2004. 
Alive and living for the return of Heaven door. Jesus oph please come back 
before they institute the Mark on mee. To the purists of the poets no apology of 
me this is a fabel not a poem not a rhyme intended but a short short story just to 
past the thyme. My State Id Card has a PICTURE of me but no number at least 
not the Dreaded Social Security Number and it does have the DOB but not 
needed until called upon to produce it. Not yet on head forehand or forehead
or hand Most people will be proud to salute a nonexistent leader at the door to 
every supermarket in the world the name and number of the beast becomes the 

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Poetry : Prose : One long night in space

One long night in space
waiting for sunlight that never comes
I stared out into my backward of stars
light-years from any inhabitable worlds

I had left behind my fate, along with my life
reborn again into oblivion, to find my place in the universe
like a grain of obsidian on a beach of white sand

How long before I go mad?
chasing after webs of dreams that may not exist
where is God sailing me off to?
or have I left him too, behind...

Details | Prose Poetry | |


Camouflaged, in life's musical arrangement,
lies a melange of harmonies sounds.
Those, of a daydreaming waltz.
Others, with the vitality of a tango.

And when this symphony plays,
and its melodies espoused.
With each sound that resonates.
Will our paths become more illuminated.

Then will we not just walk with boredom,
but dance with all our spirit.
Nor will we just hum a low tune,
but sing loud a vibrant song.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

I Speak In Tongues!! (yes, true!)

When I worked, selling furniture, much expensive, as a Store Manager/Salesman-
(really, the "Manager" title was euphemistic)...
It was easy to get bored....
You can sit in the showroom
for some hours,
And see no one at all...
So when some poor person
did come in...
I tended to want to 
Not for the customer,
But, for me....

I had over time
developed a talent....
To speak in accents a'plenty
No one would know
just what to expect....
To one, I might be 
cockney English
to another a stiff
old German
or a Swede,
Jackie Mason style Jewish,
Oh Indian was a favorite
of many... but I did more...
An upper-class
English Lord...
a Brooklynese bable,
a southern drawl...
oh... so many more...

Now sometimes
I'd change from one
to another
in the same conversation'
as it progressed;
whether he bought or not
to me secondary
I had to have my fun!!

Sometimes a customer
would come back
on a later day...
looking for that
Australian guy...
who had helped
them some days before...

I made many many people
laugh, many many a time
I had many other crazy
things I did
You come into
my store,
you won't be bored
nor pressured...
one thing you can be assured.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Global Warming Goblins


 The Global Warming Goblins 
 were gruesome 
sneaky creatures
and there are movies 
featured with these 
they 'd often spread
gruesome tales 
just to scare
they didn't care
like tales of dying whales...
and dying polar bears...
They'd pretend
to like nature .
They'd pretend 
to like humans
Yet, the gruesome
sneaky goblins
blamed them for the strife
they set out to hurt humans 
for the rest of their life.

Crunch! Gobble! Crunch!

"The earth will melt-they'd shout!"
And many more lies spread about!

"The earth will burn!"
"The  earth won't turn!"      

      Lies, Lies, Lies !

" Serve us or lose your  head!"
"For if you don't, you will dread.!"

 Crunch! Gobble ! Crunch!   

Copyright  McCuen  2008

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Moon's House

My eyes, that which has betrayed me the most, look up toward you, my shining moon, in the
sky. Frozen in place, I look to you for guidance, finding your arms held out to me in that
cruel gesture. I will not take it, for your fingers will never close around my shaking
ones, and I will never find your smile as kind as I did the first time. 
	It is like looking at the sun, only to find it harsher with each dimming glance until I
am blind. 

How hard it is, to stand within the moving tides that pull towards you, all running to
your hand and falling through the gaps between, returning to itself as whole as it will
ever be, save for the drops that lovingly slide down your wrists. 

