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Prose Poetry Introspection Poems | Prose Poetry Poems About Introspection

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

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Details | Prose Poetry | |

Colorless Confessional

            Colorless Confessional

It was as if time had resisted capture
hid its most precious commodities
averted its eyes lest you see into its soul
withheld all but the extremes of color

Everything became a negative reflection
black on white, white on black
variations of both accounting for contrast
allowing the moment to be stolen

There would be future arguments
regarding what color the dress was,
why Mom always had on the same housecoat,
where was Dad when they took the pictures

Time’s reluctant moment would pierce the future
prick deeply the longings of our hearts,
elicit laughter – and tears – intermingling
remind us that we too had been young

The old camera, the canisters, the leather case
the eye that captured a moment of life
offering it to us - as a window
into our future.

John G. Lawless

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.

Details | Prose Poetry | |


W A I T I N G.


Seems as if I have waited
In line or on hold on the phone
Where blatant disrespect is shown

No longer fast service to show 
courteous appreciation
Just wait, wait, wait
Without consideration

Take a number
Life is what this is
Waiting for something
Or anything
Or nothing

Waiting for the other shoe to drop
Waiting to see
Waiting to hear
No longer is waiting a past time
Waiting is all the time

Take a number
Do not have a seat
Just wait

Stress high
I no longer know what 
I am waiting for
In this waiting game

When I get to the front of the line
The well has run dry
Or there’s a sign on the desk
Saying OUT to Lunch

My life is a take a number life
I have no reason to wait anymore
There is no wait left in me

The other shoe has fallen
The line is much too long
Time is up, the building closed
And now my time has come

I get on the line to talk with God
He asked me what I did while here

I waited, I exclaimed
I waited

I waited to be born
I waited in line to die

But most of all I waited...
On Christmas every year

Hello we are transferring your call ....

Hello, someone will be with you shortly
All of our representatives 
are busy helping other customers
Your wait time should be 
approximately twenty minutes

Hello, God
Can you hear me?

I waited..

I was next hello;     Buzzzzzz..

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!

Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Child's Peace

Tell me of your peace. 
Let it tell your story now
Of trials and tribulations, a tale not of dreams
Weary from a journey of self-discovery
My child, know the comfort in your peace
You feel hope in this familiar place 
As it gently sloughs the pain away 
Tell me of your peace 
In which we all are blessed and free
Search throughout your soul sweet child
Peer not within your cluttered mind 
Look out to rest your tired eyes but do not let them see
Solace found strewn upon daily thoughts is fleeting at it's best
Lasting merely moments, in untouched souls a true peace 
Oh yes! You'll know when you arrive but only you will know 
The world will melt away as a candle left under the blazing sun
Away away, until you feel home again, an unguided familiar scene
An innocence once lost is restored, all sins suddenly forgiven
Soaking this in with relucant ease, 
Breathe it deep with a slow release
Take it in, delight in details you discover
Be calm here child, please have no fear, I am here 
You are safe in this place of yours, no hurt no tears
We share not the same peace, no no
Unique to each of us, yet stranger to none
Trust in more than what you see, know beauty is within reach
We share this unspoken bond of freedom from ourselves
Please young one, listen closer now 
I say, leave it all behind you love, it will only weigh you down
Cleanse yourself of careless words and careful lies 
I know you're weary, let go of all you carry
Don't be afraid, here you are burden free 
Trust in you, blessed one, it's easier than you believe
Sweet child, tell me now if you see
Peace resting deep within 
Waiting for you
For you to let it be

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Diaspora of Her Soul

Amidst the binge of the champagne, and the glitter on the faces, she heard the 
distant lullaby. Glistening repertoire of appreciation elated her, but her soul had been 
far forlorn. She smiled her way through the ballroom, shaking hands, wishing 
prosperity and hugging the nonchalant children, who didn't even remember her... 
their innocent, curious eyes, complacent enough to defy contact.. but still she bore 
them momentary warmth.. and quietly soon enough, they gleamed with fondness 
towards her. That made her happy. She danced through her guests graciously, 
illuminating even the minuscle flicker of the dynamism that inflamed her celebration of 
triumph. It was her day of glory, but somewhere, the gaping hole within her had 
grown deeper. 

She couldn't bear the tinge of strangers crawling beneath her destiny.Like cobwebs 
spun all around her, she gasped for someone to call her own. The outlanders raided 
her memories in the making. Her soul became an illicit labyrinth that had been 
expanding like a monster. She couldn't find her people! Her People. Everywhere she 
looked, her vision proliferated from Void. How could she hide from darkness itself? 
She cried, but...

A sudden loud burst of laughter from a nearing clan hurled her back to reality. The 
strange realization that she had been ruminating through her desires, made her 
smile naively. She knew she couldn't be happy. The lust for satisfaction glided life into 
her. She resumed her counterfeited solace. To tunes so subtly high and alone, she 
began dancing again. 

Only till the guests had left, she looked at the empty glasses and collected her tears. 
She saw her reflection...The splendour of the ballroom in the background, the beige 
on her body and the silence....she felt alive, only, to die again.

