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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


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


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


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…


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Stoned

In seeming innocence you lie upon the warm ochre
about the edges of the dust-strewn street,
a remnants of larger issues, crushed to just the right size by a killing blow.
Before the mob merged, before cat calls raised the hairs on the back of her neck,
she had been of a favorite pet, a cherished wife.  
A mother now lays dead, brought down by the bloodlust of the men around her.
Today, the stones are coated rust-red with the blood as the of women of Iraq 
are laid low by their husbands, sons, and fathers. 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Lucila

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There she is.

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

Now it’s my turn.

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

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

Go fig.

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

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

But, “Now I am”, is uttered.

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

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

These winds of change
became gusts of numbness.

I locked myself out of my heart.

I turned around to go back inside.

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

© Drake J. Eszes


Details | Prose Poetry | |

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 ) 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

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. 



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.

© 
Oct. 11, 2014
*Rwandian


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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

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





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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

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

               


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


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


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 .


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Taste of a Wish

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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

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.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

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...)


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Fallen Prince has Risen - Michael

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

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




Details | Prose Poetry | |

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.


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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

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:


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


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




.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

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.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

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 "...





Details | Prose Poetry | |

I Disappear

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

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

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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

a fair day

It was a fair day for silence.

The sun had risen up courtly, almost mechanically,
Like a marionette on the strings of a puppeteer.
With the sun came Heat, wrathful to have been woken at such an hour.
As if avenging its early rise, 
Heat caused oppression, 
Discomfort and confusion 
Upon the innocent day.

It was a fair day for exclusion.

Only one was oblivious to the relentless heat,
He sat there motionless, lifeless and corpse-like.
They would glance at him nonchalantly.
He was just a piece of the scenery, 
Always had been there, 
Always would be there, 
Invisible.

It was a fair day for neglect.

Some say once he had been aware,
But life had hollowed him out, 
Left him a shell, 
Unmoving, 
Unblinking.
The day progressed, the light dimmed, 
It was as if fate and destiny had led him to this moment.
If anyone had cared to look, they may have noticed a glint in his eye.
He liked the sunset.

It was a fair day for an end.

The sun slowly made its way back home.
Heat gradually left, bored with the sun’s absence.
Silence was once more.
The sun closed its eyes. 
The moon began its regime over the obeying night sky.

It was a fair day for sweet nothing.

He still sat there, 
But no one knew.
So was he still alive, 
If no one saw him die?


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Myth Uncovered

To love another more than life itself...

Is sweet bereavement...Sealed within
loves kiss...

...A love so deep...fathomed in oceans...
only truth can find...

A myth uncovered - discovered over time...

...To relish in this beauty...way beyond compare...

...To look into the eyes of an angel...
...Mornings first light...

...We feel with hearts despair...

...For we nurture this...

...This love we believe has found its way here...

...We cherish everyday...
...this love beyond compare...

...Immortal wish bestow...

....For we love in tomorrows tomorrow...

...This life this love we celebrate...

these two souls love has found...

...this life - this love...

...this love itself creates...


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Kis

A Kis

RICHsTgPOOR



CharlaXFabels

1one7three3
 Do eye need a kis. Eye need a girl to kis. Eye have a girl that eye can kis. 
Eye have kis her in the rain. Eye have kis her in mye heart. Eye have kis her in 
mye start of every day for years of love. Eye have only to the kis to go to read more 
into kis to find the place she dwells in this old mortal frame of yearning 
dwelling place. The kis is purple bliss of alarm blazing love waking me from 
death like a Snow White Charmed young man a captive smith to Pocahontas 
fame. A dandelion flower lost in the caverns of the depths Ianthe drowning mee 
in sea ward tufts of left and right bouts of beating on the air to keep from sliding 
to the depths of drowning in her arms of love. A leap at faith a death reprieved 
from Grounded Grave a leaping portent making waves of Gragon wings. An 
attitude of love refrained in every tuft of wind again the sound of love the beating 
of the water on the roof of tin the sound of kis inside the wind and rain. A younger 
man and woman would have hardware in the way the nose and yes the nose gay 
and the corners of the vampyrific fangs. The center of the tongue is one the belly 
button too. The snooker table has a cue it’s called the ball extender bridge it's a 
cheater it’s made to let the basest man to reach her in the wind. There is so 
many problems with people the gas is oughta sight at the pumps this country is 
no longer prominent but a third world country going south. The end of time has 
come and arrived the ruthless and worthless rule in the name of god money and 
time. Take a number wait in line what’s your name please fill this out and wait. 
The number of his namme. Have you got a credit card or payment of any kind iff 
you can give me seven dollars for an office visit eye will help you the doctor is inn. 
The man was lighting a candle in front of the computer and the lieberrian asked 
him what do you think you are doing he said eye cannot see the screen. There is 
not very many rich people in all those cars on the highway whizzing by the most of 
them is middle class or less the plastic hose on the back seat is a siphon they 
use it to get gas. Eye had too many problems at home growing up to ever be a 
father. The age factor plus the drug indicator keeps me from trying to further my 
benefactor with fodder or with mudder. The morality of this hurried fable of 
dividing documents is this a kis. 

 
  
  


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Lies That Exist in Her Peripheral Vision.

She held onto Saturday, with hands calloused and nails bitten

down

to the quick...her eyes saw sunlight and denied it's presence while she rocked, back and
forth, back and forth, to the ticking of a dishonest...

clock.

He told her, in words that cut the air as they fell from a razor sharp tongue, that she
still played the part of the victim, her little girl costumes uncomfortably small, and she
refused to hang herself up, for she had memorized the part and her voice knew

nothing
else.


Her lips parted, still stained with kisses and dripping with the acidic burn of
yesterday's stale tears, and she whispered the truth about choices as she unknowingly lied
to herself

again.

He handed her the script with a brush to her cheek, and she shook her head as life tumbled
viciously around her face, her peripheral  vision capturing sight of years long past, and
she informed him that she couldn't read it, she told him she was

scared.


He took her hand and taught her how to smile with the slight tickle of fingers that danced
across a lifeline that posessed trails she was ignoring, he showed her how to not walk
backwards and
the appearance of Sunday if she didn't 

trip.


She discovered the moment she was stuck and moved herself beyond the sunset, misty skies
so old that colors had faded and maybe yesterday wasn't as pretty as she thought, maybe 

Sunday

didn't lie, and she came to an understanding as she straightened and tossed her sight to
the windows that glimmered with afternoon light...

that glistened with the reflection of twenty years past the weekend and the eyes of a
woman that had seen the formation of a smile

on
Monday.




Details | Prose Poetry | |

Sand Castles

Upon a beach I came to stand
And watched a child at play. 
He did while playing in the sand
A point of life convey. 

With scoops and buckets he did build 
A structure tall and grand. 
And to the child the beach did yield 
A castle made of sand. 

But as he left, I do recall, 
Away I did not turn. 
And with the coming night would fall
A lesson to be learned. 

The tide came in, with force did strike, 
The castle could not stand. 
And I was shown how life is like
A castle made of sand. 

And man is but a child at play, 
His works they will not last. 
For all he builds within days
Shall be by time surpassed. 

Each thing we do, Each thing we say, 
Each notion we conceive,
They all to soon shall pass away, 
Yes, this I do believe. 

We leave no mark, we leave no trace
That shall forever stand 
Be sure my friend time will erase
Our days however grand.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Mama's Song

I wander through my journey, interspersed with joy and pain, always grateful 
Though not by choice, some days are somber; yet others follow with abundant joy
In my solitude, memories come alive with the recall of some old song from another time
When life was carefree in everyway! No worries and not one care!
First heard as a child; the title now lost to me, so I’ll call it "Mama’s Song"
It’d start off soft and slow; its rhythm smooth, graceful, incredibly beautiful!
Then lingering on my mind, gently reviving memories lost somewhere in yesterday
It’d calm my spirit, take me away- away from countless, mundane tasks
All necessary things, but they arrest my days, imposing, threatening, vying for attention

There’s a constant battle that rages within, and I often ask, “Should I lay down this burden  
of joyless pursuits which hinder valid expressions from my heart?  Should I?
And to what profit?  Surely monetary gain is a necessity, but at what cost to my spirit??
Were I guardian only to myself, I’d simply choose to live lean somewhere by the sea
I would cast my net for food, and barter for grain and herbs.  However, the compass is set
So, I escape in the melodies, with my eyes closed, and fly high, above this terrain
Sailing on the massive wings of a Condor, unafraid; over rugged pathways and
Jagged edges of mountains that rise above the seas, far away from this place of constant 
weariness, on my way to a place more tranquil, somewhere in yesterday
I hover over rivers that give life to green valleys below, quite an amazing view to see!
Like black velvet ribbons they meander through the changing landscape
At an angle they shimmer like fine crystal in the afternoon sun, and in one breath,
I am there! At Mama’s feet, studying her as she sews dresses for my sisters and me 
I watch, I listen to her, softly singing; feel her contentment and peace through the song
Never complaining, never too tired to go beyond the call, to love and care for family 
Teaching by example, using less words, her quiet spirit, ever steadfast, strong
Those times when I feel I can not go on, when afraid I'll falter, I still hear the the melody 
and "Mama's Song"!

Note:  For Mama - Thank you for putting us first! For the many lessons learned which we nowteach our children.  RIP w/Papa!!


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Cherries in December


A few leaves that escaped my rake are skittering across the yard. The wind seems to be playing with them, teasing, a winter bully. December, the fire a comfort. Here I sit, watching the leaves and eating cherries..he brought me cherries. Somewhere it is summer and fruit is ripe and dripping with promise.. Who would have thought it possible? The world small enough that I can taste that bounty and pretend I am dancing under the summer moon..dancing, a red skirt swirling around my legs.. wiping juice from my chin with its hem... Cherries in winter...just imagine.....


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Collecting the Cracks that Bleed Through My Voice.

We broke in two and it amused him that I was still counting...

I could hear the night whisper beyond his ears, the bed we lay ourselves down upon and
passion was considerate when his mind let go....

she was direct and unforgiving and I...

gave.in.


I could listen to the tumbling of my heart for ages and I collected music as my lips split
in half, it was only to kiss him, you see, only to allow him to know...

how I bled.


I tasted myself as the night wore on, exhausted yet hungry for his arms, I studied my own
in the afternoon, multiplied my freckles and wondered if my child would be ashamed of the
scars that decorated my skin, prayed she would never know how years could bite, so I
reached for him when the clouds became cold and I became...

scared...

as I frightened myself to death in the realization that we....

were still so alive.



The ground we walked on spoke of faults and mistakes, there were cracks in the earth yet
my hand still held his, he was clueless and I was silent but we slept well, he and I,
after passion erupted and the sky split...

when the clouds collected my music and rain sang, just to show him, how the days
could
bleed.




Details | Prose Poetry | |

Ghosts of South Dakota part 4

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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

You Haven't Left

You haven’t left my heart
You haven’t left my mind
I’m just trying
To give you some time
Something happened in your life
You don’t care to explain
Or just can’t talk about
Until you feel the time is right
It’s o.k. my friend
I can understand
Just don’t think of my silence
As coming from an uncaring heart
For I would freely give
All that I’ve got and am
To be by your side
To be your confidant
For you mean much more to me
Than a simple hello
Or kiss in the night
You’re the very hope
That brings light into everyday
And I’ll be there for you
In any way that you allow
You’re not just a hand to be held
A touch to be felt
Or a pleasure conquered 
You’re the very hope
Of what life could be
Were I to be the one
To win your heart
So while you take this walk
Know it doesn’t have to be
Or really isn’t alone
For you haven’t left my heart
You haven’t left my mind
And should you need or care to reach
My hand is always here


Details | Prose Poetry | |

6-28-12

Watching myself from behind
Chasing words on the front
Dieing on the the rear
But my life is going along
Shots of death inside
Life escaped outside

I wonder where we would have 
been
If we chose our paths w/out a 
bend
Boring life the straightest road
Midnight holds the great 
unknown 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

FOR THE SONS OF MEN

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

'I'VE HAD ENOUGH!!!

I've had enough
Yes enough of your childish games
I've had enough
Of your lies.and disappointments
I've had enough
Of headaches,and worries
I've had enough 
Of your disrespect
I've had enough
Of heartaches,and pains
I've had enough
Of wondering if and when you're coming home
I've had enough
Of planning a future that has no hope
I've had enough
Of waking up and finding myself alone
I've had enough
Of wishing you'll change for the better
I've had enough
Of talking,and you're not listening
I've had enough
Of dreaming this dream all alone
I've had enough
Of being the only one trying to make things work
I've had enough
Of treating you like a prince,king,or queen
then in return you treat me like I'm nothing
I've had enough
Of you're not taking me seriously
I've had enough
And I'm sick,and tied of all the drama
I've had enough
Of you falsely accusing me
I've had enough
And I can make it by myself
I'VE HAD ENOUGH 
I'VE HAD ENOUGH!!!"


Details | Prose Poetry | |

That Which Is Real

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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Lonely Grave

1

I stood by your graveside this cold winters day.

A heart broken with sorrow that won’t go away.

I called out your name and shed many a tear.

And hoped in my heart that you would appear.

2

God took you from us that fine sunny morning.

Our lives now shattered without any warning.

Your work here on earth has finished this year.

Your books and teachings you spread  far and near.

3

It was a pleasure to know you for sixty odd years.

And when my time comes I will have no fears.

You will be waiting to greet me as oft times before.

When I call to your house and knock on the door.

4

Each night when I lay my head down to sleep.

I will ask the lord your soul to keep.

And if you find any time away from your books.

Look kindly on me as I walk in those woods.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Sand Castles II

The castle stood with majesty.
The child stood justly proud.
Both night and sea stood patiently,
In hand the castle's shroud.

My thinking now became serene,
Of things small and sublime.
How I saw all played in that scene
Of man, his deeds and time. 

But here I raise a quandary.
I question thee a tad. 
Are we the castle stately?
Or, are we the lad?

Are we the child? Are we the sand?
We're either, can't you see?
Both built and build to pass away
With time our ebbing sea. 

The tide we face is Father Time.
Aren't we but molded clay?
Just like that castle so sublime
We are not here to stay. 

Yet like that child in spring of life,
His days are numbered still.
Just like the grains of sand it took
To stir this old man's quill.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Shape of Our Kindled Past

You promised me anticipation
Of a fantasy future upon introduction
Happily ever after, you offered
But don't ask questions until info conferred.

Tentative and with inward questions afire
But with soft love in my heart for what I admire
I turn aside others' attacks and doubts
Until I can find out what you're about.

Slowly, you begin to unravel as I share
Myself, my heart, my sensitivities I bare
Wrapped up in you and your story
Though the tales are scary, I'm not wary.

Over time, I see the warning signs 
And often times would run and hide
Knowing what I see cannot succumb
To what you had promised our life to become.

Flipping back and forth, as fear abounds
Like I'd come face to face with bloodsucking hounds
I retreat and attack and cry to myself
Knowing without you my life will be put on a shelf.

So, I learn that my lesson to be learned
Is to face the pain that my actions have earned
Not to bring on needless sorrow or strife
Because for you it only cuts like a knife.

Learning to love another beside me
Has been the elusive mystery
That I've never been brought to
Until sensitivity showed blossoming in you.

Many months of sharing laughter 
And lifting each others' spirits after
Pain is inflicted on one or another
Which our strength we've developed endures together.

Being apart now hurts sometimes
But always now I realize
That our hearts are one as one can be
Reaching through the distance happily.

For when I see you, I know
You will always continue to grow
As long as you are shown love
And remain open to gifts from above.

