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Prose Poetry Inspirational Poems | Prose Poetry Poems About Inspirational

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Details | Prose Poetry | |

Why must I Cry

   I come to the garden along, while the dew is still fresh
on the meadows. Early in the morning do the bird's sing
praises of roses and peddles.  I cry, because there is no
refuge finally from the pain.  
    Yet long ago, a child was born, to become king, and yes
there is hope, just for believing in his name. Where is this King!
when I'm hurting and alone? He's just a prayer away, don't give
up, for he's Alpha and Omega, which means, just be strong!.
So they sent me to a place, to turn my life around. I cry, be-
cause, I am somebody no longer am I bound.
     Now I know that Jesus is my refuge and no more drugs is
there for I. Thank you Lord, for the method, that's "Why Must
I Cry".

Copyright © John Streeter | Year Posted 2009

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Forever Love

FOREVER LOVE

 Margie........my one and only........Margie

 love's music echoes timeless
 spring fed      it flows forever

 Pop would get up early, make Mom's hand-mixed
 favorite black and green tea, and when ready,
 he walked down the hallway tinkling her teacup
 with a spoon, gently waking her.

 When he came home each day
 he'd whistle the tune......
 "Margie......how I love you ......"
 alerting her that he was near.

 On occasion, his mood would be jubilant
 upon arriving home,
 whistling......
 "Sweet.....Georgia.....Brown!"
 just like his favorite basketball team,
 The 'Harlem Globetrotters'

 Mom was Dad's whole world,
 I could hear his expectant excitement
 in the tone of his remarkable whistling
 whenever I pushed him down the hallway
 in his wheelchair, knowing his one and only
 lifelong love would soon be in sight.

 He couldn't mix and brew her favorite tea
 anymore, or wake her with her tinkling teacup,

 but until the end, he could still whistle!

 .....and man! 

                       could he whistle!

Copyright © James Marshall Goff | Year Posted 2009

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Peak District United Kingdom

Fingers of light pierced the clouds caressing the moors
with life giving warmth, purples, browns and greens of
heathers mingled, blended, in a union of beauty. Yellow
of gorse splashed in the sultry, hazy spectre of natures
superb canvas. The dry stone walling lay sporadic, lost,
decaying in time and memory, the hardy moorland sheep
stumbled from blade to blade, in the breeze they used the
walls as shade. Golden plovers dipped and dived the call
of pee weet pee weet echoed in the stillness, the Peregrine
hovered with silent wings and sunlit eye. Those fingers of
light walked the hillside highlighting the chalk outcrops
on craggy reaches as if new laden snow. Black pools of
peaty water dot themselves borne of winters starkness,
it is a beauty that holds both eye and heart, a picture
painted for the soul. A place where all blends and the
crofter wears no watch only the sun and moon to follow
and the footsteps of the rambler sleeps in the fragrance 
of the heather.

Copyright © Daniel Cheeseman | Year Posted 2010

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/

Copyright © Vicki Acquah | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry | |

A MESSAGE OF LOVE FROM WHITNEY

Every time you listen to my songs
I will be sending you a great big kiss
And though I moved beyond your sight
Know all of you I will surely miss

Always remember the joy and laughter
That always found a home within my face
Always think about all the wonderful times
I took your mind and heart to another place

Please try never to shed unhappy tears
Each day my love ones while I am away
For there will be a time in the near future
When again in each others arms we'll stay

And tomorrow morning when you think of me
About the love you always saw in my eyes
Remember wherever you might be in your life
My spirit will never again leave your side

My family I miss all your hugs and kisses
Which I will always treasure, and I am sure
One day soon again we will laugh and sing
Together in heaven with our precious Lord.

A poem i was moved to write for Whitney, a beautiful
spirit, while listening to Stevie Wonder sing 'Love is in need
of love at here funeral!

Wendell A. Brown
Copyright  February 18, 2012,
All Rights Reserved.

Copyright © Wendell Brown | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Ghosts of South Dakota part 4

	Of course on this night we are supposed to be asleep so Santa 
could come, but we hadn't been home from Midnight Mass very long, and the 
invigorating cold was not conducive to sleep.  Even the hot chocolate did not do 
much to help sedate the excitement.
	We were hoping for sleds that year.  The snow was perfect for 
sledding especially like we did it.  We tied out sleds on behind the car or pick up 
and were pulled through the hills.  We got our sleds.  My dad and my uncle made 
them for us.
	No television and only in the late years were we allowed to use the 
radio.  Batteries were to expensive for frivolous use.  We spent many hours 
playing cards or games.
	I took time out and went to high school and college and got my 
teaching certificate.
	My aunt taught there only one year after the Federal Government 
turned the schools over to the local government.
	The last time I was back there the out buildings had been moved and 
Indian families were living in them.  The school was dirty and unkept.
	Now the school is gone.  The ancestors who once walked these 
dusty plains are gone.  The Indians who were there when I was a child are gone.
	They are Ghosts.  Ghosts whose faces can be seen in the clouds.  
Ghosts  who still chop wood on those sub zero nights.  And the drums we heard 
in the middle of the nights are still beating.  They beat as strongly as the heart 
beats in a healthy body.  The laughter of the children still echoes under the 
bridge.
	The life blood of a culture, of a nation grows thin.  The Battle of 
Wounded Knee was the last battle to be fought  between the white man and the 
Indian on the northern plains.  It's cries still echo across the land.
	My foot prints in the creek did not last any longer than those they left 
in the dust.  But in my memories, this mile and a half by three quarter mile haven 
still lives.  And will live forever as a piece of unrecorded history.

