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Prose Poetry Life Poems | Prose Poetry Poems About Life

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Details | Prose Poetry | |

She read me Dr Seuss

6:35 A.M.

Sunrise against my neck
that no cheap tan booth could ever match.

I ring the doorbell in anticipation of joy’s injection.

I needed it.

Because I left my cell phone in the car,
as I didn’t want to hear any chimed email
or text annoyances.

And the car just got cleaned,
only for the birds to have their way
on its waxy shine.

Bastards!

Time to grab the flamethrower from my trunk!

But, before I could scream in Braveheart declaration,
there she was.

Her 6 yr old smile,
made of 1/4 inch gaps between innocence enamel,
captured me like no other could.

“Tio”, she preached in angelica sonata.

As she held me,
held me,
with puppy love warmth.

Even the rainbows fell to its knees.

She took off my jacket with ferret-like perkiness and
asked me to sit on the floor with her.

But, not before offering to toast me some Eggo waffles
with a big glass of Ovaltine…
…in her Little Mermaid glass,
proudly made in North Korea.

It even had the dictator’s initials and a bucktooth smiley face stamp, signed in glitter
that said:
“Kid-safe”.

Thank God I just took my online course in Child Safety.
I was ready!

As I sip on Little Mermaid’s curves,
shaped in plastic, swirly straw weirdness,
a sound blasts off from a Barbie radio.

My 2 yr old angel galloped into this heart of mine,
with Tinnitus piercing scream & laughter,
tackling me in Incredible Hulk lunge.

“Hi Tio”, she whispered, before she hopped back upstairs, 
Ninja Turtle-style,
laughing maniacally with rapid head tilts, left to right to left.

Boys will fear her. 
And I couldn’t be more proud.

After two moments of silence, 
my 6 yr old angel places her Dr. Seuss book on my lap,
as she sits in front of me.

“I can r-r-read
with my eye-s
shut.”

She carefully completed the sentence,
as my eyes instantly fill with leaky pride
and an ingrained smile.

10 minutes later, she shut her book and asked me how she did.
“I am so proud of you my angel.”
“You have come so far.”

I had to hold back tears because I didn’t want to throw her off.
Yet I think she knew,
because she kept her head down and smiled with gentle starburst.

Mission accomplished.

And it was then where I heard her say,
“Those who matter don’t mind,
those who mind don’t matter.”

But she was quiet, looking at me with tilted head & smile.

For it was my inner child, 
speaking
clear.

© Drake J. Eszes

Copyright © Drake Eszes

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Best Man

It has been 9 months since your sudden disappearance.

That Hallowed night when your 5’11” nerd aura
Handed me my early birthday gift
A cold shoulder wrapped in a velvet bow
Made in Sri Lanka, sold exclusively at the Dollar Store

That was your appraised value.

But, today, revival’s whisper enters my gently waxed earlobes.

Candy coated revelations
For my allergic blood

“I said yes!”, as she flashed Cracker Jack ring
Filled with Monopoly dollar signs and “Go directly to Jail” Chance cards

I almost applauded, my hands sarcastically never connected
While my eyeballs rolled in epileptic banter

We scream in misguided nerd joy 
As if we witnessed Monty Python & Darth Vader having a make-out session

Sudden urges to watch movies about Traveling Pants & Sisterhood
And PSing my I Love You
While we eat Dark Chocolate Klondike bars and Chipwich Ice Cream Cookies
My ovaries were bursting with INSANITY’S JOY!

But, WAIT, I quickly realized I didn’t have such parts!

It was then, reality crashed
As if Spider Man ran out of web during mid-air leap

My essence now halts at crossroads’ throat.

To my left, “celebration”
To my right, “other”

I chose to be a human this night.

Current time- 9:15pm
Current location- Reception Hall

A 5 course meal,
Including dinosaur shaped chicken nuggets
Smiley face French fries
And 3 glasses of Tang
Surrounded my space on the dinner table

Heavenly echoes of forks & glass,
Ringing in ignorant unison,
Give birth to Tinnitus in my drums

In their 9 months of togetherness,
They kiss with forcible ease,
Frogs refusing to show their true form

It is then, ignoring listless stares from guests,
I stood up holding my half-empty Tang glass
Which MIGHT have contained a smidge of Grey Goose

At the TOP of my LUNGS,
I whispered.

“Friend, I should be so proud of you. I would. I could. You never responded to my open-hearted palm. You left my vulnerabilities dangling at half-mast, as if I lost our final game of Hang Man. But, TONIGHT, it is I & this delicious Dinosaur nugget that will HAVE a final say! You are impeccably flawed, like I. But, I still wanted you to be a part of my tomorrows. Yet, you turned me into a muted yesterday. So, I will wish congratulations on your new slav…um, husband, Pouring this glass of yummy Tang onto this stapled dance floor in a straight line Each drop will be a symbol of how many tears he will shed, before that line is crossed.”
As silence slapped each other in its face Across candle flame blanketed, marble dance hall, With children pointing & laughing hysterically, “Security” enters the room As I hold hands with Cuban female rent-a-cop, her head warming my shoulder, “Thank you for these 9 months. For now, I have given birth to a new me. The Best Man that you will never hold again.” ©Drake J. Eszes

Copyright © Drake Eszes

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Salvation comes with a far greater sacrifice than blind faith and car-wash fundraisers

Travelling to a foreign land,
engaging in a cause not rightfully yours to join,
illegally taking up arms
with a desperate desire to save baby orphans
(only to dig them into the ground anyway);
is a life-altering experience.

There is an old line which goes something like:
"A part of my soul died on that cold, November morn."