Never let your feet get stuck
Where negativity is all amuck
For you are meant to blossom full
A rose that the sun does upwardly pull.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Fabel24

 Fabel24 
Fabel24 
 
 
CHARLAX 
 
CHARLEXES FABELS 
 
CONVERTED 
SAVED CONVERTED INVERTED CRUCIFIED DEAD BUT NOT YET BURIED 
Kiss the ewe she never cries she never sighs she stays happy all the times we 
try. The eye was stopped by a patrolman in the middle of my walk to the church to 
lay my layman down to rest a night a bite of something not so sweet in bag to 
help me live. He said ADDRESS what is your ADDRESS like it's the most 
important thing to have NO eye said NO eye do not have a TUCSON address just 
one in Flagstaff. HOMELESS he said. NO eye said eye have the ADDRESS in 
FLAGSTAFF the one on my ID card. NO he said you are just HOMELESS in 
TUCSON. He noticed that eye cared nothing for any of that. WHY did yew not say 
that to begin WITH he said to me and eye just tried to ignore a man who has the 
world to shrug upon his Atlast Shoulders? PHONE he said ??? No phone what's 
your cell phone??? 
EEYE do not have a PHONE NO CELL PHONE eye almost cried. 
NO NUMBER NO PLACE IN THIS WORLD TO CALL MY HOME. 
The Indian has no feather he is saved now he is in Heaven beside the MEE. Live 
in life wrap the world outside live the life of love and learn to live and love. Eat a 
LOT of CHARLAX eat a lot of poems eat a lot of Fabels now. 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

And Then I Pray

You came into my life, why? I didn’t invite you, I never wanted you around, you 
know this , but you will not leave, you don’t know how much I hate you, and yet I 
don’t hate anyone or anything. When you hate, to me, it is the same as killing. If I 
only knew how to kill you ……. It would have been done many times over. I awake 
every morning and there you are, ready to make my life miserable, the one thing 
you enjoy most in your life. Wherever I go, you follow bringing your misery into my 
life. Why cant you just leave and leave me in peace? I fight with you every day, and 
it hurts so much, so much it hurts to fight with anyone, even you. There is one 
way and only one way to rid you of me. I think of this often, but then where would I 
be? I would not be, because you are part of me, your name is bi-polar. Handed 
down from my father and from his father, and from me to my son, but he refuses 
to recognize you, so he fights you without help he could get. If he would only say I 
know who you are. I hurt for him everyday, and then I pray.
Oh God please forgive me for what I have brought upon my son. Son, I love you, 
and am so sorry for what you go through. Maybe someday we will talk again. Dad


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Crying eyes

Could a sadder face there be?

Oh Crying eyes,

melancholy.

Please, don't drip
those salty drops.

So many kisses I'd give to stop!

I am yours
you are mine
we will get threw in little time.

For what is life?
A little race?
We set the gaols
we make the pace.

So with me run.
We will get threw.

You help me, I'll help you

Sure and keen
eye's on the mark

Let's give this course 
a little spark.

Slow to see a river glide
forest green, country side.

Drink in scent of hewy blooms,
pause to touch in cedar rooms

Give this chase a pinch of spice
A season spent to melt the ice,

that grips us when,
we do fear,
of wasted steps, 
passing years.










Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Last Moment

Day by day my body decays
And my soul waits
For the warmth of your embrace
The meaning I cannot trace
The time is now to receive your grace
I remember much
Yet memories past have no bearing
I can see much
Life
The meaning almost clear
The dust settles and chaos vanquished
Peace and love echoed again and again through the halls of time
Bear no weight until the final moments
Jubilance captured
A single frame as I lay
Time will no longer wait and I can no longer stay
Weep not
Harmony engulfs me
Symphonies escort me
And angels guide me
My loving Father waits for me
I can almost see Him
I certainly feel Him
The old world fades to grey
Weep not
A brilliant glow not of this world fills me
A love not felt by mortals
It is the beginning of the end
My breath shallow
My thoughts clear
My soul readies
Do not weep
He is waiting for me
This is exactly where I am supposed to be


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A PART OF SOMETHING

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Mellors math teacher

this poem is dedicated to my Mr mellors i hope he reads this

The Cop, The Math Teacher, The Guide you've been there for me when i was confused and could not see the forest or the path you were there when school was hell and life was black as midnight you were there when i screwed up and found myself trapped by my own mistakes even though i disappointed you at times and made you want to tear your hair out you were there you've always been there and cannot thank you enough Thank You Mr. Mellors


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Lion Doesn't Sleep Tonight

His eyes 
Dulled by years 
Of iron bars and cold hard ground 
Paces in circles 
Looking but never seeing 
Past the cage that holds his soul 
First one way 
Then another 

Worn, torn and beaten by time 
While those who come to look 
And gaze at this king 
Say 
What a magnificent beast 
What a beautiful animal 

But all that really remains 
Is a coat of skin 
And sad shrouded eyes 
Pacing day and night 
In never ending circles 

First one way 
And then 
Another


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Act One (The Scholar of life- Opening Speech)

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


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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The next isle over

There I was.

Inside a crowded Toys R Us
On a mid-Winter’s evening

Abrasively loud 5 year olds
And depressed fathers
Ready to throw their “angelic” brethren
Into life-size Nerf basketball hoop
(Because it was on Clearance)
To embrace sanity’s madness

I was simply here to search for a porcelain doll
For my darling 8 year old angel
To match her serene complexion

But, toddler stomps & red-faced pouts
Equivalent to octaves of Hell’s 5th circle
Could not stop the strut that suddenly coated my foggy nerd glasses

There she was.

Her 5 foot, 10 inch majestic walk
Performing exorcisms on corrupted tile floors
With each
New
Step

My ear canals
Swimming in the serenity of
Her olive-coated curves
And violet-auburn shaded, shoulder-length curly locks

Left
Right
Left

Sensual witchcraft was placed upon my resilience
Chipped away by her Hazel ribboning pupils

My heart’s atrium, flat lining, with laughing hyena smile
Frozen by igloo’s revenge upon madness

“Excuse me, sir”, she vehemently moaned

(At least, in my head)

“Hi”, I expressed with pre-pubescent coarseness.

“I’m looking for a porcelain doll.
But, I’m a tad lost in this maze. 
Could you help me find my way?”, she whispered with demure smile

With my tongue pressed against seconds’ icy arm,
Locked for dear life,
I inhaled with Olympic stature

“It’s 9 isles this way. May I show you?”, I confidently declared on sanity’s edge.

With constellations aligned by blue moon signatures,
“Yes, please”.
 
As crux of evening’s audible stresses
Faded into final curtain’s epileptic sunset,
The winds of Yahweh curtailed all foggy affirmations
Into palms of bliss

Because
On this night
I proudly took the long route

Slow dancing with magnificent silence
To the isle
That was only 2 steps to our left

I believe we both discovered our porcelain dolls on this night.

©Drake J. Eszes


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Brick Mason's Daughter

My dad is a brick mason and so were my 2 grandfathers so it’s easy to say I would 
know a thing or two about laying brick. It has surely come in handy a few times in 
my life and each time I’ve had to use that knowledge; I have become smarter, 
quicker, more experienced. With each job, the joints look more clean, the foundation 
more sturdy, are larger than the last, more effective, rising higher and higher. I have 
found that some jobs were unnecessary and the walls would need to be torn down. 
But as I get more under my belt, those walls are harder to tear down.  The last wall 
to come down started slowly, very tedious work, back-breaking, brow 
sweating….many man hours went into what eventually resulted in a massive wall to 
come crashing down… covering everything around it in a cloud of dust. It was a 
most victorious day and well worth the hard labor. The land was cleared of debris 
and life began to flourish where the wall once stood. But I’ve been out of work for a 
while, no need for any walls to be built….until now. I thought my mason days would 
be over and I could hang up my trowel….retire from this laborious job that has took 
such a toll on me over the years. But now a wall is needed and it is time to dust of 
the tools handed down to me from a father to his daughter….trowel, level, jointer, 
and brush. This project is my biggest yet and will require much attention to details 
to ensure that it will withstand just about any force of nature. That it will stand rigid, 
unbreakable, firm. I dread the hours that this will require, the aches and pains my 
body will endure for this enormous wall….a wall that no one will be able to rappel 
over, with numerous defensives, so high and well-built that it will intimidate anyone 
who dares to think twice about seeing what’s on the other side….a wall long 
enough to encase a small city so that those who rest inside will sleep peaceful at 
night with no worries of invasion. As I gather my tools together, I realize I had 
forgotten how heavy those mortar mix bags were. Funny…you usually never forget 
that or the effort that goes into mixing mortar. But I had forgotten. I start going 
over the blueprints, going over the knowledge that has been passed down to me 
and what I have acquired by experience….building my confidence up for that task 
that lays before me. It’s time..yes I believe I’m ready to start my footer. As my 
shovel strikes the dirt…I wonder if this is the beginning or the end of my career as a 
brick mason’s daughter. 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Changing Seasons

Changing Seasons

In a burst of color and animal choruses 
Sovereign sun heralds in a golden morning –
The air was delicate with the perfume of cherry blossom 
Blown in from the hem of pink rows that lined the 
driveway on Grandpa’s farm 

I looked across at hay stacked verdant hills that were
Tossed with yellow daffodils, purple crocus and white snowdrops 
They danced to the baton of the breeze and the 
Hidden orchestra of lilting bird song of that fragrant spring morn

Grandma sang to me her songs of childhood 
As we walked arm in arm amongst beds of fragrant roses 
and budding fruit trees that whispered promises of full baskets  
that would soon be heavy laden with the Summer fruits, preserves, 
Pies and jam of a bountiful harvest, a few months from now

Summer came rich with its harvest, merry hearts
and long hazy, lazy summer days and nights scented 
with wisteria, frogs and cicada, chirping and croaking 
their melodious summer anthem of  ‘All is well with the world’ 
as we toasted to our full and wonderful life

Autumn brought in a more somber note and amber tones
though warm and restful, they soon told me - life is changing again
time quickly moves on - it prepared me for the winter and 
the chill mirrored in the face of the full moon as it lit a silvery path
to my next season’s change

The cherry trees glowed white against the dark night sky like iridescent bones along 
the snow covered driveway - they waved their bony fingers goodbye 
as I crunched solemnly down the long white corridor with slow steps and a  heavy heart that was beating to the mournful dirge of  hoot owls and creaking limbs – I blinked back tears under that star kissed sky and full moon that lit my path 
The moon reminded me- each season has its bounty that I can treasure -I held those memories close to my well seasoned but thankful heart.

Brenda V Northeast


Details | Prose Poetry | |

What is commitment?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

MOTHER TONGUE

We had a steel-coiled fence 
that kept us apart;  kept in purity,
spoke out in purity.

We played Barbies in a tree that
bordered each side, not knowing
it had a
zone.

Our Barbie world was created; 
dresses hung on branches
little mirrors for wee doll hands;
leaves assigned our closets.

I gibbered and you jabbered, and
the worst thing happened, I learnt
English, but what happened to your
French?

Language traveled through the holes
of our steel-coiled fence.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

To weather the storm

Storms above me, storms below, Storms of violence, Storms of sadness, Storms of anger Storms of people laughing, mocking my existence Sorrow, and the joy of the few lights of hope and friendship echoes Through the storms The storms surround me night and day No land sight Poseidon’s rage is all I see No mercy found, twix’t night and day But for the brief repast The gift night brings To weather the storms I travel unseen, unheard Past those who give the storm its powers To the places in my dreams Where night and day are side by side And Wolves gather below the moons Midday and night, to sing Their songs of peace Of legends from long ago Of loyalty to their pack And the fight to survive. To weather the storms I look to the wolves As a cub, to the mother The strong live to be the hunters Whilst the weak become the prey The storm takes all Partial to none it hunts One by one, boat by boat, all fall to the storm Human, Animal, Angel, Demon, the storm resides in us all waiting to take hold to drag us to its depths when hope is gone darkness rules until the Light is found hope is gone


Details | Prose Poetry | |

My Non-bucket List

I have no terribly strong ambitions and no burning desire to do something totally new. I’ve seen, heard, smelled, tasted and felt so many things. As a child I daydreamed. Today such dreams are rare. The wisdom of the “ages” has proved to me the futility of dreams too high, for I have learned by now that if I had truly wanted the fantastic things I’d once desired, surely I’d have fought and gotten them by now. And when I think of it, I did manage to achieve some measure of success with poetry, having wished once upon a time to be able to write as did my beloved mentor - hundreds upon hundreds of poems! I live the fantasy of life vicariously through movies! If I had any kind of bucket list, I suppose it would be to watch every good movie ever made and every one that will be made in the future! However, that cannot be a suitable item for a bucket list when I am always watching movies anyway to achieve that goal! I am satisfied with life. Even on a bad day, I am thankful for small comforts, my home and family, friendships, poetry, the many pets I’ve loved, the joy of simple pleasures such as music, books and food, past experiences, future plans, and the daily routines I enjoy. And so I search my mind to know what would be on my bucket list, but I honestly can’t say. I have only this to say about the “bucket”: I hope I might learn how, in the end, to painlessly *kick it! * For those who don’t know: To kick the bucket means to die. Written by Andrea Dietrich For Frank Herrera's Bucket List Contest


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Gertrude -- Gertie -- Gertrude Stein

-- Re:  Gertrude Stein and Alice B. Toklas, Rue de Fleurus #27, Paris --

What would Gertrude.What Gertrude.What, Gertie?Have thought.Have thought what
thought?Thought thought driving,forward,remorselessly.Remorseless Remorse?Forward.Never reverse;no reverse.No.No remorse.Remorseless,spurning reverse,seated.High!Seated high in Auntie.Then in Godiva seated. Looming.Enormous.
Looming enormous.Unsinister presence. Certain presence.Definite.Definitely not sinister.  Positively looming;enormous in brown.Brown,in brown corduroy,driving Paris.
In Paris,through Paris.Looming high in Paris in Godiva.With Alice, quiet beside her.
Quiet; always, Alice.Alice always. And zipping, about -- coming to Rue de Fleurus 27.
Zipping to Rue de Fleurus.To 27. And Alice so able.Able Alice, each a.m. transcribing.Able Alice typing.Automatic Gertrude.Typing Gertrude.Great Gertrude.GeniusGertrude.Talking Gertrude.Genius talking.Great brown Gertrude;Gertie to Alice.
Absorbing, talking, buying art --- buying Matisse.Absorbing Matisse.Showing Matisse.Banishing Matisse.Selling Matisse,collecting Picasso.Great Gertrude -- genius Gertrude at court, holding court at Rue de Fleurus 27.And Leo.Gone Leo.No Leo at Rue de
Fleurus.Not at 27 After Leo, after Mr. Stein, after brother Leo.But there was Alice.Alice
was there Among Braques.And Cezanne.(Not Matisse.)No longer Matisse, but Picasso.And Picassos, Picassos, Picassos!And Alice; alongside, was Alice.Next to, was Alice.Alice
next Gertrude,Gertie, G. --- Gertrude, Miss Stein. Genius Gertrude Stein Quiet Alice
always.And a great Gertrude.A great brown Gertrude.A leviathan. A passing ship; a
great leviathan.Gertie, a genius.A hugeness.A shibboleth.But to Alice, just Gertie.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Day the Doctor Told Me

On the day
When the doctor told me 
My whole heart crushed 
Melting like snow in summertime
Leaving me to wonder 
Was this moment 
My realty 
A fantasy 
Cause even though I don’t go to church 
Every Sunday 
I knew God wouldn’t plague me 
With a curse such as this 
I was too young to die 
Carry an illness which could 
Define me 
Would I make it 
Is there a cure 
Cause the way he was telling me 
My diagnosis and deterioration 
I wasn’t so sure 
So instead of making this a life sentence 
My death penalty 
I chose to live another day 
Not allowing this moment to end my dignity
I knew my life wasn’t destined to end this way 

The day the doctor told me 
I was a victim to Cancer
I gave the message to God 
Allowing him to solve the problem
Provide the answer
Only he could to clear my vision 
Cause at this time
Everything was a blur
I couldn’t stop, wouldn’t stop 
I knew he wasn’t done with me yet
I wasn’t ready to throw in the towel 
Take a seat, swivel away
Let my coffin bow down a whole 6 feet

The day the doctor told me 
Not only did I take heed to what he said
I believed in what wasn’t note
Understanding I had a chance 
It wouldn’t be circumstances
Used to close the book to my story 
But the reason to live and be loved 
To achieve all I ever dreamed of 

The day the doctor told me 
I had Cancer 
I simply replied, “No, I do not” 
I have life 
A life not complete, nor finished 
And after 7 years of living 
I am wiser, smarter, healthier and determined 
Not to let this Cancer make me a victim 
But claim my place in David’s army
Nothing will happen to he who believes
And guess what
I’m a Survivor, I’m Here, and until My God is ready
I am not going anywhere!!!!!