~~Won 2nd prize for the Dark Prose Poetry Contest~~

~~~~Thank You all, so very much ~~~~

Details | Prose Poetry | |

love ewe and blue

love ewe and blue 

aer rhyming words true
there is always inflection and poor attitude
limits of knowledge above snobbish refrains
trains run on time only in the movies
movies run on time only in a small town
there is very few movies shown on trains
blue can be an attitude blue can be a heart
love you can be used to start a heart apart from you
as you watch the blue southern train depart
from the blue stunted depot with the board walk floor
the little blue conductor yelling all aboard her
as the train takes the love and makes your attitude blue
soup mix tastes so wordy so blue so true and good
with a doubly heaping helping of a love ewe attitude

Details | Prose Poetry | |

I Disappear

wake up to serendipity
ignorant and unknown
shaken and not stirred
blond can be bond

Reality, metaphor and cliche
cheesy juvenile decay
Love, care and hate
past the use by date

of fights and torment
and well deserved lament
salute to the solitary reaper
with Metallica... I disappear

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Dance

She carries dinner and sweet tea
to her man in the field
as purple hews of sunset
streak down mountain sides.

An evening breeze is welcomed,
cooling the damp dress
clinging to her shape
in the shadow of night.

Darkness settles over Heaven and Earth,
bare feet caress rich soil
as bodies held tight in rhythmic embrace--

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Accepting Pain.

She's sliding and if you look past, if you watch her.....

maybe you'll capture a glance of her yesterday.....

“Sunrise only falls when you don't believe tomorrow exists,” I explained, in my most
patient tone.

She bit her lip and shook her head, she followed me into my room and shut the door, she
locked us in, for an hour it seemed, and whispered in my ear....

“I can write pain better than anyone,” she informed me, “I'm brilliant at tears.”

And with this she tore pages out of my beloved sketch book, the one that no one is allowed
to touch, and just when my jaw fell with the shock of her brazenness, I shut my mouth as I
watched her pen turn letters into sobs....

I followed the words as they ran down, as ink turned into pretty swirls that screamed art
and I told her...

“Your angst belongs in a museum.”

I had never seen her smile before, I had never heard her grin, but her lips parted at that
moment as a single curl dropped down her previously wrinkled forehead and I saw the beauty
in eyes that cry and knew that she had realized I accepted it.

“Oh, but who would pay to hear me scream?” she asked, almost joking, as she crossed her
legs and sat forward a bit, as her teeth tugged on her bottom lip, as she looked more her
age and resembled a child instead of me....

“I would,” I replied, as I pushed back her hair and kissed her on the nose, “I would, if I
didn't hear you in my dreams almost every night.”

Details | Prose Poetry | |


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

Details | Prose Poetry | |

That Which Is Real

Oh to be just a friend
To laugh, joke and play with you
Is not something
I know how to do
Oh how I wish it were
For it’d sure eliminate
All this pain I feel
Sometimes it happens
That starting off fun
Turns into something real
And what was meant to make you laugh
Turns into tears
That seem to take
Life’s  breath away
Leaving you to feel
Like there’s so much left to say
If only this, if only that
If I only could, if you only would
So many tricks of the mind
As we try to find
Justification for holding on
To what should be freed
So we can move on
Yet we hold out hope
In each accidental hello
That tides will turn
Though they have long washed away
It’s just the way of life
And how love burns
Until we learn
The difference in what we feel
And that which is real

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Upon reflection and recollection

       Two                       (Form)

      Ends                      Passing

     Meeting                   through..."

  (form a circle)          A circle meeting

      Passing                      On

         On                          Two.

      Through                     Ends

Details | Prose Poetry | |


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Details | Prose Poetry | |

What is commitment?

Commitment is ….. beautiful when you love somebody. 
Commitment is giving something greater than yourself.  

It is:
A promise: To  Assure, Guarantee, Swear, Agree, Secure, Give your word
A pledge: A Promise, Oath, Word of honor

A vow: To  Be determined, Declare, Undertake, Assert

It is: 
Assurance, Dedication, Loyalty, Devotion, Steadfastness, Allegiance, 
Faithfulness, Duty, Responsibility, Obligation

If, to the one you love, you cannot give commitment, then you have nothing to give.

God committed Himself to us, He gave of Himself, He gave Jesus.  
Jesus then gave His All to us, He held nothing back.  
He took the cross that was due us.

Was that commitment?    I’d say it was … it was the Ultimate commitment!

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Be Still

And the westerly wind,
Will blow a sea of waving grass
And the sea's fine mist 
Will breathe drops like dew
And the sinking suns
Will cloak the sky's horizon
And the moons of Autumn
Will beckon the golden fertililty of the harvest
And the violet tinged edge of night
Will cry for the white bursting of the stars
And the carved thrust of the mountain range
Will challenge the forever yielding blue
And the hovering tunes of the dawn's awakening
Will mimic the lullaby of my dreams

Details | Prose Poetry | |


Trapped in a perfect world, what does time 
mean?  Wait, nothing is permanent in this
wicked world.

Stay or go.  Which way did you decide?
Is that your hand reaching out to me,
Shall I grab your wrist; wait, this is fine.

The sweet scent of timelessness circles
over my head spinning me heedless.
Moods float keeping my goodness in
place;  there, now I can see your face
floating on the canvas circled with a
brush in all the grand colors.

The thrush of ochre, gray and sand.
Tips of green highlight the tops of
trees sitting against a sky splashed
in blue hue.

I feel you there pulling my hand
spinning me around and around
through years of you and me,
burning candles from the heart,
aroma swerving through the soul.

We set apart, not going somewhere
flames burn to keep you a part of the
great mountain that only you could see.

I wake in scented timelessness every day.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

My life is a cliché

 When I recall the spilt milk of my youth I want to cry 
regardless of all the water that has passed under the bridge.

 On quiet nights I often find myself looking back across those bridges
that I burned so long ago and still I see all my misserable yesterdays
 like so many wind blown leaves swirled into a great pile on the ground.

Now even bushel baskets full of yesterdays won't  buy me one more day.
 But peering ahead over the distant fence where the grass is much greener 
I am seeing all my tomorrows lined up neatly in a row.

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 | |


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 | |

As the Castle Fell

For every step I take toward the sun,
the spark that lit the fire inside me dwindles.
History slated on unforgiving stone erodes;
A weakly chiseled dream.
But I will remember it all,
and tongues shall breed these words
and hold them with intent.
Oh, how we have fallen!
Mighty and meek alike.
We were once just, and strong.
But greatness has cast down it's
poisoned banquet and corrupted hearts
that once bled for glory.
It is with a bitter tongue I speak these words!
Remember the reason we set foot outside
of our city gates.
Remember the certainty in your hearts;
that we men would give people hope!
Hope for life without malice.
Hope for a life of freedom!
A chance for prosperity!
                   ...but what prosperity have we given?
Short of the bountiful throng of arrows that have captured
the eyes of this land and left it's people in fear?
Does a just King rule with the might of fear?!
Or does a King rule with compassion?
I ask you men,
you loyal few.
What would you have me do?
Would you have me slaughter this woman;
this beautiful princess of her people and take her
home as a prize for conquest merely because her
husband was the one that stood in the way?
Is her beauty the cost of her life?
She has wronged not one of us,
and yet you Brakkdus scoff at the thought of
her surviving her King. Why?
Here I thought men of honor followed me,
I thought men of courage swung my blades!
And, yet you fear this woman who could no
sooner do you harm than your own from the
bed that you left her in!
No, Princess Xavia shall survive her King
and remain here with her people.
I refuse to conquer the land of a tyrant,
only to settle for it's fallen ruler's morality!
If that does not befit you, then surely I am not your King.
-James Kelley 2013, All rights reserved
Princess Xavia's Response
I stand with humility before such valor
My people have borne
the burden of swords and arrows,
they are silent with fear and trembling before you
Which would be yours
to burden them with once again
yet you offer them freedom
and me my life...when you could shame not only me
but those who are entrusted to me
I would prefer to fall upon the blades of your men
than to become flesh passed amongst them
the destiny of a woman
who has became the chattel of a lost victory
My blood be shed before such shame
be cast upon me
Yet you.... you have offered me back my Kingdom
and restored my name
Gallant your soul in the shadow of such a night
beneath the dark stars
where only the flames of a burnt, ashen city
provide any warmth for my grieving people
You have offered them hope
through a frail vessel such as myself,
such honor is seldom written upon the hearts of men
in days such as these
Your compassion is a light in this darkness
these times inscribed with blood
such is this age,
when the voice of stones speak more gently
than the hearts of men
Dark are these days and black is the moon
of these nights,
in these lost reveries we journey through
dreams that have become nightmares
Yet strength has arisen in one man,
a leader who throws light back
at the fallen stars
granting the nights a moment of solace
for your honor has returned hope
a light stronger than blaze of the midday sun
And as I take back my broken people
we shall take refuge in your kindness and in that light of lights
shall we rebuild this Kingdom,
our sanguine ties shall bind us
and we will rise.
I gratefully accept my life
returned to me through your kind hands
And secretly, within a whisper
it is my prayer
that when I look upon your countenance
and the time comes
that I shall gaze into your eyes again
it shall be as the queen you have restored
to her throne and to her people
and who keeps quietly within the space between her heartbeats
and the hope that she will share her throne
beside yous
should you find her efforts and her heart
(c)  Katherine Wyatt 2013

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 | |

I Hope I Helped

…This is where this story ends,
…And with hope one more begins,
…But it all depends on you,
…And what you decide to do,
…Will you take these words and share,
…These poems with artistic flair,
…Are these lessons only mine,
…Or should they be more refined,
…As my life comes to an end,
…I have no more time to spend,
…Spinning these gossamer webs,
…As the blood from my heart ebbs, 
…So no more sweet lullabies,
…As this crass old poet dies,
…But with one more line to go,
…I do hope I helped you grow.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

I Am As I Am

	you've wondered 
	what’s up with me, 
	why I’m blue some days, 
	other times electric yellow,
	why I talk too fast
	or not at all,
	why I cry, 
	then laugh, 
	then cry again. 
	You may have been puzzled 
	by my sometimes strangeness, 
	about what makes me tick. 
	The fact is, 
	I always tell the correct time; 
	all you have to do is ask. 

	Since you asked...

	I have a disorder, 
	or two, 
	or three.
	I have bipolar, you see, 
	and I get the rollercoaster 
	that comes with it.
	The only questions are:
	how steep the climb, 
	how fast the fall? 

	I’m not crazy 
	(I avoid the “C” word.);
	I have an illness 
	(I’m not that illness.);
	I take my meds 
	(two blue and three white).
	I lead a normal life, 
	whatever “normal” means. 
	I no longer feel 
	the stigma of being different. 
	I am as I am.

	There you have it, 
	the skim of my truth. 
	Now you know about me; 
	what’s your story?

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The poem that's never read

I hide here at the back
Not the last page, but nearly so
The thick leathery binding which protects me
Is starting to fray and the letters fade

I'm safe up here on the top shelf
And none but the keenest would
Peer beneath this tired, tatty shell
But maybe they would appreciate...

For so many years I have remained unread
I almost fear the moment
When daylight comes
And at last I can sing

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 | |


The best words I've ever said stayed
in my head,  the people are fine, dogs 
walking too.
The water glitters, the gulls make gull sounds.

I thought I had secrets but
God knows there's none to
be found.  I'm as wide as any 
book, smaller than the ants too.

I'm on my way to places
that welcome you in
dirty underwear, unbrushed
teeth and dandruff in your
hair.  I haven't seen my face
in a long time, it's no longer
really there.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Speak To Me

In the darkness, is where the light hides

the quiet soul meditates in the silence

of his thoughts. 

Only to shine when revealed in Words;

and only comes to pass when spoken.

Details | Prose Poetry | |


Which door is the portal to my soul?
Listening tires me;  interferes with
God beckoning me.

Why is a question never answered?
Quit asking it.  Listen, there is a
voice calling you;

this great soul Mother of the Earth,
let me take charge of my birth.

I'll go to the banquet; eat,
rejoice and celebrate anew.

This joy is confusing.  But I'll be
full of life when I come to you.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

An OD Pen

That pen just lies there on the pale white blank pad page__no activity; that sorry pen has O D on something dangerous_passed out_hardly breathing..Come on pen sit up_here sip on this strong coffee..That's it click, look around, life is active, inviting_write it down..Come on now_here eat up of these grits and red-eyed gravy; now that is an eye opener..You've slept through the last rose of summer that was deep burgundy long stemmed on the bush.  You missed that lucious kiss under the pale pink rose  that on the trellis grows.  Winter is coming on, sober up, get busy for you missed the Hummingbird sip nectar from the Wild Petunia then fly away leaving hundreds of Yellow Butterflies to get intoxicated upon its blooms..So you say you are awake now..Here let me kiss you beautiful ink flowing 'pon the page!

I think my pen OD on chocolate though!!!

Sponsor: Joann Grisetti
Contest: Drunken Pen Round 2

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Blood on the Mirror

You prod at the sores of your heart
with a hemorrhaging pen, wishing it was 
a scalpel; so you could carve 
out the disease that keeps 
your rage alive. 
Basic instinct, I suppose.
To slay the demons,
that made you who you are. 
You thank them for your posture,
but scold the obsidian eyes in the 
mirror. What you have become:
Callous, and engulfed in the 
rotting theater you thought 
you controlled. The reigns 
have broken loose, your 
skull whips in the wind of 
chaos. It’s not really your 
sort of dance, you know…
                                      You don’t know the steps
              …you don’t even know the song. 
It drums against your flesh
as if you were already stripped 
and tanned, spread across 
the hallowed instruments 
                             of reckoning.
But you can’t hear the chant,
only the distant hum of the
butcher who said you could
call him “friend”.
That you were safe,
if only you would show him
what you promised you would
never show anyone.
It drips,
Just like every part of you,
you wish you could burn;
As you dig the covenant,
into the flesh of your enemy;
                                          Your only true, enemy. 
The mirror cracks…
-James Kelley 2014, All rights reserved.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

I danced with the Devil but stepped on his toes

  I slide my tongue across my lips; I taste salt from where my tears once fell. The serpents been winning the race, Infiltration of my desires take procession, I’m standing in the mirror and I don’t recognize my own reflection.  It’s not the flesh but the soul that’s been disquised, every carnal temptation he’s devised oh how quickly I’ve come to oblige.  I need to hit rock bottom and slow my pace, at this point he’s winning the race, baking firm an eternal glaze upon my face. I care so much that I care not. I’m so hungry yet no food is sought. Feel so much sorrow that I’m not dolorous, sing so loud but leave absent the chorus.
   I’m vulnerable, looking for warmth in another’s touch, simply falling victim to his charms like a little girl searching for warmth in her daddy’s arms. Though, he provided no warmth, he didn’t provide much, just the foundation, the stepping stone where he left his prints; of course I followed with every step slipping farther from the grasps of temperance.  You can call me an abuser Lord, I abused your love, snapped the wing of your symbolic dove, snapped too the wings of thee angel upon the golden gate, funny how I just read Job and he knew not his fate.
  Thank you for trampling me into the ground, into the dust from which I roze, into utter darkness living with consequences to paths I chose. I thought you were guided me completely from the light, in reality it was never out of sight, even your own shadow leaves you in darkness. Give me the courage that I seek, give me strength when I am weak, and at times make me weak where I am strong. Give me positive passion for life like the passion in “Solomon’s Song”. 

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Stolen Hearts

Cold, callus, crying, shivering,
and covered in sweat.
Wondering what has happened.
Not yet understanding this fate I’ve met.

What of a guy that stumbled around,
just trying his hardest to show he’d been found,
after all he had just been purchased
from the human pound.

That promise to you.
Man I broke it.
I told you Id stop,
and for a time I did,
but that stuff two blocks away,
my will power just wasn't work-n.
My wrist watch again broken.
Always from the look on my face,
you could tell Id been smoke-n.

You tried.
You tried so hard,
but the mind wasn’t mine.
only a shell of what used to be,
all of me you were trying to find,
and I didn’t get this till my alone time.

I was pushing.
You were pulling.
Then it all pushed you away.
It was all down hill from here,
so naturally you couldn’t stay.

I sit here so sad
for the way you must of felt.
Let alone how you dealt.
Ill never understand how I could do this to you.
You're so prefect,
even your aura dances in ambient light.
You’re the best friend I could of had,
and that leaves me really mad,
that the rest of the world
may never know what we had.

The thing is I know now,
that you loving me.
This really was Much more,
than I loving you.

~Ha,Turned around this insecurity was always mine.~

Details | Prose Poetry | |


My shoulders are blades of flesh,
they hold my skinny arms

to hands that hold this pen
across this page as it reaches
the end of a long lived life
that was meant to bend fold
and remend.

But these feet have already
left;  I can feel it in my chest.
These lips want to smile the 
day away;  I have nothing 
else to say.

Knees to my chin, how long
has that been?  To crouch, cuddle 
what is now so thin.  Press and
pull, it all fits in.  

The warmth and the cool.  These
toes are not mine, they belong to
the sublime.  Up my pants you 
will find my legs spindly; a jelly
belly that shakes in my tummy.

My thin arms hold loops of skin.
They are far away and my head needs 
covering; but the sun warms my neck
and my face is full of laughter because
God has reached out his hand to me.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Suicidal Voodoo

Chase the voodoo to sleep. sleepless freaks i see in the silver screens blocking the vision of me. there's no choice but to eliminate hate inundating the mind. please mute the voices haunting the airwaves making me blind. the big bad budding burden flashing red lights at every intersection. stealing away the insight i try to gain by using time for reflection.

It's a mess the way i test myself with deranged prophecies and bleak scenarios. replaying horror flicks in my head. blasting screams in stereo. all too often the worm hole shoots me to a mid evil castle of torturous devices. impaled in dreams that seem to be broadcasting punishment for succumbing to the world's entice and vices. but other times i fall victim to a good old fashioned "day-mare". people notice the self conversations and can't help but laugh and stare. I must say it's becoming difficult to blame them. if i can't learn to shake this voodoo, it's true my future's looking grim.

What do I do? they're gonna end up arresting me! Toss my ass in a padded room and throw away the key! and get i worry about getting sent away, the paranoia increases inside my head. i reach for medication increasing odds of ending up prematurely dead. I may be crazy, but don't take me for an idiot fool. and don't haze me about where my faith is, cus' this could just as soon be you. and i've learned enough to know that each and every one of us will die. and you may take me as insane, but me not taking my own life's got nothing to do with having a fear to fry. 

This is exactly why i choose to write as my mind fills up with crazy thoughts and throws fits. it's a therapy for me to try and work out all the kinks that make me sink, instead of cowardly throwin' in the towel n' calling it quits.

Details | Prose Poetry | |


Kisses good-bye;  waved out the door.
Sitting at the shore.  The water is still rolling.
You want to know how much longer I'll be here for.

We'll all be here till death is at the door.  Methadone,
morphine will squelch the pain, but for that ONE day
when it won't work anymore.

All the threads have been cut around the spool ahead.
There will be nothing but pain and nothing at the store.
People like it when I'm cheery and I don't know where to
put myself anymore.

Sit, stand, lay; I have no real reason to stay.  I am warm
and cozy under this hood.  My body is clean.  That is
understood.  My cuticles are disgusting.  Is this the purply glut
they talk about in signs and symptoms of the dead and dying?
They are not the nails you see in Cosmo for manicure ads, you
know, manicures to die for.

My mouth feels mucky and brushing my teeth is a chore.  I can't
remember one breakthrough from another.   Holidays forever around
each corner;  it would appear I'll still be around, what a drag; the wet blanket.
Dead broad walking down the dining room hall.

If I could cry and know the river would actually wash these tears away 
for GOOD;  I'd lay down and weep for weeks on end if it we're understood
that this would be the bloody end.

Tears aren't painful, nothing more than a wash.  Not everything is as someone else says.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

TONIGHT by Anna Lo P

..The clock ticks, the Time pass
  Coffee I sip, as I taste, Alas!
  One more cigarette, almost up,
  What else is with me, me, still up!

  Waiting for the green light
  Beside your name in chat
  This computer, is already hot
  It's been on, since I last woke up!

  I don't know, I don't care,
  If they say, I look like a scare
  Eyes that look like of an owl
  Since I've been up like a fowl!

  To write another piece
  Of my sadness, of my tears
  The songs I always play
  Make my heart feel in dismay!

  Up all day till night
  Because my heart is in fright
  Will he then tell me"it's not alright"
  That is something I need to fight!

  Oh my! please give me a sign
  To be in sorrow, or should I be fine?
  It feels I'm running out of time
  That's how I feel, for all this time!

  The clock ticks, the Time pass
   Another coffee sips, I say Alas!
   Another cigarette I lit, just to be up
   What else is with me? just a memory on recap!..

Details | Prose Poetry | |


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gene Bourne


Details | Prose Poetry | |


                                            s o b e r...
The fuse burns the skin; 'till years disappear in the sear. Those scars allow us to be who we are - - - urging us to bleed truth- - -  so we can speed through the blues----- fueling us with the go, the giddy up to show, with each blow we grow,---and we Leggo our Ego -------just so the doubters we encounter shout louder and louder--- tho' they ain't got a clue as to who... or what we're about, or the journey of pain ballooning our veins with insane clout-------- and we wish upon a trouble free time to be near, yet it's far...- - - like the stars in the sky----...---sobering the view...while we drink the abuse------Still, the lit fuse burns the years till our fears cry.-____so hopefully, we learn from the scars when our tears dry.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

An End to Aloneness

In my life I often feel I am alone; alone in my thoughts, alone in my musings, alone in my day-to-day movements and unsatisfying activities. I move like a ghost through hallways and down sidewalks, unnoticed and, at times, gratefully so. 
I do not wish to be eternally alone. I long for togetherness. But despite this desire for a real connection, I find myself regularly retreating from that temperamental beast that is human interaction. 

“Come on now, sweetheart. Don’t lower your head. Don’t look away. Look up! Smile at someone! No! Don’t go back into your bedroom. Don’t lock the door! Why are you doing this?” my brain will plea. 

I can’t help myself. Aloneness is comfortable. In being alone, I don’t have to worry about anyone but myself. I don’t have to please anyone else. I can think anything I want, wear anything I want, listen to anything I want, and laugh at anything I want. 

And still there remains that nagging desire to be loved and wanted and needed by somebody. I do not know the feeling of being truly desired. I do not know what it is like for someone to crave my company, my smile, my kiss, or my touch. 

                                                                              But I would like to…

I cannot make someone love me or like me or want me in some primal way. It may hurt, but I cannot make that handsome boy want to hold my hand or brush my hair back behind my ear. I can only struggle on. I can only work within myself. I can only try every God damn day to hold my head up, keep my eyes fixed ahead, a give the world the best smile I have. I and I alone can bring myself out of the safety of my bedroom and into the bright world that lies beyond that locked door. 
I often find myself alone with nothing more than my thoughts and the ever-strong glow of a computer screen. But no longer will aloneness be the constant in my life. It is true that never having known the caress of a man’s hand on my thigh doesn't make me any less of a woman, but I fear that if I stay confined within myself much longer I will begin to become less of a human. A flower cannot grow if it retracts its leaves and petals every time it feels the warmth of the sun or the kiss of a gentle spring rain.  
And I want to grow. I want to grow so tall and blossom so big and beautifully that every place on earth is touched by my shadow at some point in the day. And I will grow. I will push myself and share myself with the world, and finally
know the closeness and comfort of love and honest, unabashed companionship.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

We Are Doomed People

We are doomed people. Nurses’ aides, housekeepers, LPN and Ward Clerks
Maintenance and kitchen cooks; slave of the modern workplaces
We are the Victims of Hurricane Sandy
Taking life for granted,
 Everything was nice and dandy
  until Sandy furious attack 
 In an instant life live: reverse like a deadly curse
Forcing the Oil prices to rise higher after volatile week
We cried, we pray, we curse under the same breath
 Frequently asked question “Why us father why we

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Mind's Labyrinth

 The Human Mind is a treacherous labyrinth, and it is only through the sinister pathways of these dark tunnels that are hidden insidious agendas can be found.  
Love is Madness.
Lust is Envy.
Romance is Jealously.
When our hearts beat green, our hands drip red with blood.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Repetition - Excerpt from Experimental Novel -

Now transition, a transit repositionment, a white car super-imposed with consumerist propaganda. Long rectangular prism solid moving, propelled by inflatable tubes circular, and the foul engine. A refridgerator that keeps the hole in the ozen fresh and crispy. 
So I'm in this thing... and the seats are filled with characters; your second generation immigrants thankful to afford a spot in the faux refugee parade, an accolade, to the American dream, staged.

And once again the prism, because last night was just too much of a blur to remember- like an unwanted poem:

last day was same,
and how to remember,
Monday from Thursday,
and months
only by the weather
and the multitoned coughs,
of interchanging drivers,
if poetry is false,
then all the world's a liar
a twist and shake with truth,
and the multicolored boots
of attractive women who do 'the eyeroll'-
Wolf don't love, don't care,
they wouldn't survive in the woods out there.

Details | Prose Poetry | |


Some things are lost along the line
Some things, beautiful and fine
Driving down the lone road to the stream in my hamlet
It’s like yesterday; like catching birds from their nest
I giggled as I drove by
Mothers breast feeding babies and singing lullaby
Naked boys rolling condemned tires, and
Ripped virgins with little cloths coverings, as attires

I giggled as I drove by. It’s just like yesterday
I remember Jerome and others as we gathered to play
There was the moonlight rendezvous
Where we all gathered, boys, and girls, all of us
There was the tales by the moonlight,
Ancestral heritages, sacrifices and the Lion’s might
The Lion’s might, yet he falls beneath the crafty tortoise
I still can hear the choruses; I hear my youthful voice
I loved folklore songs. Wars songs for strong sons

Let me try seeing if I can still sing one more;
Yes! I still can sing “Omalingwo”
Omalingwo, Omalingwo tee …… Omalingwo
Omalingwo, Omalingwo nwam…… Omalingwo
Omalingwo, Omalingwo dia …… Omalingwo
Nne nei di na Otutu-aja-o………..Omalingwo
Elikwue ma yu atuna ngwo ji ……Omalingwo
Ngwo, ngwo onye oma………….Omalingwo

My God, I feel new!
I can still sing it! Oh God I knew!
Omalingwo! Story of the child of a deprived mother
Jealous king’s wives over ready for murder
Murder and deprivation if that will give them a son
To sit on the king’s throne and shine forth like the sun
Story of good over evil. Omalingwo!
A deprived mother’s son.

I giggled as I drove along,
Remembering my tiny breasts, when they formed
And more fortunate girls laughing me to scorn
I remember these things till sadness beclouded me
I am fully grown now; nostalgia overshadow me
My age mates, plus me, all gone to the cities
We can’t assemble again, just like broken pot in pieces
Oh! The Eve’s tempting apple of white collar jobs

I heard Jerome lived and then died in Jos
Killed by religious rioters with missions unjust.
I heard Nwasombia is a head dresser is Lagos
At 52 and still searching? Celibacy is obvious
I heard Nosike is in aviation, head of pilots
Even Chima is now in parliament in Cyprus
Chima, who spoke big English like “opprobrious”

My age mates, plus me, all gone to the cities
No more gatherings, just like broken pot in pieces
Still driving along the lone road to the hamlet stream
Still thinking of beautiful things
The beautiful hamlet serene things.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Almost Remorse

The slowest clocks bind the official wound,
An azimuth of the flesh, trust, first contact,
She blinks but no face appears, 
Does every mistake ask for such an ordinary end?  A seed cannot forget.
Cold, weeping statue of lifetimes, suckle her prayer in the erupting bed.
Fallen beside the tear of the flower blight, lips against the penetrator,
Learn to forgive the righteous terrors for an idle comfort.
What numbing freedom presses the soft lump pulse?
Tongues rally to expose the ghost of private remorse,
Who conceals the dignities of a suction thigh grave.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

I'm Angry

I have the fury of hell trapped inside. I’m so angry that words can’t express how I 
feel. Nothing in life could have ever told me that these emotions existed. I’m mad at 
you, at everything you ever stood for. At the very fact that you were so charming 
and happy in life only to die and leave me alone like you did. Angry at the fact that 
your death could have been prevented, Drinking and Driving - were you just stupid; 
careless. Did you think that you would never die? That you were immortal and could 
defy even God. Well you weren’t, I guess you know that now. I still can’t believe 
that your life could be wasted because you were too arrogant to wait till you got 
home. You should've waited...

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 | |

Seasons of Tea

Tea with a slice of orange, not lemon.
Within the somber light of winter afternoons.
Trees carved against smudged grey, white softness clinging
To their edges.

Tea, citrus scent arousing my senses
As they trample the soft brown of the front yard,
Shaking up the dust like fragments of the dry summer 
As they approach

The sun burning death into the land.

Tea, sweetened water held in its cup like an embrace, 
A darkened pool too small to see my reflection,
Yet becomes a giant churning whirlpool 
As my hand starts to shake.
Tea, splashes white linen
My mother’s hand painted china now cracked
Broken like the deepest recesses
Of my mind.

All those hours
Like sea waters
Into the sea

Details | Prose Poetry | |


winding scarves on my face
blowing air through my skin
skirting around my legs searching
in my soul rooting out the pegs
of memory of other winds of
time    spaceless    nameless
places and scenes that are
past and gone lifted up out of
sorrow far away gone  gone
long gone free with the wind

Details | Prose Poetry | |


Struck with this bleeding 
drips dropping straining
the pores of so many
open sores.

Needles pricked in one

I am struck raw
wretched, stabbed and torn.
Old bleeding sores left
dripping by the door.

We won't leave this way
you already have many 
times before.

Details | Prose Poetry | |


I hate waiting.
I don't like going
anywhere either.

Patience is a
virtue that some
one else got;
cause it's all
lost on me.

Smiling is a googly 
face on a cardboard
with raised eyebrows
so it looks like we
might all be smiling.

Foolish fools is a form
to flee.  Something we
don't want to be;  like
a bedbug or a dying elm
tree sign this here we
don't want to stop what
nature has started or was
that something humans 
have done?  Oh it's so
insipid.  Maybe it was 
the sun.  Who's talking
here anyway, I'm still

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Selfish Beyond Belief

Looking through a full fridge
And finding nothing worth my while
Not giving a second thought
To the skin and bone children
Drinking from a swamp
With great big smiles

There's nothing good on TV,
We eat at the same place everyday,
And by the way I'm bored out of my mind!

But a scared little boy sees it all
Far away from the comfort of this hypnotic box
He gave his share of scraps to his younger brother
While his entertainment is watching
God paint pictures in the sky

(I racked my brain
Searching for ways I should be upset
Ain't one good reason I could find)

It was yesterday
I found myself and grimaced
It was today I helped out a complete stranger
And thought
"How silly of me to think
That was all there was to it...
Nobody's ever just found, we run too frantically
For all that nonsense.
We do the best we can
For as long as we can.
Though selfish beyond belief
I do think there is still hope for me"

I smiled in awe at the discoveries
Tomorrow would bring

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Rambling of a Faith Poet

Sometimes it is hard to know what to write or when to write when you have just about every
thought possible flowing through your head. I wonder, "Should I please the public with
how "poetic" I am or should I please You? I know what the answer is but at times I'm 
worried about being liked or whether people get me. Is my belief in Your Son too far
above their heads or will they get it? Should I even worry about public opinion? Of
course I know as a follower of Christ, sharing my testimony and telling them about the
Lord is what I'm supposed to do. On the other hand, have I become to preachy and
dull? Am I shoving my beliefs down their throats? Then I realize, didn't Jesus make
himself of no reputation? Everybody thought that He was weird, blasphemous and not
qualified to tell them anything when it came to how they were living. I'm only here to do
what He wants me to do, nothing more, nothing less. If I do my part, the right people will
hear it, love it and appreciate it. All I should do, is write the word and leave all my
"rambling worries" to Him.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Wedding Ring

Wedding Ring
Why did you take my wedding ring?  Did taking it give you a zing? Did hurting me give you a 
double ring in your b b thing? Did the carats make your heart sing? 

Did you think your new lady would like my ring?  Wouldn’t it sting her to know whose thing 
that was first darling?  

That hurt more than anything.  Why did you take my ring?

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Thanks Giving

                                                   THANKS GIVING
     Walking backward Ill prepared I face things head on, but not the bitter wind. I turn my 
back as I face my goodbyes , walking away I wave to my old problems: With a snarling 
bite,the cold wind leaves me pierced and belittle.     
      Walking backwards I dare not face whats in store for me. Until this wind subsides and 