But, such an experience can have the opposite effect entirely.
Yes! An experience such as this
can re-kindle a passion within,
so that every single particle,
every minute of each passing hour,
feels like a sacred gift -
the most sacred gift imaginable.

Yet upon returning home from such an experience,
after being grilled by Internal Affairs,
threatened with charges of International Treason,
Subterfuge and Espionage(but in the end,
you were only trying to save baby orphans
that you had to dig into the ground anyway,
so Internal Affairs drops the charges, telling you to scram),
you are inevitably slapped across the face
with an inescapable new reality....

....everyone appears to be whining and complaining
about the most trivial things,
as if everyone simultaneously feels wronged.

And this is wot you feel compelled to do:
you want to take these whiners,
transport them one-by-one
back to the foreign land with you.
After they see living skeletons
drag themselves across the dirt,
moaning, groaning, pleading for a drop of clean water, 
a miniscule morsel of food,
you hand the whiner a gun,
point toward an ominous dust-cloud on the horizon,
and this is wot you say:

"See the dust-cloud moving closer towards us.
It is filled with psychopathic horsemen.
These psychopathic butchers are wielding bayonets, machetes and Kalashnikovs.
If you and I do not successfully kill these mad horsemen,
they are going to chop apart all of the baby orphans
congregated in the courtyard over there.
Do you see the beautiful baby orphans in the courtyard?
Yes, those are the orphans.
And if we do not successfully defend this camp,
yet somehow survive with our lives,
we are going to spend the rest of the night
digging the baby orphans into the ground.

So, it best be high time you wipe the tears from your face,
stop worrying about how so-and-so called you a loser or wotever,
how your retirement funds appear to be shrinking
and so you won't be able to play as many games
of hitting the little white ball across a course 
fed with enough water to run an entire city.
Forget about your little boo-boo.
Pull-up your chin, straighten that spine,
and start squeezing the trigger like there's no tomorrow."






September 25th, 2011

Copyright © Chris D. Aechtner

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Stargazer

Under 65 degree starry, onyx blanket
Containment of quarter moon identity

A whimsically soothing song exuded
In muffled taps & Prohibition era lyric

In the distance,
Snow-capped mountains reflecting lunar clarity
Off its tips of freedom

As we lay on recycled steel hood,
Made in 1950s USA, when it mattered,
Her silhouetted fingertips released from my right arm
While insistently looking towards stratosphere’s vocal chord

“Can’t it be like this forever?
Oh, how I want to just make love to the stars.
Become one with Orion while riding
On Sagittarius’s arrow”

“What about our stars?”, he softly questioned.

“I’d like to be your never-ending shooting star.
To ride on blue moon’s comet, by your side”

Cricket whispers manhandled his romantic clef
Mother Nature’s afterglow, upon her ears, fallen deaf

Inherent waxy build-up from illicit tongue,
She pat his shoulders like a dog
Being taught his first lesson

Her eyes, still sky high.

“Sigh, I like how you think.
You’re such a nice friend.
You’re going to make a woman so happy one day.
I hope to meet a guy just like you.”

As her eyes sighed with a powerful lack of substance
Into the arms of Leo,
A slammed car door supplants the reverberation of the car’s V8 engine.

He confidently turns back the hands of time.

Reversal gears become his new tune

“If you get lost going home, follow the stars.”

As he pulls away with majestic, amplified lyrics
Of Whitesnake’s “Here I go Again”

Going down the only road he’s ever known

While she stands in fraudulent gasps of shock,
Looking back up to the stars in blank wonder

As he accelerates into a new page in his book
Closing his chapter with wondrous questions

“Why would I taste your starlight?

When you never believed in our constellation?”

©Drake J. Eszes
It’s good to gaze at the stars and make wishes. But, be careful what you wish for. For Earth has its own gifts…

Copyright © Drake Eszes

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Lucila

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There she is.

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

Now it’s my turn.

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

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

Go fig.

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

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

But, “Now I am”, is uttered.

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

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

These winds of change
became gusts of numbness.

I locked myself out of my heart.

I turned around to go back inside.

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

© Drake J. Eszes

Copyright © Drake Eszes

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LIFE

I asked to my father
Baba, What is life ?
He politely said to me, " Life is Duty . "

I asked to my mother
Maa, What is life ?
She said to me with smile, " Life is Responsibility . "

I asked to my teacher
Sir, What is life ?
He said to me with love, " Life is Education . "

I asked to my spiritual master
Gurujee, What is life ?
He said to me with confidence, " Life is Devotion . "

Today my son who reads in class nine
Asked me
Babai, What is life ?
I have said to him, " Dear, You are my life . "

SANDIP GOSWAMI, INDIA


( Father means BABA, BABAI and Mother means MAA in Bengali language .  Gurujjee means spiritual master in Indian society ) 

Copyright © Sandip Goswami

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When the Time is Right

For nearly 45 years I never spoke of  that day; the emotional pain was too great.
I simply hid it in the lining of my soul, knowing in my heart you didn’t stand
a chance with me as I stood in the rubble of my life and let you go, wrapped
in my heart with a wish and a prayer- all I had to give. And for 45 years, 
I dreamed of you and me playing in fields of daisies under blue skies as
I cried inside, wondering where you where, and if there was a part of you  
that somehow would remember me- would remember the bond we made 
in that single moment we shared together, when the nurse held you up to the
nursery window for me to see as I  stood on wobbly legs, with my trembling 
hands holding unto a pole with a dripping IV?

I prayed. Lord! How I prayed that someday, by the grace of  God, 
you’d come back to me when the time was right. 

So I lived my life. Got back up and crawled out of the rubble that was me, 
and lived with half a heart that somehow still managed to beat.