 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Somebody's Baby

Somebody’s Baby, lie still 
Embalmed in pure white cotton, 
Cocooned securely, like the babe in arms 
within the shroud. 
Seraphim cavort no more upon a form  
once touched with shades of youthful innocence.

Somebody’s Baby, be sure.
Your time for dreams now spent,
No future beckons only time captured frame by frame,
Frozen in vulgar technicolor;
Close Up; Explicit, depicting genre yet unclassified;
The epic over exposed.
 
Somebody's Baby, be silent.
Grey and gnarled  imposter in the cot
Metamorphosis contrives a landscape dry and gnarled.
No more seductress of tender ministry;
Solitary, silently; endures the travesty
Of human demise.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

One Drop - Prose

These forgotten badlands are arid and parched. It’s felt the blistering, desert hot winds.
Turbulent gritty sand storms have crossed these lands. What was once lively, thriving is 
now only a desolate, thirsty terrain. After being drought-ridden for so long, the ground is 
hard, unyielding even to the smallest root.  Even vultures have stopped flying overhead 
for how can something die if everything is already dead?Day after desiccated day, the sun 
beams down, relentless. Although the night is somewhat welcoming, it is still so thick and 
humid that it doesn’t provide much comfort. But there’s a scent in the air….something 
somewhat familiar but from ages ago. There’s a change in the atmosphere…and an eerie 
silence that stretches for miles, like time has stood still. Splat! There…a scattered, dark 
circle on the ground…disappearing almost instantly. Suddenly, the scorching sky breaks 
open. Rain…cool, wet liquid…it does exist. Looking across the horizon, you can see it. Like 
a silky veil draping over the lands in a steady, fluid motion. There is no other sound 
around…just the sound of this drumming rain landing, making everything it touches glisten 
and gleam like diamonds. Giving drink to a once thought unquenchable territory, it opens 
up wide and soaks it all in. The water running, dripping into the trenches that were only 
once small cracks…..reaching depths unknown to bring forth life of what was once dead. If 
there were such a smell as years of dehydration and depravity finally receiving 
sustenance, this smell would be it. Such a beauty to behold…so much water that it stands
in pools until this hardened ground can learn what it’s like to soften in order to accept it. 
It’s everywhere, can you see it? Abundant, unwavering water. Everything has been so 
barren, you can see for miles…but…wait..what’s this? Something so small that you would 
almost miss it. Emerald green, a majestic inch…a sprout….a sprout of hope….a sprout of 
life…


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Be Still

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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Out On The Porch Sunday April 10 2011

The cool dampness of the morn wraps its blanket around me inviting me come 
sit enjoy..The gap in the hedge row calls my name; come into the mist be 
shrouded and walk into the unknown as the rooster crows constantly stirring the 
air with their vocals..The sun with its yellow light of illumination ever getting 
brighter and warmer draws creatures of the sky to fly and sing praises..There is 
beauty all around on this spring morn. .Silly Mocking Bird said Whip-Poor-Will 
and for a second he had me totally confused was I getting up or going to 
sleep..


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Wrinkles

Wrinkle, wrinkle on my face…

Couldn't you have found some other place ?

What made you furrow between my eyes ?

And all those creams, they are nothing but lies….

When I look in the mirror, all I can see…

Is a silver haired person staring back at me….

Then there are the lines , which run down the sides of my nose…

Running in circles, round my lips, down my neck and into my clothes….

Speaking of clothes , isn’t that where the wrinkles should be ?

Is nature playing a trick on me ?

Or is this a sign “ old “ is sneaking up on me ?

It seems only yesterday I was a young girl .. and had my whole life ahead of me…

So simple..so free……

Which don’t take me wrong I have enjoyed my life’s ride…

And there isn’t much in my life, I haven’t tried….

But it should would be nice if I could just see…

Myself with one less wrinkle…when I looked back at me…..


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.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Drowning

Gasping for air. . . you strain your neck; stretching..you look around, checking.
Struggling to keep the pace. . . you're movements, fluctuating; you panic, you try floating.
Screaming for help. . .  no one is around, you wish for a miracle; you're wheezing, yelp not helping.
Giving, no one is reaching. . . the waves starting to bring you down; you fight, your Will diminishing.
Vanishing. . . your light dimming; They look from afar, will they notice you're drowning?


Details | Prose Poetry | |

I am alone on the Island of Death

I am alone on the island of death
Around the bodies of hundreds 
Natural disasters happened a little earlier 
All dead
My enemies, allies, relatives
Some of the most intimate

I am on mass of ruins
Loud noise...Moaning...Unbroken silent in a trice
I am just at the end
There are no tears in my eyes, no fear in chest
I am speechless

I am in the midst of so much death, destruction
Creation is alive
It's my responsibility to rotate the wheel again
Just me.

SANDIP GOSWAMI, INDIA


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Life is Like Baseball final post

Focus means everything!!!....  


                              Effort.                            Courage.       

                                   

In times of our lives we strike out but it is a team sport.    
                      

Think about when you hit that home run!!!!!!!   


It really doesn`t matter at that MOMENT who was there and who wasn`t.

Who applauded and who didn`t.      

      

Moments are all we have, when "time" itself was calculated by the stars and man; 
therefore i fail to believe it truly exists.   

           

Love and The Fight For Survival  continues on............






(Let's play ball!!!!!!!!~incidently my all time favorite sport to play, watch, and 
burn 'em, every chance I get!) 

Spring is here!!!     WoooooooHooooo!!!




Life is just that way. 

Thanks to all for allowing me to openly express myself here at 
this soup, where there is no norm in form, it's just poetryman.
 No right, no wrong... 
Let's shake hands because it sure has been an exciting game that at times I didn't 
realize I was even playing...! 
All in all life is sweet and short. 
May you be blessed in your lives and your creatitity.

                                                   *~THE END~*
Sincerely,  

Lucinda


Details | Prose Poetry | |

No More...

Hello? 
Is there anyone out there?
Can anyone hear me?
Hello?
You there. Yes I am speaking to you.
Please can you help me?
Where are you going?
No. No. wait.
Please dont leave me alone.
I need your help.
Why is this keep happening?
Why does it hurt so bad?
What did i do to deserve this?
Im trying. Believe me Im trying.
Im trying as hard as i can,
But i just cant do it.
Everywhere i turn
seems like an opportunity
but when i turn to that opportunity
it seems to jump everywhere
I cant no more. 
I just simply cant do it.
Doctor. Nurse. Best friend. Mentor
So much potential but will it come true
Or will they just disappear into the blue
I just cant no more
So many times i hear im sorry
i have never seen this occur
then i get a shrug of the shoulders
They dont care really
As they move on with their lives
to my pillow is where i run 
To shed my tears
thinking about all of my fears
Thinking of all my faults
No where to run, nowhere to hide
All the pain is just building inside
it hurts so much but i must smile
because i must fulfill my duty
My duty to serve all out there
but what happens when i cant
will the world end?
will the earth shatter?                                                                                               
no they will move on and find another
one to be strong as a father and
as caring as a mother
but what about me? huh.
Is there no one, anyone
please hear my plea for help
please hear my plea for guidance
the pain. the hurt. the disappointment
is just too much to bear.
please what more can i do
please what more can i say
i dont want your money
I dont need your pity 
A shoulder to lean on
is all im asking for
A caring heart is all i seek
please...please....please
do you see these tears flowing from my eyes
I hope you do because this might
be the last time you do
For after tonight,
there will be no more me...




Details | Prose Poetry | |

23C


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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Essence Of You

Fragrance of earth’s

Clear mountain springs

New life unfurling 

As young love is blooming

Nurtured by the winter sunbeams

Love is on the rise

Fresh like the morning dew

Hand in hand

Playfully running on this sandy shore

The gentle waves our love's tune
 
I let go of your hand 

Racing ahead

Winter’s rain is cleansing all doubt

We are growing strong and inseparable 

Living in each other

Breathlessly you catch me and hold me tight

I hear your heart’s beats fast and loud

As you seek my lips 

Never will we be apart

Forever living in each other’s hearts 

You are the mountain

Uplifting me with your strength 

The essence of you pleases my senses 

And fulfills my dreams

 3/3/13


 

 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Science and Religion

My soul is Hindu...
My head is Islam...
My heart is Christian...
Every part of our body has various righteousness.

Every religion is teaching us the knowledge of humanity and love.
Truly religion gives us strong base of life and peace.

Similarly science means comprehensive knowledge.
Science is teaching us the knowledge of existence and prosperity.

Scientific religion is called spiritualism.
 
It's the historical contribution of science and religion.

SANDIP GOSWAMI, INDIA


Details | Prose Poetry | |

CHANGED MY Underwear,------- and My Name

I
change my name 
like 
underwear...
fairly often, I suppose

I 
change my clothes 
like 
area codes
and Imma' damn gypsy, ya' see

I 
keep it fresh ta' death
nada
speck of blood
or 
ketchup on my attire

I 
got more rhymes 
than I got grey hairs
and 
that's an effing lot
because i got my share

I 
digg a 
hot-fire piece of passionate verse
those are 
indeed 
rare to find

YET...
if  only poets would 
unleash the fury 
instead of 
holding back
what's really 
on their mind...

I must say...
the library, 
the internet, 
the etc. etc...
would be a less stinky place...
AND, maybe 
I'd keep my name, and sever ties with 
underwear's elastic,
and just go 
APE-Spit Spastic!~


Details | Prose Poetry | |

One Day at a Time

When I was young the stress clouds were more reliable, they came and went just like the light of day and the dark of night. As I got older, the stress clouds became more obstinate, seemed more serious, and stayed in my head as permanent residents. Then one day the clouds stopped moving. The dark foreboding clouds just sat there putting pressure on my body like an unattended pot of boiling water. That’s when I got the first message. One of the dark clouds spoke to me in my sleep and said, get your act together; there’s a difference between family and things.

After that, the stress clouds started moving again, changing their position in my head depending on the time of day. The pot of boiling water calmed down and the things got fixed and faded away into the light of day. But the family stress clouds were different. They had more energy and talked to me every day in the language of dying and the language of struggling and the language of trying. The pot of water continued to bubble around the edges making a painful clamor within my spirit.

That’s when I got the second message.  It came from the bubbles and reminded me of an ensemble of singers. The music was warm and inviting and sounded like elegant thinking. Manage the stress clouds one day at a time they sang with an encouraging voice. Manage the stress clouds one day at a time.
 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

INSIDE THE OUTER SIDE

Making and doing (poetry) pursuing, with the re-membering of feel 

and shape concerned, yet not by all..!  all are not intaking of

the coming awareness, with life in rude health and how it forms!

a quest of proportion & perception now unnoticed and unsung

and LOVE..? is it LOVE.? with the (unlovley) or the plain function 

or..? even the unfunctioning of humanity not to sing or portray
 
its truth where..?  is there not beauty? if not in all.!  all of life as it is

manifest, & with no malady to intrusive! for the negating of mankinds

intrinsic judgmental leaning, both inner and outer to an eventuall despair, 

(is ever the  better love of all & in all affairs.)






Details | Prose Poetry | |

ZINDAGI KA SAFAR

   ZINDAGI KA SAFAR
Zindagi wo nahi, JO Nazar Ati Hai Tum Ko
Yeh To Chalti Howi Sansoo Ka Safar Hoti Hai
Yeh To Bekiri Howi Yadoon Ka Mazhar Hoti Hai
Yeh To Totay Howay Lafzoon  Ka Nasar Hoti Hai
Zindagi!  To Naam Hai Us Insaneyat Ka
Jes Ki azmat Ka Yakin! Farashtoon Nay Sajday may Kiya
Zindagi! To paygham Hai Us Jazbay Ka
Jis Ka Safar Soraj Ki Kirnoo Say shuru Hota Hai
Zindagi, Us Katab Ki Manind Hai 
Jis Ka Unwaan !  Musafar Ki Akasi Karta hai
Zindagi To Kahani Hai Us Musafarat Ki     
 Jis Ki Manzil Soraj Kay goroob ! Honay Tek Hoti Hai
Zindagi To Naam Hai Us Rishtay Ka 
Jis Ka Raabta !  Rooh Or Jism Kay Darmiyan Hota Hai
Zindagi To Ahsaas Hai Us Mohabat Ka
Jis Ka Ahtamaam ! Khuda Nay Jannat Bana Kay Kiya
Yeh Wo Bewafa Hai Jo Khudi Kay Daway Kay Bawajood 
Khud Apnay Wojood Ko Pal may ! Tanha Kar deyti Hai Zindagi
Zindagi Salaam Ho Tuj Pay Kay Teri  Baqa Kay Leyeh
Qudarat Nay Shub-o-rooz Ko Sajaya Hai ! Zindagi Kay Leyeh
 
SHAISTA MANSOOR


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Everywhere You Are

God, all the time You are,
everywhere You,
You suffice all…
But I, with my wild stubbornness,
with hunter’s old scent,
look, in myself, for the lack-of-You:
I’d like to see –
in this body, this soul – 
where You are not and what just does lack You,
as I am so sad 
that, like a path of a cloudy pass,
am untrustworthy for my own folks…
I feel how,
from the moss-grown nothingness of the lack-of-You,
there radiates 
the dead insect of my daydream
with its dusty wings…
From the threshold of the nonexistence 
there glitter my great lacks-of-You…
Again, again, from thawed-out snow,
fresh grass covers greenly fields and mountains;
Again, again, from summertime,
white winter dwellings 
are filled with yellow-breasted chicken…
O God, in vain You’re searched in skies –
You are my Earth,
my old Country Seat…
Countless times I have stepped on You 
to cleanse myself…


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Mood


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Familiarity

What is it to me
that I cannot place you
in the picture painted by the years
the life has already spent?
Do you merely lurk,
and leave at a much later time?
Or, 
maybe
you are staying
because 
    you 
        are 
           meant
                to 
                   stay.

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


Ah, the grand scheme of things -
                            a forgetting.
A familiar spirit we feel -
                            a remembering.     


(Note) This piece was inspiredly written for the beautiful souls - even the 
strangers - I have met along the way and will still come upon in my lifetime. To 
each special one, you have stirred quite a familiar spirit within. A remembrance 
of forgotten past, I suppose. Thank you for letting me peak through your 
soul's window. The veil of forgetfulness has never been thin as now to me. You 
have so given me a gift I shall treasure in the moments I may tend to forget 
who I truly am - a being with a soul.



Details | Prose Poetry | |

An Irish Redemption

An Irish Redemption

Downtown lights glimmer off in the beckoning distance
I watch them twinkle a dewiness as I lie
Safe and sweet in the fresh softness of the Irish linen
Watch them lights reflect starry halos off the deep dark bay tonight

This harbor a mirror to my soul
Glittering black, like a miner’s coal

Wood carved cherry oak, plush vinyl, rain battered glass, a setting
To remember I insist
Their voices hovering, yet their songs I am forgetting…
To know I cannot resist

Ebbing tide retreats, a salty mistiness on my skin
I see his wings caress as they unfold. I see his prey.
A quick dive to catch, and then…
He and I fly away.