Copyright © Marycile Beer | Year Posted 2007

Details | Prose Poetry | |

I Am The River

I Am The River…
I am the river;
poured out
of God’s  
celestial pitcher:
a full river;
swollen with His tears.

I am the river;
my banks hold
the flow
of a nation:
denied, crucified, died,
resurrected and sanctified.

I am the river;
my tributaries flow
wide and deep—
outward, inward, upward,
downward and back
to the source.

I am the river;
The flowing essence
Of a mother’s womb—come 
Wade in my history
And let the wetness of ourstory
bathe away all your delusions.

I am the river;
the river 
of your birth:
come and swim in me.

Copyright © millard lowe | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry | |

It Is A Sin

It is a sin for Gregory to be a miser even to himself accumulating infinite fortune with a half-bedroom to show for it It is a sin for miss Zane to gain special gratitude from her male mates. Coming late every night with a different driver, parading her flashy dividends as she becomes a model for fashion updates It is a sin for Sarah, not taking care of herself with her body becoming rounder but still feeds more than an entire Orphanage. Initially, a very attractive young lady but now looks like an Old sorcerer. It is a sin for Baker to be a clergy and at the same time a gambler lavishing in style and losing without remorse Hell will let loose if his sponsor is the Church's finance. Regardless of his anointing, he's still not beyond the people's wrath. It is a sin for Dawson to drive through many open legs as he jumps from skirt to skirt and acquainting himself with all forms of underwear, playing the bad guy who never gets caught. It is a sin to stay idle and observe them wrongly drawing conclusions from every action without minding their motives or reasons analyzing closely even while sitting from afar giving no consideration to the human Nature which exists in imperfection and faint stains. It is a sin castigating the weaknesses of others while overlooking mine thereby condemning the crimes I do not commit which does not make me better either. As much as they do not know where I faulter Judging them makes me worst than a sinner.

Copyright © Funom Makama | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Fallen Prince has Risen - Michael

Burning so bright
With new found life
Released from his ball and chain
Out of the dark
And into the light
Flying… on wings of freedom again.

As he writes his life
His soul ignites
In flames of wisdom and sight
Brilliantly claiming 
His God given right
As his truth kills the evil ‘Black Knight’.



Copyright © Elaine George | Year Posted 2006

Details | Prose Poetry | |

IN THE FAMINE OF JUSTICE

IN THE FAMINE OF JUSTICE

Besieged with wrenching pangs of hunger,
bloating a belly of despair, I painfully called out
to my mother—justice—cold just-
ice.  
With a Mona Lisa smile and covered eyes,
she revealed her prune-like sagging breast,
the closed the door of the pantry of mercy,
and walked away, leaving my lingering 
hungry—

There is not a day I do not trace the trail
she left behind—not a morsel can I find.
The tongue of the freedom bell
no longer speaks.  My ears grow weary;
worthless words echo mere memories.

But be beholding my children.
Be not dismayed; for hope unborn
is not dead; nor is its audacious spirit.
Justice may have walked gently into the night,
searching—Tomorrow,
the perfect storm of resurrection shall fill her sails,
balance her scales, and rip the blindfold from her eyes;
and she shall awake from the ravaging nightmare
of injustice and rain down liberating righteousness.

Copyright © millard lowe | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry | |

THE VISION

If only you could see the vision
Now deeply living inside my mind
Feeling the peace which now stays
Knowing your love is only mine.

If only you could feel the passion
Which each new day is on the rise,
Then you would never worry at all
For you will never face lonely times

I truly love you deep within my heart
With a pure power that never ends
And every time I awaken to your smile
Its life essence selflessly begins

For I feel what you have given me
With the love you allow me to seize
Binds me tightly to a fervent need
To have your love always next to me.

Copyright © Wendell Brown | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry | |

FOR THE SONS OF MEN

Segun my child! My son!
Soon, the cock will crow at dawn
And the east will showcase the sun
Soon, you will leave my home, 
To found your own
With words of wisdom, you won’t be alone.
Like a mini-skirt, advice is too short
But it covers the body’s vital lot.