With the passing of  time, I bloomed; sometimes red, sometimes blue when I thought of all the years we could have shared as I sat and listened to family and friends 
tell me of the joyful times they shared with their children, grandchildren 
and great-grandchildren as, I  smiled and  cried inside and dreamed of you, 
and all the years of your life I  missed and, all the years I would never know. 
It was then I realized I was a very lonely soul. So, I wrote and wrote and
wrote, never suspecting for a moment that  nearly 45 years later,
you would find me through a poem I wrote for you.

I know I can never replace the mother and father who raised you, for the bonds
of time shared  are  much stronger than blood. Yet knowing what a wonderful 
women you turned out to be, beautiful, intelligent, compassionate  
and now with a daughter  of your own, is enough for me, and someday  
when the time is right for you, I hope and pray , we will meet again.

                                               ~~~~~~

                                                 Elaine George 


This is a true story.  It was through this forum ( poetrysoup ) my birth daughter found me. 


Copyright © Elaine George

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Yesterday, Today and Tomorrow


The morning comes; all is still
as the sunbeams glisten through the curtains.
Another day.
I sweep my mind of night's unconscious bliss,
when life was momentarily free
from the pain of dreams unfulfilled and
the inability to cope.

Another day.
As my consciousness takes over,
the new day's plans unfold, and suddenly,
like a bolt of lightning,
new hope leaps into my heart.
This will be the day—
the day of accomplishment,
fulfillment, of peace with myself,
with those I love, with nature,
with my God.

I rise.
At once I'm caught up
in the trivialities that separate me
from my hopes and dreams.
The early morning thoughts get swallowed up
in the day's tedious routine.
I follow my plan as best I can...
But life can exist by plan just so far.
The day is full of side tracks—
uneventful little nothings that slip in between.
And the day goes on.
Time speeds by in its steady way,
never looking back or pausing—but going on,
an unmerciful enemy,
and my plans dissolve 
with the ticking of the clock.

Before I know it, it is too late.
The day is done; the quiet night sets in.
Yes, the night once again. The time to tally up.
Oh God, it has happened again.
It's been another day—
another day of little nothings.
Another day like yesterday,
and the one before, and before.
I didn't grasp the unattainable,
that moment of moments.

I lie in bed awake,
day's plans not even half completed.
A moment of failure, of self-pity.
What have I done today?
Worse still, what have I left undone?
Then that special night it came.
A time for reconciliation, an inner voice—
perhaps God's answer.

What is the matter with you?
Are you not alive and well?
Are you not loved, and do you not love in return?
Have you not helped someone today,
even in the smallest way?
Have you not made someone smile, or
perhaps comforted a child?
Have you not heard the song of a bird?
Or seen the beauty of a tree
swaying in the breeze?
Or felt the warmth of the sun, 
and the cool of the night against your skin?
Have you not watched any one of nature's
mystifying wonders at work?
Each one of these things is likened
to a miracle in itself.
Each one, a unique experience
of accomplishment 
and fulfillment.

Suddenly,
the importance of those little nothings
became magnified a thousand fold.
I came to realize a day is not an entity in itself,
but a building block of life,
each one of different weight and size,
depending on the kind of experience within,
and the little nothings,
the cement which holds it all together.

Today was not the same as yesterday.
It could never be the same,
no matter how trivial and uneventful
its moments seem to be.
Today is another building block,
different from the one beneath it.
Tomorrow is another day,
cemented to today by little acts of love
and giving of oneself;
by sharing and appreciating
the simple and wondrous
miracles of life.

Tomorrow is another day.
Despair is gone.
I am at peace with myself,
with the ones I love, with nature,
with my God.
Tomorrow is another day.

© Sandra M. Haight 2014 
   All Rights Reserved




Copyright © Sandra Haight

Details | Prose Poetry | |

A MESSAGE OF LOVE FROM WHITNEY

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Copyright © Wendell Brown

Details | Prose Poetry | |

On My Porch

Some days the birds come out They sing there beautiful song They envelope my senses I harbor their harmonious tunes I long to hear them all my days There are days when the sky is clear The sky would be a cerulean blue With white high cotton clouds I lift my eyes toward the sun And take in all of its golden rays My pupils become very small Just small specks in my eyes Just then I see the tree-line A magnificent sight to behold Each tree within the calm cluster Is filled with the beginning of life Just as are some of the unknown flowers That are alongside of the house Those flowers that have been struggling Struggling through these harsh days The weather has been rough for all nature The birds, the trees, and the flowers All have had a hard time adjusting To the tremendous swings of temperature Cold to warm, warm to cold And everything in between My porch is a calming place A place where I like to relax Though today has been raining Still it’s a calming rain, but very cold I wish I could hear the birds And see the clear day With the sun’s warmth all over me And I could see nature with its beauty But now I see another part of nature In its own beauty, the nurturing rain Without this nothing would survive So I still smile on days like this The peaceful constant rain on the porch I can only stand staying out so long Because it’s too cold, it’s freezing out But I still wanted to feel this part of nature A real part of life, an influence to one’s soul It never gets old coming out to my porch I always bond with all of nature No matter what that nature is that day Warm and cloudy, hot and sticky Cold and frigid, humid, stale, and calm All of which are important in life And I like to experience each one of them Nature has its good days, and its bad And I like to be in the middle of all of them Now I will come in and will await Await the time when I will come back out again Tonight, tomorrow, or whatever time I will venture out to my porch And enjoy my time here, with nature
Russell Sivey Written per the request by my friend Sara Kendrick

Copyright © Russell Sivey

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Language Barrier

I couldn’t understand the language she spoke,

at least not all of it,

but the emotion pouring past her lips, 

the tears in her eyes, her clenched and shaking fists

enunciated more clearly,

than any piece of English Poetry I had ever read,

and grabbed me, held me still.