Details | Prose Poetry | |

Life excludes nothing

Life as we knew it is 
Cyclical,
When the Infinite Thought
Rested long enough:
It reappears
Through the Big Bang,
Spreading the seed of 
Consciousness
Throughout the kingdom
Hoping, return this time
Won't be a lonely affair

Despite we cannot detect
Life in all things,
Every form in the universe
Blessed with its own kind
Of consciousness and its own
Kind of perception,
Art, the new trinity
Of: music, poetry and science
Vested with the responsibility
To resurrect all that thought to be
Dead, blind or unconscious

To the words; have been said myriad
Times before, I give my slant 
To create the new in you:
The New, you never heard before,
We're all here to contribute, even
The ones judged with madness 
Are hooks in the chain  
To transform the still into conscious:
Igniting self awareness in others
For at the end of cycle, return 
Won't be a lonely affair


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Main Matrix

So, if a matrix is a body substance, in which all cells are embedded?
Then can I not spiritually say that the body of Christ is also a matrix?
Well, is it safe to assume or safer to not assume the differences in such?

If I have a World Wide Web with many matrixes, there must be a main.
How does one achieve the main matrix without a conversion of all matrixes?
Each living breathing organism has a matrix, but what supplies this?
 
Seems how all bodies have cells embedded in a matrix,
Is it not safe to assume that the universe has a matrix?
If so, where is the main universal matrix?
There must be a connection of some sorts,
Nevertheless, what is it and where is it?
Moreover, why has this not been thought of?
 
If the body is the temple of the Lord,
Then He must have a main matrix.
Matrix is Latin for womb.
So in which womb is this matrix?
Only a female has a womb.
There must be one that is required by none.
 
Now let us get even more difficult here.
We have a World Wide Web with many matrixes.
What if the World Wide Web is an individual womb?
It obviously has good and evil in its growth.
Could there have been two that fused by one?
Could there have been a conversion of all matrixes.
Or is there only one main matrix being a female?
 
Let us get back to the body of Christ and His matrix.
Let us even go to your own bodies matrixes.
An enclosure within in which something originates or develops,
This is what lives and breathes inside of you every day, a matrix.
Do we not develop Christ within ourselves, and He our originator?
Is it not safe to assume that we are the body of Christ?
Moreover, that we are of a matrix that has a universal main matrix?
 
 
®Registered: Ann Rich   2006


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Trolling for Love

I'm floatin in a boat,
in the middle of the sea,
and I've got my trusty fishing rod with me.
I'm trolling for love, 
sweet, soft and demure,
so I cast our my line, 
and my heart is the lure.
come on precious mermaid, 
come hither sweet girl,
hop into my boat, 
and lets give it a whirl,
with our wing tips igniting, 
and our eyes brightly glowing,
deep passion pulsating, 
sweet liquid love flowing.

http://lovestruehome.com/


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The color of love

Without him beside me, my future seems so bleak, being naïve, 
i was told he was not meant for me. Ignoring this world of cruelty
and its power tear our world apart. Now sitting i ponder why I being so naïve from the very start

My tomorrow will never come, for I will forever live in his yesterday. Turning my back on the one who loved me in every single way.
Not even time can heal a shattered heart, but I guess somewhere in his heart he loved me after all

Many times I’ve dreamt of him and unable to hide my tears,
As I reminisce that sad day I decide we go our separate ways,
I pinch myself, as in a dream, knowing it is not true,
How could I let go of such a man, no woman would ever do.

I remember the look in his eyes when he dropped by and found my note. Pain crippled on his face leaving such a heart in pain, as he read along “My heart is with you but I will forever be alone, never will you and I share a place of our own. Rejected by all to cross the color line thinking my love is blind".

 If again such a love should come my way, I’d break free of those dark days I’d confess my true heart and reject the rest and  break through this racial barrier and fallow my lovers path wherever he lead to ease this heart that beat to grieve.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Harmonic Spirits

Harmonic Spirits In a time of past; so far away just beyond where night meets the day two little children were born and raised in the deepest part of the forest, a mystery their father never saw their innocent faces Ancient spirits of woodland graves they became royalty of trolls, and trees the only two whom were human beings they lived out life happily some say they could even hear them singing in perfect harmony They ruled and were protected, by nymphs, fairies, elves, and of creatures of life and grave the trees fulfilled all of their needs The forest and it's wonder a family they became Mother Nature in loving ways came with the birds and bees She lifted them up hugging them, giving immortality in a world with so much pain yet they knew only harmony all of their days the legend of the forest royalty they became healing the creatures that go unseen saying hello and goodbye for many years the little boy and girl left beside an old oak tree one dark February harmonic spirits they are now, running wild and free...
About my children who are passed


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Grandad's Missing

There's a void, now
Where once a steadfast heart beat time
The soul in perfect harmony with life's uncertain pulse
With those who clambered eagerly in solace or in joy
To scale that mighty pinnacle
The Rock, within the bosom of the family

There's a void, now
But marvel at the structure, the firmness of the ground beneath
The strata richly layered with wisdom of generations past
A fault free seam constructing firm foundations
Binding those within the bosom of the family

There's a void, now
A hollow cavern 
echoing the anger and the pain
Trust time; it has no fear of finite elements
The source of unremitting pain
Within the bosom of the family

There's a void, now
So fill the emptiness and catalogue the memories
Harvesting the richness of their meaning
The fullness of the seed sown long ago
To bloom forever within the bosom of the family


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Bird in Flight

Sitting there late last night! 
I took everything in with my deepest breath about me.
I could quiver feeling the warmth sinking slowly in, 
I was covered over distances which I could now see.
I had left myself. 
I was gone again.
I was above and beyond the clouds,  
Soaring deeply with every one of my though,
Higher and higher I rose, 
Reaching loftiness’ I have never once felt. 
I was a bird in flight! 
Stunning with privilege I had brought.
Feeling myself from deep within!
Standing there that night, 
The radiance beamed all around me so I took this in.
And lo and behold, there I went again.
I could feel myself while locked deep with my thoughts.
I was absorbed inside by everything surrounding me.
I felt the depth that my eyes could never ever once see.
Loosing all truth of myself, every sensation my soul had caught.
Further and further I rose, reaching capacities I had never felt.
I’m a feather in the air, 
Gathering sensations inside of myself.
I lay there that night, mind, body, and soul with me.
I was calm with the breeze, 
Inside of myself,
Feeling myself!
And once again I was a bird in flight soaring so high and much too free.
I was locked sound with my deepest thoughts.
More and more I rose and impact for impact I felt.
Feathers of a bird in flight and one of me I have surely got.
Ever since that night, many, many things have come to me.
One by one, gathered by the sensations carried all over me.
Touching inside of myself, again, again, and again!
Higher and higher I climb to reach the very tipsy top.
Gathering it all, I am more of me when more of me can be felt.
I am the breeze in the air touching the many feathers these birds have brought.
Many feathers just from sitting here, but each the soar of the wind has surely caught.
I’m a bird in flight gathering all that is real or not and all that is captured in of my-self.
I am surely the feather that fell from the very top, 
Because I am now what then I surely was not!
I am simply that feather in the air falling loose and free inside of myself.

®Registered: 1997 Ann Rich


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Who i am

Who i am

Gazing at the mirror observing what I see,
all might not be perfect, but it all belongs to me.
In the eyes of the mirror, a woman beckoned me,
when I looked at her from head to toe, I just love what I see.
 There might have been a part of me, that to me was never known,
 i would have search to find it, if I had only known. 
This love for myself that was embedded inside confused an approaching frown
 and the moment I spent to discover myself, my world Turned upside-down.


I was afraid of people saying, "Who does she think she is?"
 Now i have the courage to stand and say "this is who i am".
 Never will i follow the majority of living a life of constant duplicity,
 as a successful rebellion, take me as I am, or watch me walk away.
 What makes me, me is my originality, with lots of sincerity
 and I cherish this freedom which lies in being me.

The eyes of the society might not project its light on me,
but never will this bring me down or makes me think less of me.
 No external source will fulfill my void, within me i find my eternal joy.
 Known life's is too short to be self- obsessed but when my eyes sent me a rainbow
 filled with gentle colors that project confident within me, 
my world seems brighter each time i opened up the window of my face. 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

DAMAGED MY TRUE LOVE

written 17th Sept 2013



When it comes to love, I AM poisonous
 don't let me curse another, leave me loveless

For the first time in my life, I felt your pain and cried for your heart
 my heart finally hurts, knowing I passed this pain from the start

Please find help to set your heart free
 trust me, it's not a life you recover from easily 

Damaged goods I told you, unrepairable
 but some how, you managed the impossible

Unlovable for my entire life
 yet you had no problem, getting me to become your wife

Yes, it's been more than both of us should have ever had to bear
 at this moment, every cell in my body is overwhelmed, so I really do care

Please don't enter my life's pain and despair  
 you don't deserve it, you are so patient and filled with such love

I'm sorry I let myself fall in love knowing it would poison you
 soul mates forever and eternity, my love belongs only to you...




Details | Prose Poetry | |

Lost into a deep black hole

I was trapped
and bemused
feeling sad
and confused
a subatomic particle
lost into a deep black hole
and suddenly
you stuck in your magic telescope
and I opened up
like a flower
I shot out like a periscope
a mystical kaleidoscope
like a solar flare 
without a care
my heart exploded into a supernova
and then, 
I woke up in your constellation
a phantasmagorical revelation
so ecstatic
and divine
orgasmic 
and sublime
I'm staying here forever, 
until the end of time.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

DOORS

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

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

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

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

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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Through my Glare

My face in these eyes;
Shining towards the sky all the time
My shape is a novel with thousands of chapters.
My hair is a forest of thoughts.
My eyes are decades of worry.
My lips are opened door. 
My ears receive the howls of the wind.
My nose is a statue looking for lost spirit.
My body is too weak as Hercules was not,
My heart is arrested there searching for freedom.
My back is affected by the past as an ancient wall.
My hands are wings of bird have just escaped from a trap.
My feet are quickly driving me towards the future.
To nowhere I’m running without fixed level. 
I’m sentient enough with my semblance.
***
My face on the mirror;
I watch a tidy man’s scene with many interpretations.
Have a gaze at; it is deep and brightening.
Realize the motivation:
What really goes on with this reflection?
There would be no disturbance;
Just give that white pen.
I will write about your beauty.
I would show some reality about this mood.
How mysterious are the man and I?
Do not take us with you in this heat time,
Do not push us inside your dreams.
You will see such dusk,
Due to the night is so dark.
And I’m just a night bird.
***
My face on the murmuring stream;
Wet and dry, it is alternative all the time.
Do you like this race?
All this vitality is carelessly being wiped away,
Looking forward the oblivious chair
Who has the key of stopping the tragedy?
It is forevermore, a simple destiny-
Not imagination but messy
It causes a bit horror inside the iron core.
What is beyond the mountains?
The needles in the smooth path are confusing the soul.
The soul is still running wild under lovely trees.
Trees are inside scary jungle.
Though, there is an exit.
I’m fixed in my way,
And I’m fixed in my way.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

What's the point?

What’s the point 
in living
When death awaits
What’s the point 
in breathing
When you can not 
feel the 
swelling of your 
lungs
What’s the point 
in love
When you heart 
only aches
What’s the point 
of being in a 
state of 
awareness 
When you are not 
really alive
What’s the point 
in doing your 
best 
When it is 
rarely 
acknowledged
What’s the point 
in making all 
happy
When you are sad
What’s the point 
in smiling 
When your heart 
bleeds
And that colgate 
smile
never touches 
your eyes
What’s the point
in anything?


Details | Prose Poetry | |

FACE TO FACE

I FACE YOU / YOU FACE ME 
THIS IS A PHASE OF REALITY 
PRACTICALLY DEATH IS ETERNITY
HOPE YOU GET THIS CONSTANTLY

THAT THE TRUTH REVEALS TRUTH AND LIES ARE DEMONIZED 
VISUALIZE THE TRUTHS AND OPEN ALL EYES
‘CAUSE THE FACT WE HAVE TO FACE IMPACTS ALL MINDS
BUT THE PRICE WE HAD TO PAY COST MORE THAN OUR LIVES
AS WE CRAM KNOWLEDGE IN SKULLS IN HOPE THEY'LL TURN WISE
BUT LIES FOR THE WISE ARE UNSPOKEN TRUTHS UTILIZED
THE STREETS ARE HARD AS OUR NEIGHBORS CLOSE THEIR BLINDS 
LIFE IS WAR: YOU AND I ARE LANDMINES
AS DISEASES OF LOVE MAKING KILL HUSBANDS AND WIVES
THE BOOKS WERE RIGHT, WE ARE LIVING IN HARD TIMES
AS THE WEALTHY STAY WEALTHY BUT THE POOR ECONOMIZE
THE INTELLIGENT STAY HEALTHY BUT THE IGNORANT ARE OTHERWISE
FURTHER FROM THE TRUTH THEN THEY REALIZE
THAT LIFE IS A TRANCE WE ARE ALL HYPNOTIZED
IN THIS RAT RACE OF HUMAN DISGRACE 
CHANGING THE WHOLE PLACE 
TO PACE THE CHASE OF THE FACTS WE HAVE TO FACE 
THAT LIFE IS A TEST WE JUST HAVE TO ACE
AND LEARN AFTER DEATH THAT WE ARE
FACE TO FACE

I FACE YOU / YOU FACE ME 
THIS IS A PHASE OF REALITY 
PRACTICALLY DEATH IS ETERNITY
HOPE YOU GET THIS CONSTANTLY

THESE FAT CATS WITH STOMACHS FOR TIRES MUST RETIRE
AS OUR LEADER’S FACING THEIR OWN DESIRES
WHILE THESE LIRES FUEL THE WRONG NATION’S FIRE
LET’S REHIRE ADMIRALS WE ADMIRE
THIS NATION USES COMPASSION FOR FAME AND FASHION
GOOD IDEALS COME IN RATIONS
WHERE DOUBT IS BROUGHT SLAVERY IS BOUGHT
NOW WE FACE FEELINGS TAGGED BY PRICE
AS THE IMPRESSION OF THE RECESSION SLIGHTLY RISE
THE VALUE OF A GESTURE ISN’T A JUST REWARD
CAUSE A SIMPLE SMILE NO ONE CAN AFFORD
AS THIS WARNING IS FUTURE’S COMEDY
THE TRAGEDY OF THIS PARODY IS NOW SOMEONE ELSE’S MISERY
AS SOME LIVE REVERSE TO EVIL
TO ROCK-THE-VIL ON THE SOCIETY NOT CIVIL
CHASING ILLUSIONS ONLY TO CATCH NIL
FACING FACT FROM FICTIONAL THRILL
IN THIS RAT RACE OF HUMAN DISGRACE 
CHANGING THE WHOLE PLACE 
TO PACE THE CHASE OF THE FACTS WE HAVE TO FACE 
THAT LIFE IS A TEST WE JUST HAVE TO ACE
AND LEARN AFTER DEATH THAT WE ARE
FACE TO FACE


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Listen

It's time to let it go
life passed by a long
time ago.  It went by 
so slow.

I want to stay, you're not
listening to a word I say.
HEY! HEY!  it's Sunday.
It's this way at noon 
again.  I need this and I
need that;  the smallest
voice screams at me:

It's enough!  Look at you, 
with your toys and baubles.
Where are you going with
that?  Oh;  now it's a hat
with bells ringing:  cling,
clang, clat.

The cars are rolling.  I need
change.  Taking corners,
following jumping waves,
bye, bye.  Sitting, smelling,
what's a nose for?  

I can tell you know anyway;  it's
time to leave before moontime
comes.  I pray for hours before
the sun using sculptered sand;
the sun stays away rolling tides
of cars spanning the bridge till
I go astray.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Rich Life

 


Many wonders yet to
behold 
amazement doth
increase 
suppose I would have
died 
before witnessing
this awesome treat.

My basket still half
filled 
let me taste all of
life 
the valleys and the
hills 
There is awe in
every performance..