Hear me.
Your brother is not your friend,
He is another you, but independent
So your love for one another, allow no dent
For the sons of men…
Every journey far destination brings
Nature presents a transport means
The snow has the snow dogs
The desert has the camels
The long distant road has the horse

Even technology came to aid us
For the road, we have the cars
For the seas and ocean, the ship
For the rail, the train
The sky has the airplane
All, to lead us through our destiny lane

That is it with man’s life and the battle in it
For whatever fate comes to us, so be it
As the future hungers like a wild beast
Likewise on it, your eyes be firmly fixed
Take a deep breath my child, and learn this
Every master was once an apprentice
Be it the prophets or the dentists

Fate is most times very unfair
Be not defeated by the things you saw
For life is more like war
And all is fair in love and war.
But whatever life’s battle you face
Nature will surely with remedy surface.

When you fall or fail
Don’t ceaselessly wail
Inhale…count to ten, and then exhale
Turn stumbling block to stepping stone,
So the builders reject, will be chief cornerstone

Two Demi-gods are on man’s destiny entrance
Their names, Consistency and Perseverance
Segun, to them, you must bow
No matter what, no matter how
On their feet, bring your head down

I know my son, I know,
That adventure is the blood of the youths
But by rushing the moment, the petals are bruised
So, calmly assimilate my child, calm study
For so, Apostle Paul admonished Timothy
Never be the first to hate
But to forgive, be the first and be in haste

My son, all humans can’t love you
If they all do, then they want to kill you
Likewise, all humans can’t hate you
If they all do, then they want the best for you
What people suffer to get, yet you so easily get
That you must never despise
For it is your miracle in disguise

For the sons of men,
Me, myself and I comes first
Don’t follow that context
If you find the opportunity to rule
My son, take the alternative to lead
For where rulers doom, leaders bloom

When fortune knocks on your door,
Be quick to offer him a sit
Use your wisdom and condor
To keep him and give him no exit

Copyright © Isioma Esemene | Year Posted 2011

Details | Prose Poetry | |

"To All Christian Warriors Who Walk By Grace"


 

                "To All Christian Warriors Who Walk By Grace"
          
                   

                      Hold on tight to your Helmet of Salvation.

             The helmet is spiritual and it aims to protect the mind
               Do this not because your Savior seeks to take it
                Do this because Satan tempts you to give it up.             

 

Ephesians  6:17         Take the helmet of Salvation                                   

                                  and the sword of the spirit  

                                   which is the word of God                                                                

 

Ephesians 2: 8-9     

The Lord saved us by His                                 

special favor  when we believed                                  

we can not take credit for this                                 

It is a  grace-gift from Jesus Christ                                    

 Salvation is not a reward                               

 for the good things we have done                             

so none of us can boast in ourselves      

 

  Bear ye one anothers burdens

  thus forfilling the law of Christ

        LABORS OF LOVE

Copyright © MC MC | Year Posted 2008

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Your My Dear Friend

We have been together
treasured joy now for many years
we trust each other with our
emotions, with affection, tears,

Any day when you are sick or hurting
I feel your pain - significant other,
when eighter-one needs attention
we help one another...

These mutual friendly feelings
for assistance, approval, support
form our tight bonds,
usually never broken

Sharing visions, time together
we respect each other,
regardless of shortcomings
I know you, "I love you anyway"

Copyright © Perry Campanella | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry | |

IN THE STILL OF NIGHT

       IN THE STILL OF NIGHT
       (AKA BEFORE THE BREAK OF DAWN Draws Near)


              I

In the still of night
we contemplate the dawn
of day when we shall be free
of the mind games shadowing liberation
sustained by generations whose lives were put on hold:
many ending in holes dug by tormentors of stolen sable souls.

In sanctified moments
blues, gospels and jazz harmonize
under the harvest moon 
reaping the fruits of ripening minds.

              II

In its due season
each stilled night generates
new revelations
revealing the I am because they were
the steady black bridges built
over the bloody chasm we have crossed.

              III

Now is the time to roll like thunder.
Now is the time to roll away apathy.
Now is the time to roll out the dream's reality.
Let us leave new legacies 
for those in the darkness of wombs.
Let us leave new footprints
leading to the light of a brighter day.

              IV

In the still of night
let us remember the tempestuous seas 
over which we have sailed.
In the still of night 
let us remember the beatings and the jails.
In the still of night
let us remember the reeking bowels
of slave ships survived.
In the still of night
let us remember the strange fruits 
of blood watered hanging trees.

                 V

In the still of night
before the break of dawn draws near
let us remember the blood debt owed us here.


 

Copyright © millard lowe | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Son Asked

                               
                                  ~A Son Asked~

How can i give when i have nothing?
Because nobody has nothing you have 
everything but did not know 
you had everything.

How will i know if i am in love? 
Everything you do is richer and 
fuller when love is there only when 
you fall in love when you desire with 
passion when you miss the flame in 
her eyes when you envy the ground 
she walks on when you leave her and 
regret doing so when your dream is
all about her wanting her to be next to 
you now this moment this second that 
is called a dream come true! Love.