	With locked gazes, I can not help but wonder who you are looking at, if it is to me or
the ones around me, I will never know, but for now, I will follow the sinking waters to
your grasp, but I shall keep my hand reached towards the burning sun, and I will take

Details | Prose Poetry | |


Author Message 

Age : 53
Joined : 25 Jun 2007
Posts : 54
Localisation : Tucson

 Subject: CurrantEvent   Today at 11:13      





The Origin Of Supergirl 

NASA Today upon the moon the beans was strange the taste was off the war 
mongers shot the southpole and scared the cheph 111 times she wept and 
dropped the beans and things when the rockets plowed into the dust at the pole 
the imagining screen went offline on our pocket computer screens the moon 
went dark and left its orbit there is not much time for me to report it the child is 
safe in her spacecraft she lays the mother and the eye will die with our world but 
the young thing we made will have super powers on earth she has a yellow and 
a red and a blue blanket tucked all around her we hope they use the uniform 
wisely a supergirl now she is smiling and ewe gentle reader have discovered the 
origin of supergirl supergirl came not from krypton but came from the full moon to 
Help her please make it all worth the test///////////????????BOOM the rocket left 
the moon with supergirl inside ED.NOTE charlax to be continued 

Details | Prose Poetry | |


Breaking into abandoned psychiactric centers isn’t as fun as it seems. 
Oh, some nights have I had. 

I don’t feel too well. 

I just need to let everything pour out. To come out onto the screen and paper and wall and floor and everywhere I 
can transfer it to. 

Once again I am sitting here alone while my roommates have all gone out to drink. Drink. Drink. College. College. 
Are my children going to be disappointed to hear I wasn’t the party girl? Will they be sad that I don’t have repulsive 
stories of vomiting and one night stands? Why do we do this? 

Is that it? To tell our kids - to create a person - to create a personality - to construct a mask.These masks are not 
colourful or flashy or expensive. These masks are plain white plaster. Whitewashed wisdom. Everyone wears this 
mask. No defining characteristics. You can’t really tell if the person next to you is your closest friend or a complete 

Here I sit with my eyes closed. This entire time. I did all those things and pushed myself further and further into a 
sedated state that I can hardly remember. 

Suffering is the best thing for an artist. Every artist was an addict. An addict of some sort. Some sort. Some sort of an 
addict. Maybe that’s what I need - maybe that’s why I still do this - maybe that’s why I stay home when everyone isout 
having a “good ol’ college time.” 

Not a recluse. I swear. 

He can’t hear me but I can hear the sludge of sounds though the telephone. I’m sitting up so as not to let my thoughts 
become sluggish although they do such a thing on their own. My entire body has been injected with a cloud. It is 
floating through every extremity, every vein, every cell. I lay limp and wonder how it’s possible to even do this. To 
function at all. 

My stomach feels empty but I know what it holds. The imagine in my mind of my insides housing some bodily fluid 
and a plethora of dissolving pills. Plethora may be an understatement. Dissolving and fizzing and melting and the 
thought of that the thought of that the thought of that... that makes me sick. 

Dissolving in cold stagnant water. Sitting sedating. Satisfied, thouhg? I don’t know how I got here. I’ve been sitting 
here the entire time but what happened between when I first took seat and this very moment.

All of you. Take off your masks.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Hello, Yes First Smile

Hello why are you coming here
You called me for smile.
Tell me yours works
No first smile, yes little bit
Without you, I can’t live smile.

Please cooperate with me, smile
You enjoying lovely night
May every effort be rewarded with success
My happiness is cooperation smile.

You stop your worry, start new jokes
With me, for a new happiness thought
Lord send a holy star to Bethlehem made this
Globe filled with prosperity come true
New year wish for the best Christmas smile.

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Souper-Men/Souper Woman-Convention Idea

I think we should ask the Soup people about this convention-where to have- how 
much each would need to contribute.  This could be a big promotional coup for 
the Soup people-even if they charge us , say $20 per head to attend- and more 
for site...etc...And perhaps I can get my old band together for entertainment- I'd 
even do some of my stand-up and comedy gratis.  and maybe 
vote for a couple of categories of poetry- romantic, humourous-sad-life-loss- 
and "Grand Master Poet"  Please advise me of your thoughts!  Thank you, and 
God bless you all!!        tom bell

Details | Prose Poetry | |


Morning is but the infant day
Born of the womb of time. 
A babe that speaks to those that hear
A language so sublime. 

The sky with blood from birth is stained
Foretells of coming rain. 
Red sky at night is his delight
At dawn a sad refrain. 

That sailor in that ship at sea
That farmer by the brook
They know the signs, they read the sky
Like you or I a book. 