There are many
secrets in nature
too 
I came here eager to
know all 
before my life is
through 
When the universe
puts on its three 
Dimensional,
Meteorological show

Technicolor in acts
of nature ..
Give me the front
row. 
I do not want to be
lax in my 
knowledge of this
world,be it
serenity,chaos or
peace 
If I was sent to
earth to live
I must become at one
with it.

I do myself an
injustice 
if I miss this
marvelous feast 
I want to count the
stars
know the secret
lives of plants 
I want to know the
wonders
before I am
deceased. 
Because as I live
and breath
WONDERS NEVER CEASE!






Details | Prose Poetry | |

Mort De La Mort, The Death Of Death

There is something intoxicating about the absolute stillness of night
I am most at home, at ease, the tell-tale heart of a vampire
Indeed, I have never been anything but, born into this life a demon
Spawned into this life by hate and resentment

I have fed upon everyone I have ever known, everyone I can ever remember
All that was human in those around me, seldom have I not destroyed

I have been merciless, I have been death

 

Tonight, the hunter becomes the hunted and who would have known it
Magnificent a creature, a natural born killer, meeting her bloody demise

What was a heart of stone has now started beating to the sound of human dreams

I can only thirst for one thing, with satisfaction impossible elsewhere

Him, my reaper donned in perfect flesh
A powerful being that has broken me so entirely, I have been forced into mortality
I am a mere shadow of the monster I used to be

 

The tragedy that is seeing life with the hearts eyes, I offer myself to him completely.

I will not move, I will not run and I will not hide

Tear me to pieces like I have torn all I have ever encountered, I yearn for it

Every cell in my body begs for our final dance, the Waltz to my own demise
Now, to look upon you would be worth a thousand deaths, and I invite them all
Find me, take me, end me.
I will rest in the memory of your flawless face for eternity, as hell welcomes me with
open arms.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Black SUNSHINE

Dawn rises, and the Sun is Grey, again : One can hear the tears flowing.
The nakedness of the mighty Oak :  Withers : In the shadow of “ LIFE “
I watch “Mother Nature”  cry Tears of pain : in the West wind blowing
I catch those tears of Pain: For My Beloved  “ LENORE “  My “ WIFE “
In the darkness after Dawn ; in the Ebony of the Moonlight  : I still Live
Sullenly, I reminisce  of the LIGHT of the Past ; When I still had a Heart
As the Shadow of Death , follows me into an abyss, where only Death can Survive 
I think of Winters gone by, before the History of Forever : was torn Apart
Through the Corridors of  unknown Sanity  :my eyes cry tears of Empathy,  Dead
There is no morning Dew, on flowers wilted in a new Life  of nonexistence
In the Gloomy Mist of time forgotten I stare at Heaven from my Eternal bed
Hewn from a tree standing alone in a Forest , of Humanities nonexistence
Blinded my the Aura of death I seek a rebirth of Light in me to shine in my eye
           Will I ever Know : as I once Knew " LOVE " ~ before I Die ~

     Inspired by the Contest : " Dark Prose " Sponsored by " Catie Lindsey "

Dedicated to my Lost LOVE "Lenore" ; My LOVE Anew EVERLASTING " Barbara Jean "


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Prayer

Lord, help me to understand you more and more.
Help me to appreciate the gifts of life as I explore.
So many times I've put doing my will about yours.
Please turn my heart towards your forever love.

Lord, help me to live the way you ask me to love.
And to love the way you ask me to live.
Dear God, I pray to you on my bended knees.

Hear my cry.
My urgent need for you.
Let me see you in all things.
Give me life anew.

Teach me to listen.
Teach me to be kind.
Lord, strengthen me that I might find.
The road that leads me closer to you everyday.
Please Lord, 
I beg you
Show me the way!

----By Janille James----


Details | Prose Poetry | |

An OD Pen

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


I think my pen OD on chocolate though!!!

Sponsor: Joann Grisetti
Contest: Drunken Pen Round 2


Details | Prose Poetry | |

"Endurance"

A solitary tree upon an isolated hill.
The willow sways it's rhythmic dance in expectation of an August gale.With leaves abound 
awaiting to camouflage the ground to a carpet of golden canvas.A winters prelude.
As presuemed,out of somewhere the tempest shows forth with winds that bend her and a 
sweeping rain that stings with bite.With tenacious roots bounded to earth and stone,against 
the force of relentlessness she strains to hold ground.
Upon clearing,nakedness.
Stripped of her jewels,her blossoms....her leaves,an elegance that will no longer paint these 
day lit skies.Spookish clouds give way the bluish heavens. Unknown to the weariness,birds pause upon familiar perches

With no colors to turn in Octobers skies she weds a leafless fall,but yet through 
endurance,she remains.


                                                  The end





Details | Prose Poetry | |

Honesty

Honesty is a virtue, however it is also a curse. I am honest
to a fault revealing things about myself that I should not.
It has caused me grief and loss when others use this 
information to take advantage of me. I do not think well
of myself and I believe that this is heart ache enough.

As they say no good deed goes unpunished. I have made 
my life an open book and my emotions as well, that upon
examination paints too clear a picture. I have none to hold
responsible for this except myself. From now on my door
is locked and there is no key.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Taking Time

The twisted tunnels and funnels of time
fend with the arcing arrows of truth
As gravity and comedy compete for attention
In a one way foray of racing life
As some hang and lean above speeding wakes
screaming with the absolute joy of it
others lay back and watch the ever-changing clouds
looking back at what might have been
That never can be
influences of how
In the nuances of now
Sails billow as lines are re adjusted
To shade the setting sun
And I find a tiller to lean on


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Going Through Non-Emotions

I listened as Ms. Azalea Lee spoke to me 
This is what she had to say…
I sat with the door opened catching the noon day breeze
As a package was delivered by the postman 
That stood there requesting my signature.
I hope its something good the postman said with a grin
Oh he may have been good to others, I said much to my chagrin
This package I had no desire to receive
Today or any day but somehow I knew it was the remains of him
This was supposed to be a joyous day
Expecting a newborn kinsman this eve and it being
The day of my daughter's birth -- I must state
How ironic this day has come in to play
As I received his backward ashes today
I never wanted to hold him in my arms again
Never thought I'd behold his form this way
My once tormentor, feigned lover, never true friend -- hey
No one could say I did not try
Held out the olive branch time after time…
He would just keep trying to burn that branch and my arm 
right along with it.   Even had my mama fooled 
By his falsified charms so bad that it seemed 
She did not care that it was I -- which he continually tried to harm...
Darn, that certainly should come to me as no surprise
As she often did much the same too me as a child
She, picking and pinching with her trying words 
To get a grief stricken tear from this numbed heart of mine
How absurd! Then Ms. Azalea Lee revealed some things to me that
I dare not write for indeed they were enough to horrify...
During that time, I whispered not a peep, for I thought to my self
How could she ever sleep, with all of those emotions balled up inside... 
How strange it was that after the age of 15 she had not truly cried… 
At least until the day her father died and then she went numb again… 
feeling nothing yet still managed to smile
My, how I wished I could share with her, this joy of mine….
How is it that she takes all in stride?
Without a drop of hate inside…  As I bid her goodbye, 
The answer came, she is mine and 
She possesses a strong will to survive.  
I now look back through time at Ms. Azalea Lee
Keeping her stories as they sure had an effect on me…


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Being Alive


Being Alive is
A visit here below,
A stay on the Earth,
An existential trip,
An experience of the (five) senses :
A gift from the nature !

Being Alive is
A sharing of the world,
A party with the world, and
A sojourn in the world…
…on the lovely blue planet :
A gift made by the nature !

Being Alive is
An invaluable richness
Granted by God (the Most-High),
Our Creator.
A life that is made with some high-and-low moments :
A gift to the nature !

Being Alive is
A learning time of
Our self-esteem,
Love of the fellows,
Love of each element of God’s Creation :
A gift in the nature of life !

As i see it, being alive is also the…
Loving and Important Feast of the Existence.

© 2013, April-November. Prose ‘Being Alive’. Rita Solis Radius.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Bonding with a Stranger

I bonded with a stranger today.
It was at the airport in Honolulu.
I was waiting for my flight to be
called. I thought, I better take
advantage of these spare minutes and
visit the ladies room one last time.
When I entered through the restroom
doorway I heard someone sobbing.
There sitting at one end of an orange
covered couch was a slender Japanese
young lady. I felt an immediate need
to comfort her. I said in my kindest
voice "can I help you? What is wrong"?

She said in her broken English that her
mother had just died and she was
going to her funeral. She cupped her
face in both her hands, rocking herself:
her tears dropping onto her lap. I felt
compelled to sit down beside her
and I began to offer words I hoped
would comfort her. I put my arm around
her shoulders and lightly rubbed
her back. I said, your mother is not
dead. Her spirit is still alive. It is only
her body that is no longer here. You
can still talk to her and she will hear you.

She loves you and she is watching over you.
I related how I had recently lost my
mother and how I still talk to her, and
that I feel she hears me. I heard my
flight number being called over the
speakers in the restroom. I said a silent
prayer to help her cope with the pain of
her loss. I gave this dear stranger a hug
and asked her if she would be alright
because I had to leave. She shook her
head yes and I rose to leave with tears
in my eyes. Yes, I feel I really bonded
with a stranger today, and she with me.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

My Unconditional Dog

First of all, it’s a big responsibility,
especially in a city like Jacksonville, or Philadelphia, or wherever really.
So think long and hard before deciding on love.
On the other hand, love gives you a sense of security:
when you’re walking down the street late at night
and you have a leash on love
ain’t no one going to mess with you.
Because crooks and muggers think love is
unpredictable.
Who knows what love could do in its own defense?
Broken glass bottles.

On cold winter nights, love is warm.
It lies between you and lives and breathes
and makes funny noises.
Love wakes you up all hours of the night with its needs.
It needs to be fed so it will grow and stay healthy.

Love doesn’t like being left alone for long.
But come home and love is always happy to see you.
It may break a few things accidentally in its passion for life,
but you can never be mad at love for long.

Is love good all the time? No! No!
Love can be bad. Bad, love, bad! Very bad love.

Love makes messes.
Love leaves you little surprises here and there.
Love needs lots of cleaning up after.
Somethimes you just want to get love fixed.
Sometimes you want to roll up a piece of newspaper
and swat love on the nose,
not so much to cause pain,
just to let love know “Don’t you ever do that again!”

Sometimes love just wants to go out for a nice long walk.
Because love loves exercise. It will run you around the block
and leave you panting, breathless. Pull you in different directions
at once, or wind itself around and around you
until you’re all wound up and you cannot move.

But love makes you meet people wherever you go.
People who have nothing in common but love
stop and talk to each other on the street.

Throw things away and love will bring them back,
again, and again, and again.
But most of all, love needs love, lots of it.
And in return, love loves you and never stops.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Escape

I close my eyes and put the moon asleep.

I see lands and scopes of being mixed
from long ago rolled into tomorrow.

Circus clowns and lost classrooms,
moving caravans of little people;
creatures not knowing the way and 
I have quite far to go.

Don't leave me here this way.  Close
the cover, hide the ground neath your 
feet.  Tracks hidden from all.  Dig and
dig cover it all up into deserts where
dusty sands can play, hide and sink
in any way you don't need to close
your eyes.  Keep your mouth shut.

Close the cover we'll go to the sea
hide behind octopus, one leg for you,
seven for me.  We'll be fine leaving
it all behind.

It's been tried before.  Double buckled.
you blended with the sandbed.  Close
it properly this time.  There's no one
here who'll care to climb downward
or upward.

We're on our own this time.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

HIV IS A JUDGEMENT

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Life In Quick

First breath, dry and new, then too cry with sound, also new. Curious beginning. 
Venture forth through blindness of color, handicaps surrender to teachings via 
mother, fathers voice frightens, loud as a gong but he makes us strong. Stability 
grows in both balance and bone, rise from the crawl and stride first narrow then 
wide with pride. Run and sport, knowledge vs. instinct, error and lesson are all 
absorbed, accepted or aborted, take on the progression. Aggravation, alienation, 
company and motivation. A speaker a thinker, with tools can tinker and gain yet 
more in stride. Age and obtain the hint of rage and its terrain, harness both man 
and beast, share their desire and unleash the newly tamed. Choices in constant 
succession through life and relevance, retract with caution and advance awake. Pro 
create and pass the experiences wisely. Grow tired, weary, realize it is only time, 
years, some are long others short, importance is that they in any number not be 
wasted. Lay down now and rest, last breath, smile, a good life without denial, a 
beautiful legacy of think through ink.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

INFINITY

Fear of infinity sits with me
today, eternity flies, looms,
hovers stretches the heart
must make room for the 
dark

space I am to embark.
Though I let my eyes search
for God within;
let my eyes mingle with
the Cosmic wind.

Afraid of what will be
stormy slaps.  It is not
really your place to
see such grace.

The thorny drift burnished 
by that crush around the
trees, now I'm afraid God,
now I'm glad you are with me.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A.A. Milne's Intuition and the Magic in Nothing-Else-To-Do.

“This is where we are,” I said, as I aimlessly threw pebbles to my left...
and my hand ripped grass, the destruction of Spring and the creation of happiness as we
gathered ourselves in the midst of nothing-to-do, my nails recovered dirt as my palms
discovered life and he

took.my.hand.

carelessly, without thought, as if it was the only thing to do...


I checked my knees for bruises and found the fading black and blue of Pennsylvania, the
pattern resembled the horizon we gazed at beyond the cliffs where my feet felt slightly
unsure and my fear of heights dared me to step one inch closer to the edge, I had watched
him and found his fearlessness to be divine as he went two inches and ignored the rocks I
had payed close attention to race to the bottom of nowhere as if to find the somewhere
that existed...

beneath us...

I gazed up into sunshine and followed the trail of Saturday clouds, dreams scattering
themselves, their shapes secrets that hid in the middle pages of picture books, and I
imagined us as my tongue spoke the wisdom of A.A. Milne and thought about the
intuitiveness of childhood, I smiled, and inched closer to his side...

“Here we are,” he sighed, slipping his hand underneath the back pocket of my favorite
tattered blue jeans, and as his fingers fumbled with the frays in my fabric, he kissed me,
once, on the lips, a Saturday quiet where only we existed in the time it took breath to
meld and touch, and settle weeks beneath skin in the slight chill of April, and I nodded
as the sky watched us and thought..

we'd make a beautiful picture book, we'd settle in the middle of a page whispering secrets
that could create the smile that spoke of youth.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

UNUSUAL FEELINGS

We sit in loneliness to think about all our fears and problems

We live in sadness to watch and wonder what went wrong 

We laugh in happiness to hide from all the pain inside us

We cry in despair to take away the mistakes we have made

We love in silence to forget what a dream was just once

We repent every moment in darkness to pray for a chance

We forget all that has gone was just there for a reason

We forgive in kindness never knowing what is in return

Alas! What we have achieved is still unknown and a mystery.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Here Comes Winter Again

Here it comes again; softly knocking on windows at 2A.M, here comes the winter at a cold silent night, awakening my soul with the smell of dust after rain, the smell of mom holding me into bed, with the voices of my sisters playing next room, here it comes again with painful delights, here it comes again taking me back home.

Let the drops of rain knock on my door and let them ache my heart, let me taste the sweet smell in my tongue like a little boy getting wet beneath the rain, waiting to be rebuked, but none of this does matter because the burdens of life are slipping down with the rains being drifted on his coat, none of this does matter because the weight of life was just not this cold before.

Here comes the winter with empty corners in my head and echoes of laughters in my room, a piece of chocolate I can no longer find and a broken toy I’ve never thrown away, with good sweaters that never felt warm on a cold night like this, let the chilly breezes of winter take me back home again, to smell my father’s smoking cigarettes and my mother combing my hair, and the smell of coffee beans on one cloudy morning to refresh my day, oh here comes the winter, remembering me again and stopping by with few memories to take me home.