                   …In that moment, her soul was in my arms.

In that finite, tender breath of our lives,

she was my mother, my best friend…

but I could not console her. 

I didn’t have the words;

and my heart sank into the 

concrete between us,

wet with the pain of God’s rain

and her tears. 

                  …Were my tears

So, I simply opened my palms

toward her crouched form and 

spoke the only words I could 

fathom, that would be accepted

by a stranger on a dangerous street. 

"I am sorry, It will be okay. God will bless you."

I knew she did not understand…

"Lo siento" 

                  “que va a estar bien”    

                            “Dios te bendecira’ “ 

the words were as messy as the overturned

duffle bag at her feet…and fumbled, slowly

from my lips, as my knees hit the street.

Two strangers, cried in the rain,

knowing nothing of each other’s suffering,

and yet we shared the weight,

together, for those few moments;

the barrier of language was broken.

Love spoke for us.  

-James Kelley 2014, All rights reserved.

…Love transcends any language

               

Copyright © James Kelley

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Irresponsibility Day

5:11am
I wake up to my TV blasting episodes of Woody Woodpecker.

I wipe my encrusted eyes, which had a field day in that dream I had
Involving two Swedish women, a Latin princess
With curvaceous hips that could save me if I ever fell from mountain climbing,
A Sony boom box made in 1984 playing Duran Duran,
And empty boxes of Junior Mints, M&M Peanuts, & Cool Whip.

I walk to my front door to discover hundreds of blood lettered Post-It notes
Slid under by my friendly Mafia neighbors, 
“Turn that crap down or say ‘HOLA’ to my little friend! Woody sucks! ”

5:45am:
So, instead of apologizing, I grabbed my power drill
Which I bought off this Mexican guy named Bob
Standing in front of my local Home Depot,

I thanked each of my neighbors by drilling Wal-Mart smiley faces
Smoking Cuban cigars & holding Shotguns
Into their doors

At this point, I popped in some Belgian waffles & French Toast sticks
Into my Cookie Monster toaster oven and turned on the news.

What was I thinking?!

News reports on Sugar Daddies being harassed by stalking gold-diggers,
Another asinine Final Destination movie,
More teacher-student scandals,
Celebrity break-ups & pregnancies
Oh, how the sheep live vicariously through them

Where’s that damn noose I bought off Bob?!

610am:
To remove my early morning frustrations,
I turned on my Xbox 360 and popped in Guitar Hero
In which I jammed out to Stevie Wonder’s Superstitious
While performing Riverdance on my hardwood floor

The neighbors below me added a nice, rhythmic sound with their broomsticks.

7am:
After my Pilates workout, I decided to strip off my clothes
So I can feel FREE like a Tree-hugging barn swallow
And fill my bathtub with a bottle of Tickle Me Elmo Bubble Bath liquid,
Which I also bought off Bob

Shortly after, I yelled “THIS IS SPARTA!” and performed a belly flop into the tub…

2pm:
After waking up from my concussion, I laughed maniacally
With my face underwater
My laughs were heard through the popping bubbles rising to water’s surface

I passed out again with a drumming thud against my porcelain dreams.

7pm:
Second attempt at recovery, SUCCESS!

I gathered all my utility bills
A filled, plastic gas tank, another purchase from Bob
And a Jerry Garcia branded lighter

As inferno warmed my screaming loins,
Blasting John Lennon’s “Imagine” on my 8-Track,
The local Fire department sliced my front door
With titanium axe and an inscription: “Here’s Johnny”

As hundreds of angry firemen & neighbors stampede into my child-like day

*CLICK*

3pm, Day Unknown:
I awaken with lines imprinted on my Latin cheeks
From wooden office desk
Strange stares from coworkers
With “I’m all out of Love” playing on the faded, company radio

And a post-it note, “Come see me in my office”,
From Bob

©Drake J. Eszes

Copyright © Drake Eszes

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Another man's Clothes

The idea behind this poem came from reading a poem of the same title, written by Richard “Canadian Man-god” Lamoureux. Now, his poem went in an entirely powerful, yet other, direction than I thought it was going to go. I happily let him know that. So, he decided to have me touch upon where I thought he was going with his poem. 

Some people really need to be careful what they ask for… ;-) 

On an 8pm, Louisiana dream

Tastes of nocturnal, July humidity
Succumbs flagrant passions 
With moistened grip, they tease

Coltrane whispers annihilate tense exhales
Under concave moon

She threw Mr. So and So onto Pacific Ocean’s waterbed
As if she was a professional baseball pitcher
Down
The
Middle

His exuberance would shatter sound’s tattered walls.

Slow grinds
Chemical reactionary bliss
Similar to Neutron bombs
Minus the consequences

Her tailored skin
Ready for gripped, enigmatic resolutions

But, first,
She had to “freshen up”

“You’re already being fresh, don’t stop on my account”,
He says with Monday mourning frustration

As cedar scented bathroom door shuts with determined patience,
And running water with a mix of Celine Dion hums from her trained throat
He stands to gather his thoughts…

…until his eyes exit stage right towards her opened travel bag

A pair of satin boxers & edible, Cotton Candy hand-cuffs from Target
With a signed, perfumed gift tag,
“Can’t wait for tomorrow, Mr. Such and Such,
-Love, your Hedonistic dream”

As running water came to serenity’s halt,
She exited restroom with shedding curves.