Is living a dream?
Only when you wake up in the morning 
full of love stay in love the whole day 
no matter what look at the twilight 
smelling the perfume from your balcony 
having a reason to get dressed to go out 
full of happiness energy plan an aim 
with a goal & success this is when you 
start living it becomes a dream come
true.

Is forgiving a dream?
Only when you regret if anybody was hurt 
if you stop judging & being resentful and 
you can sleep at night with no remorse it 
becomes a beautiful dream come true.

Is being human a dream? 
Only when you will feel other peoples pain
when you will open your heart and even 
shed a tear that is being human it becomes 
a dream come. 

Is sharing a dream?
Only when you start sharing even a piece
of bread give unconditionally listen to the
voice & respond feel the beating of a heart
be everywhere it becomes a dream.

Is friendship a dream?
Only when you become friends for
life it becomes a dream come true.

Is being compassionate a dream? 
Only when you love life when you
feel you can climb on top of the 
mountain and envy the beyond
& feel compassionate it becomes
a dream.

Is being intelligent a dream?
Only when you use your brain towards 
the right directions right decisions
be patient tolerant accept change
when needed proud of who you are
persistent succeed over the years it 
will become a dream come true.

Is having a mother a dream?
I can only think about this reply:
Since birth until the end a mother
is the shadow of each child its an 
everlasting love this is a dream 
come true.

How will you know if you are a writer:
Only when you never stop writing.
                                                                         Therese Bacha
Contest for PD  About inspirational poems.               6/3/2013

                                                                  Win as Honorable Mention.

Copyright © Therese Bacha | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Act One (The Scholar of life- Opening Speech)

The love of life is a very beautiful and splendid thing. Regretfully, it’s something many
fail to ever recognize. One day, I stopped to contemplate the beauty of compassion and
forgiveness. This is where the true beauty of life is found. When we stop to recognize
that personal feelings are less important than the feelings we are able to create in
others, then we have started to embrace the true beauty of life. To our lives poetry is a
beautiful gift from God. It enables us to step out of our external surroundings and into a
beautiful place, which of course, is the place known as our soul. From its depths we start
to realize the true power that is found in words. Words have the ability to create
feelings in others. Words can open eyes to see the beauty that has not yet been seen.
Words can take us on journeys to places unknown. Open our minds to philosophical
views,which had previously never been contemplated. Thus, leading us into a world, which
has never been seen through our eyes. 
      We are poets, children of God, creators of feelings, and scholars of life. It is
only from the bottom of the well that we learn to truly embrace and understand the warmth
and brightness of the sun. It is only from the top of the mountain that we are able to
understand the darkness that lie in the back of the cave. Until our soul has been emptied
we never fully appreciate what it means for it to be full. Words are no less than the
knife we can use to slice open the cake of life. Thus, enabling us to share pieces of 
ourselves. What truly matters in this life is the fact that we are able to share and give
a little piece of ourselves. True success can only be measured in our ability to share our
experiences in life. Thus, enabling
others to feel and experience the depths of our knowledge. This is our gift and we should
understand the depth of its responsibility. We should all vow to enhance our gift to the
best of our abilities. We all have so much to learn and such little time with which to
learn it. 
        At the end of the play, as the stage dims and the curtains fall, I leave the
theater. Outside, alone at the corner I realize; sometimes I feel like a blind man
standing at a crossroad in the fog. Shuddering at the thought, I tighten my coat and walk
quietly down the dimly lit street of remorse.


I have no idea if this is correct but I did enjoy myself.
For Constance's contest. ps. I have reset these lines
many times but they keep moving when I save the
poem. I guess its a poem anyhow. If it happens 
again I apologize.

Copyright © Michael Jordan | Year Posted 2010

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Forgetfulness

Lost...
I am dormant on the ground
 In a dark alley not to be found.
A board opposite me writ in red, 
Lifeless I am, please no tip,
money I have, but my soul
deserted me, thats why I am here.
 
Useless...
When a passer by stared at me heartless,
how lucky you are old lady, the courage 
you have, to just sit daily on that floor,
With blankness in your eyes, deafness 
in your ears, motionless you are,
mindless so far, faceless, even tearless, 
not one tear to shed over your soulless 
to cure it's pain.

Old lady...
Your emptiness and soundless will leave
 you homeless.
Why today you specifically want to remain 
dreamless.
Your nakedness is seen, your spirit turned 
against you dissolved into the running 
stream.

Shameless...
Tell me please, look at me?
Why are you here not there?
Why do you stare, its not fair?
Answer me, how long have you
Made this space your home? 
Aren't you the one living
In that elderly home?.

Forgetfulness...
Everybody is searching for you 
they need to find you harmless.
What shall I tell them?
 Your going away never 
to comeback and stay?

