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Prose Poetry Journey Poems | Prose Poetry Poems About Journey

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

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Details | Prose Poetry | |

Vase Dream - c'est la vie

       Vase Dream - c'est la vie 

White vase with no design
Dangling there - c'est la vie 
I think somewhere in Center City
Apart from everything
In an apartment rising skyward
Lingering on the edge of ledge
Standing tall atop a railing raw
Languishing over the 20th Floor
Or there about
And more - c'est la vie 
The balcony did its’ best of course
Displaying the fragile curves
Morning sun light danced approval
Around bouncing beams above the surface
But nothing could stop a soft breeze from… 
Poof!.....And off  it went… c'est la vie 
An alert French man
Pastry smile and all
Happened along
With left handed nimble fingers caressing a Beaujolais 42
The other hand stretched out with stress
As if to field an errant football pass
And in that chance encounter…Catch!...
Tumbling to concrete boundaries down
Bottle released in a wincing crash
Ground favored his mortal urgency
Pottery saved - c'est la vie 
French man’s head cracked
Let’s say opened 
Something like an egg
A natural death ensued - c'est la vie   
A passer-by seized the moment
Lifted vase and fled
Made off down and dirty
An ally
Another fate for vase awaits
Less encumbered
In a land far away
To dream of ledges - c'est la vie 
If so inclined   
Or so designed

Modified on 10/21/14 for - c'est la vie - Poetry Contest

Copyright © Earl Schumacker

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Tale of Sandy the Snail

This is the tale of Sandy the snail...
Who always wore her hair in a ponytail...
She was different from others and I’m sure you’ll agree...
As her colors were bright neon fluorescent green you see... 
She wasn’t content just moving slow...
She wanted to run like a Marathon Pro...
Up early each morning...
When the Sun arose...
She did pushups, pull ups and touched her toes...
Alas... it was then she realized this was futile...
As everyone knows...
If she had feet, she would be more mobile...

Copyright © kj force

Details | Prose Poetry | |

My grandmother's diary

Cucu, maitu 

Now that am older
I seek more answers 
In the same manner I did 
Those days gone, of fetching firewood to cook a cherished meal
I seek more answers 
Not in the manner I did
Fetching sticks in the forest to be used by teachers for spanking and whipping 
Oh how I dreaded those days, those chilling days of punishments for poor grades, tardiness and noise making
And there my hate for math began....fearing it even to this day
that math teacher that came drunk to class and we mostly got beatings for nothing

I seek answers to understand our family dynamics 
Interesting, odd, sad, puzzling, beautiful, worrying, entertaining,  
Is some of the descriptions 
The reason we are the way we are
The beings we become in unexpected fate

Cucu, maitu 

I've heard your many stories of "emergency" during the colonial rule
I've seen your youthful strength that grows more beautiful with aging days
You always say "it's the Lord"
I remember how when we were little you always got us to wash our feet before getting on your bed
How you then proceeded to pray for your ten children, your many grand children and your ever increasing great grandchildren 
Telling God each of their names
My sisters and I always thought you said some of the longest prayers
But now that am older I know why
The number of family members I have to pray for increases with new age
Like the last video i took of you singing and dancing with some of your great grandchildren, 
The melody of my life becomes more fruitful with each new beat

Cucu, maitu (kikuyu words for grandmother) 