Her strut became dislocated,
As she stared into his trembling pupils
Wiping the cotton coating from his lips

“Too bad you couldn’t chew your way out of this one”,
The other half of the handcuffs smeared in cursive signature
Against yellow-gold gift tag he hands her with unedited closure

With striking slams against Louisiana hotel door
Parallel to Mother Nature’s thunderous clap

He exits stage left
Giving almost-lover
A proverbial slap

©Drake J. Eszes

Copyright © Drake Eszes

Details | Prose Poetry | |

An Open Communique to the Rogues

To the seedlings sprouting in the 8 corners of the world:



An open communique can lead towards a perilous precipice overlooking jagged rocks being pounded by the relentless waves of a cold, apathetic ocean -- in such a circumstance, it doesn't take much to slip, to be pushed, to be sent over the edge, shattering upon the rocks below, sucked down by an undertow erasing all evidence of your prior existence. We have come to an impasse, the windows of opportunity in the jet-streams of change, are passing by at astounding speeds. A true Anarchist is not a Terrorist; leave such decrepit despondency to ultra-fanatic zealots and the New Gestapo. A true Anarchist should not fight for lawlessness, should not wish for chaotic, wanton destruction - such myths are propagated by automatons and the controllers themselves. A true Anarchist should not raise placards in protest, should not spray-paint graffiti upon the walls of gaudy Bauhaus replications, nor lob Molotov cocktails at an establishment so entrenched, four heads grow back to replace every head, decapitated. A true Anarchist dons a masque of mirages, reflecting nationalism, consumerism and Swastikas back into the eyes of the pushers. A true Anarchist does so by donning the uniforms of business districts, of the worker, of the paint-splattered, ink-stained artisan. When a true Anarchist gains the confidence and trust of Drones left in charge of oiling the cogs, a true Anarchist enters the control-room not to smash instruments, but instead, turns dials, flicks switches, presses buttons, re-writes programs and codes, in order to help alter the directional course of the very Beast itself. 11.21.2012 .

Copyright © Chris D. Aechtner

Details | Prose Poetry | |

RWANDA'S BURIED CALVARY

A hundred days of tomb-like silence; a hundred days of blind eyes and deaf ears; a hundred days of wooden hearts and cruel minds. This was long ago, but still its stigma is there. Years may pass but MY LIFE will never be the same again.

I was barely a woman then, carefree and with smiles touching my lips. I was enjoying the view of the sun shining over the tranquil green  hills  of Rwanda. But, in a blink of an eye, the beautiful calm scenery I enjoyed was tinged by some shouts I heard from a river nearby. Curious, I went to see. Meters away, I saw a happy huge man wielding a machete butchering another man on the ground. Before he could see me, I turned round and ran.

Ran as fast as I could!When I reached our home, immediately, I was told by my father to keep on running. To run to a Hutu Minister miles away from our home. To run and be safe. To run and beg for my life's safety. Paper white and shuddering I ran and ran until I arrived at the Minister’s house. Scared but kind enough, the minister kept me together with seven other girls. 

We were placed then in a remote bathroom in the house. 

A bathroom three feet by four feet in size.  A bathroom where the other girls and I hid. A bathroom where in the next days, we alternately sat, stood and stretched. A bathroom that served as our refuge in times when the killers {Hutus} stormed inside the house. A bathroom where we ate beans and insects just to stay alive.

On the radio, we, Tutsis, heard our names  being announced as needed to be killed, too. There was a window where we could peek  and see people running and running. Clubs and spears a terrifying rain brutally killing men and women alike. Screams and cries a regular ringing requiem outside. Intense. Intense. Intense were the surroundings, I remember. In the bathroom, we maintained silence as if no one there. For at any time, we could be caught… Raped… Killed. And we knew back then that, the green hilly Rwanda was turned into a garden of bloody wails and tortured tales.

Then one day some troops came, stopping the genocide and finally we planned our liberation day! 

It was through courage. Cunning. Prayers that we are alive. Rwanda, may seem peaceful now, but for us victims and survivors, our life will never be the same again. I can't seek revenge for our loss: families, property and the trauma I experienced for it would only prolong my Calvary. I would rather forgive and hope that such genocide will never happen again.

© O. E. Guillermo

Sponsor	Cyndi MacMillan Contest Name	
GENOCIDE: SPEAK FOR THE LOST... the FORM IS POETIC PROSE 
Placed 1st... :)

Oct. 11, 2014
*Rwandian

Copyright © Olive Eloisa Guillermo

Details | Prose Poetry | |

REINCARNATION THINKING

REINCARNATION THINKING?

Life is like a coloring book
with few or many pages
filled with complex 
outlined images.

We are given a box of crayons
and are asked to color in the 
background and spaces of the images

Sub-titles are allowed.

When the coloring book is finished
we are given a new one to complete.

C.A.K. 12-6-2012


REINCARNATION THINKING 2 -SOUL SEARCHING

Was I once before or never
Don’t know how or even whether

I was a firefly, a bird of prey 
a centipede, a fish fillet?

A baseball fan to keep the score
a mockingbird, a carnivore?

A blossom in the midst of spring
a sign of what the day might bring.

A germ grown in a Petri dish
a chicken bone an unmade wish

All things and species could I be,
even remnants of a tree.

Of all of these,  I leave this post,
I am for now what I am most.

CAK 7-23-2012



MORE QUESTIONS ON RE-INCARNATION

As 'core' beliefs thicken so, 
does it leave us room to grow?
As aging souls say we must, 
complete the cycle which was thrust
upon our bucolic living place 
turned upside down in whorling space
searching for a redemptive life.