Check out my writings at:
http://echoes19.wordpress.com


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Thread of Hope

As all I’d ever termed wondrous bliss unexpectedly died -
As my fantasy of a reality with destruction did collide -
My hopes shattered around me like glass in countless pieces,
Fragments suspended in mocking beauty as time freezes…

The clock hand ticks forward and it all crashes to the floor
My knees hit rock-bottom when I could take no more
All I now see is blackness where once there was color
Gone appears the light from the sun and its fervor…

I begin to walk away from the pond of shattered dreams
But the glass is in my clothes and cutting through my heart, it seems
Perhaps I am too close, the smoke is clouding my full view-
Glance up at the tower, instinctively know what to do…

Run up the steps; one, two,three hundred endless stairs
And I barely catch my breath, or have time to fill lungs with air -
Before the ground beneath my feet crumbles into sand
Loud thunder above me rumbles as I fall back down on land…

And I hit rock-bottom again
Thinking this must be the end
For surely no human can go through this pain
And still see rainbows through the rain…

The whole world seems gray and black tonight
With not a speck of pure, identifiable white in sight
Nothing is untouched, gone is everything -
Then how do I glimpse in that crack a thin white string?

Among the dirt, surely this uncorrupted clean string is not real
But just to verify the hopeless doubts, I reach out a hand to feel
And to my electric surprise, it’s most tangible indeed
I yank it out attached to a note, uncrumple it and read:

“Verily, with every hardship comes ease” [Quran 94:6]

That white thread...
Of hope.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

FOR ALL THE TIMES

 
FOR ALL THE TIMES You want to say so much, but you’re afraid to get hurt again. You find it hard to explain where to begin, All you have is yourself that keeps you Protected in your silence and pain. Too much struggle has left you with so many scares, That it has become difficult for you to know Which one is deeper from the other to measure in life? You want to say so much, but you’re afraid to get hurt again. So many sacrifices in life you’ve had to give, All that you have left is nothing to surrender too, But to believe in what fate has given you in return. Love was once a dream you thought you had, But now it has become an empty space With darkness all around you. You want to say so much, but you’re afraid to get hurt again. You try to pretend to yourself that there’s hope, But it has become a stranger in your deepest thoughts, And it blinds you from the truth around you. You shed your fears in tears filled with moments of sadness, But all your Life has been to you is a big disappointment, And still you hold on to your dreams. You want to say so much, but you’re afraid to get hurt again. There are so many beautiful moments to share Where there is more to life then wondering alone in the dark, All you have to do is disapprear into the wild and look For that one dream you have been searching for so long. Maybe one day God will make your dreams come true, For all the wonderful things he has created you for.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Stolen Hearts

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

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


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


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


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


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

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

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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

It's your prerogative

To cleanse your life, empty out it's past and move on, to leave no explanations, no pity, no shame. To usher the insensitive to the living and the not, to delete faces from your photographs and smile once more. I'm owed no explanation, as I was never bought and was never returned, but my past litters with others excrement. I'm sure you'll do it again and you've done it before, used and disposed, cared and then lost interest; I'm more sure that there'll be occasions where I'll be or have been the same. At the disposing end though, it's instinct to look for recovery, the need to fight is always pointless nowadays. But what can you do?

There's a million different ways to move on or to diminish, and to do either one you have to experience both. It's your prerogative to do as you please as it is mine, and that's all.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Nothing But Chalk

She sits there in the back of the class, doodling on her paperwork. Getting lost in 
the scribbles, tuning out the teacher, forgetting all the madness around her, her life 
fading in the paper. Slap! The sound of the ruler splintering across the desk. PAY 
ATTENTION! Head jerking upward, she sits up in her little desk. Pencil dropping from 
her hand, rolling off onto the floor. She looks straight ahead, back straight as a 
board, eyes glued ahead as the teacher drones on. Drilling things into their heads, 
eyes sharp like an eagle. Looking for every chance to catch someone falling asleep, 
to catch someone passing notes, to catch someone whispering. The little girl quietly 
picks up her pencil and her mind drifts to dreaming of playing dress up, drifts to the 
path the lead makes on the paper. The curves of a woman, not a little girl. Dreaming 
of growing up into a woman. Confident, pretty, smart, strong....someone people will 
notice....a woman with a voice. Slap! The ruler across her hand. She jerks it back, 
clasping it to her chest. Instant sting, instant redness and she feels the tears start 
to pool in her eyes, her lip quivering to hold back the yelp. Pay attention! You’re not 
listening! I asked you a question young lady. Should I repeat it? She’s so scared 
that she can’t even speak so she just meekly nods her head. Hard as steel, cold as 
ice, the teacher repeats the question. She hangs her head and answers but her 
voice is barely above a squeeking whisper. Speak up! says the teacher. The class 
can’t hear you, I can’t hear you she says. The little girl raises her head and repeats 
her answer. WRONG! Slap! The ruler across her other hand. See if you had been 
paying attention instead of DOODLING, then you wouldn’t have gotten the ruler. 
You’ll make sure next time you will listen now won't you. The little girl doesn’t 
answer, doesn’t speak up. She doesn’t want the ruler again. So she carefully and 
quietly lays her pencil on her little wooden desk that bares the markings of many 
ruler slappings. And on her little wooden desk, she rests her hands that bare the 
scars of many ruler slappings. She stares straight ahead at the chalkboard, 
unwavering, searing a hole in the chalkboard. She tries to find the dream of dress 
up, tries to find the girl dressing up as the woman she wants to be. But all she sees 
on the chalkboard…no matter how hard or how long she stares...all she sees on the 
chalkboard.....is nothing but chalk.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Fooling us All

Dumbing us down
no wonder we don't know
unaware for so long
feeding 
on what's been eating us

"but the bait tastes so good!"
we say
drooling diabetes down lazy lips
entranced
by high definition devices
all the world's shiny entices

and then there's addictions
the medications 
vibrations
frequencies 
they're fingering Mother Earth's atmosphere to
seducing mankind 
with the silence of her screams
raping our nurturer
as we remain oblivious

these elite thugs
conducting violence above the law
fooling us all


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Lawyer Envy

(The writing exercise was to choose three poetry cliches and make them fresh)
(back stabber, after my own heart; and a soul of discretion; maybe more...)

He was a back stabber
After my own heart
Meek and sleek and sneaky
He wormed his way in
And 'innocently' uncovered
State secrets
Private tales
Skeletons in closets
They were all fair game

He was a back stabber
Not to be trusted
But had 
Such a sweet smile
That promised a soul of discretion
It was too easy to believe him
It felt good to trust him

He pulled his victims in
And it wasn’t until the court case
Was over
And the jury voted for him
Again
That you realized he was a back stabber

He pulled it off with such panache
And charm
You had to admire the guy
Even while you staunched your blood

I wish – oh I wish
I had his skills
He was a back stabber
After my own heart


Details | Prose Poetry | |

BloodOfjesus

BloodOfJesus
Not the wine sacrament of the church not the grape juice that we use not the chalice cupp
not the rememberance not the ritual not the religion not the commandments of men. The
BloodOfJesus is the real blood that he shed on the Cross of Calvary the post of Jesus. ON
the Romans Internet it was www.JesusSaves.Com.Blood the Pointless Pilot smurffed the
action then went behind the bathroom tossed up all his cookies lost his function. The
COnstant searching of the Knights of the Rounded gave me pause seek becomes find King
Arthurs COmputor did not have the same wireless button on mine. Smile you are on CharlaX
Camera candid the price of life is death the death of GOD. GOing to a function and
remembering his sacrifce will never save you but the realization given to you from the
Holy Spirit to once and for all convince you that it is this Jesus Crucified in Jeruselum
His Holy City and cast out to SHED his blood on the tTtree of Golgotha the Hill of the
Skull it was a place of Death is where this new eternal life comes from. Drinking wine in
small amounts and breaking cracker crumbs will not save you but the shedding of the blood
of JESUS when he did this was over Two Thousands Year ago this Christmas. Not the formal
necktied meetings but the Beaten Dying Lord hangging dripping Blood the blood of Jesus.
What he said was WHEN WHEN WHEN you are DOING THIS (meant breaking bread at the meetings
and drinking the wine as the sacrificial remembrances) HE then said Remember ME ???
Meaning Jesus. www.shedbloodoncross.com on the older model Snail mail COmputors you wlll
not be able to see this. You now need INtel. This may seem humorus to you even fruitless
or breadless at least it is wineless but it may seem like sacrilegious but many people use
this internet the web is huge and they also need to be saved by the shed BloodOfJesus.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

LOVE POEM MEDLEY PART 2

Sometimes everything seems fake to me, and I am so tired of people acting like they remember what love is. 
Everyone says it. 
“I love you, I love you, I love you.” 
No words are more meaningful to me when sailing from the lips of a true friend or a kindred spirit, but the rest of you have to be careful where you point those syllables 
because that’s like taking the closest thing to

 the Lord’s name that I ever understood
in vain. 
I was walking back from the gas station a few weeks ago and some girl I didn’t even know looked at me and said it. 
Her lip gloss opening and closing like some kind of sea creature fishing for plankton, and I just happened to be the nearest thing drifting past.
“Love you!”, like it was hello. 
Now I have just one question
“WHAT DO YOU MEAN” 
You have no idea what I am. 
My smile’s like this because my parents had the money. 
My eyes are not the windows to my soul. 
They don’t mean jack except for genetics that I had no control over, and what my mother ate when I was in utero. 
That’s like acting like my poetry is who I am. 
Like how myelinated the neurons in my linguistics center 
I can feel the right to decide that I am more or less, valuable. 
It happened again earlier too.
I was sitting on the greyhound back home, having a conversation with a girl with guys all around her like fire ants with their mating tubes out. All of them with ink, piercings, and sizing me up 
because my six-foot-four stature could not speak for itself.
I’d like to think we talked about something more important than my assets and destination, but as she turned to disappear out of the bus with her escorts, she cast the three words back on me
like throwing a fishing line on the off chance something might bite,
“I love ya.”
….what in the world. 
After this, I think of the only one whose words held their weight. 
I don’t mean no harshness, 
but if I could go back in time and have half the balls my poetry does, I’d take you aside, and tell you something you wouldn’t understand. Something like, “BAM! I am a tulip field on fire at sunset.” 
Something like, “My shirt, is from the Goodwill.” 
Something like, “You’re telling me Christ could have saved the world with His cheekbones?”
“You’re telling me I’m viable and worth a few minutes of your attention?”
“You’re telling me tall, black, and attractive is what’s in this century?” 
But let me tell you.
You don’t have any idea of the size of the planets you’re saying you want to try and swallow when you say those words to me. 
I’ve been waiting to be able to hear, feel, taste, smell, and know those words for too long. You have to mean them to say them. 
But you see, I was a philosopher before I was a poet, so I have to take that back and reflect it on myself. 
The truth is, I’m so confused that sometimes, I don’t know which end my head is at.

Poetry flies in my eyeballs that should never make it past my lips, but I’m getting tired of trying to impress people. 
In this past month, I’ve been day dreaming about the girl smiling at me and it meaning more than
“You look like you got good genetics”
Or
“Could I please date your self esteem?”
I’ve been day dreaming of the girl who reminded me of what those three words are supposed to mean. 
Like when my acne came back, and you told me not to scratch at a handsome face.
“I love you.”
Like when my poetry departs, and all I can do is ramble things too big for my head. 
“I love you.” 
Like when I didn’t feel like just a romantic stereo type anymore. 
“I love you.” 
What those words meant to me, before I made the world make them less.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Life, A Gentle Breeze

Life breathes life into its children
As gently as a breeze in its unending, unyielding journey
Comes forth from the hidden place.

The very breath of God fills each vessel
And then passes on to the boundless beyond 
From whence it came.

Our spirit, a fire fed by this invisible power
Ever seeks to yoke its strength and harness its potential
Like life, it slips through the fingers of a careless grip.

                                                   ~Christopher Thor Britt


Details | Prose Poetry | |

I'm Angry

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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Alone on a Planet

alone on a planet,
the planet he was born on,
the planet which gave him strength,
which gave him everything he needed,
what he realizes is the planet wasn't what he thought it was,
the people weren't the people he thought they where,
the human being is not even the human we know about.

Into the deep detail of the human skin he goes,
what he witnesses is huge symbolism coming from the universe,
every form bonding with another form,
the form which bonds ,
keep on bonding as life is a infinite form.

What he discovers is he is in a delusion which is preventing him from becoming complete,
a delusion coming from the higher system such as religion & politics.,

The system which infects our mind ,
making us manipulated for its selfish desires,
the system which turns us into a auto destructive machine,
the system which is not going to let you discover the infinite and what you truly are,
the system consisting of a rebellious negative energy created from the principle of pure destruction.,

A system controlled from another form of life which wants us to remain slaves!,
slaves it wants us so we wont become complete as it fears us!. 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Colour of Hope

A soldier fighting for what he hopes is right, trying to make peace with himself... holds on to 
a most understated event- the sunrise and pins all his hopes on to it.


 
Its not yet dawn...


The night has ended.
A soft glow arises in the eastern lands beyond,
Soft, like a mother's touch
Pink, orange,gold,and red all born out of the same deep night
Black desperate sadness reaches out to taste silent delight. 
The colour of hope...

The taste of survival returns
Parched throats,blood stained hands...
Another day to hope, to follow the valiant heart...
I pray, someday, to make a new start.

We fight for peace, we kill for you...
Every time we kill, its only something inside us that dies!
Its a sad story, its our silent resigned sacrifice.

The day dawns, amidst the dead and the dying...
Today I am on the battlefield, crying
For the men I have lost, and myself too
But the night has passed and its a day closer to the end,
I hold on to my prayers, silent and few.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

I HAVE YOU

(Dedicated to Penny Wilcox)

Nice people, rear to come by without ulterior motive
 Good fellows tend to strain from doing what they do
Because of unpleasant surprises they sometimes get
Bad girls are everywhere pretending to be angels
Animals in human physique living “animalistic”
But you are different, of exceptional attitude
I believe that your virtues are divine
You are a fabulous creature that really exist
Radiant, full of happiness and love
You are sweeter than honey pie
Eagle –eyed with supersonic focus
My first love that saw the need to smile in me
And always encourage me to do smile
You are not too old to be my sister
Neither are you too young to be my mother
I am whatever you want in me
Very perfect to be my friend
The first to know by revelation that I’m blessed
I know I am a blessed man because I have you as my friend

© 2010 


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
							                                 finally
								                                   finally
know the closeness and comfort of love and honest, unabashed companionship.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

For Bobby

Look me in the face, old man
Don't stare at the ground!
Hold up your head, old man
Don't shuffle around,

And don't call me "miss", old man
I ain't missed a thing!
Except being your equal, old man
Don't worry, you won't hang.

Times have changed, old man
Don't you know we can talk?
As friends do, old man
You need  not balk!

When I say, old man
Look me in the face
There's no such thing, old man,
As "keeping your place."

Times have changed, old man
We are equals now
No "woman", no "colored", old man
No need to  bow.

I'm not angry at you, old man
It's the ones before
Who beat you down, old man
Till you could rise up no more.

Rise up now, old man!
For all the world to see
That you are proud, old man
As all  men  should be!




Details | Prose Poetry | |

Lord God

Halleluya!halleluy!
This is a shout of joy and happiness
Both streaming from my soul
Like waters from the mountains.
I open my mouth,recite and sing of his greatness,
His doings,are so much that I cant even tell
 I can only lift my hands up,open my mouth to say,
Thankyou Jesus

Many said that  I could not make it
And for a moment I thought they were right
But He proved them all wrong.
He is not mocked and His thoughts are far beyound our thoughts
He is a father to all and a provider to all,
And above all He reigns forever,
I can only lift my hands up,open my mouth to say ,
thankyou Jesus

Don't look down ipon yourself,
But lift your eyes unto Him
Let Him know of your desires and He will grant you.
He is a true friend,and will always be there for you.
He is a guider to thr lost and a counsel to all.
I can only lift my hands up, open my mouth to say
Thankyou Jesus.