Copyright © njeri hunjeri

Details | Prose Poetry | |

A journey to the Promise Land (Getting Understanding) pt.1

I've found through the intrepid individuality of reality of life's lesson and Under-
standing the maker of the moon and star's. That the creator, the maker of the
tree's in the parks, mankind and all-minds, all maintaining of drama and percep-
tion. A journey of a thousand directions of heartless rejection's will never mater
alize had the first step never comprimise!  Comprimising to reinvent the word of
the maker of the moon and star's.
   O'How I wonder were you are. "Twinkle-twinkle star so high could tonight just
for me?" would you, could you shine so bright that other's could see just for me,
the maker of the wind and the sea. "A Journey to the Promise Land, fill to the manna,
fill to the brim to Understand".  That on this journey the maker of tall, short, skinny or
blind, the maker that cause rain to erase the individuality of reality. The nature of sin      
flow's through the land of all grain in the sand. (Do you Understand) The maker of the left
hand and the right, just for me(?) would you, could you promise me that there's sim-
plicity that my wild oats shall see. Maker of the moon and star's, "way back-way back
when you first told Moses". The voices of bondage shall you lead, unto a Promise Land
of Milk & Honey flowing with reality, flowing not for the eye's to see, but to talk about
the neccessity of history. Way back when. O"How you prove beyond all degree, the
truth of who is powerful, who is the maker of the wind & sea. "Get Understanding".
(The maker of knowledge and the air we breeze).

Copyright © John Streeter

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Death Of Love Part 1

      ~Death Of Love~ Part 1

The death of adoration is the moment of truth
                  abundance of caution is needed
                            when love has no tomorrow
                                            it changes to pain.
                                                   In the name of suffering 
                                                          weight your capacity to hold tight
                                                                             by not giving up the fight.
                                                                            Therese Bacha      
                                                                Contest for Russel Divey 5 minute
                                                                                  WIN. NO.( 1)

Copyright © Therese Bacha

Details | Prose Poetry | |


PINNACLE With a piggyback of hopes and dreams, I set forth to reach a peak. Along bed of roses, rocks and tall sharp weeds, I harvested golden grains of progress. The days and nights rang a wake-up kiss on my head. They told me: "Move on, move on...Don't ever give up..." There are rainy days on the way. A rain shower teased my climb halting me for awhile. Some so strong, I faltered - gained some wounds. Some directly stabbed my heart. And somehow, sometimes they even knocked my very soul. Although tough thunder tremors shook me, I fought hard to stand still continuing my climb. Each height I step onto, I came to know moon and stars. Some of them began a war with me. Some of them a veil of fraud. But blessing, most have shed a continuing guiding light. Some hugged me. And wanted me to stay but some pushed and pressured me until I am all like a dripping sponge. The potpourri situations brought me: a ladder closer to our God. His faithfulness and unfailing love a durable adhesive to my persistence and dreams. A rainbow after each rain drew a promise of sun-kissed days. They melted the cold lonely years away. They permitted me a walk and run to heavenly meadows. Finally, I reached the pinnacle where grins a forever familiar tale. (c) Olive Eloisa 2:07pm October 01. 2012

Copyright © Olive Eloisa Guillermo

Details | Prose Poetry | |


The digital face displays a naughty grin. 5:23am.
Sliding into seat 23C, I double-check my ticket just to make sure:

Seat 23C on Flight 753241698, with a designated lift-off time of 6:08am.

Beside me, chuckles Robert Anton Wilson's spirit:

"See, this is exactly why we appointed you as a Cardinal(the bird?) 
in The Church of The 23 Enigma. You are a perfect fit.
Son, this is a destiny you cannot change, 
so why not just make the best of it.

The plane might crash, be refurbished or decommissioned,
but the flight itself doesn't ever stop. Ever. 
Once you get on, get in, the flight stays on an infinite course.
Thank you for flying with: Synchronicity 23 Airways. Please, enjoy your flight."

2.24.2013: 23:57

Copyright © Chris D. Aechtner

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Lost in Darfur

The displacement camp is overcrowded with a sea of people.
Today another village burns while families are killed. 
It’s not safe here for this camp has been attacked. 
Where do we flee or where do we hide.
A home would be nice…
A normal meal…
A normal life is just a dream…
Where is the justice. 
Why can’t there be peace.
My hope is for my people to be embraced for who they are.
I ask those who hear to light a candle;
A guiding light to help us find our away.
We may never see the light of our hopes and dreams,
But we remember memories of our blessings and gifts.
We are not be part of this world anymore,
But we are thankful for this world in which we live.
May we find peace until we have light for our path…

Edward J Ebbs - 08/27/14

Copyright © Edward Ebbs

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Sunsets and Journeys

Poem about beautiful sunsets and the journey of life.