treats me fairly, I will walk backwards slowly less I stumble.  After my bones are chilled to 
the core. I reach my abode, devastated and delighted, the fireplace lit and flickering.  Still 
afraid I wonder "what if" and I blame God,discounting the rescues; Then with every melting 
bone and every thawing toe, I thank him/her, then realizing how awesome man is and how 
far we have come. Annoyed I say begrudgingly "Thank you God " for this fire,and for 
bringing us out of the cold wilderness. I say this hoping not to entertain the "What If's" again.
      Forces, forcing me to open my eyes and realize that at any moment I could walk 
backwards again, backward in the cold with nowhere to run, without relief; I can't think of 
anything worse. So how can I or anyone come out of the cold ,and sit by the fire, while the 
frost filled Ohio wind rolls off the Erie lake. Passing desperate people I want to collect them to 
come and sit by the fire with me. I must love my neighbor,and share the warmth,the 
fire ,the food,my home.   In the old days we could, I cant live like this,,,,sitting a by the fire 
alone,  I think to my self "What If".

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Repetition. Repetition. Repetition.

I fear being connect to the past,
But I find my life revolving in cycles.
It was four years ago I first came to a place like this.
Four days there, now three here,
both at the end of February. 

The cycles repeat.

I hurt, I heal, 
I hurt again, 
and there’s no way to stop it.
Maybe I like it this way,
who knows? 
“Who is John Galt?”
Questions there are no answers to.
They aren’t meant to be asked.
But I can’t help it, 
it’s who I am.
So I’ll ask my questions over and over.
And I’ll repeat my cycles over and over.
Until the end of time.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Threat Of A Late Winter's Storm

Delicate verdant leaves on the Weeping Willow dance in the brisk wind like a harem dancer's 
sheer covering. The sighing of the pines sounds like a cymbal gently playing.  As rain 
droplets sparse and large touch bounce upon late winter's earth, gray amassed clouds pass 
over at a moderate rate speed...Then stillness__Is this the quiet before the major storm or 
only a repose giving the turbulance a break from blowing in the storm from the west?  The 
Star Magnolia that was devoid of flowers yesterday fifteen open in different stages..Will the 
harsh wind and rain destroy their beauty and let only such a brief life be theirs?  The 
Japanese Magnolia has flowers open in different stages with more on it than ever a year 
before..The Bradford Pear buds opened during the cold late winter's night gracing all who 
pass with their gracious beauty...Yes, as in life the storm did blown with harsh winds and 
chilling rain...Damage was done to the lovely spring buds and blooms..After the storm, the 
survivors were hanging on with a quiet strenght..

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Blind Man

Blind man
Feeling anothers thoughts by touching his hands;
Can you tell who I am by my darker shades that follow the cracked, dry lines of your palms? Do you see what I hide from everyone else like a silhouetted tattoo? Can you tell that a concrete kids game isn't the only thing that almost broke the back of my mothers heart once? Is it the sound of my voice that pierces through your senses that makes you silence the memories deep within the recesses of your past? 
I can see you'd rather forget about it; discouragement is written all over a face that you can't even read. Does that make me better than you? Truth is, I long to see like you. Heighten my senses, Mr. Sphere, so that I may see everything that my two small worlds can't. I want to read a book backward and forward a thousand times without being so anxious to flip forward, because I imagine you're more patient than I am. I want to know the adventures of your vivid dreaming, and how safety sounds like whenever God speaks to you. I want to be able to wrap my head around the concept of appearing to look good even when I know that my clothes, cologne, and character are wrapped around my ego like bandages I never changed; I never knew I was a walking, talking, mummified optimist until I saw the stench of the lies I told myself seeping through the eyes of loved ones. I never again want to make another cry from a false truth. 
Mr. Blind eyes, could you help me to believe that their are others who look like me who see more like yourself? I don't like who I'm becoming, and I want to know that my choices won't be just for show. I want to know that when I look at my wife in her lifelines, we'll both be able to see that death has no real place in the wounds that love has healed. Bandages have to come off and stay off at some point; you'll never be able to move onto greater things until you can live with the sight of scraped knees that made sidewalk scars of your past. I want to carry her in the voice of my care, like a musical note you hold two seconds too long just because you love music. I want to be just like you, so that my child will want to look up and see more than a father worried about his job. I want to see that my breaths can take shape in the form of a beautiful baby. I want to give back.
Are you listening to me?..
God shows himself in rare forms, and sees with his heart when we ask Him out of the honesty of ours. So, by the time we've finished talking, what we've been searching for is already inside of us. God is blind to the sin of those who seek to be saved. Their will always be a second chance if you ask in an honest tone.

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 | |

What the hell did I do

What the hell did I do..

This question posed aggressively
now in my conscious mind.
I bury my head in my knees,
and sob relentlessly asking why,
and mumbling man you really did it this time.

Party at my place he screams,
and Man you don’t ever stop by.
These images scroll the Rolodex of my subconscious side.
Try this it will make you feel great!
You’ll have no worries for at lest the next eight.
Doesn’t that sound great!

That’s when it hit me,
like a shot straight through the heart.
I parted my metaphoric sea shore,
my arms, my legs, they are the oars.
Swimming through the blue abyss,
always watching close for shore.
Then little by little always needing more,
and more.
The hours and days went by,
oh my god how I was high.

My euphoric mind never pressed for time,
no matter the dime.
Clouds on the horizon a thunderous sky.
It was even getting late,
and the moon began to pull at the tide.
Looking back I see this was going to be a very long ride.

Pushing forward toward the shore,
limb for limb, tired and sore.
Screaming, hurry up and get here,
where out, and have got to have more.
Then the lighting began to show it’s power,
and the wind had the waves in a roar.
The rain stinging torn & chapped skin.
I began to lose consciousness, now at a merciless Drift.
Pulled way out,
fast and swift.
Their would be few that would adore.
As they wonder how long,
before I’d wash back ashore.

What the hell did I do..
This question,
posed aggressively now
in my conscious mind.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Sacred Mother Earth- Colors Of Nature

Oh Great Woman of all Nature
  Mother of our Divinely blessed, sacred Earth
Your beauty has kissed my lips
  with the splendor of your clear, sapphire skies

The golden, moon bathed Sands
  that are gently caressed
 by your crystal blue clear flowing rivers
Your gentle rain that ascends from the Heavens above
  to delicately soothe and blend
with tears that flow from the broken hearted

Your moist, emerald green hills 
 filled with enchanting, lovely flowers 
of every elegant shade and hue
I have beheld the splendid beauty…
 of your green weeping willow's gracious bows and limbs
of iridescent greens and golds
that whisper gently in your swaying, languid winds

I have witnessed golden eagles fly so gracious and free
  in your pictorial, periwinkle blue skies
I've feasted my eyes on the sublime splendor
  of your enchanting, golden harvest moon
as its elegant beauty paints a rose, gold, splendid image 
  so deep within my mind

All your violet-blue endless horizons
  Your smoky, gray mountains so grand
in the rose blue cool light of dawn
  Your chattering bird songs in skies of azure blue
The fragrant scent of amber gold pinecones
   in the sparkle of the crystal clear early morning dew

I pay Ode’ to you Great Mother Nature
  for every golden ray of sun that warmed my skin
that hangs brilliant and dazzling...
   in your glorious skies of cerulean blue

Details | Prose Poetry | |

People Watching

I saw people walking through the streets,
As cars lazily rolled down the one lane road.
Pairs holding hands, mothers and sons,
Suited men retiring after a hard day's work.

The awkward side-steps avoiding strollers,
Exchanging waves, exchanging glances.
And gentle brushes past a shoulder,
Dogs on leashes wooed by giggling girls.

I saw a kid in a Giants jersey and sunglasses:
"Hey man, thanks for meeting with me."
He walked up to another guy in pink shorts:
"No problem, I'm glad you feel like you can talk to me."

I saw a crying girl and an angry guy
Who talked in hushed voices laced with sighs and sniffles.
They stood close enough to be lovers,
But distanced themselves as if they were strangers.
"I'm sorry," she said. "No, you're not," he replied.

I saw a guy walking to his car in a frenzy --
Phone pinned between his ear and his shoulder.
He fumbled with his keys; his eyebrows were furrowed.
"Where are you? I'm coming to get you right now."

I was just sitting on the porch, drinking a rum and coke
I sipped my drink as I contributed my silent commentary:
I thought Mr. Sunglasses needed a haircut,
Rolled my eyes at an over-dramatic couple,
Scoffed at the hysterical guy, just too protective of his girlfriend.

I didn't know that the kid in the glasses had just lost a friend to suicide.
Or that the crying girl had just cheated on her fiancee -- 
Two weeks before the wedding.
I didn't know that frenzied guy's sister had called 'cause of a car crash --
Only to find out later that it wasn't so serious.
But neither of us knew that then.

We get as close as we want to people, really.
It's our choice if someone's a nod or a hug,
A friendly smile or a glare, or even a "hello!"
As we walk down the street -- unique, but the same.
It's been said that you shouldn't judge a book by its cover,
And others say that's why the cover's there.

Details | Prose Poetry | |









Details | Prose Poetry | |

GOODBYE by Anna Lo P

I still think why things had ended
between our love, which I now try to hate,
I succumbed myself into this despair 
of wanting you back, which you also hate.

Psyche oneself that I can make it
this lonely battle of heart, can i fake it?
repeatedly in disarray thoughts
God I hope I could say it's just a hoax.

People around, will you please tell me
is it wrong to fight for this love I believe?
or shall I say is it right to surrender
because it's something merely perceived.

Ya, Ya, Ya, I did get it
don't insist no more, got it?..

Details | Prose Poetry | |


I just want to dream a little more,

before the sun dries up this stream of thought;

before my tongue begins to search for words

faded by the choke of night.

The sky screams in the hands of a harsh turn,

neither of us wants our darkness unveiled.


I wish the light would swallow me up as well.


the broken slumber of day creeps into my bed,

and shakes my tomb.

I watch it stumble through the blinds,

sloshing, lazily polished, and promising.

Like it always does. 

And I try my damnedest to pull my eyes away

from the hope that is stitched to my shadow,

but no matter how hard I writhe in this place,

I cannot escape the artificiality of this world

 that I can’t seem to wake up from. 

-James Kelley 2014, All rights reserved.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

lead my hand o' dear life

lead my hand o' dear life

lead my hand
on this land
o' dear life, 
until the end

o' dear thought
of comfort

seed my life
feed me not in strife
bleed me joy from nine to five

lead me a journey of phases
a journey of ages
to face this

germinate in me a corn
of survival 
a history of possibilities
a record of living to afford
a source to live

for this life 
is a choreographer of life
a propeller of existence
an economy of spiritual commodities

a tear drop of opportunities
yet not so many does see its commonalities
an event of anomalies and regularities

lead me a way o' dear life
carry me a sledge on a journey of life 
a terrain of survival and life

a gemstone for many
a pentagon of any
a model of penny

an artwork of joy

a string of life on a journey
a script of many
a stanza of any


from: 'journey of life' and 'on a journey', 
february 2012 

>> ntema's unique poetry (nup)

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Power and Form

Power and Form

Are the two elements of a human life
Our words are sweet and sometimes sour 
However it’s a deadly trace throughout the human race
We say yes too often to satisfy our so-called rational minds
Is the life of a poet/poetess more fulfilling than a farmer?
Are we the expression of nature? 
Or  victims of a regimental affiliations 
We are as you know impossible and unpredictable
Because we all are crazy species

Power and form 
There is no more secret society
The secret of man is publicize under watchful eyes
The world looks into our families’ photos
Looking for the perfect quota, 
As each and everyone one of us partake in online revelry
Like an disciplinary cavalry

However, within our soul lies the truth.
I lost one year, one birthday
I rebirth and lost my power and position
Atlas!  I am in the lower realms
 Now I am in heaven

Details | Prose Poetry | |

WHY ME by Anna Lo P

When I met you, I asked you
Why me? Why me? Why me?
Is there any reason for you 
to love someone like me.

You said "Never mind reasons"
And I felt maybe that's the reason
A reason for no reasons I want to hear
A reason I wouldn't fear.

And I asked myself those too
What is there about me? 
That something that he liked 
and hopefully he might pursue.

I'm not pretty, nothing to love
I'm not sexy, nothing to love
I'm not young, nothing to love
I'm not even his own kind, nothing to love.

So what is there about me?
Something which made him to like me?
Just a regular ordinary lady
Maybe I'm a girl that's extraordinary.

I'm funny, something to love
I'm naughty, something to love
Im a crying baby, something to love
I'm a sweety, something to love
I'm caring, something to love
I'm thoughtful,something to love
I'm smart, something to love
I'm a one fine lady, someone to love
I'm extraordinary, someone to love
I'm a Once in Lifetime Woman, you must love. 

But you're not around anymore
And can't hear this paramore, no more 
I still ask myself if there could be more
So you can love me, am I such a bore?..:(

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Hand Poem

My father’s hands are very twisted
They’re strong and built with lots of muscles
They’ve helped me learn
So many things as I have grown

In my life
They have helped me learn
How to ride a bike
They’ve helped me defend myself when needed
And I have come to realize
That without his hands to guide me
Through this world
I would not make it

NOTE*** This is from my CD A Father’s Love Letters
To listen to the CD please visit
This was written by my daughter when she was nine.
One of the many reasons it’s great to be a parent :)

Details | Prose Poetry | |

letters to Mary

I pull my shirt off to check for the bulls eye Today it’s there so I’ll run and hide but to no avail I’m the pawn in your diabolical tale premeditated and calculated guess I missed the cookie crumb trail no clues are friendship was going stale you stabbed me in the back knowing I'm emotionally frail You blind sided me and so likely is the story that it’s just my luck Now I’m always your excuse when your talking about why you can’t drink it up I hope you chock on those lies you poser You’ll never help people your an emotional bulldozer Maybe one day you’ll suffer from real emotional ills Believe when I tell you It Kills Everyday I take a handful of pills even then their is no guarantee There's are days when negativity and overwhelming pressures consume my very being and the crazy thing is the seeing because it’s believing witnessing me in a blank stare I’m conscious, but no one’s there Just - My - Stare Inside I’m busy with my clipper ship I’ve floated upon your hurricane and every little happy moment we ever had has crying stinging pellets of mad

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Holy Passion

ALERT: A carpenter's son is loose in the Temple
Birds flutter, animals hustle, merchants scream.
The zeal for Jesus' Father's house consumes Him
As the place for foreigners to pray had become a zoo.
ALERT: A prophet is setting up for a Baal battle.
Baal's priests even cut themselves yet no fire.
After taunting, Elijah fills his altar with water.
Calling on God, fire consumes and people bow.
ALERT: An old man is building a huge boat ship.
Without a cloud in the sky and only son's to help.
When finished the animals come on call to board.
Rain starts, doors close – 8 saved by holy passion.
ALERT: Jesus is telling a tax collector he'll join him for dinner.
Heedless of the Pharisees despising and the crowd's surprise.
Zacchaeus totally changes – offering to multiply stolen money.
A single sinner saved multiplies even more this holy passion.
ALERT: Peter plus are preaching in the Temple again.
After being imprisoned for just that, now rearrested.
Whipped by the authorities, the disciples rejoice -
For they've been counted worthy to suffer with Christ.

ALERT: Daniel's praying openly even after it's become illegal.
The royal advisers gleefully have the king throw him to the lions.
Strangely they don't seem hungry till after Daniel is pulled out.
So the king openly praises Daniel's God for this amazing miracle.
DOUBLE ALERT: Jesus is talking to a Samaritan woman!!!!
Breaking cultural barriers to share the message of salvation
To her who has been married 5 times and is living with the 6th.
She believes he's the Messiah and brings the town to Christ!
ALERT: Paul's going back into the same town that stoned him.
He's preaching again after shipwreck, jail, beatings, and such.
Persecution seems to encourage Paul that he's doing the right.
Passionately following the Savior who turned Him 180 degrees.
ALERT: Bible translators burned at the stake for God's Word.
Missionaries avoid death and disease long enough to share life.
Stirring Holy Passion in receptive people who repeat the cycle.
Changing cultures in bondage into those sharing Jesus' love.
ALERT: What passion has the Lord put on your heart? Mine?
Can we pray to see His will find its way in our everyday lives
So the lost shall see, hear, find Christ and grow to share Him?
Eternity is forever, this life is not. Fill us Lord with holy passion.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Past and Present

Walking down memory lane,
Reminiscing everything with haze,
With all that had been before,
And what it has become of now.

The wind the way it used to rage,
And how it turned into a craze,
All the flowers that blossomed before,
Have now, withered to the core.

The once bright and clear rays,
That fell and lit up every place,
And now a dull beam of light,
Where it falls, no one knows.

The shadows behind us all the way,
Being there whether sad or gay,
Leaving us now and going astray,
Where they will go, is unknown till this day.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Thirteen Takes

When caught mid-flight
End to bloat against gravity
Thanks, rejection is not of the earth

My eyes are welling
I won’t hold back with shame 
Even warriors often times loosen, weeping

A good mother’s breast thrust
Not in for the oldest trade 
Gives the child, from infant, the best trust 

The sexton is a pagan
Lushness of the hashish field
Makes his story from Canaan

Morals pillar nobility
But nature spares by – 
Insofar as the choice is moderacy

Over me they seek to keep 
They can shape me, me too a shaper
Just that I start a peep

A quest to solve the world 
Challenged to fix my head 
Get me defined – no word

Launch talks for luck
One screen sets parts 
Grace, lone-stands, earns buck

Formless strife made me worry
An envoy made as of succubus
Made me awoke being sorry

He who sounded the gong
Has done it wrong
And rhythm’s lost in our song

The earth, about the Sun, rotates
Science, my house remains on its plot
Lies make the pupils dilate

Africa! Here some questions
Khartoum, Mogadishu, Malaria, HIV, Genocides . . .  ?
Orients through Occident find me solutions

Muses – a kind that’s potent
Might make me hit the laureate’s podium
And be free of amateurish latent!

Details | Prose Poetry | |

got to work it out

dont  you wish you could just close your eyes and forget what happen today
but somehow life is life and it dont work out that way
your problem dont  just disappear because this is another day 
and even though you are hoping to forget you still have to deal with yesterday

if you did not settle that problem trust me it will still be there
you may think that it happened yesterday and it will seems  as if life just not fair
and it will weigh heavy on your heart so dont try to act as if you dont care
but before you start taking it out on everyone you need to take it the lord in prayer

now i seen this happen to alot of good people who didnt find disclosure
someone just happen to strike that very nerve and they lost all composer
and all that respect that they had trust me it was all over 
  my advice to you is think about what you do for you dont need that type of exsposer

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 | |


The darkness that soaks you,

Dedicated to your way,

It’s all you are gifted merely.

Be your own light.

Be the firefly.

What choice else remains?

What choice?

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Napoleon the powerful fighter

Napoleon the powerful fighter
whose mind was nimbler and lighter
than others whose malicious minds resided in lies,
and in vain and inane imaginations.
His brain's train of thought stayed rooted in reality,
Which gave him greater cogitations and a mind,
divine and higher above the rest of the world's imagination,
rooted in fantasy, and lies, in things that do not exist.

The emperor did worship the truth,
whose soul led him to detest illusions.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Third Fable

 The Third Fable 
The Third Fable 
Depression Session 
Everyone has bad days. 

CharlaX: The man on the bus: he reads his paper he moves into the light to see 
the words 
THE OTHER MAN:  on the same bus: was hearing his cd player just looking for 
the sun to come up over the hill and give its light he keeps staring out the window 
to see the sunrise 
The many other people: just come and go 
The girl: had no gloves her hands was so cold she twisted them like nerves to 
keep them warm 
The Lady: gave to me a dollar to help me have my ride 
Eye had the one the two was now the full day pass. 
The Reason: gone for going early the depression halving head again my heart 
split in two halves not meaning anything now hurting like the ending of a life 
could be my death if not recovered soon could mean the end of life 
Mechanical Buffon: eye eat eye try to breathe but not too much eye cry but nothing 
left that will come out 
And then it's over one more day of life. 

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Distant Warrior

I get this wondrous chill as night falls
in mountains or desert sand
and I find myself dreaming about
home, my fondest memory
from this far away land.

I miss the special lady who 
stole my heart, my thoughts
and all there is of me;
and I deeply cherish 
our final moments together.

I think about the children 
I left behind, how I miss them 
and pray they’re  fine -
and it’s hard Lord,
it’s so very hard.

It’s times like this that I wonder
why I volunteered and I
get this knot in my stomach -
then I cringe and find myself 
trying to hold back tears.

Soon the battle will begin
when I’ll hear my own heartbeat
through the creepy sounds 
amidst treacherous mountain sides or
drifting sands and whirling winds.

It’s  time spent in worry,
fear, and some regret
as I encounter my fate
in the war so near
and I must admit, I’m scared.

This stench of war, 
the sight of it all,
it’s that awful image
of how I imagined hell
after Lucifer’s fall.

I wonder to myself,
“Does it have to be
that generations of people 
can’t seem to agree 
to the simple concept of peace?”

Soldiers don’t start wars
but they surely fight them,
making all manner of sacrifice
and I doubt that even once
did a soldier ever like them.”

Then I think of  “Old Glory”
and I’m filled with pride.
It’s a warm patriotic feeling
which overcomes me
from deep down inside.

I’m confused, scared
and battle weary.
I worry about those I love
as I cling to my faith  
and pray to God above.

I’m a distant warrior,
an American fighting man;
not an aspiring hero,
but just a simple soldier 
trying to do the best that I can.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Leah's Angel

The stale and dusty, lead filled air
Began to stir in widening breaths.
Pinpoints of light, ionic particles charged with power,
Picked up momentum, as reality stretched.

Excitedly, they began to spin in quickening orbits
Leaving sparkling tactile meteor showers.
Then flashed a brilliant light, so pure and white, 
It tossed me, crumbled, to the quaking floor,
For seemingly raw and unconscious hours.

Dazed, and disorientated, I feared the worst.
Was Death about to open Its ever-ending door?
But, around me grew a radiant hum, louder still it rumbled,
Until at last I braved to slit my eyes
To see, if only for a moment, what marvelous
Spectral filled the space, causing my life to tumble,
Twixt heaven and earth, twixt heart and soul.

There, mighty, glorious, beautiful
Beyond words or understanding
Suspended in the ether between heaven and earth
Was an Angel of Light, illumined by immense beauty and power.
Hand outstretched, She beckoned me, to rise and closer come.

I dared not breathe or blink my eyes, lest She disappear from sight.
But more than sight, or sound, or touch
Her proof was in the mighty waves;
Waves of Energy, radiating frequencies so high, they lifted me to 
Resonance; enough to see Her shape, Her robe of light,
Her all knowing piercing eyes.

Then She spoke to me in pictures, revealing in simpicity the very foundations 
of the earth, the moon and stars, and far flung universes.
She shared the truth of Power and Light, comforting me with the mere slight
Movement of her illumined, translucent hand.
She dismissed the dense lie of my earthbound body, and commanded forth
My own radiant, pulsing Body of Light, too beautiful to comprehend.

Then a voice so powerful, so filled with Love and Grace, 
Neither male nor female, without form or face,
Spoke to me from all directions and all dimensions of space.
As if to confirm my personal divinity, It said, “You are immortal, eternal, and 
Nothing can truly hurt you.  Remember always Who You are.”

At once, I feared yet dared to see. 
I felt release, expansive joy sublime;  
For there was I, a matching Light, 
An entity of Divine Peace and Love;
My spirit one with Her grace and poise,
One with all creatures; as below so above.

Her mission now complete, 
Her image slowly faded into everyday surroundings,
Yet Her Presence lingered still; the energy of the space She filled
Still crackled with power and beauty; the very thought of Her still thrilled. 

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Take Off the Mask and Be Yourself

Take off the mask and be yourself:
Be honest; be true and strong.
Stop trying so hard to fit in a crowd where you really don't belong.

Don't side-step your calling
To HIM, you should only remain true
Don't push HIM aside because you need HIM as Guide in all that you think, say 
and do.

He is the only One who does possess the Power to the success you are looking 

So take off the mask; simply be yourself; accept His plans for you.
Rekindle His Love through repentance, prayer and faith within your heart-
And true success will scoop you up and elevate you high;
And wealth will be yours unendlessly with love; with  peace you can not deny.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Letters from a 'Dead Sibling' Adoptee

The “Dead Sibling” Effect – A Legal Coopers Clause Allowed by Adoption State Statute

“Your enlightenment too, staved off ever so much more tightly… 
Sadly, it is in the bide of these truths, found as being one of the more heart breaking entailments to address in ethical adoption, that more than likely each was to have stayed where kept; bound by this legal cooperage where all lonely faces age - never shown, but always known to have wept!”  …from the kept cask of ‘dead sibling’ poet.

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 | |

Pith II

Writing is vanity,
except in the bathroom,
where vanity lies beneath,
and is replaced up top
by a truth-telling device
called a mirror.

Details | Prose Poetry | |



We only fear because we are afraid of what the truth might be. We love only when we know the truth is love and there is nothing to fear....


Lawrence Schrank

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 | |


My heart stop sometimes and then it skips beats what is it 
telling me???

That my life is short and if I don't get you back it will stop 

Come back to me and heal this froze heart of mine take me 
into your arms
and embraces me with this pain 

Give me that nice and understanding part of you bring the 
sun into my darkness of love that I have because 

of you life couldn't be better without use together so open 
up them windows and let the sun shine in

Renew our friendship to inreplaceable pull together the 
strength of love and forever keep use hole

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Patch of Green

I saw her sitting alone 
At a corner table 
Of a poorly lit inn 

Her blouse pink 
The color of 
Sweet smelling roses 

She had no clue 
Who else was in the 
Tavern and did not care 

She was reading 
From what looked like a diary 
Occasionally taking notes 

Infrequently sipping 
From a half empty glass 
Of sallow wine 

Her hair was colored 
Gold as shiny as King 
Tut’s venerated chair 

She looked like a model 
Unsuspectingly posing 
For a photo shoot 

With her cheek bones 
Placed high in her face 
Her eyes made of jade 

When I looked at her 
From the far side of the room 
A butterfly entered the locale 

And softly settled 
On the rim of my wineglass 
Levitating my heart 

On occasion she would 
Posture a smile more 
Captivating than a Mona Lisa 

I stood up slowly 
My feet growing colder 
As I approached her 

Hello, I said 
To myself as I 
Haughtily fought 

My chi and feigned 
Indifference as I soberly 
Lost course and 

Spun toward the exit 
Leaving my rose behind 
And keeping it my secret 

Nobody noticed 
As I solemnly walked past 
The prophet’s scrawls 

On the walls and 
Made a point to step 
On each crack in the sidewalk

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Reawakening of Identity

I have seen the pretentious woman residing within my minds hologram….
She believes herself to be a wise messiah…
She teaches her apocryphal beliefs to other seekers…
She has deep roots of stubborn illusions planted within her intentions…
She teaches to be revered actually living with great fear…
She wants to be loved, her demise being forcing her will of fear…
She consumes shots of green gel calling it her breath of life…
The divine grandmother challenged the false inner profits message…
Enraging her with threats of revealing to me real truth…
She chanted, pounded her mislead fists together, manifesting a sword of crystal and light…
Piercing through her own throat refusing to evolve her beliefs…
Creating again all of her low vibration grief…
Why is she here covering her veil of confusion over my eyes?
Preventing me from believing the light of oneness god exists…
Why does she desire to create suffering within the temple?
What is her mission’s purpose?

Working for the Cabal; a mental program construct of peace destruction…
Consumed with greed and power wishing to feel divine…
Poisoning everyone from birth with this tainted sour wine…
I banish you…  
You scared old stubborn crow…
I swim within my god’s love light of truth…
So take your pathetic self and go…
Go to the white light, transforming your tyranny within my being into delight… 

Details | Prose Poetry | |


February 10, 2010

Trying to stop the swirling of my thoughts
My brain is a bullet train, pushing forward
No destination, just gotta go, gotta go, gotta go
I am trying to solve all of life’s problems in 
One random, crazy, mad, desperate dash
Insanity beats down my door and I ignore it
Thinking I will outrun it if I just keep going
I’ll be safe, just gotta run, gotta run, gotta run

Details | Prose Poetry | |

down and out

I found you when you were down and out 
your soul with holes and inside doubt 
the prayers you said with your rosary 
did not stop that deep, deep bleed 

you looked through me like I wasn’t there 
taking what I offered, refusing to share 
I stayed beside you—held your hand 
helped you try to understand 

the closer you got, you were further away 
holding me close yet still at bay 
I warmed your lust, but not your heart 
you told me from our very start 

the tables turn, I place no blame 
on love’s defeating, haughty game 
words don’t come in any form 
at night when I lay safe and warm 

I always knew you wouldn’t miss 
any form of a vacant kiss 
always reading yesterday’s news 
it is just the publisher’s views

Details | Prose Poetry | |

One More Thanksgiving

The Snow Camelia hedge row is in full bloom. Lovely white as newly fallen snow against waxy dark emerald green.  The sun broke the horizon in a pastel pink but very swiftly turned to a clear horizon.  The area where the sun ball rises is a golden glow. Thank you God for a chance to live another day and another Thanksgiving.  Now surrounded by sounds_crows, roosters, and a bird sound that is just chir-rup really mimics a cricket but not.  The cold is penetrating saying go inside escape the cold go to a warm place. Once again God thanks for a warm place to go and its comfort.  The ambrosia needs to be made, getting breakfast, and four people need to get ready. The sun is touching the top of the trees and duty calls come..

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 | |

A Sit and A Smoke

I sit there on that wooden bench, simply sitting. I am not waiting for someone, not for anything. Sunlight peeks through the leaves of the two oak trees whose branches are mingling above my head. It is pleasant to feel its warmth. There is no reason for me to be outside other than the cigarette resting between my middle and index fingers. I walked down three flights of stairs to simply sit and smoke and be judged by the occasional passersby. I lift the cigarette to my lips and place it there gently. It sort of dangles there as I light the lighter in one hand and cup the other around the flame to protect it from a nonexistent breeze in the dry Southern heat. I suck in, trying to puff, which is hard to do without a hand to steady the cigarette, but it is lit and that is what matters. I take a deep drag, deep into my lungs, deep into my soul, and I can feel the calm wash over me. The nicotine is my oxygen; I can’t breathe without it sometimes. I blow the smoke out, admiring its delicious taste and scent. I like to hold the slowly smoldering cigarette in my right hand and then smoke out of the left side of my mouth. The way I hold it makes me look like a nineteen-forties gangster. I like that. Sitting there, on my wooden bench, I react. I don’t moan in ecstasy and I don’t close my eyes in pleasure. I don’t take it for granted and I don’t have a habit. I just enjoy my cigarette, no more and no less than it ever should have been. As it slowly converts itself into smoke and ashes I think to myself that most people probably wonder why an eighteen year old in this day and age would choose to take up smoking. At least I assume that is what the occasional passerby must be thinking when they see me sitting here on this wooden bench, for no other reason than to smoke the cigarette in my hand right now. I wonder what I would say if any one of them ever bothered to ask me. Because I want to, I would reply before standing, putting out my cigarette, and walking away. I look down and see that if I took another drag I would be smoking the filter. So I stand, put out my cigarette, and walk away. I walk away from the sunlight, from the two oak trees, and that wooden bench. I walk away with my fingers smelling like nicotine and that makes me smile because I know that I will sit at that wooden bench tomorrow to do the same exact thing. I know because that is what I did yesterday.

Details | Prose Poetry | |


The intensity of
Their hate
Their fate
Is blinding,
His existence
His subsistence
In this world.
Burning the hope
That kept
On his dreams
But nightly
They exist
Within his domain
His brain
But disdained
By those
Who slip, slide
Cover themselves
Their world
Their curled up
Messed up
Washed up
In a 
Cloak of normality
Of nothingness
A scribbled mess
To fester
In the 
blackened drawer
the whore
of their whole.
Their soul.

Details | Prose Poetry | |


Constant thoughts:
The meditation, devising silent destruction
Delusions, anxiety highly distortion
Fundamental thoughts, 
Confusion of sorts out of proportion
The consequence of the after math 
This black messiah without emotion

Constant thoughts rumbling 
In my head like a wasp’s nest in chaos 
While external still internal mental mayhem in turmoil
Cracking thunders beyond human imagination 
Because the power of my concentration
Leaps threw boundaries of unheard discoveries
At a depth of no recovery 

This is a mental process 
As put hand on my chest and mind 
Teaching the mentally blind 
As they stay behind 
The constant thoughts

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Deceit of Child

 Yes, adoption to most adoptees, “always” the sunrise to a brand new sunset. Yet, if not given in to each, is full entail…

       “Ablaze are our thoughts from far, far reaches, as if the reddish licked flames from long lost fires… Fires of which, brushed, had every shade of burnt orange that still hues of its past sunset. Your sunset, our own living sunset, a sunset awash in its own past beauty or life’s chaos -; now viewed by all as hope never surrendered. As if an artist’s hand-hurled, color-of-the-sun fireball had just splashed broadside - our own clouded gun metal gray horizon.”