Dizziness...
Say it, she just shook her head.
Please sing a song while walking back
 to where you belong.
I am the passer by remain strong  
hold my hand, your lover wants 
you back, he still is sustained
on his hospital bed.
He loves you, begs you to comeback
to see you one more time, before
wishing you a goodbye.

She remained homeless,
as nothing will ever
 feel the same.

Therese Bacha
7 August 2013

Copyright © Therese Bacha | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Fly Like A dove

                       

~Forgive His Betrayal~

           Wanting to run away to belong to my lover
                     forgive his betrayal by singing him a song
                          together run home where we belong as love
                               is in the air to caress our bodies then fly away 
                                      as one dove to land on an island without delay. 
                                                                                   

                                                                                  Therese Bacha
                                                                                      24/4/2013

Copyright © Therese Bacha | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry | |

When Will I Recollect My Memory

Struggling.
When will I intervene 
to stop my tears 
 from flowing endlessly.

When will I take action to
invade my happiness 
 hiding in my closet.

Walk.
When will I hypnotize
 my spirit and soul
 not to abandon me, 
nor elope with 
my liberty.

Action.
When will I embark
 lift up
my compassion 
imagination 
and forgiveness
to fascinate
my existence. 

Smile.
When will I stabilize 
my elderly
 emotions to stop
living in the past, 
 if not, my future 
will never be lived.

Expectations,
When will I get ready
to walk a path full of roses,
ask them advice
 how to find peace
in my within.

Ready To Act.
When will I become strong
 befriend my emotions, kindness ,
 and sensitiveness, 
plus all my loyalties.

Wake up.
When will I feel the urge
find a place in time 
to withdraw,
  dream 
how to replenish myself
otherwise 
my mind will remain 
 ailing
to survive.

Venture.
When will I nourish 
my desire 
not to surrender 
to the ugliness 
aggressiveness hatred 
living around us.

Echoing.
I should intercept 
hypnotize my melancholic 
delusional thoughts,
But involve my dreams
wake up,
project a beautiful
ambience,
remind me to 
dream again.

Therese Bacha
13 August 2013

Copyright © Therese Bacha | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry | |

IF

If I dream my time is precious 
how will I feel when I wake up? 
I will be blessed that I was born 
on the seventh day 
of nineteen thirty seven, 
blushing cheeks, green eyes, 
black hair. 

If I dream my time is precious 
how will I feel when I wake up? 
I will provide medicine to my soul, 
cure my unbearable pains, 
never cry in the darkness 
control my uncontrollable tears, 
end my endless loneliness, 
forget all my sadness. 

If I dream my time is precious 
how will I feel when I wake up? 
I will treasure my freedom, 
eliminate any emotional conflicts, 
ignite my power to feel my pounding 
rhythms, crave to be loved by a lover. 

If I dream my time is precious 
how will I feel when I wake up? 
I will light up my flame with passion, 
look gracefully beautiful, 
to perceive a dance floor 
brighter than the moonlight, 
dance to the humming surrounding 
my shadow, together, we are exceptional. 

If I don't dream, how will I feel 
when I wake up? 
I will not weep, I will honor my expectations, 
the morrow is another day. 
I will nurture my awakening calmly, 
to feel a blissful sensation today, 
get lost in the depth of my emotions 
to perceive a future painted, 
with rainbow colors. 

My soul will survive with a diligent power, 
guide my spirit to envisage reality, 
not to abandon the precious age. 
I will amaze my passion to feel the urge 
to glide, through the abyss, tour 
an everlasting passage of peace. 

Therese Bacha 
23 November 2013

Copyright © Therese Bacha | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry | |

GONE Anna Lo PH

? ...GONE... ?

I never knew until that moment how bad it could hurt
To lose someone you never really had,
Days can be tough and at times cruel
To much for one to bear alone..

I was hoping that you would say
If I feel that I can't hold on any longer,
You'll take my hand and we'll go through it until together.
When the time comes, that if I can't stand on my own again
And I won't need you anymore, I will let go.
I will let go, if that would make you happy..

If you're lonely and your heart feels empty, 
Just tell me and I will step inside.
But if One Day, you'll be needing that space for someone else
Don't worry and gladly I will give in my space..

Like in a painful, sad love story
It's amazing how easily to fall inlove with someone,
Who simply smiles, talks or stare at you
The only hard thing to do is to make that person fall for you.
They say that time heals all wounds, but all it's done so far
is give me more time to think about how much I miss You..

Okay, so maybe time heals most wounds, right?
Then why does it feel like it?
The wound is getting bigger and bigger every second.
Maybe Love is just a beautiful dream, and then we wake up..

Just as they always say when somebody leaves
When love is lost, do not bow your head in sadness,
Instead keep your head up high and gaze for the stars.
For that is where broken hearts have been sent to heal..

What is the opposite of Two?..
...A lonely me, A lonely You...