Spent all day walking on the beautiful powdery white beach. Picking
up oceans treasures, scallop shells calico in colors rich and diverse,
conch, coral, cockel, Sand dollar, sea biscuit, lightning welk, snell shells
of every kind. Ocean breakers emerald crashing and rumbling up onto
the porcelain beach. Wade out let it splash all over me so cooling and
refreshing along with ocean breeze. Splash on the face I lick it off,
exquisitely salty. sand Pipers skiddering along, Pelicans and sea gulls
in the indigo sky catching my eye. Such beautiful things my spirit uplifted.
Sun now kissing the ocean in an explosion of colors. I sit down
 to take it all in. Orange, scarlet, green, violet, purple, amber,
 gold, emerald, jasper, amathyst, amber, alibaster and every
 hue inbetween. A glorious feastfor the eye and mind
 to put at ease. Dark now as the golden moon
takes it's Majasties place. What a simply wonderful day.
Giving sigh it's over I could do this forever. Time to go back to my home
in Arkansas. We have beautiful sunsets there as well. Beautiful mountains,
streams, forests, springs, caves, clear lakes await for me to revisit.
The air is clean with a fragrant scent, purple, yellow, orange, lavender,
azure, indigo, cardinal, porcalin, pink and more colors than I can
describe wild flowers frow. Clear blue rivers rush with white roaring 
rapids to float, forests of emerald abundant to explore. Mountains 
treacherous to scale, Hot springs to sooth and heal both body and 
spirit. Diamonds to find, red, champagne, blue, sparkling enchanting 
exquisite. Crystals bound in the mines near the healing hot springs,
amythest, garnets, water crystals, rubies and jasper in georgeous
colors crafted into rings, bracelets, pendants, watch bands and so
many more elegant things. I may never get to return to the beloved 
beaches again in my life, but I still have all these wonderous things
in My Natural Arkansas. However if I am fortunate enough to return to 
the glorious oceans and beaches, I will once again enjoy the treasures,
pleasures, sunsets  to behold so bold and vibrant, more wonderful
memories if it comes to pass. one never knows for certain what lays
ahead down lifes path so onward we go and enjoy each blessing
that the Lord has prepared to us to see. Hopefully we will learn on
this journey to love, care for and share with each other.

Copyright © Jack Ross jr.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Journey

Part 1: Catalyst
I recently read a blog that purported to report news
Of extraordinary import to us all,
That the Catholic Pope, with a new encyclical letter,
Announced to the world his conviction that there is no Hell
And that the idea of  Hell itself  is just a literary device,
A metaphor for separation from God’s love,
An idea now vanquished by God’s Grace in Christ….
That all men are, in fact, brothers AND children
Of a loving Father who loves us all in spite of our antics,
Not a parent that choses favorites or pits child against child.

I thought, “Am I dreaming? How can this be true.”
“The church has so long been a source of judgment,
Pitting groups of men against each other
With appeals to their vanity and attempts to separate
Believers from their hard earned cash, not to serve God,
But to enrich perhaps man’s monuments to Satan himself.”
The Pope’s imagined letter continued with vows
To abandon intolerance, even recognizing that 
“Truth is not set in stone,” and that men have no right
To insist God cannot change or wisdom to discern it
If in fact it should happen, evolution itself seeming proof
That even God gets bored with the status quo at times
Just one little asteroid it seems and poof, abracadabra,
No dinosaurs, to munch any longer, on man’s progenitors.

The letter even suggested that we remain open to new
Sources of inspiration, like science perhaps,
Another good and perfect gift to man from God,
And concluded that no door open to one sex 
Should ever be closed to the other, that men and women
Should all be eligible to the church’s hierarchy
And Old Testament calls for intolerance and judgment
Be seen as outdated, and contrary to the message
Of love and truth, revealed in Christ’s teaching .
Part 2: The Unfolding of Feeling
It was as if the doors of heaven itself had been opened to me,
And Christ resurrected once again from the dead,
First death on the cross, second death by those
Who wear expensive versions of His stolen vestments
Perhaps only the innocent can truly know His pain,
Well, maybe the two thieves who died with Him as well
One of which entered paradise with him the same day.