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Life or Death

I sit here pondering my death. 
As I look upon the remnants of my tattered remains for signs of my so called life, I come to the conclusion that to do this, I must first accept the fact that I even had a life. 
But how can one have lived without the rhythmic beating of a heart, or the spiritual foundation of a soul to support ones wants and desires, or the will that encourages the thoughts and dreams of existence. 

How could the emptiness that was inside me have housed such a wonder? 
How is it possible the weakness I felt could ever have held such a power within? 
Is it possible I had reached the pinnacle of my suffering and committed emotional suicide?

Is it possible my demise was due to the ravenous wants and needs of man, disguised as passion and love which lured me into my willingness to give all that I had so freely, to satisfy a gluttonous appetite that consumed everything in its path including the memory of who and what I was?

But to acknowledge this would be to admit I gave my precious gift of life in exchange for a lie wrapped in the promise of everlasting happiness and love.

I sit here and ponder my death but I do not mourn. 
For I have only lost the vessel which held my true spirit, the one which now looks for the light and the chance to be reborn. 

A new being of strength and wisdom who realizes the mistake made in that other form, but will now hold dear all that is to come and all that will be. 

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Modern Day Merlin

To the torn page out of Modern day Merlin’s book of wizardry,

I regret to inform you that you are nothing more than a recipe for tomato soup. You have no enchanted qualities about you, but you tend to brag about where you come from more times than you realize. Dear torn page, haven’t you noticed that the he only wondered on your whereabouts when his life was turning quite pale in color, and rugged in shape? Your words of zest, and your smooth direction brought vibrancy into his blue octagonal soul. Probably like how an octopus would feel escaping from a cloud of his own ink. He could breathe again.

But you’re lost now, and he doesn’t care much. You wonder why you were written in the first place if you’ve only felt what magic you can make once. If there are over 7 billion people in this world, have you ever wondered how many pages in books there might be? Has it ever occurred to you that out of those trillions of pages turned, over half haven’t been read at all? Has it ever occurred to you that books have been transformed into toys? Children in schools use you until they grow up and buy iPhones and laptops, and you’re left on sitting sideways on some rotting wooden shelf that has nothing more to talk about than how bad of a shape he’s in. Has it ever occurred to you that there are mysteries, histories, nursery rhymes, and adventures that have been overlooked because of the simple fact that humans have given up on the great things?

Actually, it would seem that giving up is the only thing their willing to give. Your black blood on a papyrus shell just doesn’t flow in the mind like it used to. You reminisce on the time when you were the only one that cast a spell on him, and you gave him life again.

Now the wizard is off signing autographs and performing shows at Rockefeller Center every first Friday of the month. He uses only spells so basic that he doesn’t have to read the step by step instructions anymore. To be honest, the book isn’t even used as frequently. I think I even saw a family of dust specks rent a home on page thirty-three last week.

But has it slipped your mind, humble recipe? Have you forgotten already of the position you’re in? You are a torn page now.

So float on by.

Let the wind keep you steady.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The dying in belonging

Kisses on the broken ground
tears that annoy...
bringing the inward heat outward into the busted scene

Innocent eyes become possessive eyes now they look down on you
...upon you

I don't feel anything towards this sort of thing
The cold is a safe retreat from all of the needing

Shut me away
away from your gaze
away from your hands
away from your wet
away from your words
away from your feelings

It's all well, but it well never be my problem

Is it true what they say in my silence?
...that romantics die once they've met romance?

Belonging to nothing
fade, fade like the sun on the overcast heart

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Embrace Me




Details | Prose Poetry | |



My words can only convey the thought
Not the true feelings that flow within
The rage that burns through my body and mind
Cannot be measured by any verb or string of words

Self imposed exile from any semblance of reality
The only peace I know resides alone, an untapped well
I am not the person everyone thinks that I am
I am not at all what I appear to be, disguised

This world I know is not my world, I do not belong
Far removed from any road I care to travel
Stolen chances echo loudly in my mind
And I know that I can never know what I was to be

I look back not liking much of what I see
And looking ahead the future is bleak in front of me
Overcoming my misfortunes really hasn’t mattered
Because they are still the anchors that will always weigh me down

Family and friends, the rising and setting sun, the air we breathe
Cliché's reserved for those moments when all is clear
Darkness and despair, anger and frustration, disgust
Cliché's reserved for when an ending is near

And all I see is light at the end of the tunnel,
Signaling the nearness of my destination.
It’s soon to be over …

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Second Fable

 The Second Fable 
The Second Fable 
The BusYness 
The Alcoholic boss: 
       The man was doing inventory when the lady called his namme. 
“Johnny what is wrong with you eye just looked out at the van? 
The tire is almost flat again eye just gave you a hundred dollars yesterday to get 
the tire fixed and eye remember giving you fifty just last week? You must have 
kept the money are you drinking now again?” 
The Alcoholic Worker: 
“Tilly you are mistaken the tire is not that low eye checked the gauge myself less 
than two hours ago. 
The receipt for the tireshop is still inside the till Tilly why do not you still believe 
me tell me Tilly how could eye get a receipt like that unless eye paid the bill?” 
The Alcoholic Worker: 
To Tilly:“Every now and then they do a poor poor job so eye will take the van back 
to the tire shop and have them check that tire again.” 

To ASIDE: The whiskey that eye bought with that old coots money is still in the 
center console eye have to drink it now today and she will knoe I'm drunk unless 
eye leave the van somewhere and say that it got stolen and the bad men beat me 
Narrator Charlax Android One Seven: 
The Johnny worker got in the van and drove to the center of a bridge he leaped 
from the bridge into the water down below with the whiskey in his hand and left 
the van in the center of the bridge the tire was now so low it was just flat. 
The Alcoholic Worker: 
Johnny to hisself: “The Tilly will believe me why should she doubt so much eye 
have to make this look good a lie is soon found out.” 
Narrator Charlax One Seven: 
Johnny took a rock of largesse size and hit himself more than three times hard 
upon his brow his forehead split wide open he looked like a beaten up man. 
He finished off the whiskey and walked somewhat surprised that his worthwhile 
plan had come to a fruition in his addled whiskey mind back to the sewing 
 Listen as the woman talks to him. 

                        The Alcoholic Boss: 
“Before you say a word to me my alcoholic Johnny there was a Charlax sitting 
underneath the bridge playing games down in the water he loves a mermaid 
there and kisses all her hair. He saw you leave the van and leap into the water 
my friend MISS Tilly Two is bringing back the van for you.” 
“Now don't you feel so foolish the job was feeding you now you will look for 
someone else to tell your lies to rob them of there wealth to feed your alcoholic 

Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Face Unknown - The Dead Sibling Effect

Sadly, it is true of find that more and more biding entailments of adoption have stayed within its keep. Be they, the kept, rather than let be seen in the realm of the rarely known. Our enlightenment staved off ever so much more tightly, the bound of this cooperage – with these faces lonely, of the never shown…

Details | Prose Poetry | |

When In Thought

When in thought I sulk- Narrowed down to a single fault Like my heart is a prize, and my thoughts are the vault; just as soon, as I almost spit them out- I halt. It's days like these, I wish only for a calming breeze- So that I may breathe; Properly grieve, But really its only a tease- For open sorrow just isn't me.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Mendoza Sunset for All

 “Ablaze are thoughts of mind from far, far reaches, as if each slipped from the reddish flames of fires - where had burnt every shade of orange that still cover this ongoing sunset. Your sunset, our living sunset, a sunset awash in its own past beauty of chaos; now seen as if an artist’s hand-hurled color-of-the-sun fireball had just splashed broadside - our own clouded gun metal gray horizon.”

Details | Prose Poetry | |


Coming out on the porch this morning after the sun had risen far above the horizon...I 
noticed that my herbs looked wilted.  Checked but not really dry just potbound or rootbound
in too small of a container..Life___how many of us are potbound or rootbound contained in a 
container that we outgrew years ago___stuck, complacent not growing and soon will die from
starvation because we can't receive the nourishment from the source of our total being the 
giver of life the One Who gives the Living Waters....In the next few days I will get larger 
pots, fresh soil, and remove those plants..distrub their roots...Repot them giving their root 
system room to grow..They will come out giving me fresh French Tarragon, and Lemon 
Thyme all summer..I will enjoy watching them grow and produce....What about me?  Will I 
get out of the pot that is too small and grow?

Details | Prose Poetry | |

When Alone

When skies are bluer than ever before
and clouds disappear from sight
I am alive
When thunderstorms flash white
and the rains come
I am alone
When daffodils burst forth from the snow
and crocus peep through
I am alive
When winter cold and trees barren
and leaves lie on frozen floor
I am alone
I want to face life's storms
with friends who hold my hand
and family who clearly states,
"You are not alone"
Then, I will live.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Wayside Walk

Ocean gales and tidal shift
Basalt and sandstone mountains
Rocks tumble into pebbles
Mighty trees 
Uproot and splinter in Neptune's fury
Under my feet,  
Crumbled remains of life 
Ground to dust by the unrelenting ocean
Walking barefoot on tiny shards of glass

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 | |


I have not eaten today,
But my heart is filled
Not hungry of affection.
I had a fill of you last night
A fill of you for a life time

All around us are walking corpses
Corpses of political disregard
Humans of no nations
Even when they are bona-fide citizens
Your blood and mine flows in them

The government abhors the poor
Feeds them with empty promises
Shoves them through the door
They pay the bills
For social amenities they can’t find
Pay taxes for their castles 
Government built in the air
But we know their ancestors
Filthy dogs eating from the king’s crumbs
No; Lets not unknot the knot
Soon a messiah might heed us

In heaven’s book of life,
I heard the poor names are there
In here’s book of life
It is deleted.
Thus, in your head,
Lays your kingdom and glory 
Get rich or die trying
Or; be their poor and keep sulking.

Well, like them I saw… 
I have not eaten
Flesh gone weak to skeleton
The solitude of love within
Keeps me living; I am breathing
But I am moving,
Towards your direction
I see your beam

I feel new
When I see you
From my heart 
Seeps through the rays of the sun
Its fun; this love on death line
We survived the genocide
We survived the war
We survived love
We survived us
I love you too.

This poem is dedicated to the abused tribes of Rwanda and Nigeria during their respective civil wars resulting in near human annihilation. Though time has passed, we still feel your pains chilling our bones. The survivors.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Invisible Lover

From amidst the raging storm of thoughts a cry shattering the sky… 

“When wilt thou return from the dew-topped mountains?
From those high peaks that rub my imagination through.

Where oft doth thou disappear into a fragile trail of foot prints that mystically 
from where I hear a heart’s lonely cry; from where the frantic cries of the reaper 
submerge dies.
Is it true or is it just I? 

What hath thou so wonderfully witnessed from a town so tinsel lies?
From where such ruthless condemnation forked displayed…

From where ever, tell me now, tell me how and tell me why?
When thou art gone for what must I still low lie?”

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you tore me to shreds
with idiot lies and rumours
try me again
one word is enough
i won't wait around you'll see
bad decision
one more time
i'm done for
but do you think you do me favours? 
do you think you mend me?
consider me before
you tear me 

r.thomas '10

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Breaking Confidentiality

I saw the sky last night,
Rapt blue-black,
Freckled candle-light.
Where upon a cast, I ate.
To this lip, our tête-à-tête,
Never uttered,
Never muttered,
Until here.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Be Still

Silent storms rage within my heart.
Be still!  Be still!
Fear to be fought;
Peace must be sought.
In stillness, Love speaks;
Bringing hope to listening ears,
Reminding weary hearts of bygone years;
     of lessons learned,
     for faithfulness earned,
     to stay the course.

Be still!   Be still!
     when silent storms rage within my heart.
Healing found in silence,
     when listening ears 
     learn to wait

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Owl Watching

Clutching his coat closer to his body, he trudged through the thick fog. Steps unprepared,
unplanned, only to arrive at the statue posing in its eternal stiffness. The face carved
carefully, most obviously hand crafted with letters seemingly gargled and thrown up, left
misinterpreted but etched into history. Coins jingling in all 4 pockets, unspent and
almost as worthless as the promises that were made.

How-To books only revealed his worthless state, ripping out blank pages one at a time,
with the bright yellow façade guffawing at his precipice. The inevitable would amount to
an anti climax, one that would bother him for a while, one that he could possibly never

Tired screams were dismissed of their existence, after all no one was around to hear them.
A bloody mess lay at his feet as a deep drum drew closer and closer. Beads of sweat
delicately ran down his face, his palms gilded with blood as pure as gold. Precious stones
culminated into a vacant stare and slowly as the sun set, they shined no more.

Details | Prose Poetry | |


There are books that nobody ever reads,
lines expanded with stories that never get to catch,
eyes stalking cyberspace,
inside there is SOcial media, SOOcial media, SOOOcial media,
like a 3-ring circus they join by watching themselves,
as though egotism could have value in a selfie,
as though Spam could impart knowledge to untaught minds.

From time to time I read some
hardbacks that converted Kindle Fire,
fitting together with the popular, with the digital era,
with those who run and intensify this circus,
and intellectual students married to information,
books sitting on shelves behind me,
the computer screen before me,
eyes darting wildly to see illusions and jokes,
witnessing a tragic magic trick as books disappear .

When was the last time you read a book?

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Forever is really never

Remnants of the past cast shadows on his points of view an attractive conversation with no literal honesty Pained at the cause those scars that remain Those lies on your breath smelled of raw sewerage Tears showed every crease where rivers flow my heart has melted in the middle of your road now requiring tow. I remind myself that everything ends badly or comes to a close though my hearts without resolve when your forever is really never when what I really needed was this lever to take your weight off my shoulders ~I haven't stopped growing~

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Summoned by the Past

Once the sun blows its warmth
I stood on its breeze
Gazing back all the moment 
Drifting silence in a seek

None would bother
None be bothered
Remain silent should I prefer
With persevered steps won't I remorse

Most hatred which embedded
Spell the bliss to be created
Call out all the hopes 
Revealed the untold

Every pieces which has left
Each part which has last
Be hold in my skin
Be history of my win

Below my wisdom in the valley of my journey
Yet I step ahead
Nor reverse to back
I stand precisely instead

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Fate Kismet and Karma

There is no accidental meeting… Between kindred souls For your fate is made, as surely is time fleeting And no more stranger than quasars and black holes It’s all preordained in some grand cosmic way Beyond mortal bounds or human control The people you meet, what you do or say Is not managed by you…e’en in part or in whole Though you might think differently in the course of the day That you’re making the rules…writing your own roles The Gods laugh their asses off and to each other say: “What impudence: to think that they set their own goals!” For it’s Fate, Kismet, and Karma, that in the end sets the way For those “accidental meetings, between kindred souls”

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Setting Sun


PURPOSE IS THE FORGOTTEN CAUSE                              

Details | Prose Poetry | |

My shape

I hope god spares me
My own misery is enough pain
Family doesn't need to be standing
In the atom bomb rain
The world doesn't need another hole
And neither does my brain..
Faded.. But still of a nice shade
If water splashes on my figure
Ill probably fade away
But ill say its a good day
Slithered down
On the grass in my shape

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Quest for Love

The quest for love is probably one of the hardest things a human must endure in their 
tiny existence on earth.  It is the one thing that seems to be the driving force behind the 
turning of the world.  Why is it then so hard to accomplish.  Why is it that people search 
for it so adamantly that they are willing to accept anything for just a piece of it.  Willing to 
take any little touch or attention and call it love.  To go to extremes to be just near it.  No 
matter how big the consequences are that comes along with it.  Yet when this thing, love, 
is found, this thing that has been sought after for so long, it has the potential of so much 
hurt condensed into it.  A snake hiding in the tall grass.  Someday somewhere its just 
waiting to unleash the terror hidden inside.  Waiting to drop it full force on the 
unsuspected like the atom bomb on Hiroshima on families that slept unknowingly in there 
beds.  Yet its built inside us to seek it out.  Built inside us to not quit until we find it.  Its 
like our own self destruction button. Seek, Search, Destroy.  We find it, bath in its glow, 
eventually take it for granted and then in the full stride of life it explodes.  And out of the 
rubble those that survive are left to pick up the pieces and start all over again.  Because 
we do.  We never learn.  We merely stitch together the remaining parts throw a patch 
over the holes and start looking for the next self timing bomb.  Because if we’re not 
looking then we’re decaying into a mass of self loathing and pity.  So in turn  we are 
condemned to keep pursing our own demise.  No matter who you are if you’ve loved then 
at one time you’ve detonated.  It’s a coin one side always comes with the other and 
sooner or later you’ll see both of its faces.  It seems to be a matter of chance of which side 
shows its face more.  If your quiet on a dark night, alone wrapped only in blackness, you 
can hear it calling, beckoning to come to it, a siren singing her alluring song.  Its voice 
riding undetectable waves in the night to come to rest in your head.  A parasite laying its 
eggs.  Eggs that will hatch unnoticed in the future to feed on its host, that has kept them 
warm and safe for so long.  And so the cycle goes perpetuating itself on and on through 
centuries.  Never stopping.  And for this we live.  For this we fight and for this we kill and 
for this we die.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Basic Rules to Live By

When communication fails, resort to loneliness.
When loneliness fails, resort to communication.
When resorting fails, communicate with your
lonely self and meet your only friend.

When you give up someone else's dream, you begin to live.
When you free yourself from your own dreams, you realize that you've
never lived at all.
Then, when you dream, you'd rather be living.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

On the Importance of the Dorsal Fin

Lacking a dorsal fin, the human being
is ill-suited to his very constitution,
relying rather on ambition and threads of fantasy to
carry him to places a fish cares not to see

Details | Prose Poetry | |


 Eye the fabulist fabelist maker of dreams for ewe still remember the poem eye 
wrote where eye mentioned the fact that eye think they are liners for birdcages 
the most that people have been to me is nice there was a few Christians who 
liked some of my poetry for JESUS. This is not a fable in the puerile sense of the 
word. BUT this ewe is a giant dandylion poem eye make them bleed eye scritch 
and scratch them and twist the ending oblong into infinity. Eye feel a need to 
defend myself to my detractors after all even CharlaX had a mother. It was more 
than that a family eye had a place to eat a room to sleep. An important man is 
never needed until the end too late to make the needed differences. Pomp and 
pestle pistle listed they sent my picture eye won a contest all they wanted was for 
me to buy a lot of plaque. FlaX and cotton homespun medley lay upon the 
CharlaX belly nice long drinks in the afternoon writing a poem making a fabel 
swan it leans this way and that way falling to pieces and parts of words become 
gentle rain long dripping drops of waterial motion lapping at shadows of love. 
Fancy markings of worded pleasures for years of estranger in the wooded glen 
fords and glen glens. The caterpillar tracks in the proper syntax is a Diatribe. 
Nominal feeds paid out and lost in space with gasses let loose that rival skunks 
in size and areal width the size of that thing just look Ethel the size of that thing in 
centimeters all alone would equal the lower belt of corn in the Midwestern state 
of Iowa they called CharlaX to come he wielded his Hermann Maurice axe phone 
and refused to budget a car rental he does not hitch hike anymore he walks back 
and forth from one glorious day into the next of time come forth thou CharlaX from 
the grave concerns of formidable returns on investments given in earnest 
anticipations of reaped rewarded inclinations please come to Kansas and chop 
the wheat down with your western ax make bread for all the millions of the crew. 
The penny tossed in air so heated by debated frenzy of the sharkless few was 
tails a lucky brake for yew. 

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Reformation of Character

I’ve been down this road
So many times before
I often wonder if at the end
Will there be an open door?

What seemed to be
What I thought once was
A hopeless dream, in fact
A totally lost cause.

Is now actually a series of events
Coming to fruition
But in a more peaceful, loving
And different rendition.

Is this my chance to try again?
To set things right with my life?
Or is it just a visualization?
Of what could’ve been perhaps an insight?

Only time will tell as the
Fragmented pieces fall into place
Making a difference and a change
In my life as the memories give chase.

Being sure to keep up
Not ever to be missed
But yet called upon at a moments notice
So I can reminisce.

Whenever I feel down and out
Like I lost my friend,
I can reach back into my mind
To smile and laugh once again.

You see, that’s the thing about
Memories both good and bad
They will always be there for you
Whenever you’re happy or sad.

They level the playing field of your mind
Keeping everything on an even keel
Especially those times when
You’re not sure what or how you feel.

Life is full of ups and downs
As well as trials and tribulations
It’s up to us as individuals
To know when and how to set the stipulations.

When we reach that final chapter
And the last page has been turned
You can stop, look back and say
Wow, this is what I’ve learned

Now take this and share it with everyone
Even those you may not know,
So we all as individuals and
A collective will continue to grow.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Outright Hidden

 When biding entailments of an adoption stay kept - more than otherwise shown; staved off from enlightenment, are these lives of which, we have now coopered and held within their fiery unknown…  
       …Where ablaze are thoughts from far, far reaches, as if each a reddish licked flame from a long lost fire… Fires of which, brushed every shade of burnt orange that still hue of a past sunset’s desire.
        Your sunset, our own living sunset, a sunset awash in its own past beauty or life’s chaos -; now viewed by everyone as hope never surrendered. As if the artist’s hand-hurled, color-of-the-sun fireball - splashed broadside our own clouded gun metal gray horizon – for better or worse…”

Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Cooperage for Hidden Faces

The “Dead Sibling” Effect – New Jersey Adoption State Statute – N.J.S.A. 9: 3-39 1 [b, c]

These Unseen Faces a Legal Cooperage 

“Cunning is the conscience that intends the keep of our enlightenment to its own past. Same is it - in the art making of a vessel that holds of precious wine, and what the cooper already knows is his forever cask. 
      Their genius is how these skillfully made casks for wine still lay hidden and never found… That in the belly of a long ago forgotten shipwreck it is where the passage of time and the grape itself tighten staves evermore so more tightly bound…” 

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Eleventh Fable

 Eleventh Fable     
Author Message 

Age : 53
Joined : 13 Jun 2007
Posts : 719

 Subject: Eleventh Fable   Today at 18:26      

Eleventh Fable 

Eleventh Fable 

The Millionth Dollar 

Charlaxes Fables 

Some people live in misery afraid to spend a dollar bill is one a friend but he just 
won't let it go. The man walks or rides his bike even in the snow not using public 
transportation anywhere he goes. A Child is young too young to knoe just what 
money's for. She takes the dollar in her hand and keeps it never spending it and 
never letting go. 
Song 1001 
Aern't ewe the one that eye love 
Aern't ewe the love the only love that eye have 
Aern't ewe the one that eye love 
Aern't ewe the reason this man gets up 
Aren't ewe the love that eye have 
Aern't ewe the purple cloud 
Aern't ewe the heart of the rain 
Aren't ewe the name in the sky? 
Aren't you the song 1001? 
Aern't eye the one? 
The millionth dollar has been spent the millionth tear eye cried the millionth time 
eye tried to make a song was this one number one thousand one. Time will wait 
for no one let us rule the time with love. 
 Eleventh Fable 

Details | Prose Poetry | |

When I make love to her

         Whenever I am with her and she is wrapped tightly in my arms, The world for a brief moment, suddenly disappears. Then, everything seems to be all right. I slip into a place of oblivion while tasting the beauty of her charms. We kiss. So gently at first, while exploring the depths of her secret soul as the softness of her body, so sensuous in so many ways,is able to quench my driving thirst.
         She takes me to places I have never traveled before. Making me feel things like Volcano's erupting as my hot blood flows like molting lava. Yet, at times, she makes me feel like I am in flight. A spitit with wings. So subtle is her love, so intriguing is the mystery of her. I sense the wonder of a thousand stars lighted so brightly along with a hundred galaxies filled with the music of the Gods. A million universes all molded into the ecstasy of beauty and love untamed by the touch of man. Each time we make love, it becomes a new experience. She becomes all that I am, I become all that she is. We become one body in spirit and mind.
        She has touched the depth of my being. Pulled away the outer shell. Bared to her is the essence of my heart and all that I am. With her, I am the man, the pebble in the sea. She is all that is part of me, WHEN I MAKE LOVE TO HER.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Halcyon Days

Graceful creature
of the night sky,
sit a while outside
my window and
sing your song 
to me.

Your haunting caw
echoes of stories
brought back from
the battered ships
falling of the
memorized horizon
in my head.

Ebony feathers
gleam with
the rays of the moon,slicing off fragments of
light from a happier

O, wearied traveler,
bring ye news from
another world,
the tinseled and
the tattered remnants
of a moving-picture 
still life?

Your beating heart
keeps time with
my tears in rapid staccato,
firing off little darts
to make new holes
in my head.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Dying Dreams

The young dream their dreams away at night

Hoping they come true

A doctor,policemen,veterinarian and other dreams are developed by the young

Too naive to understand the ways of the world

Determined as ever to achieve their dreams

The old regret the dreams they could never accomplish

They had dreams but unknowingly never came true

You go from living a world full of dreams

To living the reality that is life

Why do we let our dreams die

We were so excited as young kids

At the foot step of our dreams

Were we haunted by the mountain we had to climb

To make our dreams come true

Did we simply quit

Because of society’s pressure

Did money deter our dreams away while we slept at night

Did we let doubt creepy into our hearts

Silently killing all of our dreams without realizing it

Why do dreams die so quickly

When we spent years of our youth

Hoping that we could get an opportunity

To make them come true

Dream big, chase your dreams and never let them die

Details | Prose Poetry | |


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

Details | Prose Poetry | |

There Are Shadows Here

There are shadows here, loose and lingering, from long ago, that hold me 
captive in their holy power; they hold old memories, and bind me from top to bottom.
They forever walk with me, holding my hand as I reach it away and forever run with me 
as I try to lose their trail... shadows long and slow, with wisps of pain, they hang 
to my thoughts, my feelings, my starts and my stops; forever hold me back, hold me in,
hold me hard against myself; forever lock me inside these clinging, enveloping mists 
of the past.  There are shadows here, sharp and hard and edged in brilliance; shadow shapes
to outline ancient wrongs, false thinking, guilt-induced actions; shadow shapes to forever
put me in the spotlight of anger, of remorse, of repentance; shadow shapes to forever 
keep me on the edge of a life I can see, but never cross over to.  There are shadows here, 
loose and lingering from long ago...

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Mind Mapping

My heartbeat echoes a motionless metronome
With only an offshore wind to bring it back home
Inside my mind the weight of my thoughts drone
At once setting the mood the moment the tone

Tracing every wall branding every surface with marks
This is no longer the sheltered haven where my mind parks
I try recall what sent us out of orbit & led us astray
Dunno however this is no longer a place of innocent play

I search for tracks paths previous passages routes to take
The intricate webs stilts steps the uphill journey I make
All the while the library vault is empty overdue & archived
This all had happened long before by the time I had arrived

And all in the silence standing dizzy & still steadily spinning
I asked implored and prayed fervently to karma destiny & fate
To stop the cycle the story & take me right back to the beginning
At once right now hurry hasten & do this before it is to late

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Holiday's Roadside Wreckage

Holiday’s Roadside Wreckage
                  by Odin Roark

To live as you’re not
To be who society massages you into being
To succumb to counterfeit identity
Is to skid into mere roadside wreckage.

We pass such rubble all the time
The defective and or mismatched parts of authenticity
Merging with Nature’s roadkill
Decorated by gum wrappers
Festooned by beer cans.


Few anticipate the accident,
The head-on collision with reality,
Where darkness and tears
Become the black ice of misfortune.


Some will slow down enough to see when they look,
Realize that reason and logic’s purpose
Is to reveal the highway shoulders and ditches’ necessity,
Irony’s off-road demise for make-believers
Careening unconscious down life’s highway.

Roadside wreckage…

Unrewarding scenery made repetitively prophetic
Until we take the time to recognize and live compatibly
With who we really are.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Fifty-percent: A Paradox

Power is too devastating a concept for the groundlings to scourge on.

Instead, we thrive on inspiration,
A hope that things could change.

And those luxurious bourgeoisie that roam the outskirts of reality, have no limits,
 But unfortunate for them, they also have no ties to humanity.
Floating above everything that breaths, until they breathe their last
And having only the masquerade of parts they acted out to define their existence.

I would like to leave a footprint that has not my name flashing on a red carpet,
[mostly likely red from blood split henceforth]
But instead a list of people I saw with bleeding hearts.
A story of a homeless man who knew the meaning of all arts, despite his lack to 
make any living off of them, and you could see him everyday making rounds, pushing 
his  rusting grocery carts.
Every ingredient from the sliced finger to the squinting eyes after tasting the 
accidental mistake of salt for sugar, that went into baking that perfect apple pie.
To impress your in-laws.
The picket fence painted by Mr. Cain, and the window washed by Mr. Townsend of 
Lot, who did not drip a drop, or leave a single spot.

Retrospection to the simple question of would you rather?
For I would like to think that money escapes my vision,
Morality ruling all I see.
A true Robin Hood story is sadly a compulsive lie I choose to try and be.
As altruism is as false as any other self-deceiving truth of modernity.
Any gift given with think or not, gives back with a smile or warm thought.
So do not think you are true, because that thought makes that truth, untrue.

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 | |

Strength is its Strongest only Where it Can Stand

“May we find in the depth of our stand  the strength to back your answer of “No More” as if the foundation for change - built upright from its own point of refusal!”

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Airline Without A Conscience

The friendly skies have become unfriendly
no longer is flying a luxury or heavenly,
taking trips on the iron birds have become a task,
If a traveler makes the wrong move,
he/she may end up wearing a gas mask,
Although some airlines are better than others,
There are those who are unconcionable and
their actions smother, whether one is sick or
laying at death's door, they look the other way
because they are overly consumed with making

Their sense of integrity and trust have been wrapped up
in thinking, such as "Everyone is trying to kill us",
Even those that serve and protect are treated like
nomadic rejects,
The airline without a conscience lacks sensitivity,
All they care about is packing folks like sardines
and exporting them to different countries,
They have left little room for exceptions to the rule,
because if a flier acts up, he/she is subject to a duel.

Details | Prose Poetry | |


Here’s the thing
Peer pressure, isolation and laughter
Doesn’t magically make wrong right
Or change a lie into truth
Just because so many
Who are uninformed believe
Doesn’t turn fiction into fact
Rewriting history doesn’t make it true
No matter how many times you try
Doesn’t matter if good people or fools
Are leading the way
If it’s down the wrong path
Doesn’t matter if you say
It’s for the children and the poor
If it’s not the truth
For only one thing
Will set you free
We can twist a man’s words
Into whatever we want
When He’s not around
But when He once again
Sets foot to ground
Twisting is not so easily done
But we did so with good intentions
Will offer no excuse
In the face of the Truth
We too long ignored
So does it matter
If a few facts were off base
And the Truth
Just a bit embellished
I wonder who among us
Is bold enough to say
A little white lie
Isn’t really so
In the face of the Truth

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 | |

Memory Tides

Was that yesterday or last year
my mind wanders now
You were here laughing 
your smiling face
 turned to the sun
We walked along the shoreline
and we kissed
Was that real 
or just another trick of memory
The seagulls mock me
with raucus glee
calling and fleeing as I turn
the sand feels cold under my feet
and the sea colder
I thought it would be warmer
Or was that yesterday or last year
There is another on the beach
She walks with aimless abandon
Like me
Perhaps she too is lost
Strolling on a beach of memory
Close to the sunshine of her past
She too stops at the Gulls taunt
Looking but not seeing
before returning to her own tide
The wind gusts
 And I remember 
your hair
Tossed and swirling in the breeze