They say relationships are like glass 
That sometimes it's better to leave them broken
Than risk hurting oneself in trying to put it back together.

Lost in my heart, lost in my mind, I'm lost in your eyes
Entire days, weeks, months, ...a blur...
Flickers of light in the darkness 
Only to be enveloped in shadow once more.
And yet within the shadows of pain
Might be the faint flicker of love once fel,t
And that could make all the darkness worthwhile
Because a single "I Love You"
Is worth more than a thousand goodbyes..

I'm tired my Beloved.. 
of chafing my heart against the want of you,
Of squeezing into little inkdrops and writing it.
Ask me why I keep on loving you
When it's clear that you don't feel the same way for me.
The problem is that as much as I can't force you to love me
I can't force myself to stop loving you..

So I tell myself sometimes..
'Count the gardens by the flowers, never by the leaves that fall.
Count your life with smiles and not with tears that roll." ..

Though sometimes, these tears say all there is to say
And the scars don't ever fade away,
I am thankful that for a moment
I once met You, I once felt you look my way.
I once felt You within me, in my heart and mind
I once was happy and alive with You
I once Loved you and still Loving You... xoxo

P.S ..KYHYCYILY.. always.. ? ? ?

(re-edited letter)

Copyright © Anna Lo | Year Posted 2012

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Looking Forward

~Yesterday Today Tomorrow~

            Where were you yesterday?
                              Welcoming.
                       Where are you today?
                                       Warmhearted.
                               Where will you be tomorrow?
                                                   Waiting.     
   

                         Where you crying yesterday?
                                             Missing. 
                                     Are you still crying today?
                                                   Momentarily.
                                          Who will you become tomorrow?
                                                                 Meditating.                                                            
                                      
    
                                     Were you in love yesterday?
                                                       Charmingly.
                                                 Are you in love today?   
                                                                Continuously.
                                                        Will you remain in love tomorrow?
                                                                             Constantly.
                                                      
                                                                                         Therese Bacha
                                                                                           26/4/2013

Copyright © Therese Bacha | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Who Shall You Believe

An Elderly.

Introduction tells you,
Who shall you believe?  
Listen sometimes to your senses
your sadness or your joy.
If you are downhearted you cannot 
perceive any happiness or joy you will
 feel stepped on. 

Temptation tells you,
Who shall you believe? Even if you open 
up a pathway, can you reinforce your legs 
to take a stride without your cane? 
Can you become independent mount
Up the stairs? 
Can you open your Door pay homage 
to your unfurnished Home? unable
to set up due to your age?
Or will you act as in a theater playing 
the characterization of a tough actor 
capable of running after its shadow?

Happiness shares,
Who shall you believe? 
Your happiness tells you rotect your image 
as if its still young.
Fly with your spirit like a butterfly,
venture through the clear skies.
Intercept your freedom 
as long as its lasts.

Rejuvenate your thoughts to reserve 
a seat in your positive will power 
where you are your own master.

Weaknesses orders,
Who shall you believe? 
when you slept young and woke up old.
Why tolerate that body transformation,
why presume you are still young when 
definitely you are old.

Strength begs me,
Who shall you believe? 
Why are you shivering before waking up? 
Because you woke up old, you know it means
 You are a looser.
Gather your strength to face your reality,
deny wanting the impossible to happen?
Seek, look, understand, seek, look, feel the truth,
if not, your fate today will wither.

Sorrowful prays,
Who shall you believe? 
Your sadness orders you
Remain downhearted as you cannot perceive
 Happiness.
Your friendly thoughts indicates you to look far
And open the entrance, where the philosophers
Meeting is taking place, enter and impose 
your knowledge, dictate your long lived 
teaching, allow yourself listen to the echo
 Clapping at the end of your speech.
 
Courage is the truth,this is who you 
should believe the you of the now.
This is accepting all of the above,
when I will come out from that
Door proud of my cane.
Nothing is impossible when I remain 
hungry to want to live.
No matter how old or young, I am.

Therese Bacha
17 November 2013

Copyright © Therese Bacha | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Mirror - Mirror On My wall

   This image of me, now so many years later
each year looking, I’ve found some imperfections
Mirror-mirror, why should I ask - my time won't last,
peering into you, gray now, not young only faultiness,

    Years passing, why my image in my mirror
   should have creaked by, each year looking
will my image fade in front of my Looking glass 
I did Love being strong, young, only gray I see

So now seeing time as if it stood still each time,
touching this image onto my glass of memories past
wrongs, rights, scars, life time stories untold all mine
My life has found it's way full circle to gray, at last

         Things I see now in my looking glass,
are all part past, present, future, why I’m handsome
 graceful, I see each year in me, as if with class
so I will leave my mark, "love"  too touch someone

Copyright © Perry Campanella | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Wake Up, BK

Such a beautiful sleeper but yet a 
life filled with nightmares; 
A demon fighter since her younger age; 
I applaud this princess for her strength. 