What can I say?
He is beyound description,
And am lost of words to write ,
But ,I can only live to tell of His works
Lifting my hands up,opening my mouth i say,
 thankyou Jesus


Details | Prose Poetry | |

It's Great To Be Alive!

Tamera liked to run in the cold, on a whim she stopped by Woolworth and bought a package 
of hot tamale candies to eat after her run.  She loved having a reward for everything.  
Wearing her golden sweatpants Tamera decided to run laps, which she loved to do on the 
track alone late at night as the moon tipped his head and winked at her. She started this 
shortly after her divorce.   It was cathartic for her to watch her warm breath rise in the cold 
air.  Running in the winter made her feel alive to be so cold, to run and beat the elements. 
She loved the feel of the wind in her hair as she ran.

She didn’t notice the man that joined her, until he passed her.  She hadn’t seen him before.  
He had a Florida Gators jersey, orange sweat pants and a blue ski hat on. She liked his 
strides, they seemed fluid.  She had only been running a few years herself.  It was a hobby 
that she enjoyed.  Having company on the track felt good, normally she had the track all to 
herself.  She usually left after running three miles.  Tonight she felt like running more laps 
than usual.  She kept running.  Her new friend kept running too. Tamera was always 
competitive. Who knew maybe she could outrun him.

She found her rhythm and felt the adrenaline rush of the endorphins finally kick in. That's 
what she like about jogging, the endorphines. It felt freaking out of this world!  
Her heart was beating fast, her breathing was steady.  Her strides were growing wider and 
longer.  It felt so good to Tamera to be alive and one with the track.  She almost felt like 
she was flying over the Grand Canyon.

She kept running and running, until she could hardly feel her legs.  They felt numb, she heard 
the crowd as they cheered for her.  She saw every handsome man that she had ever known 
standing on the sidelines naked as they were cheering for her.  She smiled at them as she 
passed them by like a blur, for she was so fast.  She imagined her ex-husband lying on the 
ground rolling around in sheer pain as she ran all over him to win the race.  She saw herself 
jumping over the highest hurdles with the grace of an agile deer.  She was in her runner’s 
paradise. 

After a while, she noticed she had the track all to herself once again and her handsome 
gentleman, Mr. Moon had also moved along.  When she checked her mileage counter, Tamera 
had run eleven miles.  It was a great run, the best she had ever had. It was a great night to 
be alive!


Details | Prose Poetry | |

We Are Doomed People

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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

There Ain't Nothin' Better Then A Cowboy Lover

He was her part time lover
even though he was her only one
A man you could love
But she’d never let him know…
she had a full time heart            
Although her strings
had some wear and tear
throughout her years.

She wasn’t going to let him put her heart in his pocket.

No, she wasn’t about
to give her heart away
She’d play it cool.
Never let him see her fears
Pretend she was tough
Never cry or show any tears

He was a man,
raised right by his mother
He’d lay a rose upon her pillow
He was a man like no other
There ain’t nothin’ better
then a cowboy lover

His name was Jesse from Montana
He had skin the color of lightly roasted coffee 
from being out in the sun so much
His smile, a bit crooked
made him look a bit mischievous,
in a teasing sort of manner
It could knock your socks off 
if you gazed too long

She met him at a little café’ in Big Sky
leaning against the counter
like a long, tall drink of cool water
Boots, hat and all the makins'
of a real cowboy   

She had slayed the paper dragons of her past
Put them all behind her
She was bold and brave; 
asked for his number
which he willingly gave
with a smile, a little bit crooked,
a bit mischievous
in a teasing sort of manner

They’d cuddle in their blanket
under the stars and the moonlite
listening to Hank Williams songs
drinking coffee around their campfire
telling stories from their pasts;
laughing, snuggling
Before she’d go to sleep at night, 
he’d kiss her cheek 
and hold her close in his arms 
                     
One night as she lay in his arms,
he stroked her cheek 
with his tender touch, 
kissed her lips and held her tight

He said, “What would you do if I asked
"Ask what”, she said?
"Little lady, do you know I love you,
would you kindly be my wife”? 

When he said that to her that 
wonderful nite under the stars
she realized...

She wanted him, to put her heart in his pocket

That was the night 
she gave her heart away

  She wasn’t playin’ it cool
  She let him see her fears
  She wasn’t really all that tough
  Then, she cried and showed him her tears

He was a real man,
raised right by his mother
He laid a rose upon her pillow
He really was a man like no other
Nope, there sure ain’t nothin’ better
then a cowboy lover
                                                    *~The Sweet End~* 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

THE QUEST FOR EXTRA ORDINARY

                          In my  life , i find pressure to be different and extra ordinary.
it is a struggle;
a battle;
a discomfort, 
and above all a 'challenge' on how to get to the top.
In a super and extra ordinary life , I see myself as a best friend to the Eagle because it settles for nothing less,
A cousin to the Elephant because its strength and courage are unbeatable,
Having a chance to be spoken to by a Beaver because its words are more less like its personality, i.e a hard worker.
Having a chance to hear and know how an ocean really is and what makes it outstanding despite having the same 'waters' as the lakes and rivers.
Being given a chance to run with TIME in the race called ''BIT IT and ATTAIN'' a reward called SUCCESS.
Indeed it is a quest within,
A quest for extra ordinary...


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Repetition - Excerpt from Experimental Novel -

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

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

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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Borrow Time

A question, a sentence all made since, My apologies indeed,1 to the 2,3…. Can you make time a map, A man a watch, watching it as a clock slide by, Dear fox. Go seek out a dinner for me perhaps a dinner for three, Cause what I could see was a family for me. Is there no good or bad or have you seen no evil to know what it is sad, Settling for less if not the reason why this pen flows, At five o’clock in the morning just after I take a ride down to the coast, I began to catch a feast is it time for lunch with a breeze? , Please just read. But I took the road not taken, And like Robert Frost it was a demon I seen; in me. A lyrical poem with many different poets all in one, a rust diamond if this still is not gem, site the beach, for more discrete. I remember a famous rapper say don’t read too deep into my rhyms, I said to myself I know the feeling too well to be speechless to dine in and be sleepless, This is not the white house but the light is on in this house, all the time. This is the saddest thing to try to reason as I am floating in and out of consciousness , In a lumpy bed watching the clock, skip a beat at five o’clock in the morning, What a treat, And surgery of all things staying awake listening to everescence, Thinking to myself how this would sound better if it was duet with some R&B. I went across the street seen the Raven but still believe in heaven, And as I was waiting patiently a Rose grow from concrete, How long would it grow until the end of the road I think still, and blink. If you knew would you still search if you knew? Could you paint a picture of the life after death only if you knew. Can you get the greeting, and I mean all is well tell this to the Senate, This meaning is too far-fetched to reason. Like my favorite Poet John Milton my favorite poet without any QUSTION, That a book tells two side to a tale, why not witness? By just listening, Question! ! ! The life of a SENTENCE! ! ! It still makes sense somehow more or less than other. I blinked again knowing the content of his meaning, And arose from sleep just as a whisper in the night, And repeated repented as needed the questions, Indeed to answer all too well, Being five o’clock in the morning it was a question, A sentence it all makes sense, One to the two, three…… I sleep with a pen but I sleep with sword! ! ! ! ...


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 | |

My One And Only Better Half

Sitting here in the darkness,
To afraid to even speak,
My heart sunk into my chest,
My body felt so weak,
Grabbed by the back of my head,
Thrown down two flights of stairs,
Punch over and over in my stomach,
But still you only see a blank stare,
Nothing but silence,
As I'm dragged acrossed the floor,
The only thing thats going threw my head,
Is what would happen if I try and race to the door,
He grabbed his weight belt,
Hitting me in the back as hard as he could,
I laid there taking the beating,
Just like every other night I would,
But this time it was different,
I was laying in a puddle of blood,
I seen him take off running,
He even slipped in fell in the mud,
I finally got some relief knowing,
that my beating finally ended,
But I didnt know this was going to happen,
This is not what I intended, 
I was rushed to the hospital that night,
Gave birth when I was only fifteen,
7 months old lived for 36 minutes,
His lungs started to crash his breathing was unseen,
The hardest day of my life,
Was holding my child in my arms,
Knowing that he didnt deserve this,
He deserved no harm,
I blamed myself for many years,
Screaming why didn't I fight back?
I guess the thought of not knowing,
It what I really lacked,
I think of him often,
How peaceful  he shall be,
Thats the happiest feeling a mother can have,
To have her son be happy and free.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Perseverance

                     Perseverance: a poem




Long ago or should I say sometime in the past?


I had dreams and now at the age of 31 I have realized most of them.

It’s funny how good luck; joy, pain, rejection, effort and ‘Perseverance’ with a capitol ‘P’ have played a part in my life and sealed my Fate.

I now choose to think more positive thoughts even though this is still hard for me when I hear a negative voice in my head or when I hear people say negative things about me.

Those things hurt me and stay with me until I let it go.
I am self-motivated and I was a star pupil in my memories of my childhood.

My main goal is to be able to take care of myself, be responsible for myself and for the choices I make in life.

I am finishing school next January ’14 with my Bachelor’s degree and I want to find a good Internship.

Then after that I want to have a part-time job working 20 to 25 hours per week and continue doing volunteer work.

Oh and poems, I will keep writing my poems and reading other people’s poetry.  Right now I am reading LIT a memoir by Mary Karr. I also want to write children’s books.



Details | Prose Poetry | |

Love Affair Begins

As the continuous rain trickles from the roof and the gentle breeze stirs the
wind chimes to play tunes, a bird warbles chere, chere, to a lady friend
who answers cheer.The rain is cold and uninviting to humans but birds must
ignore such a small inconvenience to love affairs and courtship. Their chirps to each
other get closer. One has moved into the Holly Bush about ten feet closer
to the one bird in the Pear Tree.  The gentle breeze blows cold mist from the rain upon the old lady in the rocker outon the porch. She shivers and writes a few more words in her notebook before retreating into the warm, dry and comfortable home. She thanks God for a few minutes to enjoy the creation and the creator..


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Emerging life

Your touch peels away the layers of fear and gently reveals a love
Like spring emerging in spontaneous color and wonder

I had mused - all was lost -that I would never to see the sun and blue skies again 
I was lost in winters grey, bleak bare arms- alone in my cocoon not believing I could ever evolve into a radiant flower again

But now as my growth peeks through the melted ice - I joyously unfold, unraveling 
Velvet petals-layers of trust radiate a passionate bouquet of loves ardent harvest

I believe I can produce a harvest of good fruit from my union with the pro-creator of life - He shall abundantly fulfill His goodness in my life- as sure as the sun rises in newness each day - I shall shine forth His glory in me - for I cannot hide His love - it encompasses all I am fulfilling His purpose - honey flows from the rock that is steadfast and sure I am His forever.  

© Brenda V Northeast 3 March 2012


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Listening Closer to Myself

I give to you...
And you gave to me...
A rash, a fever, headache and the Flu...
I told you not to go without a coat...
And now you’ve got a very bad sore throat...
With fever and pain in all your muscles...
Coughing and sniffles, with draining from nostrils...
Tissues scattered all over the floor...
Bottles and pills from the drugstore...
Chicken soup is what I recommend...
But a sandwich also you did command...
And how about some chips and a nice cold brew...
For days I made you a priority...
Your every whim took seniority...
And then it happened, I started to sweat...
Became lethargic, and better yet...
You were over your bout with the Flu...
As I plopped my body onto the bed...
You stated you were going out to get something to eat...
So I could get some well deserved sleep...
As you closed the door, I heard you say...
Call me when you get better, OK ?
And that’s what brings me here today...
Perhaps I should listen closer to what I say...
" You should take better care of yourself ! “


 




Details | Prose Poetry | |

What's the point?

What’s the point 
in living
When death awaits
What’s the point 
in breathing
When you can not 
feel the 
swelling of your 
lungs
What’s the point 
in love
When you heart 
only aches
What’s the point 
of being in a 
state of 
awareness 
When you are not 
really alive
What’s the point 
in doing your 
best 
When it is 
rarely 
acknowledged
What’s the point 
in making all 
happy
When you are sad
What’s the point 
in smiling 
When your heart 
bleeds
And that colgate 
smile
never touches 
your eyes
What’s the point
in anything?


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Reflection on Seasons in the Supposition of Snow.

I stared at walls and contemplated colors~

I believe it was after midnight~

he spoke of nothing as I imagined the importance behind us, as I imagined the breeze that
was affected by his voice, as I realized nothing intrigued me...

and here we were.

His arms spoke of goosebumps, little shivers up my spine, and September had this way about
her that I wished to somehow capture in mason jars that would decorate the rooms we may
sit in come snow, I knew the reflection of fire across skin and I kissed possibilities as
I watched our seasons...

change.


There's no stopping distance despite the desire to break clocks, minutes and miles are
irreversible, I've found, so I counted them, the hours, and made sure he was touchable and
only an arms length away...


My August arms brushed across his chest, he had the ability to calm though summer still
danced through his heart, my fingertips traced over the forgotten eyelashes that
desperately tried to escape sight and I breathed, sending wishes to the walls that
surrounded us, to the edges that had yet to decide their color, that touched nothing...

yet captivated my attention.


There were shadows that covered us~

I think they appeared right beyond midnight~

but I knew we were swallowing September,  I supposed we'd create minutes that would make
us smile come snow and we'd kiss in the reflection of fire...

escaping distance

with the whispers that affected skin.




Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Reflection of Sunsets that Ignored the Destination of Us

It seemed to me, when the sun set and his eyes mirrored clouds with raindrops that had yet
to fall, it seemed to me...

we'd been ignoring the weeks it took to get this far.


I'd spoken often, on Wednesdays, when I sat alone and conversation happened to be the only
thing that kept my hair from tearing herself out, of ice cream Sundays and possibilities
of his hand touching the little milky white part of my right thigh in a brushing that made
me shudder....

made me realize...

how much I needed him.


It was the tiny moments I sketched and photographed that held me, his eyes when he loved
me, and the sweat that settled herself on the nape of my neck when he kissed me,
tightening curls and muscles that hid themselves from the hours I'd pretended to be
nothing....

but a woman.


I glanced to my left as I awaited his voice, as I searched somewhere for the echo of
nights past and the graze of sleeping when his legs brushed up against the outside of my
ankles, I waited as I stared at the walls that appeared behind me when he found nothing
else to do but smile, and I had blushed, schoolgirl red with the imagination that I was
still there for hearts beat faster in those days...

in the days that lived inside the weeks...

we may have ignored...

as we walked farther, he and I, towards places I couldn't see and destinations I had never
heard of, but...

you see...

his fingers, his hand...


brushed up against my thigh, as I shuddered and needed him...

as he kissed me

and my eyes mirrored sunsets and storm clouds that held raindrops that had yet

to

fall.








Details | Prose Poetry | |

BEAUTIFUL THINGS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

sober

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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

About Love

The mind is not subjected to circumstances
 nor geographical location as the body is subjected
 to the law of gravity. 
It perceives that its domain is out of time, 
out of space and consequently transcends natural laws. 
The perception of this law of laws awakens in the mind 
a sentiment which we call love, which make our highest happiness. 
Wonderful is its power to heal, restore, and to command obedience.
 It is a medium; it is an embalmer of the world. 
By its power the universe made safe, and habitable. 
For all things proceeds from love
 “For God so love the world that he gave ..." 
Through love men have conquered their own fears that seemed insurmountable.
 “Perfect love cast out all fears.” 
Thus, this same love has challenged the mind to commend the creature like-
minded. 
Therefore, I am bold with hands, and heart, and soul to declare: 
I have chosen, pursued, and conquered a soul that has wrought its worth in gold. 