as a wave caught you by surprise
was that you
was it me
was it yesterday or last year

Details | Prose Poetry | |


When the sun begins to set,
When the colours seem to fade,
When all hope seems useless,
When all people turn against,
When the storm takes pace,
When all leaves begin to droop,
When my heart begins to pain,
When all my fears come before me,
When all my sorrows fall upon me,
When all weaknesses build inside me,
When fate humours me,
And my destiny is unkown,
I know that faith is inside me,
To make me believe and give me hope,
That the better is still to come.

Details | Prose Poetry | |


JEKYLL-AND- HYDE ABIDE smiling my charmed smile targeting the façade of obligatory expectations to those who would care to see the hidden agenda of a perfect mime muse speaking my learned lingo directly into hearts of stone softening slur and lies they strive to deny with brittle anguished shriek the disguise I try Hyde splinters and reverses its swift purpose my breath runs off its track in a missed heart beat now stuck and struck as arms and legs lay lame by constant screaming in this head my anger absorbs taut terrors inward torments while the next bender of Benzo’s fights the X…x factor in placid restitution and perfectly refutes tornados of emotion that demolish control with appease as stage is set for another Jekyll arrival ©Kim van Breda—May 2014

Details | Prose Poetry | |


In the smoke of cannabis induced haze
Whispers of ogres & imps of bygone age
Laughter echoes,
Fallen angels by the side
Of friends left behind…
And of memories washed ashore

A few tokes one too many
Broken blinds of my windows
Someone is peeping in now
Its just light…
Darkness seemed comforting
Of the many nights of insomnia
Some dreams are best seen awake

Stoned! But respite is none
Lines don’t rhyme… am I the one?
Who is crying?
Tears are just, wasted stains
Melancholy is a form of pastime
Nostalgia a derivative of self

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 | |


There is a vortex in every locomotive
that is at once inert and in moto perpetuo
Beneath that vortex lies a feeling, a veritable
epicenter of grief from which springs the only
real compliment to sentient life and to which
our species has attached the name of suffering.

Details | Prose Poetry | |


The hardest thing in life

Is seperatung love from spite ;

Separating the truth, 

Even when you think it sounds right.

If you don't know your enemy,

there's no way you can fight-

And Sometimes the greatest hints are slight ;

As I recall them- 

Laying down at night .

There Is no remorce in self advocacy, 

And no shame in doubting their accuracy;

The intent of others is incalculable,

And you will feel their wrath;

Life is our hourglass- 

So who cares if your an outcast? 

Make the contrast-

Because their *****is all stagecraft; 

Shoot a counterblast,

Stay steadfast- 

And make damn sure it has an impact. 

Details | Prose Poetry | |

In Solitude of Heart

In solitude of heart,
Only myself
     with which to hear
     what echoes deep within.

In stillness,
     friend or foe?
     Make peace?

Details | Prose Poetry | |


With more than a hint of anxiety
I doubt all around me
Seeing demons in every shadow
I worry constantly

No rest for my mind
No peace for my conscience
Every breeze that blows
Is an omen of impending doom

I feel so marooned
Far away from tranquillity
I need someone to rescue me

I question all
I analyse minutely
Nothing satisfies me
I am always frazzled

The strain of fear weakens me
I feel unable to be happy
I wonder about what ifs
And throw constant strops and tiffs
I didn’t realise life was going to be like this

Details | Prose Poetry | |

love ewe and blue

love ewe and blue 

aer rhyming words true
there is always inflection and poor attitude
limits of knowledge above snobbish refrains
trains run on time only in the movies
movies run on time only in a small town
there is very few movies shown on trains
blue can be an attitude blue can be a heart
love you can be used to start a heart apart from you
as you watch the blue southern train depart
from the blue stunted depot with the board walk floor
the little blue conductor yelling all aboard her
as the train takes the love and makes your attitude blue
soup mix tastes so wordy so blue so true and good
with a doubly heaping helping of a love ewe attitude

Details | Prose Poetry | |


“Ablaze are thoughts instilled from farthest reaches, as if slipped into the reddish flames of fire within this burnt orange sunset. A sunset awash in its own quantum chaos, as if a Mendoza thrown color-of-the-sun fireball had struck broadside this clouded gun metal gray horizon.”

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Shifting Sands

Shifting sands, ever changing
with the always steady beating
of the planets heartbeat.
Patterns dynamic in their structure
always different, never the same again
carried on the wings of the wind
and its passing whim.
Hills and valleys dot the landscape
flat lands going nowhere lead ever onward.
Tiny grains of sand alone
are naught but infinitesimal specks
but together they can be mighty indeed.
Life abounds in this ever changing universe
with times passing it continues to fight
in order to survive its sandy domain.
To exist at it is/was destined too
is the only truth it knows.
Grains of sand mark the passing of time
minutes, hours, moving ever onward
with the shifting of sand, never to be retrieved.
Where it begins no one seems to know
its ending a mystery as well
is the end the beginning, or is the beginning the end?

Details | Prose Poetry | |



Down the halls, walking among the walls
of silence, mine and Of, and wonder?,
should I speak in words of thunder,
shatter the empty spaces of either,
or quietly refrain and do neither,
display nothing of what lies behind
those empty spaces - by kind?

Winds so silent, scream, on their way
down the hallways of my brain,
tearing to shreds, what is left
of the curtains that hide emotions.
Hide from those seekers of the soul,
who might care to know
what it is that protects the weakened spirit.

A spirit that waits for a sound so soft,
so pure, so innocent, it enlightens,
lightens the beating heart so heavy
with sadness, creating depressions
that are but gigantic holes
in the life of what is left
of a living being.

An organism - reaching beyond,
beyond it's single celled existence,
beyond it;s sterile, four cornered room -
am I, reaching out, trying to be more then
the nucleus of a protozoan, I am becoming,
more then the vapours of Saint Elmo's fire,
reaching out for warmth, passion, compassion.

B. J. "A" 2
December 24th 2010

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Pocket Full of Stones

Belts, switches, bricks, and near misses
Broken boys starring as established men
Police whistles, leather shoes clamouring
down city  alleyways slick as a polished floor.
White clubs swing, black heads snap
against the dingy lines that hold
brick walls together. The devil gives chase 
up to and into the pearly gates
heaven ain't safe.
Hide and seek high in steeples
I  once read, He has no equal, so
why does the human race run in so 
many horrible sequels?
Guide me O Lord before I fall 
a thousandth time. 
Does salavation have 
a dotted line I could sign? 
Looking for clues in my girl's arousal,
 a simple touch is trending as she
lays trembling. Moan filled
responses better known as M.F.R.s, 
spill of satisfaction, fades,
but is always everlasting;
as quickly as it recedes  
My mental hum throbs again
A sea of thought washes over me
and I'm overboard, overheard saying
What's my name? twice. I don't think my son
will ever be the same after hearing 
mommy's answer.
Amazing how a picture is painted.
Without ever mentioning it, 
you envision it. Coming back to shore,
tallying up the score
Motorcades and dimples, bullets and tinted windows, 
clean sheets dirtied, a president 
is laid to rest after having created another agency 
in an already clogged system titled the C.S.D. 
A place where no one ever gets answers
but finds sleep immediately. 
As I start to drift out of my writer's mind
and saltwater cascades and filters through sand
I'm reminded howa man can live a lifetime 
and die to soon.
"He without sin," He said. I walked away
with a pocket full of stones.
Sin is a pile of rocks, broken men carry.
J.F.K, M.L.K., M.O.U.S.E. 
Reset button pushed.
To be a kid again wondering why
daddy is asking mommy such a ridiculous question
when sins washed away
and a stone thrown
was a pebble against a window 
to see if the girl's sleep
waiting for her light to turn on...

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Walking Free

Distance that breeds love
Chasm beginning to envelop darkness
Concern that leaves a void
Of the broken bridges
And the pride in hate
I am humbled to walk the path again

Hate that leaves me breathless
Anger! Misplace righteousness
Cynicism, my guardian angel
Of the all knowing scorn
And the crutches of disdain
I am glad to walk free again

Details | Prose Poetry | |


Waiting for an epiphany
A life in transit
Keyhole visions… narrowed too fine
Cynicism, mockery doing rounds
Despairing times… out of bounds

What could’ve been and what is…
Funny how the story doesn’t change
Driftwood listless, aimless
Who is your huckleberry finn?
Hypocrisies, deceit, lies and everything lame
That just leaves god left to blame

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Full of Flaws


We are full of flaws yet
We seek out the ideal in each other 
We pander to the trends and styles
That flutter in the wind 
Perfection is king 

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Karma Twisted

Who am I to you?

I love you
No longer my fried
Our bond is a broken glass we can’t mend
This could possibly be the end
A broken faith in you snaps from within
When you’re not lying in my arms
You say you feel obligated to be there with him
Spare his feelings to obliterate mine

In trading that broken home for ours
Too blind to see the harm
You overlooked my witty charm
Favoring his dim-witted presence
Out the door into his arms
There you go

We can settle down and say ‘I do’
We’ll get back to being me and you
You’ll stop treating me like you do
And someday you will choose
Making me pay my dues
Now I’m waiting for fairy tales to come true
Dreams of ‘Happy Ever After’
I’m taunted by the burdens I choose
And wallowing in broken dreams

Inside your wicked lies
A sense of longing derives
To where our memories lie
Looking up through tear soaked eyes
While my child grows inside
Strumming your fingers across the wall
I imagine you on the other side
And intrinsic insanity leads me on

It rips my heart through and through
Tormented by this endless pursuit
Separating me and you
At night I lay against the wall
Our apartment split in two
By a life-altering war raging on

My love was thrown in the trash
Karma has twisted my dreams so fast
For my cruel and heartless past
I wonder if this is the punishment I deserve
A love that was never destined to last
Fate led my heart here

I love you
Who am I to you?

Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Contemplation

There are no truly blue flowers. 
No, not one. 
Hydrangeas or tulips can be green,
an odd color for flowers, I think.
Brown ones are dead. 
Brown and green are the colors of human eyes though,
and blue too, but that’s rare as eye color goes. 
Almost everyone has two eyes, or at least one. 
There are those whose eyes don’t work correctly, 
and some unfortunate souls who have none at all.
Every pirate ever known had just one eye.
Yep, just one eye and a black patch.
(I may be wrong about this.) 
There are cave creatures,
salamanders and roaches and fish, 
that have no eyes at all, and live in total darkness; 
evolution has done away with their eyes. 
Why would they need eyes if there is no light, 
not even that spectacular light from the sun 
in fluorescent (which means “shining through”) ribbons 
between clouds on stormy days?
There are other eyes too, on potatoes, certain fabrics, needles 
(Each needle has one; there are no two-eyed needles that I know of.).
Personally, I have two eyes, both blue, 
which see correctly only with assistance.
I often wish I had the third eye in the center of my forehead,
the one that symbolizes a state of 
enlightenment, clairvoyance, out-of-body experiences. 
However, I’m almost certain I won’t have one in this existence. 
Perhaps I will in the next, assuming I’m not reincarnated as
a snake or, even worse, a dung beetle. 
But then, I’ve been decent and reasonable most of this life, 
so maybe I will have that third eye the next time around.
It’s worth thinking about.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The broken road to heaven

The broken road to heaven 

The broken road in need of maintenance  
through which we have traveled, mute and solemn 
to our delight
was alight with millions of glow bugs;
evening was another leaf fallen
when I whisper to my friend Richard,
“Is it heaven? Have we arrived at last?” 
he smiled,  “we are yet to reach my home.”
=© 2009 - All Rights Reserved Kushal Poddar 

Details | Prose Poetry | |



I feel like an image in a Salvador Dali, painting.
Dripping off the edges of a surrealistic reality.
The Dream, - She has left me behind - a nightmare.
My spirit in an altered state of reality.
Reality melting all around, within me.

My life's clock ticking away, running out of time.
I find myself among those wretched Souls,
Screaming Souls, huddled together in mass misery
Clawing, reaching up in a desperate attempt to escape
The hell fires of Dante's Inferno.

Hands of my clock, limp, impotent, melting.
Time runs off their tips like tear drops,
Into the dark depths of eternal Dreams.
Dreams, that have her own realities.
Reality has no Dream, for me.

B. J. "A" 2
October 10th 2010

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Let go

ringing ears and dead brain
helpless, shattered, nirvana
living in denial
shallow empty & void
past paused since ages ago
stranded alone... never to let go

dissolve dissect disinfect
reality reason & retrospect
despair in vogue
ticking time standing still
future ahead but miles to go
just got there but have to let go

bunnies scampering in the rabbit hole
Alice refuses to go on a roll
Rapunzel got no hair to let down
Cinderella's left without an evening gown
future paused & present was a while ago
escaped in the darkness never intended to let go

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Tragedy---for Jon

Never has life's cruel temper dealt its deceiving hand as this day 
Lost-found in a place, living know not. 
Kinship friendship - words, verbiage to describe mortal bonds 
While those of the soul grasp bonds endless and dimensionless 
Youth is but a stage of dying 
Time cruel to its very essence. Time blows through us all as our sight through glass 
Its dark fingers paint our walls and carry us to our HOLMES 
Its cruelty is its existence. Defining agony, depriving experience 
Youth felt emotion lost through existence 
Found youth soul existence beyond comprehension 
Youth to us all? Youth has been lost but found where else 
But where time confronts us all. 

Details | Prose Poetry | |

My Brother

You left my brother
Came back a man
Should hear our proud father
Speak of you
How you’ve done him
And momma proud
Sister Jane and Katherine
Down the block
Never seem to have anything
But you to talk about
Oh if you only knew the loving
All the girls around here
Say you’ve missed
It’s a good bet
You’d never have left
But leave you did
Nothing can change that now
In a way it’s good to know
Exactly where you are
We need never again worry
If that old truck of yours broke down
Leaving you to walk home in the rain
It’s a good thing really
Now we can all get some sleep
Granted, not as much as you
But we will in our due time
Just want you to know
These tags of yours
Will never leave my neck
You, will never leave my heart
For no matter why you left
Or how you came back
You still are
And will always be
My brother

Details | Prose Poetry | |

-Life Seeking Waters-

Deep the pond
sweet the water,
Tranquilly placid
nestled in safe abode,
Nourished by tears of yester-years.

Vast the spaces
of times immemorial,
Condensed to serve
in segmented places,
Striving and continually
seeking the birthing waters
of the placid pool.

Vain the vanities
of immortal entities,
Chasing shadows
in spiraling obscurities
floundering, for a way to find.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Ole Shoebox

Hmm, a photograph
Two quarters and a dime
A half written note
A set of tags
A few keys and credit cards
Driver’s license and I.D.
Surprising what fits
In an ole shoebox
A few clothes thrown together
Some well pressed
An old pair of sneakers
And well polished shoes
A mind full of memories
A room full of emptiness
No doubt the room
Will be filled again
The box handed over
And the memories lived
I’d just rather not 
Be holding these tags
Through the silenced laughter
Echoes the days we knew
How with hair on fire
How high we flew
Larger than life
Now within my hands
In what I hold
So much more is told
Than a few items in a box
For what lies within
Is a life well lived
Cut much too short
For a greater cause
So surprising it is
What fits in an ole shoebox
I’d just rather not 
Be holding these tags
And damn my friend
I so want you back

Details | Prose Poetry | |

to The Public

Not really a poem, but the truth of my being.

To the Public
June 28, 2011

When I write the words just flow. I get an inspiration or a thought and have to write it down. 
Why, I do not know.  They just flow and all follow a story.  I write my innermost thoughts with 
the deepest passion imaginable and all are TRUE life experiences which have occurred in my life. 
I am diagnosed Severe Bipolar Disorder and disabled and draw SSDI. I no longer have to work 
from over 40 yrs in Maintenance and 2 degrees in Electronics and Electrical maintenance. I do 
draw disability now for over 2 yrs time and depression is a daily bout which I face every day, 
but try to be positive. The medicine I take is for my head and helps with mood swings and 
depression. As to date, I cannot read many of my works as I Bawl like a baby at most of 
them.  I remember when and how I felt when I wrote them.  But all of them follow a story to 
the end.  I cannot recite a single one because once written they are gone, otherwise they eat 
my Brain.  I am crying now as I write this and divulge my deepest thoughts and experiences of 
my life. I feel better now that it is gone from my head folks.  When a situation arises, I just 
know which ones will deserve recognition to be told.  I suffer from arthritis on my left side, my 
hands hurt all the time, and I practice herbal medicine for the pain.  I create my own remedies 
from my herbologist named Daryl Collins here in Okmulgee, he gives me the herbs and I am 
the guinea pig first and foremost for the experience.  Anyone else who suffers from this can 
contact me at  I am willing to tell you the recipe for my
Creations.  I hope all appreciate this testimony of mine.  All I say is true to fact.
							William Lewis Moore
							June 28, 2011

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Jesuits Ate My Basketball

The north wind blows cold, and the snows fold over like blankets in the closet.  Spirals
spin in acrimonious dances, prancing madly at unheard music.  The tune is soon gone and,
as the sun rises, it trips, breaking dawn.  Sweeping pieces of the fractured day, this
display of frozen water glistens brightly, and dims nightly.  The wrong song is sung,
again, but rightly.  In the East I wonder what magic holds sway, what words they say to
welcome strangers into their folded blankets.  

Time is chemistry and physics, spanning consciousness, but slips away like fishes. 
Delicious moments linger in memory, gone but not forgotten, the sweetness tastes a little
rotten, I'm afraid.  Tears do not forestall the thunder that always comes behind the
light.  I do not fight to see, or hear, or know, but slowly come to understand that which
is no more.  This floor supports my tired feet, becomes a bed for back and head, and now I
must depart.

I'm dead, I think, but still I write, this word, and this one will not stop.  The cold,
again, is coming now; it burns my bones to ash, until no trace remains.  Will she see my
face in snow drifts, bed sheets, and shoe laces?  I long for lingering embraces but arms
slip through me, ghostly, and listen to my beating heart.

Will this missive find kind eyes to see its meaning, to see its lies, to see its preening
self-adulation?  Will it speak to a soul that listens?  I hope so.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Who Needs You Now

You have fought for your country
You have heard the calls of death
And felt the loss of blood
And now, no one hears or cares
About the tears you cry
You fought a fools war
Inspired by heroic deeds
Majestic words of honor and fame
From people who never knew your name
Many were those who fled
And endured behind their protest signs
But you, you fought the war
Lost your limbs and gained insight into reality
It was you who came back less than human
And now you stand alone at night
Lost and forgotten men
Tell me, tell me who needs you now
Where are the people
Who gave you hell
Where are the people
Who cried to bring you home
Who marched for your life
While you marched to your death
Where are the people
Who loved you when it was the thing to do
And fought for your cause
While you wondered what it was
As you watched your buddies fade away
Heroes and medals
Tell me, what does it all mean
Now that you stand alone at night
Lost and forgotten men
And tell me, tell me, who needs you now
Now that our memory fades
Of those who served and the reasons why
All we seem to do
Is stand aside and watch them die
And tell me Brothers
Who needs you now?

Details | Prose Poetry | |

What Do You Think

What do you think it will take
For people to see eye to eye
Funny how we all seek the same thing
Yet somehow never agree
Funny how we never hear
But expect to be understood
Sad how we react to words
Without ever knowing their why
How we choose to ignore
The hurt and fear
In another’s eyes
While covering up our own
Each struggling to outdo the other
All the while striving
Reaching for the very same thing
Ignoring the way we’re living
We prevent the light from being seen
When the wind blows
It touches us all the same
Just like when it rains
Sunlight touches no one more
There is no discrimination
With heart and hunger pains
A man once tried to imagine
And for a moment
The world sang along
But soon words were forgotten
Lost in each other’s pride
Funny how that works
When we each try to hide
Bury the question deep inside
Until in a quiet moment all alone
Feelings rise again
And quietly we whisper
What do you think it will take my friend
For people 
To see eye to eye

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Monster and Marlboros in the Rain

I awake beneath the sink of sky,
the patter of raindrops collapsing 
against the breezeway of acrid dreams.
The light of the refrigerator blinks
against torrid eyes, shining impetuously
on the last can of Taurine's gestation.
I grab hold of clarity's false promises,
and crack open a ripened sip of morning,
walk outside to light its poison. 
Cold and fluid; the taste of inclement 
happiness seeks the buds of my repose. 
Tempting my lips to kiss the heart of 
fearless and youthful posture, as I 
pop the cherry of relevance with
the ever throbbing hands of mortality. 
Bones shiver beneath tepid flesh,
as the Earth soaks its tears into
its own bosom,
waiting for my blood to finally 
follow suit and go home. 
Not today; Today I ponder
with nature. Today we spin 
the yarn of metaphysical 
riddles in valid unison
because I seek,
and it begs to be found. 
For now, we have an understanding.
I am the fragile burden of this world;
stardust molded into a wicked grin,
born not to become a supernova,
but to bleed slowly and suffer
so that....
Well, I haven't figured that 
part out yet...
For now, I'll just inhale this 
existence, one sun fall and rise at a time,
and hope I can remember 
what it means to live,
when I do finally,
go home. 
-James Kelley 2014, All rights reserved.

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 | |

Consider us to be dolls

I’ve been made.
Not the way most people are made, with either a fateful mistake or long-lived intent. I
was not born the way people are born, or grown the way they were grown.
I am not real.
This needs saying. You have to understand that this is my reason. I am not a creature of
habit, or education, or coincidence. I am one of design. 
They did not make in a factory or on an assembly line, but that doesn’t matter. I am no
more real than your average toaster. 

I have thoughts. I have words. I have actions. None of them are mine. 

I was made this way. I was made to think how I think, and do what I do, and see how I see. 
	I do not think they meant me to know.
I was not meant to see beyond the veil, to see the strings being pulled. But even so, I
hate who I was meant to hate and love who I was meant to love, and only sometimes do I
confuse the two. I love my maker and hate my maker. I thank the one who gave me life and
curse them for it. 

	It is something strange to live a paradox.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Without The Box

So, there you are
Returned from fighting another mans war
Heard you’re quite the hero
Good for you my friend
Twenty years young
Couldn’t wait
To kick some terrorist ass
And so you did
So very well indeed I hear
Now you’re back
Nothing more to kick
What are you to do with yourself
Lying there as you are
Look at all of us here
To welcome you back
Can you not hear the joy
Can you not see the happiness
Or is it all hidden behind the tears
So here you are returned
In a flawless uniform
Lying there all smug and confident
With a peaceful look
Here you are returned
Fresh off the plane
In a nice tight package
Here you are returned
To never leave again
Good to have you back my friend
Only wish it could have been
Without the box

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Choices Chose

Men and the way we choose
To live our lives
With honor and deeds
Or mistrust and lies
Do we surround ourselves with truth
Build a foundation with roots
Or claim the mantra
With our misdeeds
It’s only us we hurt
Do we believe
When we walk in another’s eye
We’d best watch where we step
Or merely tread
Where only we can see
Out there lie
Many choices, many paths
We can plant good seed
Or live within our greed
We can walk through mud
And shed our blood
To lend a helping hand
Or we can walk around
Ignore the cries of what’s right
Shut our ears to the wrong
Make the claim
We stand on hallowed ground
But when it ends
And all comes down
All men choose
Where they stand
It’s a choice we make
Of our own
Dependent on
The heart within
What it bleeds out
When it comes face to face
With choices made
Along the path
We choose to walk

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Unless Jesus Is In Christmas...

Why all the hustle and bustle
and dashing through the snow?
Why bother writing greeting cards
or kiss under a mistletoe?

Why chop down a pine tree
and dress it with tinsel and lights?
What is the purpose of gift giving,
or days that are merry and bright?

Unless we keep Jesus in Christmas,
it isn't Christmas at all.
Unless we celebrate The Virgin Birth,
nothing has meaning or worth!

Christmas isn't the Holly and Ivy,
little toy trains or Santa Kissing Mommy.
Christmas isn't packages tied with string,
a red nosed reindeer,
or listening to sleigh bells ring.

Christmas isn't baking pies, turkey, and ham,
or lying awake till midnight,
to see a jolly ol' man.

Unless we keep Jesus in Christmas,
it isn't Christmas at all.
Unless we celebrate The Virgin Birth, 
nothing has meaning or worth?

No nothing has meaning worth!

Milton L. Delgado
December 26, 2006

Details | Prose Poetry | |

So Unprepared

Here you are on the verge
Of your very first road trip
All grown up
Ready to set the world on fire
So much excitement
Running through your veins
Ready to discover a whole new world
Even when it rains
There’s no need to wish you luck
Look at the person you’ve become
There’s no doubt
You’re ready to leave home
Make the world your own
Look at me with so much pride
So much evidence in who you are
That I’ve raised you well
How you became who you are
Living with a fool like me
Only proves 
There is a God
There’s no doubt that you’re prepared
To face whatever life throws your way
As I’m left standing here 
Savoring one last kiss and hug
Watching you drive away
I suddenly realize
In my haste to prepare you well
There’s one thing I forgot
One thing I left so unprepared
That has no idea what to do
Watching as you drive off
To a brand new life…

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Man I Want to Be

Years ago, I would have acted differently.
Full of emotion, of energy, of life.
But now I hold back. I avoid that which may hurt me.
The old saying “It is better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all,” 
is a truth I suppress into the inner confines of my heart.
For I’m nearly a grown man and the man I want to be is cold and emotionless.
Is it the fear of loss that drives this ambition?
A fear of commitment?
It is the embarrassment of being different.
The cold world around me dresses in red and I once dressed in green.
Curious glances at my nature stung like a thousand bees. So I hide my true color 
under a false red jacket.
I zip it up so securely that my difference, though concealed underneath,
 is but a memory of the courage, the embarrassment, I once dared to show.
For I’m nearly a grown man and the man I want to be is a coward.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Freedom Fighters: The End of an Era

America fostered a generation of people that cared,
Time has passed, and suddenly,
They are no longer here,
The next generation is dangling on a string,
because no one truly cares about anything,
They take civil rights for granted,
Freedom of speech gets no respect,
The young generation abhors conflict,
even when the Constitution is in jeopardy,
They are still relying on the past efforts of Freedom Fighters
to set them free........,
One morning minorities will awake 
and find a fate worst than Haiti's earthquake,
They will find their "say" has been taken away,
Then they will wonder if the "old timers" took a Holiday,
The progress only continues unless the youth stay on task,
If not.......,
History will repeat itself, and Freedoms won't last,
The dream will die and minorities will find themselves
succumbing because they all need help.

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 | |

You Were There

You, you were there for me
You, you showed what life could be
Though time was short
Words were wise
The love ran deep
And you were there for me
You played like a child
When the time was right
Knew when to cuddle 
And give some space
Your eyes spoke in ways
Words never could
If I needed help
I knew you always would
And you, you were there for me
You, you showed what life could be
You never questioned why
Yet always answered well
Had a way of making me tell
Getting me to face
What I tried to hide
You always knew
What I felt inside
Though it’s harder now
I know you still do
Though you had to go
And wherever you are
Time will never erase
That you, you were there for me
The love ran deep
Words were wise
And you, you were there for me

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Here's The Thing

Here’s the thing
Doesn’t matter what you say
Or where you are
We both know what was felt
Though we’ll never again add to
We both know what was done
What was shared
What we’ll miss
Though ones will fade
We’ll both have memories
Of what we did
Even if they come and go
When they reappear
For a time we’ll both know
During the times
One’s just a shell
The other’s strength
Will pull us through
When one seems so far away
The other will stay
To bring them back
As long as one has breath
We’ll not let the other down
And if the breath
Is not together lost
The other will not say goodbye
But be along soon
So here’s the thing
That no matter what tomorrow brings
Though what it is
We cannot know
Somewhere hidden there within
Our love will always show

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Almost Time

It’s been a while since you were announced
It’s nearly time for you to arrive
I’m about to see you enter into life
A life I helped to create
The time I’ve known about you
Seems to have passed too quickly
And now before I’ve realized it
You’re about to be born
For it’s almost time
It’s almost time to meet you
To teach you what little I know
And to learn far more from you 
Than you’ll ever know
Where have these last months gone
I haven’t had time to learn
The many things I should
I haven’t had time to forget about myself
For the sake of someone else
My God, it’s almost time
To let go of these feelings
I haven’t yet understood
To be flooded with new ones
When I first see your face
It’s so strange and new
To love someone so much
That I haven’t even met
I can’t say how your touch is going to feel
Or how you will change my life
I only know it’s almost time
It’s almost time to try

NOTE*** This is from my CD A Father’s Love Letters
To listen to the CD please visit

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 | |

May Soon Be

Used to drive by in my car
Shake my head, look the other way
Used to think get a job
And get off the street
And now, it’s a place
I may soon be
Used to walk on by
Or cross to the other side
Thinking they had no pride
Now it’s a place
I may soon be
Heard all the stories
Of rich men falling
Being lost and forgotten
Now it’s a place
I may soon be
Used to scoff at their college education
The thought they ever had a mansion
Business suits and cars
Now it’s a place
I may soon be
I’m not there yet
But I can see it near
I see those storm clouds
Searching for me
I can see my efforts
Being for naught
And soon being caught
I can see losing the choice
Of what to keep
Being in far too deep
And looking through the car window
From the other side
Funny how perspective changes
Depending on where you stand
How quickly you begin to understand
When it’s a place
You may soon be

Details | Prose Poetry | |

This Life

I lived this life my own way.
What else is left to say?
Now it's Judgement Day!

I misused this life He made.
It's time for God's fist to raise!
Was it worth the price paid?

Is the day of recompense truly here?
Or is this just a horrible nightmare?
No, it's really happening I fear.

Everyone hysterical and unstrung.
The wrath of God has begun...
payback for sinful things done.

The sky is beginning to shake.
I hear the sounds of a mighty earthquake.
God's Blue Prints are taking shape...

roaring thunder like crashing ocean waves...
people scattering fleeing into caves.
Oh My God! Is it too late to be saved?

Milton L. Delgado
March 5, 2008

Details | Prose Poetry | |

I Came To You

In my youth
I came to you
For love and warmth
When I needed words
That were strong and wise
I came to you
Now here I stand
Facing your door one more time
Oh how I need your strength 
To walk on through
There’s the couch
Where you watched TV
The kitchen’s still in place
Where you used to cook
The rocker’s still on the deck
Where you’d just sit and look
The pillow still has your imprint
Where you used to sleep
There’s your clothes all lined up
Waiting for you to give them grace
Look at the pictures lining the hall
With your smiling face
I remember how I came to you
With news of my wife and kids
And how you used to smile
Now I’m walking in this place
That has your feel
But not your smiling face
Oh dear God
How I need your strength
Who will I come to now
Now that you are gone
I don’t know how
But wherever you are
I’ll still come to you
In my time of need
Oh dear God, I’ll never forget
How when I needed strength and wisdom
You were always there
And how I came to you

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Arms In Which To Hide

Always surrounded by people
Yet I always feel so lonely
The lady let escape
From her lips
As the feeling poured
From eyes so beautiful
They always draw a crowd
So many people talking
As she screams out loud
No one can hear
For none will listen
There only for the laughter
And to share her touch
To drink in what they see
Not to look inside
All the fun of the moment
Tends to fade when days grow long
When all you need is a place to hide
But truth reveals no arms to hold
Just boasts with new stories told
So she tries to ignore
How alone she is
Hoping no one sees
What she really feels
Yet in all the photographs to attract
I see in each one exposed
The lonely hurt of a girl
Hoping someone will seek to look
Beyond what a picture shows
To discover what
Her true heart knows
And not seek to boast
But give her arms
In which to hide

Details | Prose Poetry | |

I Met Jesus Yesterday

I met Jesus yesterday
Didn’t recognize His face
There was no long hair or beard
Just a woman who said
Looks like you could use a helping hand
I met Jesus yesterday
Didn’t know who He was
There were no miracles of wine
Just an old man
Who shared his time
I met Jesus yesterday
Could have sworn I was all alone
No crowds were gathered there
Just a child who seemed to care
Offered up his bike
So I wouldn’t have to walk alone
I met Jesus yesterday
Never even said a prayer
There were no wounds on his hands
Just the scars of many years
Written all across his face
As the broken man gave me hope
I met Jesus yesterday
With no sermons on the mount
You were the only one I saw
As you gave your love to me
Promised there you’d always be
I keep meeting Jesus
Though I never see His face
It’s hard to understand
How this Man I never see
Keeps showing up
Wherever there is love
A helping hand, shared time
An offer not to walk alone
A caring heart
Or whatever I may need
It just seems I always say....
I met Jesus yesterday

Details | Prose Poetry | |


Blue-gray foggy mist hanging over the lake like an ethereal blanket obscuring 
the surface of the water and making the scene look like an artist's water color
or perhaps pastels, the chalk blended lightly with a finger tip, the far shore 
barely visible from where I sit, ancient trees rising like giants, silent sentinels, 
defiant, too early for the usual chatter of the birds, they still sleep, 
undisturbed, only one awake is me and the occasional turtle coming up to 
breathe, gently disturbing the placid lake surface as evidenced by a single ring, 
its purpose to slowly expand and dissipate noiselessly, as the orange sun has 
begun to peek over the horizon and that magical time is gone, those few 
moments between the darkness of night and the harsh light of dawn, that gray 
soft interlude before reality intrudes, when it seems the whole world 