While wet or dry this day shall be
Both yours and mine to keep. 
Until it's hours reach 24
And then it too shall sleep. 

Why gaze we then at painted sky
And dwell upon this thought?
Let's merrily go forth and live 
This day that time has wrought

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Darkness' Hold

The darkness has a tendency to distort and influence your thoughts. When you 
are in the light, the darkness has no control over you. Once you return to the 
darkness, the light is of no aide. The light brings about peace, and the darkness 
brings about uncertainty. Things which seem fine during the day appear distorted 
at night. I don’t know if it is because of the loneliness and solitude found at night, 
or if it is because the light is nowhere to be found. Either way, I always dread 
those hours spent in darkness. My mind races and my heart hurts of uncertainty. 
I doubt myself and I fear that which, during the day, gave me little grief. There is 
no way out of the darkness, and the only way to come to terms with and deal with 
it is to realize that it has no power over you. It is only an illusion that your mind 
perceives as a reality. This false reality only has a hold on you whilst you allow it 
to. Once you let go of the fear, the darkness loses its power.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Like it is

Sipping slowly
Fast broken
Reading into
Words unspoken

Sailing into neaps and swollen
Tides of ethereal friendship
Kindled kindred souls 
sailing unseen waters
Blithely sharing
miles apart
Viewpoints of
As daydreams 
of wet canvas
stroke cheeks
of Mersey fog
in salty
dirty brown

Details | Prose Poetry | |

3Fabel5 Part Two

Color While color is a matter of personal preference, there are reasons why you 
may choose one color over another. Bright, neon-like colors are good only in 
search-and-rescue situations because the blinding material will stand out 
against the snow or the green and brown of the woods or the sand in the desert. 
Since most camping involves designated sites, this situation rarely arises. It is 
more common among mountain climbers or others who find themselves in this 
situation having traveled in remote areas. For the very reason bright colors are 
effective in emergency situations as described above, these colors can be 
annoying to other campers, causing a visual disturbance in what is supposed to 
be a natural, outdoors experience. There is no substitute for charity and dull 
green and brown hide very well let no one knoe when you are around but if you 
have to be in the snow then make the cover white. Winter Survival id this Fabel 
number thirty five in the Book of CharlaxFabels. 

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Cream Tortellini

Last night I found a sentence in your bed, just lying there between smiles and sweat.
And I picked it up and said: Hey Baby, let’s get more of those! But then you rose from the
bed and so on and shouted: No way! But what does it say? Oh Honey, you know I can’t tell
you that! But it’s got the I, the L and the Y words in it. And then you started talking
about buildings. Like if you had an ugly one just opposite a beautiful one, you would
prefer to live in the ugly one, so that you could look out on the beautiful one. And not
the other way around. And then you said that if love was Cream Tortellini you would prefer
kebab. Cause it’s easier to get hold of if you come home late at night – perhaps a little
tipsy – but you don’t have to if you don’t want to, and Kebab isn’t as fattening and that
you aren’t that keen on pasta anyway.

Details | Prose Poetry | |


Mercurious People 
The Charlaxandroidoneseven is eating solid food fuel for brain we fear here on 
Mercury in the pit that he will soon discover a way to BORDOGOEL us. Bordogoel 
is a magical word on Mercury it means much the same on Earth imagine me the 
Charlax one standing in the spidder and hitting them with BORDS. Quickly eye 
donned my Lone Stranger Mask and shot the BORD at all the mercurious aleins 
in the mines of Mercury in the lines of the spidder.  BORD DO GO EL the 
transliteration means hitting aleins with BORDS. The extra sensory perceptive 
that eye am can see the aleins design it's nothing more than webbing on a 
spidder plan. The younger one is missing the middle tartar needs a friend no 
one cares for wrestling it is fake. 
Fighting is for niggardly cowards to prove themselves a man. 
Splinters of the alien creatures fall from the SKY of the moon and confuse the 
Martians who came to visit them. BOOM BOOM BOOM. 
Food is eliminated from the body weather you eat fruit meat or decay. Some 
people in Franco land only eat spaghetti with the bread no meat no saucy kisses 
no mixers no bad drinks no sugar in my coffee no sugar in  my tee shirts wear 
much longer under vest than at first eye had assumed a shape of fortune smiled 
the latter day saint that eye become the alien killer the Charlaxone. Stay tuned 
gentile reader ewe for part three in the series of this science fiction exceptional 
Fabel in the Book of CharlaxFabels. 