Man’s journey, our journey with God began long before
The birth of all we know, God’s plan already perfect,
Before time as we know it began, in God’s imagination,
Even the very idea of your future life precious to Him.
The paradox of God knowing you completely and your free will
Already blossoming in one of God’s favorite gardens,
Nestled in the Word of the great I AM, the holy seed of your birth,
A poetry whose rhyme, rhythm, and music only angels sing.

How many stars had to die for your awakening in His plan?
How patient and wonderful His dream for your life,
As atom by atom your complex chemistry was collected
From the vastness of the whole of His creation!
All of this preparation for you, joy in your potential,
Who is greater in His heart, my brother, my sister than you?
Yet you think yourselves beyond the reach of His caring,
Beyond the warmth of His heart, because of other’s lies.
Part 3: The Denouement
Of course it is only fair for you to question my sharing,
Indeed the heart always doubts, but God doesn’t condemn,
His Grace always so much bigger than we can imagine,
His justice wiser that than that of our ancestors.
Yes, my own witness rests on the love of another….
This witness showed me God’s love without cunning
With his heart alone he proved that God’s love is real,
No evidence can disprove what I learned that day.
May God lead you to so trust my words or your own miracle!

Do not listen, my still troubled friends, to Sunday Christians
Who imagine their church to be a Country Club for the saved,
“We have so much money God must love us more than the rest!”
Let me assure you, whatever church or faith you visit by chance,
Regardless of what they think of themselves, you’ll find a niche,
For every church is, in fact, a hospital for the sick and dying.
While you are with them do whatever good that you can.
You might be the Good Samaritan a desperate church has prayed for,
You, though a stranger to their faith, teach them what faith means.

Part 4: Epilogue
Yes , on our journey of faith the terrain is never of our choosing,
The scenery, the wells that quench thirst, the manna heaven sent,
Our strength too, but movement is always our own will.
I called or wrote many of my best friends to share the dreams
Expressed in this disarming and duplicitous journalistic prose,
And then the next day when it became clear that the letter was false
Just as quickly repeated my efforts to inform all of the deceit.
I find myself now laughing at my own gullibility,
But rather pleased at the same time that so many shared my dreams.
If you find my disappointment in organized religion laughable,
Let me share finally by echoing “The Beatles” and say simply that,
“I hope someday you too will join us, and the world will be as one!”

Brian Johnston
June 26, 2015

Copyright © Brian Johnston

Details | Prose Poetry | |

If-For Relationships

If a fruit's peel scraped, yields its zest,
     may my love be the juice of
     the most opulent orange?

If so much as a glance can initiate passion,
     may I look upon your beauty
     and dream of sharing all tomorrows?

If an embrace be a sign of affection,
     may I cling to you as a newborn clings
     to their Mother?

If tears grant absolution,
     may mine be a river, where our lives
     float serene, on waters of peace and hope?

If the light from one's eyes be a sign of joy,
     then yours are radiant, shimmering stars
     in a clear night sky.

If one's touch can convey security,
     may I place my hand in yours until
     I pass from this life?

If life truly be a journey,
     may I take each next step at your side?

                                                 If-For Relationships
                                                 8-7-14 b.b.

Copyright © Brian Baumgarn

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Survival of the Fittest

—the journey of a herd of mustangs in a picture on the wall—

The story begins with two stallions at the water’s edge, facing each other.  When one of the stallions irritated, impatiently hits the surface of water with his hoof, the splashes of the water fly all over in the air as if it’s a declaration of merciless war. Then a ghastly fight has begun between two of them. They bite, kick, and wrestle each other in the shallow water to defeat one another. Each time one attacks his opponent, they raise high in the air with hind legs, they shake their gorgeous manes and necks, their muscle quake, and the blood spouts out from their shoulders.