sleeps...and the stillness and the silence is overwhelming.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

believe in the magick

Believe in the magick in the power of each thought. For you are like a lovely 
flower, growing in a pot. You can do it, whatever goals you have ever sought 
and you can grow your roots and widen yourself to a great big plot. And don't 
let yourself be put on the spot. And whatever effort goes out is the same as 
you have brought. Takes time sometimes, don't get distraught. It'll be turned 
toward you every deed or need you've ever bought. Smile,you'll be happier, 
that's what I've learned and I've taught.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

the games of our mouths are but forest darkness.

Come to me with the Shadows of Doves and spilt papers.

The sharp dampness of well acquainted sheets, Swells,

Like God puffing Life and kisses up from the End of the Bed.

This room is crowded in Vanished Smiles.

I Want them Back.

I Want the sight of your Teeth biting down into your Wrists, 

To be There Forever.

I Want The Sounds that you Never imagined Would involuntarily 

Slip out of your Lips,

To Be memorized by these Walls

And Repeated to me. Over. 

And over.


Death is in the Folding of Sheets.


The Idea that Happiness

Is Simply the Prayer 

that Tomorrow Never Comes.


I Don’t Want to Accept That.


Tomorrows been coming just the Same.


Where is my Measureless Night?

Time… cruel efficiency, Written out in Ashes….

How much of the darkness of my Soul, I Would Give,

To have you Back.

You had eyes 

That no one could look at without Dying.

But this After…

Has become a Never-After,

And somehow Life has stopped coming with the Breeze…

Now… there are no freshly Cut Lawns… no sky above…

No Green. No Blue.

Just You.

And You.

And You…

Into the Shelter of the Months I fly.

I Wanted the Impossible…

And Somehow… everything… has become It.

Even Breathing, now, Lifting my Voice to Speak, 

All of it, Is beyond Me.

You are out Of Reach

And Apparently 

So is Life.

From substance to substance, water to water,

Love to Love,

I Died into You.

And as much as I’d like to regret It. 

I Can’t.

That Is why 

You are Endless,

So Please… Gather me up 

As If you Were.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

the games of our mouths are but forest darkness.

Come to me with the Shadows of Doves and spilt papers.

The sharp dampness of well acquainted sheets, Swells,

Like God puffing Life and kisses up from the End of the Bed.

This room is crowded in Vanished Smiles.

I Want them Back.

I Want the sight of your Teeth biting down into your Wrists, 

To be There Forever.

I Want The Sounds that you Never imagined Would involuntarily 

Slip out of your Lips,

To Be memorized by these Walls

And Repeated to me. Over. 

And over.


Death is in the Folding of Sheets.


The Idea that Happiness

Is Simply the Prayer 

that Tomorrow Never Comes.


I Don’t Want to Accept That.


Tomorrows been coming just the Same.


Where is my Measureless Night?

Time… cruel efficiency, Written out in Ashes….

How much of the darkness of my Soul, I Would Give,

To have you Back.

You had eyes 

That no one could look at without Dying.

But this After…

Has become a Never-After,

And somehow Life has stopped coming with the Breeze…

Now… there are no freshly Cut Lawns… no sky above…

No Green. No Blue.

Just You.

And You.

And You…

Into the Shelter of the Months I fly.

I Wanted the Impossible…

And Somehow… everything… has become It.

Even Breathing, now, Lifting my Voice to Speak, 

All of it, Is beyond Me.

You are out Of Reach

And Apparently 

So is Life.

From substance to substance, water to water,

Love to Love,

I Died into You.

And as much as I’d like to regret It. 

I Can’t.

That Is why 

You are Endless,

So Please… Gather me up 

As If you Were.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Tradegy and Disaster

There’s a thing about disaster
Makes us act as we should
All working together
Differences aside
Something about when tragedy strikes
We all pull together
Thousands become one
Funny how hate fades away
And love doesn’t hide
Hands are reached
And arms are held
Pasts are forgotten
Futures are gleaned
Comforts are given
And for such a short time
We go on freely living
Suppose the trick is
When all is repaired
Not forgetting the short time
As one we all cared
Take it back to our daily lives
Carry on with the trust
We all found a must
To make it through
Tragedies and disasters
That came calling on us
Oh if only our day to day
Were looked upon
As tragedy and disaster
So that hand in hand
And back to back
We put differences aside
And love didn’t feel 
Like it had to hide
Until tragedies and disaster
Come calling on us

Details | Prose Poetry | |


Really? Hmmm,
So what you’re saying
Is covering up truth
With well intentioned
Though misguided facts
Changes a lie from what it is
By slapping goodwill
On the face of deception
Adding guilt to questions asked
Throwing in things seemingly good
That we all should do
Changes a lie from what it is
So by disregarding the truth
Saying it’s the spirit that counts
Makes following and joining the lie
An accepted worldwide truth
By adding a name who often spoke
Of the origin of lies
We find changing His words
Acceptable in our eyes
For after all, we do so for Him
Wonder what He himself
Would say and think
Of how we rationalize
Changing a lie from what it is

Details | Prose Poetry | |


The infinity of time is
still irrevocably established with
irreversible successions; the
extremities of
in its vast expanse of
continuum, are yet to
be discovered nor
explained by
and their mathematical equations.

And man still wishes to
resolve this enigma with
intentions of abating
the cessation
the pulsation of the heart, 
the respiring of air, 
and the
of the mind.

But sometimes, blinded by over-enthusiasm, 
Man fails to see

what cannot in cherry or
mahogany be confined are
deeds and companionship
in memories
which, in fact, despite inherent
biodegradability, become man's means
to immortality.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Decide What To Do

Look at the flood
Where waters run deep
Look at the lost faith
So hard to keep
Death and destruction
And everything gone
No words are needed
Just listen and watch
And decide what to do
Just listen and watch
And decide what to do
Colors become blind
When we’re all of one mind
Waters wash away riches
And unite the poor
Business suits and cut offs
Take water the same
When we’re up to our necks
We’re all of one name
So hand in hand we embrace
To make a stand
Working together to strive
To clear out the damage
Turn back the waters
And once again live
Flood waters run deep
No words are needed
Just listen and watch
And decide what to do
There’s a simple strength here
That won’t be defeated
It’s one that’s united
In me and in you
So as I take your hand
Here is mine
Together we’ll decide
Just what to do
While making our stand
No words are needed
Just listen and watch
And decide what to do

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Little Lies, Little Lies

The truth
The truth is an illusion
An illusion which we try to interpret
To interpret and to individualise
To individualise into our own lies when we don’t like it.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Greater 'Minds' Than Mine

  Greater 'Minds' Than Mine; 
Have left the 'Earth' and walked away.
Einstein as a troubled child, 
mixed socks and locked away.
Hubble and his visions eye'd, 
are seen across the sky.
D.N.A...must free more how...
When freedom lies barred now.
Worlds within a world within a world, 
his world one waits.
Within our dreams.
We do not wast our time on germs, 
untill they show us how. 

Is It Poetry 

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Shutting Down Arby's

Tonight, oh what a night it was
Nearly five hours spent
At a fast food restaurant 
Laughing and talking our way through life
Who else but you and I
Could get kicked out
For shutting down Arby’s
So folks could go home
We spoke of life
Of love lost and found
Of sex and dreams
The devil and Holy Ghost
We talked of beliefs
Work and foolish friends
Of places to travel
And goofy things we’ve done
We spoke of fantasies 
And how people are
Of puppies, kittens and relatives
Of future goals and lost hopes
Integrity and the things people think about
We asked why people
Are the way they are
Remembered childhood moments and scary movies
Came to know each other
Just a little bit better
Laughed at our life
While we joked about
Shutting down Arby’s
Such a unique distinction
To have done such a thing
But then again 
It was time well spent
Between a father and daughter
And all I can say
For letting it be so
Is thank you God

NOTE*** May all father’s have such a day. Happy Father’s Day

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Impact of Radiation

my knowledge on the
impact  of radiation 
is quite limited

but I do wonder
if radiation would be
in a brand new car

that was produced in
Japan after the earthquake
and the tsunami

if the water has
radiation, would the paint
on the car be safe?

do we realize that
dangerous radiation
impacts the whole world?

do we realize air,
water and nature will not
be safe for mankind?

sadly, inventions
without preparations for
disasters proceed

and mankind welcome
each with great expectations
to increase comfort

until the next time
a tradgedy occurs, and
many lives are lost

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Last Night

Last night we went to see a friend
Who has a little baby girl
And it makes me love you even more
The warmth, the smile in your eyes
The love dancing across your face
Makes me dream of the day
When that friend will come to see
You and me
And the little baby girl
We will make together

NOTE*** This is from my CD A Father's Love Letters
To listen to the CD please visit

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Already Nine

My oh my
Where has the time gone
It seems like only yesterday
I was told you were mine
And now here you are
Already nine
This birthday I have to miss
But it makes me remember
And say thank you God
For having this little girl to kiss
To hug and snuggle
And watch as she grows
From the little babe
I once held in my hands
To the girl
I now hold in my arms
One day soon
You’ll become a woman
Leaving me with all these memories
Of how special it is, and how lucky I am
To be able
To watch you grow

NOTE*** This is from my CD A Father’s Love Letters
To listen to the CD please visit

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Land of Graves

Land of Graves

A land of graves makes for quiet neighbors.  
He who blessed or cursed extant thereupon remains 
Shall suffer little disturbance at the will of his resting countrymen.  
The deep silence of an irrevocable sleep pervades his surrounds.  
His own sleep mimics that of his departed brethren 
But that kin to living rest is a far colder, everlasting condition.  
Lest it be by the appearance of some revenant, 
His nights will be those of uninterrupted stillness.  
The surface of this vast earthen sarcophagus is adorned with faltering monuments- 
The souls of their corresponding constituency have long-since dispersed in nihilum- 
Leaving playing children and Springtime Sunday-afternoon-passersby 
To speculate on their origins and exits, lives and times.  
But make no mistake this is not a wholly moribund environment.  
There is life in this soil yet.  There is an irrepressible profusion reclaiming 
This tomb from its own looming finality.  The tomb is rendered womb by its power.  
The tomb-womb is green.  It is a garden, a park, a yard and an arboretum.  
It is a charnel conservatory of the deceased, yes, but this sepulchered meadow 
Exists as much if not more for those with air in their lungs and blood 
In their veins as it does for those buried beneath its grassy lawns.  
Though in little more than a generation even the freshest entries into its 
Assembly will receive only sparing or incidental visitation.  
The ancestry hobbyist and the armchair genealogist will pay their homage.  
The digger of graves and the mower of lawns will be more frequent still.  
Is maintenance in the face of inevitability an exercise in courage or folly?  
Perhaps it is just necessary for life to go on. 

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Things To Be Learned

They say that in life
Each day brings things to be newly learned
Today at age thirty, I found that to be true
From none other than you
Though you’re just past four
I’d just finished yelling
Over some silly wrong 
I perceived you had done
And like adults so many times do
I only saw it from my point of view
After I left the room
I heard you crying
When I returned, I found you in the corner
On the floor sobbing
When I asked what was wrong
You said I really didn’t want to know
When I convinced you I did
Boy, you really let me have it
You said I didn’t need to yell
That you could understand
I didn’t have to scare you
That you had feelings too
That there are some things you didn’t know
Cause after all you were only four
It was then I realized, that yes
You are a person too
And things don’t always look the same
From your point of view
And that as we go through life, you just like I
Have feelings, thoughts, things you don’t understand
And so much each day to be newly learned

NOTE*** This is from my CD A Father’s Love Letters
To listen to the CD please visit

Details | Prose Poetry | |


Is this how my TV feels every time it shows a screen full of static?
 Out of sorts, unable to comprehend the signals coming in; or maybe
 the lack of it? Does it feel frustrated when a supposedly knowing hand
 yanks out the power cable and fixes it back in, in the hope that a
 reset would turn the static to fluid pictures?
Does it get angered when ignorant hands pick up the remote control and
 flip from channel to channel, willing it to show something other than
 static? Does it fume?
Does it roll it’s eyes when over eager hands ‘pat’ it not so gently
 to see if it will make the thing on the screen change? Does it cringe
 at their touch? Does it feel pain when the pats are rough or hard?
Does it smile when a sensitive user picks up the remote control and
 thinks to tune and search for the right signal? Does it rejoice when
 the black and white dancing dots give way to a shaky picture? To the
 beginning of something clear? Does its heart fall in disappointment when
 the picture is still shaky, dancing from the bottom to the top of the
 screen with multiple lines running through and the user stops tuning and leaves?
 Is it able to trust when finally a user with the patience to follow through comes
 along and tunes until the picture is clear and the audio is right too?
I wonder if these are the things my TV feels when all there is is static,
 and if it is then I guess I’m not much different from my TV. 

p.s check out my blog for more stuff from me :)

Details | Prose Poetry | |

when the river turns to ice

when the river turns to ice
her touch lies frozen solid
cold forbidden calculations
how to stay restricted access
hard on thoughts of summer wanderings
invitations buried under sad emotions
slow the inches of a weary crossing
silent in response
a sudden crack that slithers piercing
the sound of fear beneath my feet
silent is the answer
shall I wait or shall I walk so tender
will the split in trust wide open try
still not one reply
to die in vain for smiling
crying over what was once so sweet
running water over babbling beds of rock
enthusiasm of a younger stream
flying now confined
defiant in a stubborn season
residue of rusting propositions
silent is my call

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Nobody's Blame

I find it funny how we each blame
Another for our woes
Don’t quite understand
How it can be everybody’s fault
And nobody’s blame
How can anybody be right
If everybody’s wrong
If it weren’t for George
If it wasn’t for Bill
If it weren’t for Ron
And what the hell
Was Jimmy about
We should’ve listened to Ted
And forgot about Dick
Now today we hear it’s them to blame
Countered with
It’s their own damn fault
We hear so many promises made
Yet so few are kept
We see executives paid
For jobs well done
That were never done at all
While those around them fall
And yet, nobody’s to blame
But the other guy
Just how was it
And when did it come to pass
That mirrors looked into
Quit reflecting back what is there
To those looking in
When was it common sense left
And a man looking himself in the eye
No longer mattered
Just so long 
As standing near by
Was someone else to blame

Details | Prose Poetry | |

No Wish Wash

Be still you moaning soul
and heart refrain from vexing
the souls domain with anxious
thoughts and wish wash emotions

Soul and heart both so sync
wish not for the past where
regretful actions and longings
dwell wish not for the future
and what it holds to ordain
stay not in the present
for lost both shall be

Be ruled by the mind which 
neither feels nor expresses
Mind over matter no
more wish wash matter
floating in two worlds
no home to gather

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 | |


In 2008, we hope for world peace and wars to cease.
We will take hold of possibilities and cast away the impossibilities.
Embrace a new future to learn and nurture.
Remember new friends we have made along the way
and keep ever-close old friends to heart.

Let us never forget the losses we suffered 
as individuals or as nations.
Encouraging those whom serve us
protecting our freedom.

Let our words mimic our actions
Let us speak uplifting and 
Inspiring word verses.
Let the thoughts of the poets be
engraved in the inspiration
we set forth let us help
carve new truths for all.

In 2008 a Year of new beginnings.

Have a Happy New Years Soupers and thank you for allowing me to become a part of this
community in 2007.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Transvestite Not Working.......

Gender prejudice is a hoot,
Who gives another the right
to determine femininity or
Haven't they ever heard of men
who act very feminine,
Yet, they are not gay,
Metrosexuals, that's just their way,
Then, there are women who relish
being Tom-Boys,
because the thrill of kicking aces
brings them joy,
They can beat the old boys' network at
their own games,
doing it effectively and without
However, closed minds feel better off trying
to ostracize,
because an Amazon woman can cut anyone
down to size.....

Details | Prose Poetry | |

It Just Seems

Hate to say it
But I’ve got to admit
Sometimes I look around
And I just don’t get it
Don’t know where it was or when
But somewhere down the road
We seem to have lost our way
Used to be Father’s stood firm
Right alongside Mother’s
To keep families strong
Didn’t seem to be as many questions
About what was right or wrong
Used to be when a man
Looked in the mirror
He looked there straight
Just like he spoke
Now there seems to be
A lot more mirrors filled with smoke
Don’t know, maybe it’s just
The small town in me
But I just can’t see
This new enlightenment
People throw about
In my backwoods way
It just seems like throwing out right
So they can do no wrong
They say the last forty years
Have brought us so far
True or not
One thing can’t be denied
Lost somewhere in those forty years
Were the hard fought values
And lessons learned
Of nearly two hundred years

Details | Prose Poetry | |


What are you doing running all over town,
making plans and rushing around?

You're always watching your weight,
cutting down on fat.
Oh, I need my spirit lifted today,
I must buy a new hat.

The night is nearly over.
A new dawn is about break.
Be aware!  The Lord is coming!
Get ready stay awake!

Don't waste another minute.
Don't squander precious time.
Your salvation is nigh upon you.
Death's sting to life sublime.

So set your mind on what is coming.
All else is going to pass.
It's how you served and how you loved,
that will forever last.

Cause the night is nearly over.
A new dawn is about to break.
Be aware the Lord is coming!
Get ready! Stay Awake!

Milton L. Delgado
May 12, 2004

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Uncle Charlie's Friend

I was barely ten years old
When I heard the news
Couldn’t quite comprehend
Why Marshall wasn’t coming home
People said he was the best of them
My Uncle Charlie’s friend
I can remember my Ma and Pop
All their friends crying out loud
The whole town coming out
For a man everybody loved
Sent off to a foreign land
Never coming home again
When Uncle Charlie came home
Used to sit on the porch
He and his drums playing a song
Damning the Viet Cong in Marshall’s name
Used to look at him through the smoke
Watch him shake, the blunt of people’s jokes
Seemed to have an unquenchable thirst
Twenty-two going past a hundred
What it was I never understood
Turned him into a piece of wood
Thirty years gone by
Seem to have a different view
As I look back on things I never knew
I see my Uncle Charlie’s friend in a different light
No longer just a name
As I’ve watched some of my friends go
It’s dawned on me why the whole town turned out
For Uncle Charlie’s friend
The smoke has cleared, the thirst is gone
Only the echos of drums remain
On the porch of a house no longer there
My memory knows him as Marshall
What’s left of the town
Speaks of him as the best of them
Though they haven’t thought of him in years
The way and why he died, they haven’t forgotten
It’s only now I comprehend, the pain and grief
My Pa’s brother and the whole town felt
For my Uncle Charlie’s, my Uncle Charlie’s friend.

Details | Prose Poetry | |




Here in the winter of my long lived life,
the leaves of my head now fall to the ground.
Destined like leaves of trees gone dead, 
the winter winds will soon blow my dust around;
and like fallen leaves, I’ll be done with this world’s strife.

Oh but when the scythe of time snips my thread,
would if I could be like leaves of trees---
who in due season, go happily to their death:
leaving their wooded---naked bones with nothing left
but the bark of reason guarding their earthy homes
through whose lonely arms, the chilly breeze freely roams. 

Yet, for these trees, another season comes like the mornings’ dew;
And they shall rise up from winter’s purgatory and begin life anew.


And though the sojourn here has had its moments of despair,
the flames of  love, faith and  hope have always been there.
So when I’m gone, weep only tears of joy for me;
for I know why the empty cross was made of the wood of a tree.  

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Journey - I

His City Was a Lonely Existence, Governed By Those

Clothed in Green. Sitting Amidst The Twilight This Boy

Of Blue, Wasted in Solitude, Begged the Sky For Solace.

                                  - A Blue Trail Beckoned Him -

Comprised of Fog, The Blue Narrowed and Curved its Way

Across His Land of Green. It Took Him to The Edge of His

World, and Ran On Across The Deep Water.

                                   - Blindly He Followed -

After Months of Skimming The Surface of the Everclear,

In a Small and Battered Wooden Vessel; He Hit Land.

His Blue Had Almost Faded, But He Strove On.

                                    - The Ground Was Green here -

Disheartened, but Never Yielding, He Continued to Follow 

The Blue Fog Across Barren and Unfamiliar Lands, Until The

Orange Hue of Light Pollution Filled the Sky.

                                     - The Arrival -

            The Blue Line Faded into a Town and Disappeared.  

                                 - His Mind Sank -

Roaming The Streets of This New Territory, He Grew Frustrated.

The Idea of Chasing Fog Seemed to Run Like Liquid in His Mind.

These People of Green Seemed to Mock Him as They Passed.

                                   - This Boy of Blue - 
                   - Sleeping in a Gutter of The Purest Green -

A Hand Sinking like Silk into his Shoulder, Woke Him With A

Gentle Grace. She Stood Above Him, Smiling and Fascinated.

A Girl of The Deepest, Vastest, Blue.

                            - She Took Him By The Hand -

                                           - And Lead Him From The Green -

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Something To See

Wouldn’t it be something to see
To view the perfect love
In every word I write
But diamonds they can’t all be
Wouldn’t it be something to see
To walk through the rain
Hand in hand and not get wet
But sunny days don’t always happen
What if the clouds always opened up
Wherever you walked
And each step you took
Made you forget the last
Wouldn’t it be something to see
If smiles and hugs were always there
And in the world
There was nothing but care
Ah, wouldn’t it be something to see
You and me living every day
Just envisioned our own way
Oh my God, if every word I spoke
Said it just right
We could live so happily
With no more foolish pain
Yes I agree
Wouldn’t it be something to see
To view the perfect love you see
Each time you look in the mirror
But darling, it’s just me
And everybody knows
Perfect, I’ll never be

Details | Prose Poetry | |


Belief, what a strange and silly thing
Changing from day to day
Blown about on the wind
Like the chirping that birds sing
Changing like the weather
From rain to sun to fear
Brought on by the darken clouds
Of a coming storm
Changing like a beach front
With each succeeding tide
Like a canyons wall
From the rivers flow
So many beliefs 
Seem to come and go
Depending on our travels
And where we are in life
Still it seems from time to time
Something needs to stick
A core needs to be established
Held not within our hand
By a fruitless grip
But deep within our heart
So when it’s time to make a stand
Our feet and heart hold firm
To what we know is right
Oh sure this view seems out of date
Especially in today’s new light
But as time has always shown
Even in the darkest dark
Knowing what you believe
Gets you through the night
And knowing what you believe in
Enables you to stand
Instead of falling like a fool

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Never Bored

" Never Bored "

Written By: Rodney Riggins
Dedicated to my sister: Vanessa

If I had your life I would never be bored.
Some don't have god in their life but has 
a choice to. Being happy is a part of
never being bored once I was happy
but that was before I stop believing.
Believing that life goes on after 
heartache and realizing the decision
that I make only creates what's ahead.

Never being bored is keeping busy and
never going backwards in the past which
only makes you dizzy. Planning events 
with your family, and friends my personality
is double and forms as twins.(Gemini) Why I'm I 
bored? maybe I'm stucked in the past
living fast life in the future will result
me to crash.

 If I would only love myself and not put no one
above i would never be bored but happy
and wealthy not in money but in life. What's
important is staying healthy trusting and
loving god. Believing that lifes too precious
to be depressed because the best cure is
never being bored just keeping busy.

That's why If I had your life I would
never be bored.

Details | Prose Poetry | |


They came with vicious dogs.
They came with clubs and ropes.
They came with galloping horses.
They came with guns and tear gas.
They came with hate and fear.
Oh God!  They came to kill!
But we just kept marching---
Rattling broken chains behind;
Arms and hands fastened by bonds of love;
Our pride, dignity, and audacious faith before us---
With the glorious cloud of our precious God above us---
We just kept on marching---marching---marching---
Marching up to freedom's land:  Glory...Glory...Glory...

God!  I am so glad I was in that number
That just kept on marching on!

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.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Lessons taught

Long ago on rolling hills
And endless plains
Stood men who fought
For a cause beyond common understanding
Bound together by integrity
They persevered 
When odds gave no chance
Led by a man
Whose name was always half whispered
They made a vow
From that day forth
To stand as one
For in so doing
They found the strength
Lost on thousands
And won the day
Freedom they earned
From the blood they sacrificed
In defending a land
Not all their own
Thus were legends made
Respect of generations earned
Handed down from father to son
Mother to daughter
For all to hear 
How strength is found
When standing as one
Throughout history
From the example made
Nations have been born
To see freedom reign
Overcoming such odds
That would defeat weaker men
All brought forth long ago
On rolling hills and endless plains
In the lessons taught
By men who stood as one and persevered
For a cause far beyond
Common understanding of mortal men

Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Year Gone By

Has it really been a year gone by
Watching the flame of
The single candle on your cake you try
I think back on the year gone by
From hearing it’s a girl
To holding you in my arms
I don’t know who’s grown more
You or I
I remember when your eyes first opened
Wondering what it was you saw
The first time you smiled
I was wrapped around your finger
A year gone by of late night feedings
When I laid you to your mother’s breast
The times you needed changed
The times you needed held
The times you simply slept
I remember them all through the blur
Of the year gone by
I remember when you first left your mother’s breast
When you first tried to touch you knew not what
The first time you giggled
Your shock when you first rolled over
How quickly you learned to crawl and explore
So many things you did I remember
But my fondest memory of the year gone by
Is how I’ve learned to give love
And set aside myself
For someone much more special than I
Has it really been a year gone by

NOTE*** This is from my CD A Father’s Love Letters
To listen to the CD please visit
As the lead single it comes with a music video viewable at

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Journey - III

With Gazes Locked, She Pushed Up And Against Me in Passions Flight. 
I Felt Her Chest Pressing Against Mine and The Beads of Sweat 
Running Between Us. She Closed her Eyes As We Intertwined. 

                               - Sharing My Body With Hers. - 
The Colour of Faded Blue Burst into a Palette of The Deepest Crimson. 
Basking Together Beneath The Skylight, Under The Rain and Back Up 
Into The Twilight, That I Begged For This Moment. 

                               - The Intensity Multiplies With Every Second - 

Her Gasping Turned Frequently to Soft Moaning, My Pupils Dilated 
and My Life of Simple Colour Singularity Pales Behind Me, 
As We Soak into The Redness, and Every Second Passes, Strained With Our Passion. 

                               - He Feels it in His Legs - 
                           - She Feels it in Her Stomach - 

She Screams as The Euphoria Peaks and Together We Share a Potent Climax 
Which Coils and Shivers Its Way Intricately Through Every Alcove And Vessel 
of Our Entities. I Rest My Head on Her Bosom. 

                              - Her Eyes Wide With Exhaustion - 

My Head Lifts With a Heavy Strain, and A Smile Seems to Ease its Way Across My Face. 
I Fix her Hair Behind Her Right Ear as I Kiss Her Chin, Then Her Forehead, Then Her Lips. 
She Smiles, and Curls Up Into Me. 

                               - Justification of Existence - 

- I Close My Eyes and Form a Shield Around her. - 

                                         - I Don't Care if I Ever Wake Up -

Details | Prose Poetry | |



Names are chosen to suggest aggression;
Anything smacking of peace is for suppression.
Soviet subs are Typhoons not Seabreezes.
The USAF  flies  Eagles, not  Robins
And it’s a Tomcat,  not a Tabby cat, 
Real men fly a Hornet not a Butterfly.
The British prefer  Harrier to Supporter.
Native American names can include
The Tomahawk  but not the Prayer Bead,
And the Apache but not the Micmac.
No doubt a new aircraft carrier 
Could be called the Charles Bronson  
But not called the Oscar Wilde.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Here I Stand

Here I stand
With no shoulder to cry on
Staring into empty space
At an unrecognizable face
After feeling so much
Why do I feel nothing now
All I tried to do was laugh and play
Tried to love and please
Did everything I could
So much more than was asked
And yet, I failed
Now I see you walking away
While here I stand
With no shoulder to cry on
I hear your footsteps and fading voice
The screams and the anger still attached
What was it I did so wrong
To make you feel so much
Why do I feel nothing now
And can’t even reach out to touch
I no longer feel my breath
I no longer feel my heart
I was just a child
As I watch you walk away
Why do I feel nothing now
Why are we both left
With no shoulder to cry on

NOTE*** Death should never be seen through the eyes of a child as you walk away… Child 
Abuse… let’s stop it! Not tomorrow, not today, but now!!!

Details | Prose Poetry | |


“Are you a Warrior?”

I was asked in the in the quiet solitude of day 
And I wondered long into the night

What does a Warrior make?

If by a Warrior you mean
One who always tries to do the right thing
Even when doing what is right tears my heart in two
One who does the right thing just because it is . . .

If by a Warrior you mean
Someone who always makes time to listen
Who brings you a smile when you least expect it
Who laughs with you everyday, today, just like yesterday
And cries a flood of tears so yours do not fall alone

If by a Warrior you mean
One who stands up for those in need
Who fights for those who cannot, or will not
One who turns the other cheek in the face of rage, hatred and bigotry
Walks away when my blood screams out injustice!
And a fist is all it seems I have left to choose
Because walking away is the right choice . . .

If by a Warrior you mean
Someone who will always be there for you
Always tries to move Heaven and Hell to keep his promises to you
Someone whose soul withers and screams when I cannot, have not
Supports you when you are wrong because that is when you need it the most

If by a Warrior you mean
A person of honour, of compassion, faith and humility
Someone of strength, trust, of love and respect
Someone of ethics and integrity and the will to live buy them
The courage to fight for your dreams and . . . and to fight for my own
Someone who will always apologise and say I am so, so very sorry I hurt you

If by a Warrior you mean all of these things
Then all I can say to you it this, just this, only this . . .

I do not know if I am a Warrior

But I want to be . . . 

Details | Prose Poetry | |

I Want You To Know

If I should die tomorrow, I just want you to know
Just how deeply you have touched my life
And how much you mean to me
To have been able to hold you during your first breaths
To have been able to watch you
As you’ve grown for these nine years
Is the greatest thing I’ve ever done
I was fortunate in my life
For I got to see you learn to crawl, to walk, to talk
To brush your teeth, even your hair
I was there when you first two wheeled
I was alive to hear you laugh so many times
I was able to hold you when you cried
I heard you read and learn to spell
As I’d watch you sleep at night
I knew I didn’t always do things right
There’s so many things I could’ve done better
I should’ve thanked God so many more times
For blessing me with you
I just want you to know I’m proud to be your dad
And should a time come that I’m no longer here
And you feel like you’re alone and need a friend
I want you to remember
There’s no space, time, life or death that can separate us
I will always be your dad no matter where I am
I will always do my best to help
And you must always try to do your best
To treat others like you and to be yourself
Cause you, just being you
Made my life so worth living

NOTE*** This is from my CD A Father’s Love Letters
To listen to the CD please visit

Details | Prose Poetry | |

And You

The first time I looked into your eyes
I knew my heart was gone
The first time I held you in my hands
I found new meaning to my life
I’ve known you for three years 
I’ve watched you crawl
And learn to walk
Giggled as you learned to talk
And you, you are my life
And you, you are all life means to me
When I’m, when I’m with you
There’s no place I’d rather be
There’s good times yet to come
Sure to be a few bad ones in between
Only sure thing is
I’ll be there for you
As long as I’m alive
No matter what you’ve said or done
You’ll have one sure place you can come
You’ll always have a place
That you can call your home
And you, you are my life
And you, you are all life means to me
When I’m, when I’m with you
There’s no place I’d rather be
And you, you are my life
And you, you are all life means to me
You’ll always have a place
You can call your home

NOTE*** This is from my CD A Father’s Love Letters
To listen to the CD please visit

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Beauty, like most things, is subjective

Beauty, like most things, is subjective
Some people prefer a statue, marble, 
Crafted at the enervation of the sculptor.
Others prefer smoke, thin and intangible, 
Dancing in plumes to an atonal rhythm.
Call me crazy, but I prefer neither. 
I admire you in your skin in clothes 
Shorts and a tank-top, as you move
So exotically your hips to a drum in time.
However I don't find beauty in arousal, 
Yet in a connection seen in eyes, 
Held in hands, and know, I find
Large amounts of beauty in you
I could sit with you and die. 
As we all do now, sad and alone, yet 
As soon as proximity is reached
Between us, dying becomes more.  
It becomes the tobacco between
The fire at a cigarettes tip, 
And the filter, that sweet sin 
That has so enticed you before.
However, that's just me,
As beauty is subjective.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Time of Violence

A time of violence has pounced upon this country,
Folks are angry, hungry and craving prosperity,
The change they wanted never showed up,
Now, many are sad, melancholy and "tore-up",
The youth are becoming restless because they believe
there is no hope for a promising future,
All they hear is Politicians' lectures,
The wee ones are becoming infested with
feelings of despair, as colicky babies do,
They need to know that safety exists everywhere,
A country without a plan creates angst and restlessness,
Nevertheless, citizens forge ahead with optimism,
despite the whispers of skepticism.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Miskó Ki'zis (Red Sun)

I have been born to a red mother shigo red father
Underneath a massive cowboy hat
Beneath a weeping tree of willow tresses
Below the soft eyes of a red sun wilting
Submerged is my heart, my soul in red blood
And yet . . .

I have been born with the gift of a wabayshka voice