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Just One Of Those Days Part 2

"Hello Oscar," he squawked.
"What brings you over this way?" Oscar asked.

"I'm having a terrible time finding my supper," blurted out the hungry hawk.

"I can't believe you can't find anything for your meal," replied the old owl.  "I know 
there usually is quite an array on the road.  Once in a while I even cheat and find 
all I want to eat.  There is usually a pretty good assortment also.  Why one day I 
even found a fried lizzard.  My, he sure was tasty,"  he volunteered.
"I found lots of stuff on the road and plenty to choose from around the country but 
I am looking for something special.  I spent the last hour circling Farmer Brown's 
chicken yard.  It seems all I want is chicken.  Oscar, what is wrong with me?  Can 
you help me?  Please, I know there must be something drastically wrong with 
Oscar flapped his wings and danced up and down on the branch doing his 
evening exercises.  When he finished he blinked his big bright eyes and looked 
Homer square in the eye.  "I can't find anything wrong with you."
Homer was almost frantic.  How could Oscar tell him there was nothing wrong 
with him.  Homer was beating his wings up and down and squawking his head 
"How can you tell me there is nothing wrong?" he squawked again.
"Calm down Homer, don't grouse so.  There's nothing wrong with you.  As far as I 
can tell, you are just in a FOWL mood tonight." 

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Christianity - 30+ CE PART TWO

Christianity - 30+ CE 
Christianity started out as a breakaway sect of Judaism nearly 2000 years ago. 
Jesus, the son of the Virgin Mary and her husband Joseph, but conceived 
through the Holy Spirit, was born then. During his travels he was joined by twelve 
disciples who followed him in his journeys and learned from him. He performed 
many miracles during this time and related many of his teachings in the form of 
parables. Among his best known sayings are to "love thy neighbor" and "turn the 
other cheek." At one point he revealed that he was the Son of God sent to Earth to 
save humanity from our sins. This he did by being crucified on the cross for his 
teachings. He then rose from the dead and appeared to his disciples and told 
them to go forth and spread his message. In the multitude there is only 
individuals and so this reasoning is flawed there can be a great difference 
between the various forms of Christianity they may seem like different religions to 
some persons of note this poem is varied this poet is in love the woman of 
desire may decide to read this written note to see how much eye rally love her to 
understand my love. 

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Fabel Seventeen Part One

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

Details | Prose Poetry | |

New Love

This Is Being Written For A Person In Whom I Hope In The Near Future Will Become My 
Companion, My Confidant, My Lover And My Best Friend. Your Voice Is Oh So Soft and Tenderly 
Sweet.You're Words So Full Of Convictions and that's What Makes You Totally Complete; I 
know  You Harbor A love Deep Within You Which Is so Pure, Abundant and True And this I've 
Come To Realize From The Very First Moment That Ive Ever Spoken To You ! This Chemistry 
That's Shared Between Us Two Is a Feeling That Surpasses My Wildest Imgagination and I 
Know That Deep Down In My Heart and Soul That In The Near Future I'll Find Myself Falling 
Helplessly In Love With You. Theres Nothing In The Whole Wide World That I Wouldnt do For 
You. For I'd Climb The Highest Mountain, And Sail The Deep Blue Sea Or Until The Stars Fall 
From the Heavens Or The Mountains Crumble To the Sea, That's How Long I will Love Thee!!!

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Callenge three

Incorporate, fifty word or less, must rhyme, and make some distorted Bell-ish 

Neutron star in a can of tuna
Feathered boa on my poodle
Cooking Black Flag noodles
sweet candy of concrete and caramel
Oop, I fell in my Fruit Loops!

Good Luck!!

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Fabel Seventeen Part Two

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

Details | Prose Poetry | |


Bowing down for this subtle borrow in trade, 
My head just pounds with an ache just throbbing away.
My thoughts gathered and crunched with a million bits and pieces of the obvious.
But lots of unnoticed empty space!
You are there and I am here. 