After the long and bloody fight is over and the one who lost in battle draws back, the victor marches in triumph to the herd of mustangs. Nevertheless, the high and intermittent background music and splashing wavelets on the water’s edge scenery introduce the tension and suggest ever-ending darkness to come. They run down the stream while pushing each other as if they were compelled by the fate, which is invisible, or to say that they were driven by some evil but absolute power that is unavoidable.  They pass through the deserted field; they swim to cross the rushing stream as if silvery dolphin in the water; they strut through the fog as if they were Pegasus galloping on the cloud; they even dash through the blazing fire like the Phoenix rising from cold ashes. The victor, now, dives into bottomless water before his many followers for a long journey; yet, the destination unknown.       

Copyright © Su Ben

Details | Prose Poetry | |


Touching to sea essence with their noses
Old men  by the seashore
Sails up flags waving goodbye
Gulls laughing
Don Coto's Face brown and wrinkled
Smiles from ear to ear
Prepares for the voyage to gather bounty
From the land the sea to see
The coconut trees
Leaves rubbing against each other
Waiting for their daily drinks to arrive
The sun plays peekaboo
With the rolling clouds of white and blue
Man loading their Cargo
Their wives saddened
Tears flowing 
Nearby laughter
Josélito Negrita and Tony
Chasing down fiddlers 
by the mangroves
Oblivious they are
Life is just fun and games
Atop the hill
The river flows endlessly
Mi madre Maria tomasa
Is at the river bed
Washing clothes
Andre the fiery
She's beautiful, radiant black hair green eyes
Strong yet loving she was
I miss her my family mi familia
My people mi gente
My culture mi cultura
Mi India Borincana
With your music of love 
Life and lore
I will never forget you
Dreams never die
Although years may pass
I'll shall return 
Just like my 

           All rights reserved
              A Camacho jr.
                1996 -2015

Copyright © Tonytocaa Camacho

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Vegas Be Damned

Vegas be Damned!

Vegas took him off the board at 80.
As the cards were dealt each day, passersby
would swear the deck was stacked –
against him.  Fate had, for some reason,
chosen him to constantly be in the line
that closed for lunch, watching the bus
he just missed - leave.  Youth, street kid,
pin setter in a bowling alley, living at the
kindness of friends parents, eating as the
opportunity presented.  17, enlisted,
good duty, three hots and a cot.  Re-enlisted,
war, Korea, PTSD (before it was PTSD).
Discharged, returned to the streets of
his youth – no longer a youth.  The drink,
elixir of the damned, damnation of the
scarred, comforter of the comfortless.
Arrests and jail time, flop houses, back
to the streets.  Early in his forties, fate’s
dealer broke open a new deck.  A chance
meeting, a choice, an unsteady walk,
a door, into a new life.  Get well jobs,
dishwasher, grave digger, volunteer.
A 75 dollar car, an apartment of his
own, friends, and fellowship.  Another
better job, 30 years later, retirement
at age 75.  A birthday party shared with
friends - many half his age of 84.  He
still walks the streets of his youth
proudly, thinks of those who, unlike him,
were not as fortunate.  Those who succumbed
to the rigors of life, and death, the unseen
wounds that never healed, the hopelessness
of a stacked deck.  He laughs a lot, has a
bit of a skip in his step, a wry smile on his
face, an MBTA Charlie Card in his wallet,
and a plan to be a part of this day.
Vegas be damned!

John G. Lawless
for Gautami Phookan – Sketch a Character – Poetry Contest

Copyright © John lawless

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Descent

Wispy clouds of white
surround me and hold me
tenderly as I float 
effortlessly through the sky
on this day of days
filled with sunshine
warm breezes and
the scent of lilacs mixed
with new mown hay

Over streams and valleys
I journey caressing the
tree tops as I pass overhead
finding myself intermingled
with a flock of sparrows
winging their way toward
their favorite roosting grounds
on the valley floor

Suddenly I am drawn into
a rain cloud and its
gentle drops cleanse
my entire being and
leave me to dry in the
warm winds that turn
each droplet of moisture
into a silk like lotion
that softens my skin and
soothes my inner soul

As I draw ever closer
to the rich green grass
below me I feel a peace
enveloping me as if my 
journey's end were near
and my life's fears and
all of its sorrows might
end this day never more
to return

I descend slowly like  
a feather and nestle
into a thick growth
of grass that seems to
welcome me as the blades
work in unison taking 
possession of my body
and with my final movement
and as consciousness fades
I am transformed