Since birth, the flash from cameras have 
overexposed your privacy, 
And left you a public flame, 
waiting for that moment you’ll ignite like 
your mother, 
If allowed, I could show you the wonders 
of the world, outside the seven you’ve seen 
already with your royal family of music, 
Just one request, B.K…..Wake up. 

Sadly the ruffles in your bed of life, 
Have prevented as good night’s sleep; 
For this reason, you feel no one can help you
straighten out your bed sheets; 
I however disagree.
I understand that times are tearful since 
the passing of your best friend, 
in the shape of a mother. 

From a distance I’ve noticed the devil 
creep up in your family; 
I acknowledge that this book of private 
affairs is not for me to read, but if allowed; 
I’d be willing to write better chapters for you 
in the future. 
One in particular would illustrate you 
kissing cloud nine, 
Reminiscing on a career that you were 
passionate about; 
If this path follows your mother, then may 
your voice resonate with the masses,
And display a true angel on earth. 
I sympathize with you, that negative forces in 
this world can shift your stairway downward; 
However, like the demons who constantly try 
to awake the skeletons in my closet, 
We’re all human, and for every fall, 
A rising is waiting, for when you’re spiritually 
ready; 
Let that marinate in your sleepless nightmares 
until you wake up, B.K. 

I anticipate the day when we meet outside 
my imagination, 
And the world views you in better light, 
That’s not dimmed by the shade of 
media; 
Understand that these images of a 
conversation between us are nothing less 
than encouragement; 
Just like “The Voice”, would sing so 
eloquently from her lips; 
The greatest love of all is love for yourself; 
If these words don’t carry enough weight, just look around; 
I’m sure you’ll recognize some ebony queens 
in your family who symbolize support. 
Remember that your fervent heart awakens for a 
reason, 
And the nightmares shall dissolve as you 
rise to awake, B.K. 
A true turning stone you will be. 

Copyright © Jiril Clemons | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry | |

This Perfect Day

Friday had been the saddest day
That my young life had ever known
The loneliness that my heart felt
Just would not leave me alone

The clouds that filled the afternoon
With their darkness and their dread
Left remorseful feelings alive inside
Along with feelings that seemed so dead

On Saturday when I did awaken
My world was much worse it seemed
For the gloom and darkness it embraced
Left my mind aloof in sad daydreams

Of what my eyes had seen to transpire
On that dark, cold Friday afternoon
I only prayed and hope what was written
Would come to fruition so very soon

As the last twenty four hours ticked away
The hope in my heart did begin to rise
For it began to beat so steady again
Waiting for the prophesied moment to arrive

But many in the room praying around me
Saw their faith begin to slip and fade
Not believing that what was happening
Would be much more than just another day

My heart awaiting the time to come closer
Anticipating the joy it would soon receive
Felt the rhythms of the approaching moment
For deep within it never failed to believe

I heard the most beautiful enchanting melodies
Embracing me from deep within His tomb
And upon hearing the hearty voices of angels
I sensed He would be rising so very soon

And the last twenty four hours did finally end
Sweeping my sadness and loneliness away
Replacing it with pure joy, and happiness
For He rose from the grave on a perfect day.

Copyright © Wendell Brown | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Ghosts of South Dakota Intro

                                                                                                        
	In 1957 I took my teaching certificate back to the land of my mother.  
She was raised on a cattle ranch in the north central area of Nebraska.  The 
famous Sand Hills.  It was there I found my cowboy and we ranched for fourteen 
years on the eastern edge of the Rosebud Reservation in South Dakota.  The 
teacher in this story is my mother's sister and our experiences at the Indian 
Government School of Spring Creek during my early years.
	In the year 2002 Cowboy and I moved to a very special town, Harper, 
Kansas.  This town is just a few miles down the road from the memories of my 
Kansas childhood. How lucky to be able to have all of these memories and with 
the help of God maybe another dozen or so years down the road I'll have another 
set of memories to pass on to another generation.   

                                                       GHOSTS

	Yesterday I was sitting at my computer working  when I looked out of 
my magic window 
and noticed the swing set.  The wind was fiercely blowing up a gale and the 
swings were rocking to and fro.  That didn't bother me, but when I saw the glider 
was in motion, I didn't even have to close my eyes to picture the children playing 
on it.  They weren't my grandchildren.  They weren't my children.  They weren't any 
children I could recognize, but I felt blessed.  I didn't care who they were, they 
were happy.
	And then I thought back.  Back to the reservation.  I could hear the 
laughter of the Indian children, but whenever we came into view they would run to 
hide behind their mothers or grandmothers and peek around at us.  Some of the 
older ones, seven, eight, nine or ten year olds would line up in front of the shack 
or tent to stare at us.
	I can still see them dressed in faded, wrinkled, soiled clothing.  
Disgards from who knows where that ended up at the mission.  Their large 
round brown eyes staring from behind the greasy scraggly black hair. Some with 
their dirty fingers stuffed in their mouths. The little ones clinging desperately to 
the skirt as they peered around at us,  always had snout trailing from their nose, 
and their feet were either bare or encased in shoes three sizes to large for them.
	I don't know if it was a tradition of some kind but it seems, in my 
memory, there were never any men.  Only women and children came forth.  I 
have my ideas where the men were but I shall not go into that here.