But for you, dearest one, do you not remember 
before you arrived, you took this bucking horse of soul, 
tamed it, labeled it and proclaimed it. 
To become what you needed in order
that your ride be contained and controlled. 
It's name is 'balance' and it keeps you level in the saddle 
so you don't fall off. 

10-3-2012


REINCARNATION THINKING 3 -

If, we are on a soul journey,
then what must that soul become?

A better soul? A wiser soul?
A sad soul? A learned soul?
Until one reaches the end of time,

There are so many lives to live out
to fully experience all aspects of this world.
Animals, plants - more souls searching?

One can speculate, but from my perspective
none of it makes sense.

CAK 4-03-2012


REINCARNATION ENDING

Was the Phoenix reincarnated?
Or was its embers reignited?  
Perhaps before a lowly worm or soldier bee 
or brown turned leaf upon a tree? 
A  seahorse, a shark, which fish shall I be?  
In fisherman's net to be eaten by me?  
And when the cycle is complete 
and x equals x on our balance sheet.
Can we then rest in a celestial lair 
with memories gone and unaware
of trials by all things forgotten?
If choose I must or chosen by me,  
I'll remain in the stars and just wait to see.

6-2-2012

Copyright © Allan Koven

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Babylon-Kids

When job positions within monopolies prevent us from working together
towards a goal far greater than lining the pockets of a few,
when schools stop us from educating ourselves,
and are instead, assembly lines churning-out tin soldiers,
when governments prevent humanity from achieving self-determination,
when media keeps us informed about current events,
rather than us becoming involved in the events,
then only in resistance will we find each other;
will we find ourselves in the purest sense. 

The masqued ones are erasing themselves
within a society in which everything is under surveillance,
measured, quantified and appraised,
where everything is determined by resumes,
credit history, internet profiles.
Background checks, gossip columns, intelligence agencies,
conspire to drag every last detail out into the open.

The masqued ones live in an in-between world
being squeezed by other worlds.
It is a world existing in the hope of understanding reality, 
by changing reality.
If the powers that be, can reveal the hidden world,
dragging it out under the searing spotlight of scrutiny,
under the spotlight of current mass-ideology,
then one more possible world reality becomes extinct
under the boots of Fascists using the freedom of speech
to silence the freedoms of everyone else;
eventually, even including themselves.

The controllers want to show there are no unchartered paths
leading away from the programmable masses of mundanity.
Therefore, the masque is seductive to those not fully conditioned
to become blind sheep led by shepherds, towards the slaughter.
The masque suggests mystery, unknowns,
alternative endings to a story covered in mildew.
The masque symbolizes a threat to an entrenched establishment.
The masque becomes the chrysalis in which a pupa
can evolve into something different; into something new.


....in warrens deep below,
Babylon-kids write love songs,

and above ground, people preach rights and freedoms, 
while enslaving the world in the chains of a democracy
that has never truly existed.

Democracy is a dream turned nightmare,
so the Babylon-kids are keeping the dream
of a choose-your-own-adventure, alive.




12.03.2012




.

Copyright © Chris D. Aechtner

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Why - Genocide Contest

 I lay in my hospital bed after giving birth, Could hear the murdering, raping 
Hutus approaching my bed
My baby was no more. They ravaged me.  Left me alive...........
Could hear the battle getting nearer
All I was worried about was my mother,  Home alone...
My husband was away was he fighting, Was he alive......
Clutching my dead baby staggered towards home,  The smell of blood filled the 
air. Then I saw them,  The valiant Tutu's,   Fighting for us.  here and now
The sound of machetes   clashing together.  Limbs flying through the air. Like 
boomerangs.
The screaming ....The misery.......
When I staggered home.  Found Mother in the water butt.  Hiding from the 
savages.  She was alive and ok.. So traumatised
Many twisted bodies on the ground.  Dragged them into a pile, trying to 
remember who they were.  To keep a record , for posterity.  Poured paraffin over 
them and cremated them. Praying for their souls
We buried the baby in the hard red earth. Couldn't cry, had no tears we were.in 
shock......
Date was April 7th...
So tired, we slept.  Hidden from view...
I am alive, my heart beating.  Yet I feel dead.  Dead inside....Why I ask myself.  
Why is it happening....God only, knows.  
Why?......


Penned 22/08/2014 for the Genocide Speak for the Lost contest.
I used 100 days slaughter of Rwanda.





You can see the skeletons of some of the twenty percent of the tutus that were 
killed,
Can see the open mouth of the cry of pain. They have been kept. A reminder to 
the future generation
April 7th is called Genocide Memorial Day, the week following is a national 
mourning week.




Copyright © SEREN ROBERTS

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The Taste of a Wish

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

Copyright © Timothy Hicks

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It Is A Sin

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

Copyright © Funom Makama

Details | Prose Poetry | |

I Sat and Pondered

I sat and pondered the things I’d like to forget.
There have been some bad times -
Lost love, both romantic and familial,
betrayals by a few I considered close friends,
and the inevitable hardships of simply living life
including its numerous moments of sheer embarrassment.
I contemplated which of those many examples of life’s trials
I would choose to completely forget. . . 

Then I thought of my step dad, who passed away -
and not so quietly - those several years ago,
his mind stripped bare of any reasonable thought,
and all his recollections, whether good or bad,
reduced to the fleeting images of childhood’s ghosts.
At the very end, was there even a glimmer for him
of the recognition of anything at all?

I was not there at his bedside, but my mother related to me
the wild fear in his eyes 
as he choked for breath while clinging to life
despite his apparent inability to even grasp
one memory that would give him a reason to survive!
Everything reduced to the blind biological instinct
simply to breathe. . .
All who were there at the end with him
were praying for him just to pass
quietly into the night.