Copyright © Charles Gragg

Details | Prose Poetry | |


(Tatyana Kasima)

Life is a journey of countless sub-destinations
It’s in stages and phases
Life is a function of time a subset of different season
Wet, dry, winter, spring, or summer
Each is experience one at a time
Life continues as a journey
When the journey is far
I am empowered to keep moving
When every thing seems locked up and become tiring
I received encouragement never to look down but keep focusing
When the sun is at its peak
I am hopeful there is a shade ahead to hide my head
When it’s stormy, heavily rainy or snowy
I know with an assurance
That the house ahead will take me in
Just in a land of different culture and lingual codes
I feel at home because I have a friend that knows, trusts, and believes in me
He is the reason I’m encouraged and the source of my strength
He is the house and home that take me in
He is my beautiful angel sent from above
I bless the heaven for the friend in you

© 2011

Copyright © Joshua Akinwande

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.

Copyright © Molly McCarthy

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Longest Day of Waiting

Life on earth is like a large platform where people show the highness or lowness of spirits of their lives. A queue in time bargaining for the much awaited satisfaction in life.  Just like in litigation, we all undergone proceedings in order to determine our unalienable rights --from conception to birth--judgment has been made whether to preserve or to abandon a life. Is it the longest day of waiting to be born on this earth? Not until we begin to crawl and cry weakly; run and stumble many times; stutter while trying to express the feelings, and get the needed fostering from parents that we realize all these as part of the stages of life. Is it the longest day of molding life inside the house? Not until we are brought up learning under the doctrine of the school to get further knowledge that we see a brighter future.  We struggled hard to academic discussion--from shapes, numbers, reading and into writing, we learned and been guided coherently. Is it the longest day of waiting for commendation? Not until we stepped out from our alma mater and into the challenging workforce that we feel the test of life.  We faced many setbacks and blows but determination made us to choose to get on it until we gradually climb into the targeted rank. Is it the longest day of the tiring effort to make a living? Not until we retired from work and have seen the fruits of our effort that we begin to feel good enough. As growing old is inevitable, it is about changes in yourself and life. Eyesight begins to dim and hearing fails, agility has turned into weakness, and health deteriorated until you sigh, “It is time to lay all worries to rest and maneuver myself into an open fluorescent green field.” 

For all we know, it is still not the end of waiting until we see our next generation coming into being and deserving to be treated as such.

Noel N. Villarosa
12 February 2013

Copyright © Noel Villarosa

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Black In Time

Let`s go black in time
Come with me black to history
Black to the mother land
Where we rightfully belong
Black in time before the Europeans
Tried to whitewash our
Skins and minds
Black to the kingdom and ancestry
Black, way black before slavery

Black am I 
Not just the color of my skin
The pupil of my eyes or the hair on my head
But black at heart, black in my thinking
And black in my thoughts

Black in time
Black my story, every sentence, every line
Black every rhythm and every rhyme
Black the days on their slave ships
Heading across the ocean lines
Black the shackles and the chains
Black the whips that cut our veins
Black the blood that stained the lands
Black the heart of every whiteman
Black the husbands and the wives
Black the circumstances which changed 
our lives
Black the mother and the father
Black the separation from each other

Black, black, black, black
Black the struggles and the fights
Black the system which took away 
our rights
Black the midnights we tried to make 
our run
Black the rope on the tree that hung the ones
Who wished to be free

Black, black, black, black
Let`s go black and turn the world around
Let`s take black our civilization
Every continent and every nation
Let`s take black the white man`s dominion
Let`s take black our rightful rulership
No more subjection under
The whiteman`s dictatorship
Let`s black out the pages 
of the white man`s days
And attribute the praises 
to the black liberal race

Black my eyes and the things they see
Black the visions of those who preceded me
Black Marcus, Selassie and Mandela
Black Obama and the Christ
Black the life I live because of their sacrifice