Calculating, analyzing and specifying such fine details that are completely misplaced.
Never bending and never-ending our minds spin wheels like bulked bails of rolling hay.
If I shouldn’t, then I couldn’t, and if I couldn’t, then I wouldn’t.
But I’d never say that I didn’t outrun that race.
Angled in time leaning straight forward with those hands turning mine,

I’m catching up to our dawning of today.
The Sun has risen above our dark blanketed night.
Taking the shadows that linger with my soul’s final debate,
The Moon stands corner-stoned guarding glares that glow over darkness,
Veiling off your sights that radiate!
You say this and I say that.
But a compromise is far from this archer’s perfect aim targeting at my hindsight.

You’re always right, 
But so am I justifying boundaries to your realistic reasoning for my analyzed why.
Following you, following me,
We are all that we will ever be.
My night becomes the next day and your day becomes the next night.
Like spinning merciless on a merry-go-round,
My own mind has to question the who, what, and where am I.
Challenged by my own self-defeat, 
I’m corner-stoned with so many of those that have lost to a forgotten lie.
Defeated by my own self-lack to compete, 
You’re corner-stoned with so many years of albeit, 
So I’ll defy and you justify!

® Registered: Ann Rich   2002

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Challenge Four

100 words or less, to rhyme, humor a plus..Feb. ten. Good Luck- email copy to, and post, please- winner gets a tom Bell Cookbook!

Brushing the velvety hair of the bald midget
Olives on the run
Hidden Puppy, Crouching pooper
New set of blinds
Gumballs on the bar
rock music in Chinese
Wally Eagle, ootty-booty-li-li
Mercedes Benz
Slip of the forked snake tongue

Good Luck!!

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Thoughts, Comments

From a sleepy mind, unable to sleep...
These words I do feel deep...
The Soup has become my
number one family
One I spend my time with great joy,
I hope I don't too often annoy...
But that's what ya get,
When ya read a dumb goy...

Seriously (or as close as I can get)- to Christy- I am so glad you love the Shivaree 
song- it was on the ending soundtrack to Kill Bill II.  I first heard of it on a great 
NYC college radio station, WFUV, from Fordham University...I was driving when I 
first heard it, and nearly crashed!  I was awestruck, and haunted...I ordered the 
CD from Amazon (you can get anything there!)...and have heard it many times.  I 
have not been able to "get into" most of the other songs, because if you put a 
Picasso next to the Mona Lisa, you can't really judge.  I have trouble lately getting 
a continuous clean video (on You Tube, same as you)- and hope there is a video 
available from Amazon, but haven't checked it out yet.  
To my precious Shar, you are so sweet, and easily the most popular poet on the 
soup (well deserved)- I often get so wrapped up in writing, I have to train myself 
to read more- And I've been trying...ever amazed by the talent I read, there is not 
enough time in the day...and the reading is so pleasureable, it ought to be taxed!
(oops, none of us want that, it was a pun..."Monty Python"...the parrot sketch),
what a joy to have this great library to enjoy for years to come...And Christy, why'd 
ya' send the racoon here?- He just left and I had to join "The Racoon Club" to get 
him to go...Ya'll great, and I still got an hour or three left in me...

Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Big Day to Fly To The Sun

Thanks Vince, I can't hold a tune either...I was even banned from singing in the 
Sean- Been there already (Listen to Floyd's "Set the Controls For the Heart of the 
Sun"- a song my band was doing in 1970)  PS- if you plan to go to the Sun 
anyway, I strongly suggest you go at night!

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Sea and Sky

The sea spoke to the sky and said,
“Join me if you will. 
For the beauty of both 
Shall entice man
And lure them
Right to where 
I want them.”
The sky replied with a no,
“If I help you lure them
They will die without hope.
They will not have seen the beauty
That we truly offer,
That we truly provide.”
“But, we can then control”
Said the sea, to no avail.
The sky exclaimed,
“It is beneath me 
To waste their lives.
I provide them sunshine
For life.
I provide them rains
For growth.
I provide them eternity
For when they look upon me,
They will gaze in wonder and awe.
For I am eternal
And that they will see 
When their time comes.”
With that, the sea grew rough,
Showing it’s anger.
The sky reminded,
“Churn as you will
But without me
You, too, will dry,
But I choose not to do that,
Unless provoked.”
The sea calmed
And man sailed 
upon the sea.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

hello omar

thanks omar; re spelling; i'm orig. from brooklyn; not only are we expected to 
spell everything wrong, we can't even talk the king's the way...who is 
our king these days?  does he speak english?  LOL-  thanks, and what'cha think 
of Forbidden Planet?  sorry to use this medium (instead of well-done?), but you 
left no email address.  thanks for the comments, Soup Forever!!!!! Tom

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Fabel Sixteen

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

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

Details | Prose Poetry | |


"911, what is the emergency?"

