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Prose Poetry Imagination Poems | Prose Poetry Poems About Imagination

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Details | Prose Poetry | |

Lucila

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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

IF GOD GIVES UP ON US

Open season
the games have begun
We be target practice
Shoot randomly 
no penalty

Kill at will
...if you will
Lives don't
matter to the people
you're chanting to

Kill for thrill  
new sport
Kill at will
...if you think
Lives matter 
watch the gavel...
justice not served

Makes no difference
if they get sacked
Big money got their backs
Now who has that kind if cash ?

Thumb twiddlers, sitting down
eyes watching God's moves
"God's gonna get them people"
That is what God said: He also
 said: "faith without works is dead'

Earth disturbers in combat boots
Serial killers with badges in blue suits
commissioned for this mission
rewarded with loot.

The makers of tragedies  on 9/11
twin towers. Afghanistan and 
the embassy in Kenya ..World Trade
Center and the list goes on..
By the way who's funding BOko Haram?
They have better weapons than the whole
Naja Militia.

Desensitized people, frightened and numb
Worldwide genocide irrespective of person
religion or gender.
When bombs go off, bodies drop 
buildings fall down.
What if the grid breaks?
What if he does not re-create 
anyone smart enough to fix it.?

Those people who one day 
gets paid, to kill those people, 
Who pays you to kill them people
and them people to kill you....

Somebody is paying people, 
to make less people
and paying people - 
to make less people etc...
until there is less people. 
Only the people on the left, 
are left.
And the leftover people. 

Then no more people left.
and the green grass grew all aroun all aroun ....
and the green grass grew all aroun

IF God Gives Up ON US...

What might he do, send us back into the 
black hole.Take the power back from the Sun?

Reverse the magnetic magnitude of the moon
There'll be no separation of day from
night, there'd be no more chances to get life right. 

If God gives up on us it would
serve us deserving. No intercession
for your transgressions.

Just send us back into oblivion;
Erase us like we had never come.?
Dauntless disobedience, and foul
acts mocking his earthly domain
Diverging from Gods plan
Ignoring truth, man abusing man.

What if God would wait
one million years before 
he launched another plan
and like the dinosaurs
we'd be - Just another species 
from ancient times and lands.

What if God gave up on us....

and sent us back into the 
dust, and the only memories 
left, would be the writings
in ancient books..
Ancient books no-one could decipher.

...and the green grass grew all aroun all aroun
and the green 

ghttp://www.addictinginfo.org/2015/01/20/black-homeless-man-sleeping-when-he-was-set-on-fire-by-white-teens-video/


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Proempoem

 Proempoem 
Proempoem

CharlaXFabels

Beginners Luck

Tatterdemalion

SeventyF

 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.
Blowing.
Fondles my face.
Tickling.
The tears from heaven.
Pouring. 
Tapping. 
Dancing.
Unrelenting.
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.
Unusual,
     like it's my first time in the snow.
Somehow, 
     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.



Details | Prose Poetry | |

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 | |

Night

Night, 
appearing with frosty silence
becomes engulfed
in the valley of dreams,
soundless,
images,
a continuous film
of whirling silence,
mixed
with past and future.
The  night 
has its own tunes
of hidden and restless 
desires.


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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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 
Stopped.

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
                                         Terry


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Musing or Amuseing Part 2

	I like it when I go with one of them as I don't have to drive and I can enjoy 
God's  wonders.  Yesterday our tank fitting took us east to the town of Douglas.  As we 
passed through an area where derricks and pumps replaced the ranching scenes I once 
again though of another time when I contemplated the origin or fossil fuel. I know in Ash Fall, 
Nebraska they have found hundreds of Rhinoceros fossils. They were killed by the volcanic 
ash that fell and suffocated them as they were in or near a water hole.  Camels, horses, and 
numerous other creatures of the now African plains were also destroyed at this time. I went 
by this fantastic place on one of my trips out here to Wyoming.  But they were to close to the 
surface to be used for fossil fuel.  I then began to picture various dinosaurs and wondered 
which was at the bottom of each of these wells. And that led to another picture.  What if one 
of these monsters was riding around with me in my van. After all I have to use oil to keep it 
in working condition. Was it like Sue, a T-Rex, or maybe a Raptor. Then I got a little nervous 
because I do a lot of long distance traveling. What if I should have trouble?  Could that mean 
that it were possibly coming back to life?  And perhaps out alone on one of these trips they 
could.......  Then I took a deep breath and pictured a mastodon because they were native to 
this area also. If it should turn out that were the animal at least it could possibly be another 
means of transportation.


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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. 
Always.


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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ELIZABETH'S DIARY


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! 


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COUNTING DIMES

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.


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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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Snow

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 | |

DRUNK AND IGNORANT

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 | |

ScourMoueINn

 ScourMoueINn 
ScourMoueINn 
 
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
high
into the tranquil eye 
of your whirling swirling hurricane
please
let me in sweet darlin'


http://lovestruehome.com/


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 | |

Weaving a poem

Poets take hold of one thread,
Ponder it , turn it over to question 
its strength.

They brush it against the 
azure face of the sky, dip it in the 
warmth of the sun,
teach it the language of water
and the whispers of wind…

They wrap it around the crystal 
droplets of rain falling on a 
ravenous narcissi.
Then wait with the faith of hermits
 for the breath of the night to blow 
about disoriented threads
out of the silver aura of the 
moonlight and the intermingled 
zephyr of the seasons.

Dangling them from the gold-dripping 
edges of stars, they weave them 
into a galaxy of feelings mixed 
with the wildness of life


Details | Prose Poetry | |

New Resolutions

I shall tread 2011 with champagne in my veins and pink fluff in my brain
I will eat blue cheese and think of it as the moon
I will smell green growings and see only yellow daisies standing tall
I shall touch orange petals and know that they are gold
I shall hear birdsong and think that it is blue
I will try to make life magic - rainbow sparkles in my hair.


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 | |

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 | |

ID

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 reach...it is the Id within me.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Familiarity

What is it about 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?
Or, 
maybe
you are staying
because 
    you 
        are 
           meant
                to 
                   stay.

Then,
stay.
If you may.
I pray.
While I find a place (for us)
in the picture of eternities,
the gods must be 
hiding, 
conspiring;
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 | |

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 | |

Homeless

Note the sighing of day's retreat
Color the grey blackness of night
Drunken thievery, my feat
Of gleaming lights, beckoning frights

To begin to stir in this sea
Of a waning tumultuous falling
Baptized with his promise to me
Survival his only calling

No white bursting of the stars
In this sea of a fading fading grasp
No redeeming god, no ark
Messed up with each other perhaps


Details | Prose Poetry | |

MegOHBlister

MegOHBlister
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.