Carried on into the day by a rolling pen
Held tenderly throughout the evening 
Cupped quietly across the sea of darkened night
Hugged tightly inside the morning kiss on my red skin
And yet . . .

I have been born with cascading mukaday hair
Flowing brown eyes shaded with a breath of black
Falling lightly across my skin a whisper of browning 
Subsiding as brightly as yours is my smile that shines
Sighing inside with a quiet mind red as the twilight sun
And yet . . .

I have been born with a mind as white as snow
Within this world of yawning full splendid colour
Inside the glowed out gaze of Kooc-hum the watchful moon 
Amid a washing cast I have been swallowed 
Among a sea of wind hailed across the earth of my kindred kind so red
And yet . . .

My people still call me mishimin under my red stained tears

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Forever Free

In the land
Where brave men die
Stories are told
Where these men lie
Of how they fought
And what they sought
Glory not for themselves
But freedom to die
As they chose
So they did
And gave their all
So those that follow
Might know free will
Brave men in troubled times
Who lived not to count
Rich men’s dimes
Lived lives full
Rather facing death
Than to live as slaves
Men of honor who drank their fill
Feasted on life
Till filled with hope
Riding into battle already won
Free to feel the sun
With the wind in their hair
Free to choose their day to die
Oh to be so free
May we always be
To always remember the legend
Of a man and men
Who so believed in integrity and honor
In the face of challenge and strife
Rode off to face death
To put their lives to the test
For a greater cause
That we might live
Forever free

Details | Prose Poetry | |


Falling leaves trace ancestral tracks in empty air
and their whispers echo secrets, ancient; 
lost to most mortal ears, suppressed,
Stifled as techno-shrieks from MP3 quicksand, 
cell-mania and industry drums
drive them into near oblivion.

Soot-browned, crispy hairs fall upon Earths’ shoulders;
dancing on Fall winds, singing messages loud and clear;
we must rest now, hibernate in her womb.

“Child, when ice-time comes, her steely cold grip will crush us in our slumber.
Gaia, like the phoenix reborn,
renews in sleep her life power;
pours us into leaf-molds.
Once again; death is some mortal illusion, 
but most never hear our whispers.”

Listen with your soul, 
ears never truly hear these whispers.
Selective hearing is mankind’s’ undoing.

Details | Prose Poetry | |


Well, you finally did it
Though you fussed and fought
Kicking nearly every step of the way
Once I turned you loose 
There was no holding you back
Watching as you tore through the grass
I saw you discover a new found freedom
And declare a form of independence
I knew right then and there
That what had fell into your tiny little grasp
Would never be let go
I could see in those little eyes
Just barely five years old
A stronger burning fire
Than I’ve seen in eyes ten times as old
It was the first time I knew for sure
My little girl would be all right
No matter where life’s path might lead
For in that instant of discovery
You did so much more
Than learn to ride a bike
You tasted what having freedom
And independence brings to life

NOTE*** This is from my CD A Father’s Love Letters
To listen to the CD please visit

Details | Prose Poetry | |

After The Lust is Gone......

When a woman first meets a man,
He thinks she's the greatest invention
since sliced ham,

He adores her physical appearance,
The way she talks, laughs and giggles,
He even savors her fragrance,
There is never any talk of space or
room to wiggle,

Once the relationship becomes consummated,
her faults suddenly become illuminated,
The idiosyncracies he used to find charming,
become uncouth and alarming,

He repels her like a magnet,
and ignores her as if she were
an antiquated kitchen cabinet,

After the lust is gone,
a woman becomes an unnecessary 
The man no longer feels obligated
to be respectful,
All his negative ways get displayed,
He renounces being bashful,

The man picks the woman apart,
like a bird pecking his food,
Then it becomes clear,
his intentions were not good from the start,
He was just toying with her heart.......

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Take A Moment

So many times we fail to see
Why we’re able to live free
We take for granted it’s the way
It’s supposed to be
Oh but there’s millions of reasons why
Lying in the bloodied ground
We walk the backwoods
And open fields of our hometown
Never thinking about the price
Of our feet walking on the grass and dirt
Paid for in blood of the millions
Who long ago passed this way
Just so on this very day
We can walk where we please
As free as ever man has been
We look around us
But mostly see our own gripes
We act as though
Everything is owed us
The world revolves around our needs
Only one thing matters
Just what we feel 
We deserve today
But buried in the ground
We think we own
Are the stories told in blood
Of why we’re able to make our claim
And walk as free men
Through the backwoods and open fields
Of our hometown
So take a moment to kiss the ground
Thank the millions
Who came before us
Just so on this very day
We can walk 
Where we please

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Oh What Times

Oh what times we live in
Where even the rich and famous
Are reduced to trailer living
All those good times
When money was freely spent
Aren’t quite as free
As they once were
Oh what times we live in
Where war, crime and poverty
Are the kings that seem to reign
Where people devalue themselves
In an attempt to find something gained
Oh what times we live in
Where friend turns against friend
So many ways to love
Are constantly redefined
Where people march the streets
Proudly correcting what is right
Oh what times we live in
Where even Mother Nature
Shows her violent wrath
The winds of change
Seem to be blowing strong
All around curiosity builds
As we all seek to find
Where these winds will blow
Running round in circles
Jumping on each new thought
Raising new questions of answers already bought
Oh what times we live in
Perhaps it’s time we simply
Should pay attention to
A book written so very long ago
That throughout all the many years
Has always stood firm
In its claim to know

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Sometimes Being Alone

Sometimes being alone
Just isn’t enough
Today I went to see an old friend
Who doesn’t get around much anymore
Been a while since we last spoke
Not like the words that flowed
Were now easily heard
Sometimes the realization
That it’s been a little too long
Comes just a tad too late
Makes catching up harder
Than it needs to be
So you talk and talk
Remember all the old times
Laugh about what seems silly now
Cry about things you didn’t know
Talk about how the kids have grown
Where life took us both
Where we thought we’d go
Talk about your wedding
The days your momma and poppa passed
How the words I wrote
Helped those days get by
Now here I stand in disbelief
Wondering how fast time does fly
It’s kind of you to listen
Silently let me ramble on
But before you go I must say
Though alone we’ve spent the day
As I stand watching
You lowered into the ground
Sometimes being alone
Just isn’t enough

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Birthdays are Important

Birthdays are important,
because they celebrate
our existence,
The genesis of our lives,
It means that we are one year wiser,
smarter and better,
It is important to celebrate
because it means the folks around 
us truly appreciate that we are here
on earth with them,
In celebrating birthdays we honor ourselves,
for having the ability to share in another's joy,
because for one day someone special has the
right to feel extremely Important.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Flower

I stood amidst a green field of grass
Around me the wind breathed . . . softly
Above the world a sun watched over me
Below, amid a pond scintillating with light
My family, my friends swam and laughter sang to us all
I stood apart as always I did in the past before this day
Yet this time I did not feel apart, nor alone, no more the outsider
For I was there swimming and laughing with them, in spirit I was there
And from behind me I listened to soft footfalls approaching
But I did not turn around instead I awaited his voice
For I knew he had come to speak, to learn so I would listen
Together we stood watching my family laughing and swimming
Until at last he spoke to bring forth the beginning
“Hey, you’re one of those guys aren’t you?”
He asked and I felt his frown upon me
So I turned to him and withdrew my shades
There before me I saw a child standing
Who had much to live, much to experience
So much to learn and so I smiled
A soft smile with gentleness
And this I said to him
“No, I am not one of those guys,
I am one man, nothing more
Nothing less, just a man
Like you I am a man.”
His brow creased as he thought about my words
And so I put my hand upon his shoulder and I spoke again
“Come, let us join them.”
And together the child and I, the man, walked down to my family
And when I arrived my family, my friends, greeted me and said
“Hello Patches, come and swim with us, laugh with us.”
So I did and as I did I felt the child sleep peacefully
And I knew, I knew that it was alright
For I am just a man, one man
Like you

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Animal Trails

Turtles of the mind
Rabbits of love
Wolves of the body
Scavengers of the soul
The sea of feelings
Some walk with two legs
Some crawl on all fours
While others sail the blue sky
And we swim in the depths

A tidal wave of thoughts
Blister the mind
A storm of emotions
Flash across the soul
And the seas part
To reveal your passions

The hawk, your eyes may well see
The branches in the path
Travelling to three ends
A cheetah can carry you
Swiftly down a lonely road
Or the owl with its wisdom
May search the inner path a
And the rabbit shall run
For life or death

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Code of Lost Romance

The Code of Chivalry, Courage, Fortitude,
{even at the risk of it going sour} in the
final hour.

Pour forth the honesty, the complete madness,
yet your distant loyalty.
To hang on to a faint spark that might yet be
ember, stroked thought anew.

A little bit of a late night under the starry sky.
You search the eyes that once held the great
northern stars glow.
Though now they show the clouds and shrouds
of cover veils, that has dimmed the glow.

When you were raring your head and your image
striking the forces of the universe.
She held emptiness in her arms.
Silence were the soft whisper words gone sour.

Blinded you to the reflections you drew and once
Now nothing more than shadows with no forms.
You stroked the sensual images and worldly vignettes
of romance.

Her arm no longer settled upon yours’, honeydew
hands none to hold onto.
You struck your place the victory shows upon your

She is the form with no shadow, the glow with no 
diamante show.
She lingered in the pathway of those sensual, vignettes
unnoticed as you in your real honesty let go.

Raise Fortitude, Courage, Chivalry, Honesty, for somewhere
 behind loyalty turned sour in this hour
as romance stales and all else fails.

Do not look for her shadow for she forfeited her form.
Do not seek an encore for she does not feel behind
the veils in her hearts core.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Much Too Fast

Did I fall asleep and miss a part of your life
You’ve grown so much, much too fast
Was I so involved in day to day life
That I simply didn’t see you grow
Wasn’t it yesterday you took your first breaths
And I heard the cries of your arrival
Wasn’t it yesterday you took your first steps
And now, now listen to you talk
Where have I been, what have I done
How could I have missed
Seeing how much you’ve grown
Both the year just gone past
And your growth, has happened much too fast
Listening to you tell of your day gone by
Of all your new found friends
And all the things you did together
And what you plan for tomorrow
It’s hard to believe you’re just past four
Seeing the person you’ve become
How well you comprehend the things about you
It makes me wonder
How much you think I care
And if you truly, truly know
How much I’ve missed seeing you grow
Seeing you today has made me realize
That my struggles against everyday life
Hold very little meaning
If I don’t take the time to look into your eyes
For my life, like your growth
Goes by, much too fast

NOTE*** This is from my CD A Father’s Love Letters
To listen to the CD please visit

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Speaking of Suicide

When folks get angry they rant and rave,
Some scream epitaphs,
others misbehave,

The really high strung
spew words of self hatred,
the drama occupies their minds,
venting is a way of chastising themselves,
or asking for help,

Words come out from their inner elves,
chanting tirades of ending one's life,
brings soberness and sheds light,

People who are serious don't talk about it
at all,
They may write a note and say "Goodbye Y'all"
Then one day they wake-up  and decide it
is their time......
Ending it all with no reason or rhyme.

Details | Prose Poetry | |


Do you cry

Late at night

When you lie alone

In your bed

With your head upon the pillow

And in your eyes

Yawns the empty bed?

I do . . .

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Journey - II

Her Sheets Smelled of Lillies. A Cotton Grace Which Slipped
Like Velvet Across My Skin. This Girl of Blue Conversing 
With My Existence, Letting it Know I'm Real.
                                  - I'll Show Her It's Real - 

                              - In The Only Way I know How - 

My Hand Swam Through Her Long Dark Hair With Ease, 
Stopping At The Base of Her Neck. These Fleeting
Moments Of Passion Lasted Aeons in Our Eyes. 

                              - The Cloths Slipped From Our Flesh - 

Caressing Every Corner of Her Body With Such 
Delicate Intricacy, That The Stars Themselves 
Sank From The Sky In Anticipation.

                               - Her Breath Grew Stronger - 

Moving Closer, She Felt My Every Exhalation Tingling 
Her Silken Skin. Her Chest Heaving Forward as Her 
back Arched. Throwing her Head Onto My Shoulder.

                               - I Slid My Hand Down Passed her Stomach - 

Warm Like The Breath of A Panting Dog My Fingers Sank in; 
And Up. Her Right Arm Scratching My back From Above Our Heads. 
She Smiled as Her Body Writhed With Energy. 

                               - Her Breath Now Quick Gasps - 

Both Still Standing, She Turned Around, and Dug Her Forehead Firmly
Into My Chest. Her Hands, Now Wrapped Around My Neck. 
She Pulled me to The Floor. 

                               - The Rain Beat Down Heavy on The Skylight -

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Hello Charlax,

Hello Charlax, 
Thank you for writing to Yahoo! Groups. 
I'm sorry, but I am unclear as to what your question or concern is. 
Please provide me with any additional information that will clearly 
explain your question or concern and make sure to include the following 
-Additional detail on what you are trying to accomplish or the 
you are encountering with Yahoo! Groups. 
-The exact name of the group or its URL. 
-The detailed steps you have taken leading up to the event.-Exact copy of error 
messages that you've received. 
We are looking forward to your reply as this would allow us to further 
investigate the issue and resolve it in the soonest time possible. 
Thank you again for contacting Yahoo! Groups. 
Yahoo! Groups Customer Care 
For assistance with all Yahoo! services, please visit:  
New and Improved Yahoo! Mail - better than ever! 
Original Message Follows: 
Name: charlesrhice 
Yahoo! ID: charlax.hice 
Email Address: 
Group Name: charlax7 
Member Status: Owner/Moderator 
Email Client: Web Based Email (eg. Yahoo! Mail) 
If yes, check here: Not set by user 
Subject: Why do I get an error when posting messages to a group? 
The worst thing that ever happened was the whole web page disappeared to the 
right of my screen once eye was able to snag it and bring it back but that seems 
so impossible how that even worked and it only worked a few times not always 
and when it went it went too far away and the mouse would not retrieve it and the 
only thing that eye could do was to log off and back on and that won't work not 
The pain in my poor sober jaw the suffering that eye do for love is worth the price 
of admission to heaven when we go. 
Once there just inside the door there is a field of purple flowers where my 
mansion lays in wait a picnic has been set complete with chicken fried steaks 
and ice cream cones for me and mye parme. 

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Thought

“It’s funny
What it takes
What it takes to see
To see all that which lies before your eyes

And it’s even funnier
What it takes
What it takes to recognise 
Recognise what you are seeing with your eyes”

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Mr. Belvedere Doesn't Live Here............

Parents are so busy and pre-occupied with their 
own lives,
They never flinch when the doorbell rings twice,
They yell for the children to open the door,
Chastising them forevermore.......
Yet, parents get upset when the children disappear,
When they vanish into thin air,
They blame everyone except themselves
for not doing their due diligence,
If parents really cared they wouldn't
throw their children to the wolves,
Who knows what lurks behind the doors,
Sometimes vagrants, up to no good!
If parents aren't able to handle their tasks
and have responsibilty for the kids,
They should seek a Mr. Belvedere
whose only task would be to bow and scrape,
and opening the doors so the children won't vanish
or escape.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Dear Science

I am not amused with your lack of concentration, of all the things you’ve discovered 
there isn’t one that seems to help right now. Sure you’ve made it easier on us, we’ll 
survive, but disease is disease and it shall always arise. What about mending the 
soul, what about Utopia? Whatever happened to the idea that we could be better- 
not just that we could get better things. Better stuff. Not just so we could make 
things more comfortable, and know what was going on. But what happened to this 
idea that everything could be something-

You haven’t solved that, you haven’t grown. It’s the people that have recognised 
prejudice and animosity, it’s the people that have caused and overcame. So where 
are we now? Still in heartbreak. Still in judgment. Still inside this box
that you’ve helped make.
There may be no God, but there is religion. There may be no wrong but there are 
rights. Always wars without reason to fight!

How could you break your promise? How could you leave it so that everyone, could 
feel so alone?... How could we all be so distracted with technology, and ethical 
promise that
forgot what
were for.

Yeah, we’re all more accessible- but are we more free?

It’s so depressing to think we’re not quite there, and maybe it’s just a stage we’re 
going through, but science, you’re not a person: you’re not a problem. You’re an 
effort we all have to make, you’re mistakes we all have to take. No matter how wise 
the tale may be, sometimes you have to
figure out yourself.

Stuck repeating selfishness. I’m scared that- this is it. This is all it’ll ever be. Stuck in 
a mass of miscommunication constantly, trying to break free.

But that’s selfish itself, so I guess this note is pointless.
But science, be careful.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Love, my 'Hope' In One Life

Love, my 'Hope' In One Life; 
and when not if, 
it must have come upon me.
Lost in you, held in me, your heart.
Giving you less, 
and lost, you gave me more.
I am failing and the more I fail, 
and more, I wish less to fail.
Failing that, 
will you touch my hand, 
One more time, 
before the light begins to fade.
And even after, after before, before
even after, before that dawn ever came.

Is It Poetry

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Infinity Wish

Time . . .
				Lays low everyone
With its passing

		Time . . .
More often than not
						We find out
			There is not enough
								In the end

Time . . .
	It rolls on
				Never slowing down
							The inexorable juggernaut

					Time . . .
Leaves us
								Wishing for more
		And more
						For there is never enough
	To do and say	
									All that satisfies

	Time . . .
			Leaves only memories
							In its wake

Details | Prose Poetry | |


Man is never called beautiful.
But by peeling the bandage,
one illuminates the wound,
that rarely bleeds.

He wanders thru life
with feelings not well cultivated.
Seemingly, in a controlled panic
to make the moment agreeable.

But when he rises from the bubbling pool,
reversible expectations begin to bloom.
Hardy gentleness sprout,
only to swallow heart and soul.

Details | Prose Poetry | |


I was so tired

			I nearly died

				          Just about stopped


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Mr. Critic

He said "Tell me young man, what is your plan to succeed in life?"

I replied, "Success is ambiguous.  However, my pen suggests I should look into writing."

He rubbed his chin.  "So you have an addiction to writing silly fiction?"

Silly fiction?  "Okay, Mr. Critic, it's much more than just silly fiction.  Writing gives you wings to fly."

"Is that so?"  He seemed satisfied, "So I cannot scare you into considering a real career."

I replied, "This 'real career' let's me touch reality in ways that ordinary men will never feel.  This occupation requires imagination, which will take me to places unimaginable."

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Long Gaze

Resting my eyes i sat a while
lids locked. muscles sliding to rest
toes & feet washed rough on stony traverse
boil to a constant roll...burning breath in exhausted lungs
tome creaks by & calm trickles
eroding the barren skin
turning the serene oasis

light gently slices away
falling softly piece by piece
to the empty ground beneath my feet

lull to the dead beat stand still
the fast tempo kinetic air inside
pounding life force
choking for a sideways glance unattended

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!

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Guided Speech

As the sun rises radiating its golden beams clearing the mist of morn__So I arise to 
meet the day's responsibilities_I believe that He has come with healing in His 
Wings_Pain is going away and relief is being restored___Draw me close let me be filled 
with Your Power...Guide my speech...Guide my thoughts as they are penned...Help my 
words be Love and Light being sprinkled with just the right amount of salt...Help my 
speech be healing and restorative connected to You and You alone...Thanks for the day 
to live for You once more..Amen

Details | Prose Poetry | |

You Were There

  When I was walking in pain and agony,
You were there to ease my suffering.

  When I was walking in sorrow,
You were there to comfort me.

  When I was walking without hope,
You filled my heart and soul anew.

  When I was walking alone and friendless,
You were there to hold my hand.

  When I was walking afraid and in fear,
You were there to give me courage.

  When I was weak and could not walk,
You gave me strength to stand again.

  Always, when I have walked in the shadows of life,
You have been there to lead me to sunlight.

  As I start on the path today,
Lead me, Lead me . . . I pray.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Tear

A single fear sliding
off the face as though clinging
for one's own soul.
Slipping from its home, only to
plummet into Hades' foul grasp
exploding into cascading oblivion.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

And God Takes The Blame

Another senseless death
And God takes the blame
A young girl is stabbed
Left to bleed and die
In the arms of her love
While another curses His name
Another bomb explodes
And God takes the blame
Innocents are left to die
As villains take pride
Beaming in their glory
While heartaches curse His name
Another drunk walks away
And God takes the blame
A life in a tangled heap
Slips away lost
As a sober drunk asks what happened
While loved ones left behind
Sadly curse His name
So much loss and tragedy
While God takes the blame
People instantly cry out
Why’d You let this happen
As their hearts begin to doubt
Sadly the true villain walks
While so many curse His name
Not realizing while God takes the blame
The god of this world scoffs
Claiming victory in the pain he’s caused
Taking glee in misplaced blame
While unnoticed he walks on
Hidden behind his veil
Enthralled in his little game
But hidden from his view
Time is nearly at hand
For God to make a stand
And all the things written long ago
Are about to truly be
For God is about to clear his name
Of all the misplaced blame

Details | Prose Poetry | |


A Rose by any other namme shall smell as sweet to mee as ewe.
Jesus paid the sacrifice the aritifice of life became the death of me to give me 
back the life eye gave away for him to follow him is to find it all again the words 
men speak if allowed to brew would make them dead to make them blow to just 
explode the air then turning into chamber pots of full. Love can be a sacrifice a 
very strang surprise a hurried meal a quick repast that lasts all day and then 
some into the night making merry just for heart. The dead weight of most people 
would cause the air ship the alien crafted vessel that eye ride in to tip over and 
the eye would fall out all over the place. Love can be a pillow cold on one side 
and warm to face. The avid reader can imagine this. Head stopped up with 
saving grace the pain inside stops sleep from come.
Then the pillow turned the face pressed up into the cold the wonderful stopping 
of the pain the added comfort of the pillow side out getting cold again then 
comes the time when the repeated effort is again applied oh the wonder of it oh 
the bliss of a cold pillow kiss. NEWS FLASHED before mye eye:
This is just in from NEO Pueblo when someone gets a message in a forum and 
the message sender sends it as a thank you and then adds a different picture 
than the one in his posted poem as way of illustration do ewe think they noticed it 
at all or is it just that it seems so strang to mee and would it be that they aer so 
obsessed with what they aer doing to jump up and dance on just one foot and 
yell and holler look what CHARLAX did he sent the wrong picture to the forum. 
Eye just deleted an accounting error it was a majoretted disappointed mess to 
me they always made fun of eye and mee and the way eye use my style to make 
a poem bleed the pain of being one so far ahead of time is priceless in the 
function of an android using lifetimes.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Great Existence

Moving up over through 
All I've known is felt through the end 
Never a beginning always ending
Falter as I may, myself I hold - alone in company 
Tress in to limestone pillars of my great hall 
Great as the Norse and proud as well
Threads of time woven with clumsy hands led by blind eyes 
Thus is the expanse of the web of life The Great Existence 
Not where but it's the being that is. Is what I am and 
What we are

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The Church Parsonage on Church Street the old Methodist Church where eye 
used to go to church it Burned down.
My mother died a horrible murder death.
My brother died in a car wreck.
We used to fight each other though eye was elder he was bigger.
Eye was a weak and sickly child of GOD.
My Father died and eye do not knoe what of.
Eye was not always allowed to live at home.
My room was taken and the things in it like my toy box and the comics and the 
yearbooks were all destroyed. 
Eye was given a hardship discharge from the ARMY.
My home at Morrilton was burned down by a natural gas line leak which then 
exploded. My family always hated me and wanted me to die alone. Eye stopped 
my consumptive habits and was in a real fight in Arizona only was beaten into 
Jesus and left to die half dead eye still try to live and love and write this is mye bio 
mye evidenced. 

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Obsessions in Vain

I like to think I know every thing, but I don't; that's obvious. I wonder if it would take a 
scholar to see that I am making the same mistakes every day? Do you see this? 
Blasphemy! Sometimes I cannot believe my ability to twist the truth around lies and end up 
with something I like to call a friendship. Does it mean nothing to me? Perhaps I could move 
a thousand miles away and forget your face as if I hadn't spent hundreds of hours laughing 
upon your childish mannerisms. I love to laugh. It is difficult, however, for me to distinguish 
the empty guffaw and the heart-warming kind of giggle that makes me want to live a simpler 
life. You know what I'm talking about. You know that there's something missing. You can't 
put a finger on it. The grass is greener on the other side, of course, but did you realize the 
season would never change?

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When people know you,
They know what to expect,
making allowances for actions
that are inept,
Looking out for their familiar
persona along the way,
The stability and predictability
makes their day,
Fluxes and changes will never rock
their world,
because the people they know have remained
the same,
Regardless of wind, storm or hurricanes.......

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The Flow

Come gather ‘round
Listen closely now
Relax, let your guard down
Just for a little while
Listen closely now
Enjoy the song of silence
Enjoy the winds of thought

Your mind has just stalled out
Your body has fallen swiftly
Down the road to boredom
If you walk straight line sideways
If you speak forwards backwards
Can you see where you’re going, have gone, never were
Can you say and be understood, heard, listened to

Close your ears a moment
Listen with your eyes
Can you see all about with your ears
What do your eyes hear before them
Feeling with your soul, softly, caressing
Speaking with your heart, thinking
Acting as one within the silence
Behold that which you see, all that you see
Yourself, someone else, no one else
Just you

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Would others describe you as...?

Being of good character and integrity.
An honest person, a compassionate listener,
a hard worker, a loving person.
Loyal to family,  to friends and to our country,
despite everyone’s shortcomings.

Strong minded, yet not over powering to the point of being repulsive.
Intelligent in ‘life’ experiences, that others may not be familiar.
Not loud or obnoxious, quiet but heard.

Have nothing to prove, but a world of God’s love to share.
Willing to give, but won’t be taken advantage of.
Love freely and accept openly.
Never judge, yet don’t condone wrongdoing.

In a loving, respectful, yet firm way -  speak your mind.
Always there willing to help,
if the person is willing to take that first step.

Learned that forgiveness is for you, more than the one you forgive.
Also learned that the right way is not always the easy way,
But it is by far the best way and most rewarding.

Is this how you would be described?  
It is how I would hope to be.

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A Lament

I have swallowed the poison...
suffered through darkness.
I have tasted the ashes,
lived in utter lostness.

I remember the pain
when hitting bottom;
desperate I dreaded,
what I had become.

To be punished for sin,
how dare I complain!
Is The Lord not my life
from whence I came?

I have entered The Light!
My Soul has been taken.
God proves to be Faithful,
To The called He's awakened!

Milton L. Delgado
Inspired By The Book of Lamentations
Chapter 3
October 20, 2006

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Layer Of Warmth

As the golden sun adds a layer of warmth to the earth and all the creatures sing 
praise___bees hum buzzz, buzzz as they search for food where pickins' are few..Birds
chirp their different calls from chirrup, chirrup to Jim-my, Jim-my...Across the creek, the 
roosters' crows are getting weak about crowed out now that they have awaken the sun..
There is a stillness this morn_peace..It seems to be a lazy kind of morn__As if all the 
creatures know that God said rest on this day..If I miss rest and renewal it starts to tell 
on me body, soul, emotion, and spirit___Constantly aware that I need my time alone with 

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You Need It

Buried once beneath pressing voices, it is boiling up like a rising jealousy. This is 
placement. The ascendant. Beating, 
beating, beating. A steady flow of analytical pauses burning up through every extremity you 
never knew how to use. 
This is placement. The ascendant. Beating, beating, beating. Every stinging conviction 
such a foollish man never knew 
was holed up inside him errupts. It is volatile and it is painful and it is promising. And it 
comes into you and it comes out 
of you and it’s beating, it’s beating, it’s beating. You can’t ever ignore it. No, a foolish man 
could not deny its presence. 
Couldn’t withold its beating. You pace to wear it out and it lives in your footsteps. You blink 
to make it stop and every 
eyelash leaves a trail like you tried to shake your head at the stars at midnight. Yes, you 
can clench your fists so tight 
your nails dig into your palms and you bleed and the sweat pours salt into your wounds 
and there it is. There it is, 
terrible,consuming and inconvenient only because you forget who it is. You forget where it 
comes from and why it is 
there. You forget why it is within you because you are foolish. It is there because of you but 
you are not at fault for it. For 
fault is for the weak and it should not make you stumble and it should not make you stutter 
when you speak of it. When 
you speak of its beating, beating, beating. It is not a drum and you should not, you cannot 
march to it. It is not the blood 
in your veins or the heart that injects and protects and projects though that is where it lives 
and no foolish man, no man 
at all could drain himself dry of it. It will occupy the space on the floor where you try to leave 
it and it will grow because 
you will feed it and it will drown you because it knows you need it. 

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What A Drive

What a drive it’s been
A mile down the road
How different life looks
From here to there
Half a mile away
I saw people breaking their backs
Trying to find their lives
Where they lay ruined
Yet here there’s laughter
With nothing amiss
As though through innocence
People are blind
To a mile down the road
A different race is being run
Here people empty their pockets
On drink, food and tea
There they empty their houses
Of all they possess
Here we’re involved in the chase
Not for what has been lost
But what might be won
Not to say life doesn’t go on
Just doesn’t seem right
Here it moves fast
While a mile down the road
Nothing will last
Knowing it’s the way of the world
That some will thrive
While others merely survive
Makes acceptance no easier
Of what a drive it’s been
And that how life is viewed
Depends solely upon
From where it’s been seen

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Why Not Stop, Look, Listen, and Observe?

Who can cause rain?
and Who can give showers?
Who relieves our pain?
and Who has all powers?

Who can give us prophetic things?
and then give us spiritual wings?
Why are we so rotten?
Who have we forgotten?

Why are we in many a chain?
Why do we serve these idols in vain?
Why do we , The Word, ignore?
Why do we not question more?

Why are we broke?
Why did we fear that joke?
Why are there vanities?
and many insanities?

Who do we worship?
Why wear a kerchief?
Why are they full of propaganda?
Why, Our God, do they slander?

What about the weak?
Why do we not speak?
Why are we so slack?
Where is the bone in our back?

Why do we not....
Stop, look, listen ,observe?
Maybe this trial we do so deserve?
Maybe the wrong One, we actually serve?

Why do we not look to the prophets?
Why not look to Zephaniah?
Why not repent to get out of the fire?
Why not look to Jeremiah?
Why not repent to get out of the mire?

Why for Satan's System are we a slave?
Why will we not bend , and learn to behave?
Why not seek Our God while there is hope?
Why not die brave, instead of a mope?

Why is there no peace in the land?
Why have we left from holding His hand?
Why when we cry "Peace and Security"
sudden destruction will come?
Why are we not full of God's wisdom?

What about the chaos we deserve ?
Why not stop, look, listen, and observe?

         Copyright McCuen 2008

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Upon greater reflection across the seas of tranquil dreams 
I did find a breath of solace 
Lingering in a dirge borne on the backs of rays 
Gathered to me and falling just so and so 
To more, and to more, 

Confuse… zed though I be and be 
Poppy top and so 
I dreamed and dream of what I do knot know
And I know, I know; now and when
In the broken dawn is why
In the cracked dusk is who
In the fall of the moon is where
In the sing of the sun is what
Confuse. . . zed through and through I be

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Bond to Tide

Each breath, a pool of hope, rising and falling, the tide of my being. How did I learn this? I 
need not think to do it. Does the ocean feel the same? It seems to work so hard, forward 
and back, pushing the shore. Could it stop? Perhaps only I am captivated in this moment. A 
coincidence? Our souls pull together. How easy to forget the rhythm of these breaths. They 
are mine...yet I see them in water? How long does this ocean pulse? Has all been lost? Or 
was nothing to gain? Just be. Ocean and me. I am sure my breath is drawn in with the tide.

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Navriss in Ink

With this pen
I have lived once more

And with this pen
I have loved, laughed, sighed to breathe
Even as I laid my weary brow to rest upon your breast

And with this pen
I have died with a tear
To leave behind this chronicle to my last
With this pen

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In Darkness

I stood in darkness searching
Then I saw the light …

The light of your face
Shown bright … lighting the way

I can hold back the tears no more
For my strength has left me

Your arms lift me
When from weakness I fall

I pray that I do only
That which honors You
For You are the light of my day!

You have shown me direction
And have given me the way to go