"Police here. An accident at The Hill.  Jack was hurt.  Send the EMS immediately."

"EMS. May I help you?"

"911 here. There was an accident at The Hill.  A man injured."

"EMS here. How bad was he hurt?

"911 here.  I'll check with the police."

"911 here. Police,  how bad was he hurt?"

"Police here. All I could get out of Jill  was he fell down and broke his crown.  I 
didn't know we had Kings in this country."

"911.  EMS here at the scene of the accident.  There is no one here.  Did the man 
that called in give any more details?"

"911, here.  No I'll check with the police, EMS."

"911 here.  The police report they had a call reporting Dame Dodd was seen 
practicing medicine without a license.  They arrested her.  Seems she was 
applying vinegar and brown paper to the head of someone that fell down and 
broke his crown.  Sorry I couldn't be of any more help, EMS.   911 out."

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Empty Nooses

When I opened my eyes, all I could see was landscape full on trees with empty nooses

My father was a runaway slave, who was captured by them bounty hunters. Daddy wanted  to
be free, and provide for his family

Why do we kill and enslave other man for their differences or color of skin. The answer my
friend is blowing in the wind. The answer derives from the sweet taste of sin, created by
the love, the power and the color of money

The empty nooses keep on  blowing in the wind

I remember, they kicked, beat and then dragged my daddy, unconsciously to that old oak tree
Lord, back in the day, Colored People was restricted from sitting or resting underneath
them trees with nooses

After they captured my pappy; they wrapped a dry noose round his neck so tight, that I
could smell the rope burns on his neck

When I opened my eyes, all I could see was landscape full on trees with empty nooses

They hung my daddy from that tree. Well, I was six years old, and I dropped to my knees. I
ask the Lord to spare my father’s life and to forgive these evil people, for they do not
know what they do

God put His hand in the story. Then, He clapped His Hands, and His spiritual power
released the nooses from all the dead slaves

God said, “Walk with me, and you shall receive eternal life in the kingdom of heaven. Walk
with me down this road of light."

Then, He hurled a bolt of lightening at the landscape of empty nooses and said, from this
day forth, I promise thee, that empty nooses shall never be the fruit among these trees.

Never again, shall empty nooses blow in the wind.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Life's Circumference

It was at that very moment
I knew of my importance
My value
My worth
Something I was unsure of
Since my own birth

3 days earlier…

While walking the streets of Manhattan
Minding my own business
Something happened
It was summer, 
The sun felt warm
The girls were even hotter
I was watching this one
Ice cream in hand
Licking and walking at the same time
Too much!
When something caught my eye
A cab
Speeding, approaching really fast
Thought was thrown from my mind
I acted on instinct
I grabbed the girl.
Vroom, the cab went whizzing by.
She thanked me
We exchanged names
Said goodbye

Next day…

That girl was leaving work
For the 5:13 at Penn
When at the top of the stairs
She saw a man stumble
If not for her quick thinking
He would have gone down hard
With terrible consequences
She reached a hand out 
Pulled his Perry Ellis jacket
Saving his life
He said thanks
And walked away

The next day…

The clumsy man
Stepping from a newspaper stand
Noticed another man
Walking fast, almost running
But wearing a suit
He questioned this and took note
He watched as the man 
Ducked into a nearby doorway
Not five minutes later
Saw police running the same route
Directed them
And walked off
The running man
Was stopped 
Just before 
He could kill the old woman
He was robbing of fifteen dollars


While stepping from a curb
I heard a scream
An old woman’s voice 
Called, “Sir! Sir!”
I turned
Just as the bus
Was about to run me over
I thanked the woman
Who said
She only wanted to say
That she noticed a stain
On my jacket.

It was at that very moment
I knew of our importance
Our value
Our worth
Something I was unsure of
Since my own birth