Copyright © Leon Pryce

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

Copyright © Timothy Hicks

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The North Pole Journey

As we approached the ice bergs our ship seemed tiny
they towered high above us as we crept into the bay
we could see the Eskimo's and their sleigh's waiting
now we would complete the next few legs with them

Our goal is to reach and set up camp at the North Pole
loading our supplies onto the sleigh's and getting on
soon we were speeding along, the ground very bumpy
clinging on, ducking  branches as they whip  back and forth

A wonder world of pristine white and hues of various blues
only broken up by the line of trees glinting brightly green
large ravines off to the side, one slip and you would be gone 
to a cold icy grave buried forever in this lost icy world of snow

Onwards over the harsh landscape, we need to reach camp 
before its dark, to unpack what's needed for overnight stay
light a campfire settle and feed the husky's waiting patiently
cook and eat our food as we share a few beers and some jokes

All too soon its dawn, temperature is -20% we have to break
things free from the ice, before we can eat and pack up
husky's are linked up and ready, what a din they are making
so excited to get going, this is now the final stage before the pole

We fly down barely noticeable trails that twist and wind slurry
left behind us, half a days travel left not too far to go now
some we leave the tree line behind, in front nothing but snow
ice bergs so big you could lose a couple of houses inside them

At last we see the buildings ahead and people pouring out 
they will return to their own lands until it is time to relieve us
six months we will be here recording data about weather
and other things, watching polar bears and noting their habits

All this just for some insight and some data that will get buried
as for us well we have the open space, the freezing cold
each other to help past the long nights, day is only 6 hours
18 hours of dark, and fearsome storms that will be our lot    

Cut off now until spring returns and the reindeer return
they have wintered far to the south now coming back
they will give birth here on the icy plains of endless snow
and we will return to so called civillization until next year

Copyright © Shadow Hamilton

Details | Prose Poetry | |

I met you in my journey

I met you in my journey.
Over cups of coffee. Over conversations.
Over laughter. Pure nuisance.
Over smiles. And feeling of freedom.
Pure happiness. And amusement.
Over sadness. And pain.
That you stuck through.
I met you in my journey.
Unexpected. And I loved you.
Over the hours. The minutes.
And the days. Through lonliness.
Through the emptiness. Through the confusion
In your head. Through the feelings
That no one else understood.
I met you in my journey.
Lonely soul I was. Just like you.
Fighting through emotions. A rebel.
Transient like rainbow. Forever, I knew not.
My other self. I found in you.
Through the fleeting nights and days.
That made the best of my life.
I met you in a  journey.
Which ended. Long ago
And I look back. And wonder.
If I ever cross your mind. Like you do.
I do not know where you are now. Or how.
If you are happy, loved. But I know
In my memories, we will meet again.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Journey to Africa as seen by an eight year old

My journey through life has seen so much
far have I traveled and much I have done
seen so many things that most others never do
the rock of Gibraltar, with teems of scary monkeys
traveling out we sailed through the Suez canal 
wondrous mysteries that delighted an eight year old
camels striding along, enormous crocs floating by
the land so close you want to touch it and run on it 
Zanzibar our next port of call, ram shackled boats galore
the heady scents of spices abounds teasing the nostrils
the vivid different colors everywhere flood my senses
on to our destination Dar-es-Salaam harbor most picturesque
a miss mash of ships some luxury most tramp ships or boats
sails of all colors, dark people unloading trunks from the holds 
this was a time taken out of time, a way of life quite relaxed
just think of the things ahead,  the adventures that awaited me

written 08/08/2013

contest    Your Journey

in 1958 the Suez canal was open later it got blocked by sunk ships

Copyright © Shadow Hamilton

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Dark Night

Dark night of my soul
Where fear and pain reside,
As rulers on their throne,
What courage cannot muster
To fight this battle within
And overcome its hold.
I seek to find resolve
To enter and seek a way to find
A way to remove its hold
In the dark night of my soul
And morning joy I seek
When it’s time does peak.
Dark nigh its lessons bring
If I seek to find them, 
While morning waits to come.