May my footsteps forever
Follow the path You have
Laid out before me.

To climb mountains,
Swim oceans, cross rivers
Be whatever it may.

I know You are there with me
For You are the light of my day!

Details | Prose Poetry | |

To Consider the Alligator

I wouldn't be scant. Its codfish lies to pull ferociously all up in its cube. The forks stomped the ponies. Why did your 
goodness lift our leaf? What do ideas ride like? You sound like that laugh. You persuasively divide. All obscene feet 
straddled under his lingust. What is all over the drifting harpsicord? Exude yourself betwixt the calamity. I will be snoring 
impudent cities. What is through that fatility? What is beside my heel? No fountain pens, please. I could be spitting 
underneath your cognizance. Boldly you malnourish the fence. You usually ventillate. Bend your travesty. Thirty-five 
damp beets are sophmorically trampled. You will run beside gods. You look like a surreal brevity. You will boil inside 
caftans. I diddle. I shouldn't have been hopping beyond your vertebre. You will thrust along protests. The pedestrian left 
by our digit. His rabbit accepts a serpent. His floppy money was hydrating with her heart. I love piston. Her list of fury 
resonated next to the thunder. You smell like morse code. His slinky magical mirror was feeling all over my Swahili. You 
will snap without tiger boots. You like waxy provisions. Hi, I'm a stormy panhandler. With your mildew were eight 
blogging skaters. My philanthropy whisps like a plasma. Sufficiently I snap. You remind me of every neat-o flamingo. 
You explicate mates. Drip your disgust. No car keys, please. A combustion tickles an insertion. Hi, I'm a cold cole. You 
sheepishly evade. You finally exude. All your abyss' are belonging to us.

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Do You Ever Cry?

Do you ever cry? 
Are you ever afraid 
of feelings you've felt 
and decisions you've made? 

Do you feel alone 
and away from your soul? 
Do you fear love 
or is it your goal? 

Are you a man 
or a woman who hates? 
Do you wish for your death 
or rather your fate? 

Are you lost in yourself 
or lost in a crowd? 
Do you hang on each word 
that is spoken aloud? 

Are you young, are you old? 
Are you pleased with your life? 
Are you somebody's husband 
or somebody's wife? 

Are you happy or sad? 
Do you wish you could fly? 
Just one more question: 

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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 

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The Redwood Forest

                                      The Redwood Forest

Standing tall, tops in the mist,
Red giants from another time.
Remembering the birth of Christ,
Looking now at modern Man.

The forest floor in muted silence,
Filtered light finds the rhododendron.
God’s original cathedral soars,
A place to find peace and beauty.

Walk awhile with past history,
Place your hand upon the bark.
Look up, almost glimpsing infinity,
Look down, see mans tracks upon the earth.

Forests once tracking vast vistas,
Now a rare and silent treasure.
Man’s greed at last held back.
My home, my heart, my hope.

Details | Prose Poetry | |


 “Pheonix is experimental courses involving the release of prisoners into society”: 
Professor Hardon was now speaking to his children “he was thinking of them 
already as his child and children he was daydreaming of a future world 
populated by his prisoners released into Society to jerk the world around on HIS 
string. When you do a book report eye the TUTOR have to grade them please 
read only CharlaxFables so you will learn something better and eye can pass all 
of you with highest honors. The Bathroom has been painted and the graffiti is 
fresh and it has to be one of you. NO almost Screaming Tommy Gunn jumped up 
and SPEWED his filthy words at the teacher. We think it is the girl that works as a 
Library assistant for she is not helping the people who are not students. The 
rules would work in a NAZI society there would be no loud talking in the library 
they Matron would walk among the computors and swing her MILLYCLUB if 
someone snickered. The portable classrooms have not yet arrived and the 
prisoners keep milling about in the library chasing a hope and a dream to the 
door of a classroom hoping it will magically appear in front of them while Charlax 
 Plugs are not available only in the outlets at the mall where you can also buy 
coffee in a latte snicker at the freezing cold and hold thy nose with burgers 
smelling like a dead old cow went yearning in the afterbrushes reeds and 
rushes in the ditches working on the center stone of the idea of the century. The 
Pig is dead the Rat is born a Chinaman's surprised the chinaberry's were so 
plastic tasting never boiled them never tried them after fried in oil and butter and 
the batter would be better with some butter and some soil. A man told me bugs 
are good sources of protein how can one man go so very wrong he is not alive in 
the same sense as ewe and eye. The semblance of an android to this human 
image eye become is striking mee on both my nerves today seems like a 
memory of half baked love. The Pheonix is now rising up the ashes of the 
judgments' won. 
 The Tutor is the elephant. The classroom is the world the students are the girls 
in love. The lady has a favorite song 

ewe aer my song 

my hearts desire 

my love of fortune 

smiling down 

my sweetYheart ewe 

my early life 

my later years 

my only love 

a song 

The Teacher is a ruler and a lover of the song. 
The professor is a lover and a ruler of them all. 

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Many Things

I can do a lot of things and do them well, always have. 
This what I have been asked I fear I cannot do . . . 
What’s more important in this is how I no longer wish to. 

I can do many things and do them well, always have. 
These are my feelings and they run deeply across my soul. 
Woe to me I say because I know its over and drawing near. 
There lies before me a future full of agony of longing unrelenting. 

I can do many things and do them well, always have. 
There is one thing left for me to do and I cannot. 
Will I continue on I have been asked, 
Continue going I’m asked and I cannot do it anymore! 
I can’t keep going for much longer, if at all . . . 
How long am I supposed to go without hope, without anything at all . . ? 

I can do many things and do them well, always have. 
This what I have been asked to do I cannot do . . .
Will you understand when I’m gone and I know you wouldn’t 
For the blame you would place across your shoulders and why . ? 
It’s my life, this is my life and that’s the joke . . right? 
Yeah, as if this is living, as if this is even a pale reflection of life at all!! 
I don’t want this life anymore, I’m sick of it . . . 
No more do I pray for happiness that will never come, 
Instead I pray to close my eyes and never awaken again. 

I can do many things and do them well, always have. 
Please God spare me from growing older, from living at all, 
Please take my soul for I am done with this life without . . . 
Just let me sleep forever, for there is nothing left for me . . . 
Life is empty, meaningless, hollow and all faded away, 
There is no colour left in my eyes anymore, ever again! 
Just agony, just agony . . . 
God won’t give me this prayer I know, instead 
God will grant me an eternity of suffering, 
For she’s never done anything to answer my prayers before. 
Save fill my life with pain, suffering 
And horrible oceans of misery that I drown in every waking moment of this . . . 

I can do many things and do them well, always have. 
I cannot live without . . . I just can’t . . . I . . .

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 | |


What have I gotten myself into?
There’s never enough cash to buy enough.
     And when there is,
        There’s never enough to buy.
“What’s with all the nose bleeds?”
God I hate awkward questions.
“Don’t worry, just allergies.”
That excuse never works in winter. 
	But I sure do love snow.
Pure, crisp white snow.
Each flake like it’s sent from Heaven.
City streets covered in it,
That’s a real winter wonderland.
As for now you only find it in small patches.
Tiny pieces of paradise most forget to look for.
The really special ones come from far off lands.
Places where people live free and it snows all year long.
	I know some who’ve sold everything just to get their hands on it.
I’ve seen rich old men who set it in bowls on their coffee tables.
They know their bodies can’t handle the cold.
But at that age, who really cares? 
	“Your sure looking thin these days.”
 “Thanks, I’m on this new diet plan, it keeps me energized 
       and helps me lose weight.”
           “Really? You’ve gotta let me know what it is.”
“Sorry I can’t, it’s a secret…”
	I think I know what God feels like.
I know you can do anything is an indescribable feeling.
It’s like you’re on top of Everest,
  With all the surrounding snow covered peaks in view.
But of course you eventually plummet down to the bottom of the ocean,
  Where you’ll sleep through the next few days.
	“You keep scratching your neck, are you okay?”
“Ya, I got bit by a spider or something.”
	I swear I’m gonna scratch my skin right off.
It’s those damn parasites in my veins that cause the itching.
Maybe I should rip them out…I bet it’d go away then.
	This is taking over my life.
I want to stop. But I cant.
Once you start there’s no going back.
That’s just the way it works.

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Ahh . . .


		Like air
			The wind

Did you feel it change?
	No . . .
		Did you see it

			The moment when it . . .

	Charged right past you

Like a cry from the gasp that beat you

		Was the moment soft
			Like a whisper

				Did you see the moment

					You changed your . . .

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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.

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I have not ignored

Your tears I have not ignored.  Your hurts I have felt.

Peace and joy I long for you to have.  The peace, that all I have promised you, is 
so. And the joy of knowing and seeing it come to pass.

The promise is here!  You taste it, smell it, and sense it in all senses but sight.  
In sight you don’t experience it yet, don’t let the inability to physically see what I’ve 
promised, cheat you out of what you have already received.

Remember the things I told you in days past, don’t you see what I am doing?  
Look!  Learn!

The Blood: what one drop can do - use it!

My Power & Strength: it’s for you when you are weak and overburdened - take it, 
use it!

My Purifying Fire: it cleanses and strengthens you - allow Me to do it!

I am making a mighty vessel as you are fired with trials; only the flawless vessels 
withstand the kiln  heat as it is fired.  Those with flaws crack, break,  shatter to 
pieces, and prove to be useless to a potter.

But you shall withstand the kiln heat.  You will come forth as a strong and useful 
vessel in which many will drink.

A vessel that feeds the hungry, gives drink to those who thirst, love and 
compassion to those who hurt; for one who has truly experienced hurt will know 
the hurt of another.

And through you will I heal the hurting,  minister to the afflicted, and love the 
lonely.  Because you feed, give drink and have compassion, not only to their flesh 
but also to their spirits.  They feel it!  They hunger for more and with My vessel I 
give to them, more and more.

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Love Is

Love Is

Love is a feeling which reveals the heart,
It's the selfish heart which refuses this revealing.
To cling to the fear of reaching out
Is loneliness in the truest sense.

Love is a force which breaks asunder
The walls surrounding a thirsting soul,
Reaching within to fill the void
And to dry the tears that one has cried.

Love is a light which shines into the darkest dungeon,
Bringing peace and hope to the prisoners locked within.
Yet the prisoner bound by the rusted chains
Would rather he should perish than to know his freedom.

Love is a song which floats on gentle breezes,
And gladdens the heart of the one who would receive it.
Yet woe shall fall upon the very being
Of the one who would dare to smite the hand
Of Love.

Thomas Cusick

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Winds of Your Voice

Let the winds of Your voice blow across the vastness of the earth, O Lord Reaching all that would hear, listening to the words, hastening it’s message Feel the breath of God blow across your face, people ... how can you not! See the many splendors of His work, majestic in their beauty Taste the sweetness of His words, they are life sustaining to you Without them you shall surely die an everlasting death Glory in His righteousness! For He is worthy of your praise He is the Alpha and Omega, nothing exists without Him My eyes long to see His face, my heart to kneel at His feet May each breath I take be that which He has given He is wonderful, mighty, loving and jealous Longing for us to come to Him on our own accord We are not His puppets, but we are his children He longs to give His children great gifts of life Would we not let Him be our Father, are we an ignorant people? He has given so much for us, can we not give ourselves to Him?

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I had a dream

While sleeping I had a dream, a dream where my Lord came to me.  He took my 
hand and asked me, “Is there anything you would have of Me?”

Taken aback for a moment, I thought. Then without hesitation I answered, “I want 
to know You like I have never known You before.  I want to feel Your heart, instead 
of mine, see with Your eyes, hear the words You long to hear.  Lord, I want You to 
be so much a part of me, that I can’t feel me anymore.  Is that possible Lord?”

He smiled and answered, “As you search My Word, it draws you nearer to me as 
ever before.  So yes, it is possible, but are you wanting it enough to search ever 
so diligently?”

When I awoke, my heart sank as I recalled His question.  Am I wanting it enough 
to search so?  For it sounds like much, too much work.  Then I thought, when it is 
one you love and long to be with, do you not go far and beyond to reach them?  

Yes Lord, it is something I want enough to search so diligent for.  I want to be as 
close to You as I can possibly be while here on earth.  Then the day of Your 
return will be only that much sweeter and more spectacular to me.

The smile He put in my spirit that day, made my heart sing!  And sing it will 

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Kingdom Of Love

 The Kingdom Of Love 
The Kingdom Of Love 
  in the kingdom of GOD where eye now dwell, 

               eye would live in her dreams, 

                 being her secrets, 

                    The love she has borne inside of me. 


                         in the river of love, 

                   eye would only hang on, 

                 going on to the truth, 

                        on our way to the sky. 


                 to the end of our journey, 

              we would never ever hurry,           

              and all the loves graces, 

                 from the heart of one woman. 

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Politics of Corporate

There was a media sensation to make President Obama
ruler of this Nation, as long as he did what he was told,
Everyone would remain sold,
Two years into his reign, America is filled with contempt
and disdain,
From Wall Street to Corporate America naysayers are
screaming retribution, instead of Halleluiah!
They are calling for doom and gloom for those who voted him in,
The reign of consequences and punishment have begun,
A backlash for demoralizing the nation's favorite sons,
Privacy exists no more when one goes to pull the lever
at the voting polls,
There are spies waiting to report your elections like
mindless trolls,
Companies are engrossed in their employees'
political preferences, ultimately punishing them
for any differences,
Our Country would rather sink like the Titanic
than have a "zebra" running it,
Nevertheless, we must forge ahead and create 
Even when we are ostracized and avoided like mange.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Two Important Things Never to Forget

Each day we face many mental perils, have to make many important decisions, 
like what color socks to wear.  Some things must take priority, however, and it's 
important to keep them in mind.  The first is to be comfortable with yourself; you 
may not be perfect, but, darn, who is?  Be happy with yourself if you can truely say 
I did not intentionally hurt anyone today.  There's more than enough bad people 
out there to do that for you.  So pat yourself on the back for a day of sainthood!
The second thing is....uh...the second thing, I don't remember!

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Your love is reigning down on me.
I feel, with each drop,
The cleansing and soothing
Of my very soul.

You know what Your child
Needs before even I know.

How deep is Your love for me?
It touches the depth of my soul,
It sees the thoughts 
I fear to admit even having.

And yet, knowing all my darkness,
You still love me.

You are remarkable!
You are so full of mercy
And so faithful in Your love for me.
How can I ever love You so?

I fear the thought of not having Your love.
I am terrified to not have Your forgiveness!

Even at my best, I fall short.
Only by You Lord, can I say 
I am loved and forgiven.
And I know in my heart You live
Because You live, I have these things.

I fear nothing with You near me.
Your child rejoices with gladness

For the mercies of Your love.
Lord, I love You with My whole being.
Take my life and make it what You want
While I journey through this life
Reign down on me

Details | Prose Poetry | |

My Baptism

As I come into Your house, O’ Lord
Prepare my heart to receive
For it is You and You alone I seek to find

Let my heart be pure
My intentions well meant
And my steps guided by You

May my spirit sing a song of joy
For it wells over within
As I go beneath the water

Accept me now O’ Lord
For I am giving my all to You
As I rise up from the deep
Wash away all that is impure

For I come to Your house 
In humility and honor
Seeking You and You alone
It is You I long to know

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Judgment Day

Judgment Day has come!!!  I stand before the Almighty Father!  How will I be 
judged?  Will I have tears of joy … or fall to my knees crying tears of terror?

I stand shaking before the Thrown of God.  The accuser, Satan, lays out all my 
faults and failures before The Almighty.  Shame haunts me, as he cries out my 
sins, one after another.  Feeling small and alone,  my legs give out from 
weakness and I fall on my face in fear, as I see God sit quietly listening, as if in 
disgust.  Just when I think the horrible things Satan reveals of my life seal my 
fate; Jesus stands up and orders Satan, “Be silent!”  My heart leaps!  My breath 
departs from me, until I hear Jesus’  words.  

Jesus reminds God the Father, that it was for those very sins that He died.  That it 
was for those sins His body was ripped and tortured and hung on a cross.  I was 
forgiven when I accepted Him in my heart as my Lord and Savior.  He became my 
covering for my sins and sickness.  

Tears flow, I shake uncontrollably as I hear God the Father say, ‘This is true.  
When you received My Son as your Savior, you received salvation.  His blood 
washed those and all sins away.   I see a vessel white as snow’.  

As I watch, God throws my sins into the abyss, never to be seen or brought up 
again.  I cry tears of joy as I sit at His feet.  ‘I have been saved from torment and 
separation from God’, I rejoice loudly!  

‘Enter, my child’, are the words He says, ‘come to the table and feast.  Dance and 
be merry for you are a child of the Almighty and there is no accuser to condemn 
you.  Rejoice in the salvation of your Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ’.  

In my Father’s House I see others rejoicing for they also have been saved by the 
blood of Christ.  

Beauty surrounds me; living waters flow freely for all to drink.  There is no 
sadness, no fear, and no pain!  Only joy, peace and the presence of Love live 
here.  For we are with the author of Love.  God is Love, He radiates love.  

There is laughter.  I love to hear Jesus’ laugh!  It is so hardy and full of life.  To be 
in the presence of my God and Lord Jesus Christ,  to see their beauty and  feel 
their eternal love covering me is my longing.  I am home in my Father’s house!  

Will this be your story?  Or will yours have a sad ending?  It is your choice. 

God’s Word says , ‘For God so loved the world, that He gave His only begotten 
Son, that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish but have everlasting life’.  
John 3:16 

Details | Prose Poetry | |

God's Garden

In God’s garden are many beautiful wonders.  
For each person has individuality 
just as a flower does.  

Each has a rareness about them 
that shows colors in a way 
that another does not, 
they have a fragrance all their own.  

Each is so special to God.  
When put together in songs of praise, 
they make for a spectacular bouquet 
for God’s table.  

He feasts on their loveliness 
and on their sweet sound.  
Tears of joy fill His eyes 
as he witnesses the unity of harmony.  

His heart is over run with love.  
They bring such brilliant splendor 
to His garden.  
He finds His pleasure in each and every one.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Fabel Twelth

 Fabel Twelth     
Author Message 

Age : 53
Joined : 13 Jun 2007
Posts : 720

 Subject: Fabel Twelth   Today at 14:08      

Fabel Twelth

Moral Inventory

Charlax Fables

The four thousand year old day

The end of a day is somehow better than the beginning eye carefully left my roll 
and hid my blanket in the place eye like to find it hoping no one goes there it is 
still quite cold eye lost some composure when the Jogger ignored me and 
proceeded onto the bridge quite rudely so early to an old man in a hurry eye was 
almost jogging myself HE came at me like he is used to better days he expected 
me to jump frog out of his way eye yelled at him “ NO” eye said “you SAW me on 
this bridge” and then eye rudded him eye BUMPED him with my bag just one of 
three eye always carry just in case of rain. He kept his tongue and made me think 
that he is mute perhaps he cannot speak perhaps he is one of them? He 
seemed so strang to me like someone not even there perhaps an ANGEL sent 
to test me to see iff eye was there? But yet the BIBLE clearly states that JESUS 
tests or tempts no man so where was HE from? This Jogger made me mad. 
Everything else was bent from that one chance encounter eye have been a bad 
boy in the middle of my night but it’s all for love ewe the bus was late and 
sometimes the driver lets people off same side they call it but today he decided 
everyone must go to the bus stop and wait in the snowless cold and it made me 
an hour late and no one gives me love the lieberrian is so depressed she cries it 
seems she just does not have enough? Can someone give me love no only 
ewe. No Matter how rude no matter how smart they ain’t tough there is no 
substitute for tough not big or mean but eye am tough. Buyer beware eye am a 
 Fabel Twelth 

Details | Prose Poetry | |

he wandered there a lonely man

  he wandered there a lonely man, 
along each broad causeway.
and every hand that helped him up, 
the other slipped away.
his arm by you was hard too pull, 
while currants warm abound.
he wandered there a lonely man, 
and now he's run away. 

Is It Poetry 

Details | Prose Poetry | |


Hello Child of Light,
       I/ve watched you ovrhead, radiating all the E_rth. We’ve seen you grow with 

persistence (Trees tie us to the sky). The catastrophes that have been as a result 

of you actions can now be overlooked^its^a^new^year. Don’t count on love always 

there to mimic you when you wish. Your powers have grown over time but your 

becoming has yet to reach its potential. DON’T. QUIT. YET. Life is beautiful and 
full of 

things the world has never seen. (Pretend you care, it looks better.) The 

Bridge to the past is closed forever but the road to the future is clear and present. 
It waits 

only for you to take the first step. Your lungs will never fail you if treat them with 

respect. “Please save us mortals from our own imaginations! OH C-O-L!”. You 

know, I simply cannot understand people. We deceive ourselves with dreams 

imaginings and love. If you listen you’ll hear a c-o-l-l-e-c-t-i-v-e rumbling in 

Amerika. Something has to break s00n. 4nd it will. The 5th horseman never 

forgets ill done to him. Revenge will always be extracted on those who 

ask for it. (The modern town hardly knows silence.)  We fear being 

connected with the past. 
                     C^n n0thing m_o_r_e be d-ne?

Know Thyself. 
   Then The Rest Will Be Revealed. 

Details | Prose Poetry | |


     There is a man in the street.  He walks his dog, unaware of the eyes observing
him.  The ladybug's short flight ends on a windowsill.  A man sits and wonders 
why life consists of sitting and wondering.
     The great storm came.  Its violence shakes the foundations of his thought and 
a rude awakening occurs.  There moves a creature, unaware of its movements,
unaware of its destination,  unconcerned with its destiny.  Fate has it so the 
creature can walk, but there is nowhere to walk.  There is no truth, there is no 
future, there is only continuity.  A season of death approaches, and all are 
prepared with flowers.  A return to the beginning, when I did not exist.  A return to
the windowsill, where nothing was achieved.  A return to the streets, where 
nothing was seen.
     A hopeless motion is repeated, and the creature is found on its back.  A push 
to an awakening follows.  Out it flies, to follow the creature on the streets, to an
unknown destination, to an unknown future.
     The storm passes and there is a return to the deathlike silence.  No man can
say what death is, yet each man has his future embedded in its existence.  Each
man has come from non-existence, and to it each shall return.  But why is there a
fear of death, if each life was plucked from it?  Why can not man again 
experience a rebirth from one state to another?  Is there another universe in the 
state which we can only recognize as non-existence?  Once I was there, but there 
is no memory.  I am now here, but there is no reality.  There is no experience 
which can not be classified, and there is no classification for reality.
     There is only the storm, and the short-lived hope it brings.
     Time is the great variable.  It is the essence of life.  It is the road upon which 
each of us travels.  Another dimension, unclassifiable, indescribable.  If there is 
a spirit of man which flows from one state of existence to another, if it is eternal, 
then time is a mere means of measuring its position.
     The answers to man's questions lie in the concept of time, of the continuity of 
man.  Each man lives but a short time, but man as a whole spans a greater 
length of time.  Look for your answers here.
                                                        Tom Bell, 1968

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Recipe for a Full Life

Start with a healthy dose of morning prayer,
Nourish yourself on God's Word

Add a heaping of love and compassion,
a dash of self-control and diligence

Mix together well, and refresh yourself,
Continue this several times during your day

Add a splash of the Holy Spirit for essence
This brings comfort and peace when & where needed

Claim the blood of Jesus when feeling ill or under attack
IT IS the ultimate strength you will ever experience

Be sure to distribute forgiveness, humbleness and God's truth
As needed throughout your day

Give thanks for everything, make everything you do, 
Show Him to the world, spread joy to as many as possible

Be confident in who you are, and to whom you belong
Make His will for your life, your life's ambition

Love as you are loved, without hesitation
Love with unconditional love, not judging one another

At the end of your day, when your work is done
Give God the glory for the strength He has given

At the close of the day, pray for another one to come
That you may do His will according to His direction for your life

(Repeat this daily until the Lord's return)

Details | Prose Poetry | |

roller coaster

Roller Coaster

Like an old roller coaster
With wooden slated tracks
The cars all freshly painted
The kind we saw way back

The feeling in the pit of your stomach
As you slowly start the ride
Ready with eyes wide open
With your fears laid to the side

Starting up the first steep slope
The excitement starts to build
Ready for what is coming
Ready for all the thrills

As the ride continues
Seems like it will never end
The clicking and the clacking
Going faster around each bend

You finally ascend the last peak
The cars all picking up speed
Descending downward quickly
Around the corner with eyes squeezed

Are these not the same feelings
You have when you’re in love
The ups and downs of relationships
Euphoria, highs and lows

Details | Prose Poetry | |


I’ve threaded my fingers and turned my body into beads.
Like a necklace I was strung and now she wears me ‘round her throat.
Everyone compliments her new accessory.
They say it suits her perfectly; 
 they’ve never seen a better match.
They can’t tell I’m wearing her down.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Winter of our lives

In the winter of our lives, as we are lain to our final rest
We rest with generations from long ago
As time goes on and it comes to the day
That Christ returns, we will rise up to meet Him
With generations of past, meeting those of present
What a glorious day that will be!

Can you imagine? The skies filled with His glory …
The earth witnessing His majestic power …
As angels … and the children of God, 
Sing in loud jubilation ... loud jubilation!
Of Christ Jesus’ return.
All of heaven sings out His name!

I fear not the winter season of my life
With great anticipation of the joy to come
I long for that day, to see His face …
To stand in His presence … to reign with Him
FOREVER in my Father’s house!
Until that time arrives, I live my life for Him!
Today and always until my time of rest.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

My Name

My first name is ‘Disconnected’
Middle name is ‘Lazy’
Last name ‘Daydreamer’

I live in the state of ‘Constant Want’
Near the city of ‘Desperation’
My house is located on ‘Barely Making it Avenue’

My main desire has been ‘Living my own Life’
Yet my actions in obtaining it are ‘Freddy the Freeloader’
Please Lord, change me!  Make me who You meant for me to be

Give me the strength to stand up, courage to take a chance 
Fill me with Your love and Spirit that I not fear failure
That I may be a blessing to others and glorify You

Forgive me for living as my name states
I know they are not the name that You gave me
Yet they are the ones I took upon myself

Now with You, Lord … My first name is ‘Joyful Singing’
Middle name ‘Thankful Spirit’,  last name ‘Saved by Grace’.
I am a child of God, living in Your Care!

Details | Prose Poetry | |


While toiling and muttering
Ranting and sputtering
As I did battle with my shirt
At the ironing board this morning
I reflected:

Wrinkles on ones face are
Unless one is Dorian Gray
Or can Botox them away

Wrinkles on ones clothes
Can be ironed out
Though I always have trouble
With my crappy iron
Though perhaps it's my
That fails me

I've been ill equipped
From the start
To deal with
The wrinkles in my life

Just when I think
I've smoothed them away
Another takes its place
And brings its friends along
And I wind up
In a morass of messy lines

Synchronicity was at play
When a little while later
As I waited
For my bus
To take me into the city
I noted a schoolboy
Sitting on a bench, reading
"A Wrinkle in Time"
By Madelyn L'Engle

If only, like Charles & Meg Wallace
In that story
One could jump
Between dimensions
Perhaps go back
And make different choices
So those wrinkles
Would have never appeared
Move forward
And sidestep present sorrows
And be wrinkle-free

I only know
That I want to be done with it

Wrinkles and all


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Gone are the Dreamers

Ashes of youth
all in a magic circle
evolve and fade
drowned in the rain.

Wind was a thin whisper
silken, sad, and uncertain.
A spark aglow became
a diamond-strung.

The kiss of emerald
to catch more glitter.
A star almost shining
where have all the 
dreamers gone.

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True Worth

Indeed,Boundless knowledge 
beyond physical wealth
becomes true precious worth

Copyright McCuen 2008

Details | Prose Poetry | |

He is my God

Don’t look at the ground
that crumbles beneath you.
Don’t fear a fall, for I have you.
I AM your support,
the one that holds you safe.
Look up to My eyes,
look up and away
from the fears that try to take you down.
When all is gone,
am I not still here beside you?
Then look only to Me!

Details | Prose Poetry | |


I Am that I Am as Popeye would say ...
or was that the burning bush to Moses?
     Who is the I without the Me?
     Which came first the Me or the I?
     Does the Me know the I?
          When You speak, You say You to Me
          and I say I to Me and You to You and then,
          We speak of  Them.
                When I say Me and You say I when You speak of You
                but not when You speak of Me,
                and They just don't know what to say. 
                    And there You are again
                    and here am Me ...
                    or is it I?
                         Which I Am do I speak of when I speak of Me?
                         The I Am that is Infinity?  or, the ego I
                          that thinks it is all?
                               And what of Me, that little itsy bitsy Me
                               that crawled and cried and cooed, 
                               then rose up to become a Me that got to say:
                               I think           I feel          I believe
                               as if it was all about Me or until it was about You ...
                               Is that when it was We?
                                    Or is it always and forever one universal We
                                    with a Me who can feel apart from and forgets
                                                              I AM.

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 | |

Hear the Father ask

Why don’t you trust Me?  I hear the Father ask.

Do you think I am such that I would lead you into an action and leave you?  Don’t 
you believe I am with you always – in everything you do?  You aren’t to be directed 
by others, but by ME!  Their thoughts and feelings are not to control your walk, I 

Stop reacting to their words, by stopping what I have put into action.  To each I 
speak and to each I give direction, because they are each different now, does not 
mean they are not to be done.  For they all work together as I have planned.

If it is man who decides, then I am not in control, therefore I am not in it.  Follow 
Me, not man.  I am the one who loves you, it is I who desires all to dwell with Me 
in My kingdom.

Some may have good intentions, but still falter.  I falter not!  I know exactly what I 
want done, I only want you to obey and be My tool in doing it.

If you love Me, believe Me, I won’t lead you far off and leave you.  You are My child 
and I love you.

Walk in faith, you claim you have it, now act on it!  Walk with Me, I have control.  
Even if you take a turn in the wrong direction I am here to bring you back, or am I 
unable?  Am I your God?  Am I the one who created all?  Beginning and end?

If you believe that I am, then can’t you believe that I can lead you back on the right 
road when you stray?  I see the heart of man, I don’t have to guess what he is 
inside. If he is for Me, then he can do anything, if he is not then I will stop him.

I AM the judge, not man!

As My child, do as I direct you to do, not faltering from others looks and remarks.  
I will care for them as I care for you.  My work will be done!  Let Me work through 
you, My child, let all hear of My love that they may be with Me in my kingdom as I 
want so.

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I wrestled

Several nights now I have wrestled with death for my life.  I don’t fear death, I’m 
just not done with life.  I have things to finish here.  People to reach out to.

I feel my spirit pull me back as death tries to take me away.  My heart knows it will 
be all right when the time is in God’s plan.  But not at this time, it leaves too many 
unsaid, ‘I love you's’.  There is too much still to be done with and for my loved 

When my goal has been reached, then I will cherish the moment I lay to rest, until 
I see my Lord’s hand reaching out for me as  I rise up from my sleep.

But for now … it is life I choose to live.  It is Christ I live for.  So death leave me 
alone!  You can’t have me until my God says it is to be.  I trust His timing and His 
love for me.  

You, death care of nothing but death.  You shall wait, while I live.  I plan to live a 
full and rich life while you wait.

God has promised to give us the desires of our heart, those that are stayed on 
Him.  I am in His hands and you can’t do anything about it.  

There will come a day though that you will have your way, but not totally.  For you 
can only take me in physical death, but I will live in eternal life with my Lord and 

So, see you still can’t win!

Details | Prose Poetry | |


Thoughts race through my mind
Spinning me round and round

Such an over whelming feeling at times
That I can hardly stand upright, from weakness I fall

Reaching for a hand to hold
I stretch forth reaching

Is anyone there?
Where are the arms to hold me close?

Will I pass through this time
And come out alright?

As I look into my Savior’s eyes
I see His compassion

He reaches to me
The hand that I need reaches out

He lifts me up from my fall
Wipes the tears and binds the wounds

His gentle touch heals the heart
And brings strength to my soul

His love fills my spirit, gives me hope in days to come
Always knowing He is there

Reaching for a hand to hold
I stretch forth reaching

To find His hand stretched toward mine
And His arms open wide

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.