With all memory ripped cruelly away
and still  he fought to live. . . 
So how could I ever declare wanting to forget even an iota
of anything at all in my entire life?


Written 1/18/13 for Frank's Contest

Copyright © Andrea Dietrich

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The ' Hoppy Ban '


So sad..Hopping in and Out of one' s life....

It's Peter Rabbit for Pete's" sake...

He comes by each and every year...

For this they say we should fear ?

Just to share a Spring holiday ?...

He's a horrid creature, so they say...

He has big ears and a cotton tail...

And sometimes he even carries a pail..

Full of candy, and colorful decorated eggs...

This day is between Valentine hearts , and Green Beer kegs....

He's rarely ever seen...

And has never ever been mean...

So why are all these American States...

Having all these holiday debates ?..

I await my basket filled with a chocolate kiss..

I only hope his picture does not end up on...

The Post Office " 10 most wanted list "...




Copyright © kj force

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The Fallen Prince has Risen - Michael

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

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



Copyright © Elaine George

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Love letter - the island of our love - Part one

There is an island, the isle of trials and denials. I knew it well; for it was there that
I entered this world, into an environment of anger and argument. Of imprisonment and high
expectations, driven by questionable motives and an absence of love. Surrounded by an
unreasonable sea to protect against the threat of friendship. Threat to whom? I never saw
any winners in this game of nurture, if nurture is what it was. But I have no regrets. I
point no finger. I cast no blame. Maybe I was the winner, because I never lost faith. To
me, the island was the island of hope. Hope never failed to fill me with optimism.
Optimism filled me with enthusiasm. Enthusiasm filled me with ambition and passion. I
believed in myself. I believed in the possibility of love. Belief enabled me to dream. To
dream of how love could be. Should be. But I never believed, would be.

I accepted that true love was the rarest of all flowers; that I would never be granted the
privilege to hold it in my arms; to witness its beauty with my own eyes; to become
intoxicated through its sweet heady scent. The abundance of love, honour and respect in my
heart, would never lie its head on the soft breast of its mate. But, at least, I would
have experienced some small glimpse of love in my hope filled dreams.

Now, I look back and wonder how I could have been so ready to loosen my hold on all that I
hoped for; all that I wanted; all that I needed. For you have shown me the true meaning of
love. You have given me unbelievable happiness. You have opened my eyes. I have discovered
that the love we have is bigger, better, more intense, more beautiful, more intimate, and
more precious, than anything I could ever have dreamed or hoped for. You have made me feel
like I have never felt in my life before. You have taken me to heights and places I have
never been before. I am filled with such deep and unconditional love, honour and respect
for you. My eyes fill with tears of joy as I write to you; as I think of you.

(continued...)

Copyright © Nigel Fawcett

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Ghosts of South Dakota part 4

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

Copyright © Marycile Beer

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Endangered Trailblazing

Endangered Trailblazing
                                  by Odin Roark

Astride his father’s shoulders,
Like a double decker bus,
There was always what his father saw,
And the child’s gaze beyond.
They learned together
What their senses taught them of reality.

There were so many hills his father climbed,
The boy seeing what was ahead on horizons,
The father focused on firm footholds,
Following trusted forest imprints,
Relying on tradition’s habitude.

This father is long gone now.
This boy of shoulder wonderment
Has grown wise of rugged tracks
Leading to this day.

The day…

A stormy December afternoon
Staring through a digital lens
Atop a mid-town observation deck,
The boy now a man
Stares outs across a skyscraper landscape,
A winterous tundra his father never had to pioneer.

Realizing the Now of navigating
Relies little on the primitive tracks,
When plant,
Animal,
Rock,
Weather,
Parts of the undeniable whole
Determined shelter and food,
Life and death.

Wisdom,
The oft missing essence of success,
Impacts little of today’s aspiration,
Whose awareness respects not learned footprints,
Nor hardened determination
To stay true to a right direction,
Instead…

All too often
Success honors but bushwhacked obstacles,
The opportunity to conquer any and all,
The razed aside,
Inert and live,
Banished and dead,
Leaving many to query
What lens can sharpen that which isn’t there?

Today’s existence is but yesterday’s ethereal presence,
Once preceded by integritous footholds/handholds,
The resplendent oneness of nature’s vast inner-connection,
Now all but buried beneath
A stumbling culture’s duplicitous stepping stones.

Tracks lead precariously to penthouse suites
Where an eagles nest is but a Britannica reference,
A redolent library book of often ignored history
Reminding a father’s boy
Staring through glass-layered revelation
That decisions need pondering past momentary reward,
That Nature’s swirling white layering the once wilderness of discovery
May be foreshadowing avalanche forces
Unrestrained in their ability to bury man.

Pulling his eye away from the telescope,
He considers a wind gust
Lifting snow daring not to confront the ground,
Choosing instead to swirl,
To levitate with perhaps man’s exhausted currents from below,
Struggling to rise through waning memory,
Trajectories of so many devoted fathers
Trusting honest trailblazing would never disappear.

Fortunately…

Like the cyclic snows from on high,
Rising temperatures initiate their own revolution.
Endings return to beginnings
Nullifying load and weight.

Time’s undaunted sagacity knows
Once civilization’s latest aspiration expends,
Creation knows no better
Than to invent new trails,
New boys on father’s shoulders,
Tomorrow’s then and now…
Again.