Copyright © Cathi Spooner

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)

Copyright © Onalethuso Petruss Buyile Mambo Ntema

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Life is a Healing Journey

The heart above all things, most fragile,
     bears all things.
So easily wounded when past scars beckon;
Unhealed, unreckoned.
Reminding me;
     of life’s journey past,
     awaiting to be healed,
     forgiveness to be sealed.

Forgiveness must allow
     the healing that I wish.
For the heart above all things, most fragile;
     bears all things where love abides,
     when healing does reside.

Today, an opportunity not to miss
     the healing that I wish.
So, ABBA, forgiveness I release
     so healing will replace,
     and love most precious will abide
     when forgiveness does reside.

Copyright © Cathi Spooner

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Journey of Love

I still remember the day
When i met you for the first time,
It was the day of exam
When we had no time.

Yet we became friends 
With our unmatched trends.
Along the journey with few bends,
I didn't know when we became close friends.

With a blink of an eye
We fell in love with each other,
It was the most beautiful feeling 
We had than any other.

A little complicated, yet we were
deeply attached and devoted,
But destiny had something else in its mind
As it was already decided.

Our relationship lived for three years
That left me in tears,
I don't know what mistake i had committed,
For which we got separated.

Each day that i spent with you 
Was like a celebration for me,
Even today i cry with a pain in my heart,
Thinking of 'you & me'.

Copyright © Sujish Kandampully

Details | Prose Poetry | |


Broken are my wings that would help me fly away..
Broken are the promises you make to me each day..
Broken are my feelings because of what I hear people say and..
Broken is my spirit when there is nobody there to lend me a hand..
Broken are my bones that put me in this wheelchair..
Broken are the memories as I think of the past here and there..
Broken is my faith that was once so very important to me..
Broken is the woman that in front of you is a broken down me you now see..
Buffy Sammons..

Copyright © Buffy Sammons

Details | Prose Poetry | |


Haven’t they seen where time stands still and the sun kisses the morning sky 
Running free from the break of day, laughter echoing for miles
Oh yes, it was easier then, when we were only 10
Spirit alive with tomorrows promise and innocence 
Watching sunsets disappear and then soon came the years

Innocence, memories from an easier time
Beauty fades, but not for you, I can see through
The soul never weathered and aged like your skin  
Spirit worn from facing each day without hope 
The soul renewed, found peace, stayed true 

Honesty is living life through your soul.
Life is more than meets the eye. 
Beauty is in the eye of the beholder 
And eyes are the gateway to the soul. 

Souls which have no color decend unharmed
Reality unmasked, the soul of compassion and forgiveness
Teach the young that they possess a power
To love each other past our cover.

When time is gone, the soul remains as the body decays
Before the end, slow down, enjoy the still
Give your soul to another who truly sees you
Taking only what you need to see truth
Be still and listen to what remains unspoken 

Copyright © Gabrielle Charisse

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Last Journey

Beating drums mark his last march and fifes play lowly, a breeze blows on blackthorn blossoms,
Raised high above on hardened shoulders for the mourning march, that slowly glides him along,
A hero, a name carved in precious polished stone, this is his last the most important journey,
The drums roll, bearers sway quietly with each step, a fife plays sadly bringing burning tears.

Winter, its hard wrinkled face and rough horny hands froze men to death stuck in no mans land,
It has no friends in this evil hated war and happily takes wounded men, a trophy to its might,
Thick mud is sometimes frozen and is like granite as the brave settle waiting for the whistle,
Some died with honour, their bravery hard to understand, bearers proudly shoulder such a man.

The parade stops at a grave, they lay their comrade down on planks of wood covering the hole,
The innocence of sweet youth taken away, living with bitter hating men, fear drives them on,
This boy was different he believed in the cause and he died for that sacred belief, honour,
The drum roll stops and a bugle plays the last post, men with their head bowed pray for help.

At home all are working in their gardens, a father mows grass, turning earth fresh and mellow,
Young flowers spring up in his boarders they have a delicate, poetic beauty a snow drop grows,
His boy, in fields far away, just as delicate as these new flowers when he took the shilling,
A father stops, can he hear the drums slowly and fifes playing lowly as his boy is lowered down.

Copyright © Terry Trainor