Copyright © Marycile Beer | Year Posted 2007

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Ghosts of South Dakota part 1

   	The location of the Spring Creek School was on a flat, nestled 
between the cliff on the north and the Little White River on the south.  The river 
flowed in from the northwest, circled to the south of the school about a quarter 
mile and wended it's way east departing to the northeast.  Though I never saw it 
in my day I imagine this was once a flood plain.  Yes, at one time this could 
easily have been the scene of flash floods.  The waters tumbling and sloshing 
their way across this insignificant piece of ground in a hurry to reach the exit.  
Time had slowed the waters and erosion had taken it's tole, leaving the west and 
south in twenty to thirty foot sharp sandy cliffs.  The ground sloped to the east 
leaving a two foot drop off.  A sandy graded road approached the large heavy duty 
bridge, crossed and continued on as a trail road.
	It's summer and the Little White River gently rolls from bend to bend.  
We are running back and forth across the bridge stopping now and then to lean 
over the rail and watch the Indian children splashing in the only deep spot.  It was 
first comers got the choice spot.  Big deal! Chest deep to a ten year old.
           We run off the bridge south.  The graded road crosses a big culvert 
allowing a small spring access to the river where it fans out at the point of entry.  
We run through the crystal liquid turning it into chocolate and leaving dents in the 
once smooth sand.  This is a child's paradise.  Sand so pure, soft and powdery 
warmed by the sun.  The deeper we dig the cooler the sand becomes as it is 
joined by the moisture below.
	Our mothers put limits on our water sports.  First: we had to wait an 
hour after the meal to get in the water.  Second: polio was a concern in our day 
and we didn't get to play as often as we thought we should.  Third: we were not 
allowed to swim unless our mothers were with us.  With the gardening, house 
keeping and canning, we were lucky if we got to swim two or three times a week.  
I guess that is why we spent most of our time on horseback.
	On the ridge north of the school stood a lookout tower.  In the long 
evenings we would be found always outside, either sitting on the steps, running 
up and down the fire escapes or in the front yard.  This was the only real green 
grass in the area.  It was fenced to keep cattle or horses from trampling it into the 
mirrored image of its surroundings.  This enclosure measured fifty by a hundred 
feet and was kept watered.  A large tree provided the only shade

Copyright © Marycile Beer | Year Posted 2007

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Ghosts of South Dakota part 3

                     There were seven Indian Government schools.  All built alike.  The 
one I'm writing about is Spring Creek.  He Dog, Soldier Creek and White River, 
Grass Mountain, Two Kettle, and Black Pipe were the other schools.  The 
Headquarters for these schools was at Rosebud, South Dakota. 
	On some summer evenings we were able to talk our mothers into 
hiking to the lookout tower.  We followed the ankle deep sandy trail road to the 
cliff north of the school.,  A canyon lay at the foot of the tower but we climbed the 
bluff.  I don't know why we didn't explore the canyon unless it seemed dark and 
sinister.  The footing was better once we reached the summit.  The closer we got 
to the tower the taller it grew and standing at the foot of the steps looking up was 
easier than getting to the top and looking down.  My mother didn't usually make it 
to the top because she didn't like heights.  But she didn't mind being left behind 
this time.  We never could get into the building at the top because it was locked, 
but we could climb the steps to the very last one.  Even my little sister managed 
to elude mom and followed us to the top. 
	From the bluff we could look down on the garden.  My aunt grew a 
huge garden and canned the produce for the hot meals served the school 
children.  We kids didn't work in the garden very often, but we looked for the arrow 
heads and fossils.  Which, I suspect the adults probably considered the best 
place for us.
	At the end of the road, living in shack, was Old Lady Grease.  I have a 
vague recollection of seeing her.  Tiny, frail, wrinkled and gray headed is all I can 
remember.
	In spring and fall we were in school in Kansas.
	It's Christmas now.  Cold and usually snowy.  We were in a winter 
wonder land.
	I'm standing at the fire escape window.  The ghostly pale full moon is 
illuminating the naked arms of the trees as they shiver in the wind, swaying to 
and fro as if dancers in a ballet.  I listen to the winter sounds. The frigid air 
enhances their sharpness.  The ax's thud echoes up the canyon as one of the 
Indians across the river chops another supply of wood.  One of his peers beats 
on the drum.  It is one-thirty a. m.  but the thin walls of the tents do not keep the 
cold out.  Day or night this chore must be attended to for survival.

Copyright © Marycile Beer | Year Posted 2007