Copyright © Odin Roark

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Love letter - the island of our love - Part two

(...continued)

And now, I find myself on a new island. An island more beautiful, more amazing, and more
wonderful, than any mind alone could imagine. An island that can only exist when two
minds, two hearts, and two bodies become one, through unselfish love and mutual respect.
An island surrounded by a sea of tranquility and endless possibilities; an island of
permanent warmth, trust and safety. For you are me and I am you and we are us, intimately
bound. Undemanding. Supportive. Sharing and caring. Our island is perfect because of its
imperfections.

It is not without its trials and challenges. I do not know how I will survive while we are
apart, but I know we will leave a part of ourselves with each other. That we will feel
each other physically, mentally, and spiritually, in our bodies, minds, hearts and souls.
That, in some powerful sense, we will still be together. Will still be one. That our love
will grow. That our hearts will forever know true joy, true happiness, and true love. I
love our island. I love our life together. I love you. Now, always, and forever.

Copyright © Nigel Fawcett

Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Book of Soul for The Heartwarmer

One individual called "she" stepped into the sheets of a life story
Sheets that used to be occupied
She walked back and stopped at a chapter which tell the story of an obsolete chamber
A space which stands for behalf of the memory and wounds

A diorama played by shadow
A story with no beginning nor end
They've been there with decent backgrounds and decent light spectrum but called gray
The view was frozen, the chatter was muted, and that feels fell into the melancholy

Those with the outstretched hands which too high to be reached
Those with the self existence but too blind to be seen 
They abandoned as a figure of reserves without knowing the essence of a solace

And that individual creature went on her way back to the labyrinth of time

This time someone seized by the story of a root baste
Those roots were heart in shape and the hue carved a warmth, but once howled a bitterness
This chapter tells the story of a lush tree with the fruit of love
Fruits that contain the complexity of love, passion and a place to berth

And the fruit of love revealed its story to someone

Those who hide behind their false mannerism had carved their name on her shoulder
Those who have offered their hearts and bent on their knees 
Those who play fire in a lust, fell into a seek
But the love that she wants still unable to cover the part of this story

From the fruit of love to the sheet's of light

This chapter tells the story of an old house with extensive bed of flowers
This house represented the aesthetics, peace and harmony
A house which brings relief, spaciousness and joy
In that house she knelt, release all her mess
To the house the journey was anchored

In every sketches that have been through
None could live without the presence of others too

Obsolete chamber, lush love tree, beautiful bed flowered old house
Those who were involved in each story of the bulkhead of life
Those who were crawling along and came from different angles of infinity
Those who were instantly filled the pieces of shoot and became the shoot

They are the perfect gift for the imperfect souls
Not as a complement nor as a reserves
Yet as the major part of the heartwarming life story

Copyright © Yanny Widjanarko

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Whosoever - Will (?) all are welcome (never stop believing) pt.3

You know....whomsoever(?) you are...in this reading(Poetry) my inquirlization is to
capture an emotional thought to factualization. The fact is that we're living in per-
ilous times, as life itself attacks daily with common everyday confrontation's;  This
poem is my third installment into the Principle of "Never stop Believing". For I con
stanily will find myself dealing with issues sinfully & unspiritual, but I kept on be-
lieving on a Higher-Caller.  With all my faultualation now being blame on myself.
NO! no-one else, falling in that same old pitt, I tried to forget, tried and tried, I Kept
on believing, now there's no regret. "A journey to the Mountain" represent our modern
day Moses appearing and that with his dream a black man can attain respect if he
believe's in the factualization that belief's comes through courtship with the Heaven's.
That place were this Higher-Caller calls out to follower's lost and abanded and also
spiritually confuse. Only sin they truly are devoted to is through the life of drugs and
alcohol, further ripping themselves from the Naturalization of generation of this ALMIG-
HTY-Friend", showing up (presently)faithfully in your life while you were to ashame to 
acknowledge that he's the Comforter of realization. Say(to yourself)" Whosoever Will"   
for it means you and I must "never stop believing", that always we're incline to achieving  
the just reward of doctrintation. So all are welcome-whether white, black, red and then the 
perilous ones would understand the burdens of Justification:

Copyright © John Streeter

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Redemption

Redemption 
She slowly uncoiled her gray streaked hair that fell to her waist. She removed her 
spectacles to see more clearly the windswept icy snow clinging to the branches. A 
pause, settling something deep within; then her gaze shifted to me.
I reached out, but found my reach was frozen, too stiff to touch her. For if I touched 
her, the burden we shared would lapse and slide away, slinking off to be buried, 
uncoiled under the ground.
A pinched, dour expression settled her features into a mask that would never 
betray the inner darkness which created a shadow of an existence. A mask that I 
must wear as well, to ward off the hopeless life within me, growing every moment of 
the day, days upon days retreating into the too long nights, hopeless to survive in 
the world we have created, together as “want” and “ruthlessness”.
“I carry no idolatries, no false hope.” A breath are these words as I receive them, 
knowing they are too bold to give forth a safe humility.

 The nurse, starched clothing as stiff as her countenance, paused, a look of 
condemnation briefly shadowing her face, the sun passing in and out of the clouds. 
She could not help herself. No matter the role we are chosen to play in this world, 
we are not free of a deeply flawed human nature, ice softening dangerously on a 
winter’s pond. I turned away.
I  came to hours later, the rejected life in me  gone, a searing through flesh never 
immune to a free will taunting, tearing the fabric of life so fragile. I would not cling. A 
passing briefly witnessed, a single brown leaf blown by the window in the darkened 
room where we sit for tea, hopes slowly elapsing like the sea waters
receding.
Tomorrow we can only envision; today we must let go of a part of us we will never 
again possess. A coursing through the veins of life no more, we push, and push, an 
existence wishing to sink into the yawning chasm of what is unknown and coming 
for us.

Copyright © Jennifer Cahill