Details | Prose Poetry | |

Short Time On The Porch

As the crickets sing flooding, saturating my being__enveloped I am in sound and moist 
air..In the sky ballet figure dances dressed in very tight white leotard bounding across 
the stage, leaping into mid-air with a whole troop dressed in pink pastel costumes on 
back of the stage..The music crescendos swellinng to the final jump then the sun's tip 
comes up over the horizon..Life moves on and the day's work begins..Grateful I am for the 
few minutes on the porch..


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Obervation of a drama queen

I met this girl
some time ago
she is somewhat 
of a drama queen...

Isn't it strange
these girls who complain
of others and drama
often fuel the fire themselves?

I told her
if you are tired
of gossip and drama
quit being the actor...

Some ladies
create the situation
merely because
it is based on jealousy...

Perhaps if these girls
bring nothing but drama
and vanity to the table
let them dine by themselves...


Details | Prose Poetry | |

PINNACLE

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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Threat Of A Late Winter's Storm

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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Exclusion

Waking to murmurs	
Hum of smooth white noise 
Or waves slapping rocks

Through mirror-like glass
I see russet wings
Dampened by dewdrops	
.  		
Walk to the kitchen, 
my feet soft and bare 
on tiles cracked, and 

wish the sea
surrounded
so sinking

floats


Details | Prose Poetry | |

An early song-2

I once joined the procession of colors and lost my heart
Till a wave colors distilled through night knocked me down dead.
Besides the mountain,  the midnight festival of colors is on.
Lying in my arms you imagine your blood is burning in my veins
 I am only listening to the chariot of the queen joining the revelry.

I knew you were being vain when you came to see me
I did know when your heart missed a beat. For the air was my friend.
And the tiny bird building its nest in the rafters of my roof
Did  not bring a straw as long as you talked. 

You never said bye.  For you wanted me to do that. But I had no time 
And kept riding on the wave. The storm is not away. What if I fall.
 Tomorrow I will be lying in these shores caressed to sleep by a smiling sun.

 I don’t have the time to forget you in the endless expanse of this blank night. 
Last night’s sun was but a spot hewn out of the tragedy of the heavens.
A tragedy that  survived the ages to live in my heart in fire and smoke.

You keep away while I create my pieces in these desert sands. When I proceed
 To give them the finishing touches, you shriek in despair. For you think
 I am going to spoil the lovely piece of some great master with my clumsy hands.
                                           -2-
Tomorrow is the illegal child of today abandoned in the dark.
I end up at night  and my child is born at night, having passed 
Through  the summer that seared my skin and heart.
The cup of sorrow is never full, so there is no overflowing.
Yesterday we witnessed the winter night breathing its last.
Winter was in lament for the little bird that went up but never returned.

I bear no gifts for you. I know not your names. I know not who you are
But I recognize you without mistake against this backdrop of misery.
I come here with my empty bag to gather the drops of your sobs
And consign them to the flame in my mind leaving your smiles behind.





For: Catie Lindsey's Free Verse contest



Details | Prose Poetry | |

What do you do with your DAY and NIGHT

I live the day to dream the night
As I dream the night to live the day
I work the day to rest the night
As I rest the night to work the day
I pay the day to gain the night
As I gain the night to pay the day
I give the day to earn the night
As I earn the night to give the day
Life is all about time
As time is all about day and night...

(c) 2011


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''kissing sally in the smoking-room''

listen, the world has changed plenty since you’ve last shown your face around here. nowadays, a name is the last thing we learn, if we ever do learn it. flirting is boring, death is a dinner topic, happiness is strange. pain is good. things taste backwards — but oh, do they feel sweet. love and crime no longer compete for the gold: guess what sweetheart, they’ve got it, and they’re sleeping together.

oh come on, don’t look at me like that.

you’ve always underestimated your own heart, you know. and mine, for that matter. you can get away with a lot of things with a heart now — i suppose that’s another thing that’s changed. remember how we used to be under its mercy? remember how we couldn’t cope with the traffic of our bodies until it finally sighed some soft, silly sentence?

how long have you been gone, anyway?

no, no, that’s not how it works. it isn’t really a question of whether i missed you or not. that word doesn’t mean anything anymore. it’s become quite the popular prop. i don’t have a word for what it’s been like while you were—

what? what do you mean i’ve changed? if there’s anyone who’s changed it’s you! i haven’t changed for the sake of entering this world: look, darling, we’re all thieves of space and time, and i’m just one of many trying to survive.

but…yes, i do suppose those days were nice. in their own way. when we were buried treasure. when closeness was something you had to earn first.

hey, you’re smiling. 

i’m not kidding — you really are. should i stop?

well, i can’t say i imagined you’d be back here again.

you want to know something, though? alright, i’ll tell you.

if there’s one thing i’m glad hasn’t changed at all, it’s how we wake up. it doesn’t matter what happened hours ago. forget about what your skin remembers. can you believe it, we still manage to wake up! after all this!

i think a lot of it has to do with how competitive, how scared everyone feels. because after that, even after that, there’s still that pleasant feeling of shared space. and then the silent sunrise. and then the beautiful morning.

i know.

i know, i know.

and yeah, you’re still smiling.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

I Shall Wait For You My Beloved

I shall wait for you to come my beloved
For you are my white star of twilight
The moon in the sky’s far end

I shall rise up with thee
Lie down with thee
For in my dreams thou art always with me

Oh Great Spirit
When our time has come
Join us together as one in the wilderness of your sacred home
When you look upon us give us your peace and refreshing sleep

For you and I my beloved, are two halves joined together
Each others distant shore
The left and right wings of the bird
Two halves of a seashell

We are apart, yet connected by a greater love
I shall wait for you my love 

The sun and moon bless the union of our spirits
Designed by our Creator for life’s endless journey
Joined like a tree to earth, a cloud in the sky
You are a part of me, as I am of you
Bonded by the Great White Spirit

You are my love, my heart’s best  friend
Our love will never cease, never end
I know it is thou who moves within my heart
Now and forever my beloved - I shall wait for you to come
Ayor’ Anosh’ ni’ my love
_______________________________________________________________________

"Ayor’ Anosh’ ni’ means I love you in Navajo"


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I Wish I Had Died Too

I wish I had died too
I wish I had died on a mystery plane from Malaysia
Carrying over 200 souls yet to live
Their last beautiful moments
I wish I had sat on my first class section
Sipping ice cold champagne
And the plane would suddenly shake
And spill the precious contents
And my near celebration
Would be violently shaken and this time
Throwing me off my seat
Making me groan…
I would lift my eyes to see other souls
Sprawling on the floor….
I would close my eyes to pray
And this time we would be spinning
In a deadly circle that clatters all souls and furniture
It’s chaos! What’s happening?
I am frightened and wondering…
The captain’s inaudible warnings don’t make sense
I suddenly get a cold dizzy feeling
That rocks me to the right, left, up and down
As the cold water suddenly soaks up
My white jeans and fills the floor
Like a shallow river
It’s the horrifying sound of a shot gun
That makes me scream wild with fear
At the deafening bullet because
Someone just did the act of suicide
And I am horrified in tears as
The broken windows reveal an ocean current
That churns like a thunderstorm
The roof of the plane pulls off our heads
I can now taste the salty water choking down
My throat and preparing me like a meal
For a shark to devour….
I already feel like a meal ready to be eaten
As the ocean dissolves all our bodies
The efforts to swim and beat the currents
Have taken on an eternity!
I have dissolved, I have dissolved
My heart cries out as i hear the cries of the souls
Drowning and myself dissolved
And drowned with them.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Firefly Dream

Fireflies buzzing every which way---
But they never stop long enough for one
to catch them or enjoy their glimmer---
No, not today!

They know we appreciate their remarkable
beauty and the glistening light they share---
Yet they NEVER stop for more than
a brief moment since they are only
lightening bugs, lacking any natural
sense of care or affection.

Oh, how I wish that I could soar with the
fireflies for a short time, being an
illuminating and traveling ball of 
brilliant light---Helping lost,
disheartened souls achieve a greater
sense of well-being and self-contentment!

Yet, that is a dream that will NEVER be
so I suppose I'll have to stay on this
uneven, unchartered path in which I choose
to roam every lonely day of my existence.

Unhappy and insecure, questioning what to do
and who to be loved by, myself or the 
pain of continual let-down and unworthiness.

Above all, I've realized that I could
never dream of being a firefly that has
no cares, concerns, commitments, and
most of all, no heart and soul to
take the chance for the happiness that
comes with human nature's unending,
unconditional love.

Consider this....Instead, would the
fragile innocence of a delicately-
painted butterfly take me far away 
into the turquoise-infused skies
of peace, serenity, and clarity
between the mind and soul?

c2013 Julie Rasley


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Repetition. Repetition. Repetition.

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

The cycles repeat.

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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The MIracle of Life

Thoughts spun from rays of sunshine
Visions painted with a rainbow as a palette
Smells concocted from freshly cut pine trees
The gentle sound of a spring rain falling
The feel of a soft summer breeze upon one's face
The soft breathing of the loved one asleep at your side
These are but a few of the images, sights,
sounds and odors of life upon this earth
They are yours to discover and enjoy should
you only open your mind and your heart to
the miracles that surround you.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

HIM of Praise

 HIM of Praise 
HIM of Praise 
 
 
 
CharlaXFabels 
 
1one70four4 
 life; broken 
used unwashed homeless tired sad hurt questing for an answer, yes it is HIM 
who loves me JESUS. The answer to every question. ABOVE every other namme 
the HIM who seems so far away and yet eye find the love is still in evidence the 
richness in the finding.  Love is given never taken the takers and the shakers 
come to HIM and get dumbfounded, the poor questors will still receive 
communion.  Live is a mobius stripped not the start of the cradle to the grave 
sinfilled natural disaster somewhere in my timeline lies uninterrupted salvation. 
HIM who loved me also called me to tell his people of HIS namme. HIM who 
loves ewe also needs ewe to call on HIM in fear and trembling YES and then to 
drop the fear of days gone bye and love HIM for YES HE loves. HIM who writes the 
names in BOOK of LIFE loves all of us the namme of JESUS the namme the 
namme is JESUS. HE who brings us life also brings us days then HE adds them 
to our lives. JESUS. HIM of Praise. 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Reclaimation of Number 21

Fiction by Charles
Just prior to the end of the civil war, there were nearly 6000 men who were not 
accounted for but assumed to be alive.   Under truce, a secret meeting between Lee 
and Grant was held on no mans land, in the spring of 65.  A commission was 
established between the two men, made up of 6 lieutenants from each side.    
They were to determine if the awols were able and fit.  If they were flagrant in their 
responsibility, and if so, determine the best way to reclaim their dignity for them.  
Out of the 6000 they identified 3400.  Of these approximately 2500 were, in the 
opinion of the commission, acting with the good of their families foremost,  who 
were already in destitution and near starvation.  All charges were dropped leaving 
them free men.  
Of these, almost 600 were so taken aback by the fairness and generosity of the 
generals, they left their families, going back into their respective units and it is 
estimated that 400 died in battle.  Approximately 1000 were found to be lacking in 
integrity and the following sentence was carried out on them.  
    They could as a first choice face a firing squad.  As a second choice they could go 
back into battle with false id.  They would be held in chains until the appointed time, 
which was when the LTs in charge decided the fighting would be fierce enough that 
the prisoners could not logically survive.  At that time they would be delivered to the 
battle lines of the North or the South with no thought given to their original 
allegiance.  Regardless of the decision made, from the time they were asked to 
decide, they were no longer an identifiable person.  They were no longer white 
black or otherwise.  They gave up their rights as human beings.  The only thing they 
had left in this life was how they died and their relationship with their God.  That 
evening one of the prisoners managed to get a knife embedded in the hot cooking 
coals.  He was found stripped naked on the field of battle two weeks later.  Across 
his chest was a scar which read:  

They say I am number 21
My life on this earth done  
I have lost the right to live  
Nothing greater can I give  
Dedicated to Him above  
I pledge my life, my love.

This notation found after the war recorded in the diary of Lt. Jeofrey Cook, 3 btlln, 6
infantry, Confederate army.  US of A.  The diary heavily stained and smeared, I like
to think, by his tears.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Fire

Thou hast had to play the role of crazy, obeying thee, displaying my faults and 
portraying the shame of me. Breathe, free, finally free. Fire! Adores you and 
welcomes you to an empire of the new. I tossed the idea of inviting a few, opting 
instead with pleasure for you and only you. Never will failure ever be considered, 
pending impact impedes speech and renders me down to bereave. Grand! I have 
been dying to see, love, yes love and its grandiose display, always will be my 
reasoning. It reels me in and cleanses with nature, pure as pure is in creature. Am 
I? yes I am, though not sinister. Unstoppable and driven by attraction to disaster 
and admiration of whisper, this hush is listless, wrestle it, don’t miss this. Satisfy 
desire lets make it glamorous in dedication. Fire! Re-lit! Savagely craving the 
moment that we meet again. Imagine the breath and the chests, tension and lust 
duelling with hatred and love. Trust is a laugh though laughter will bring it back, 
time will help. My muse, do you not understand? I need the right to exploit my light 
slight hand under right eye, you cannot subdivide the mind of a made up guy. Love 
be my minds light, love blind my minds fight, right the pain and create love new, so 
that tonight we may sing. Dying young is not a necessity of living forever but love 
certainly is. We are majesty and perfection in love, it was majestic and perfected in 
new. I do not want your hugs hello or your waves goodbye, rather please supply 
onto I the dreams that I dream and the wishes that I provide. Real life not fictitious 
false life liked delights. What will it be like when we meet again? Electric? 
Dangerous? Casual? Loaded with hatred? Will we feel obligated to hug or smile? 
Even if our stomachs and the others eyes tell us not to? Betrayal? Really? Dig! 
Deeper! Dig! Deeper still! Find it, learn it, believe in it, trust it, crave it, welcome it 
without denial.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Blind Man

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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Before They Came

  
  	Before They Came
  	
  	Sitting here with my daughter between my knees, I braid her hair, One by one I place the lucky shells in her hair.I hear the call and response in my villiage.. The roll was being called. This gathering was different, The drums tell us we must gather to meet, as we will have guest to greet.
" Habari-Ghani -'' What's the news'' The news is, strangers are here, to look for wives, they want to take us away.                                                                                           The news is, our ways are not there ways, Father says we girls must go away to have a better life.                                                                                                                    Your husband died and no one in this Village will marry you he said; You have a daughter, you must think about.  
                I have many daughters and I cannot take care of you for life.! Things were Fine right before they came, We had our own way of solving problems.                                                                                                                            I want to smell the wood burning on the open fire, I want to dance in moonlight with my sisters, I want to eat from a coconut Shell.                                                                                                                                      I want things to be the same as the were; Before they came!                                                                                                                                       Simmering pots of love, burning wood and coconut shells....Bathing in rivers..weaving our love in baskets. Its been Five-hundred years and I am still here in my new home, holding onto memories of sun filled oceans.                                                                                                                                  Trying hard to hold on to the times of happiness...Before they came. Mamas Laughter, grandmothers wisdom, came with me on this journey. For dear life I am holding on, unashamed, I long for my life...before they came!


Details | Prose Poetry | |

True Love

I loved my grand parents 
They passed away without my knowledge... 

I loved my parents
They left me without my opinion... 

I loved my life-partner
Life-partner intended to injure my life without any hesitation... 

I loved my friends
They wanted everything in my life
Except my pains
I left them...

Then I love my poem 
Who is an image of divine love !

Still she loves me without any demand

And her divine love will be continued more after my death
She promised me ! 

SANDIP GOSWAMI, INDIA


Details | Prose Poetry | |

He fought his way back

The country picked the winner; 
     Fifty percentage where displeasure
      We fought the battle and we won
We knew within our heart, he was the right one

 The choices, the excuses, the misses,
   Mishaps and misfortune 
Hurricane, Sandy might or might not help Obama win
 However, not tonight we held each other 
And whisper we did it; and we did it again

Left wing, Right wing the views from the politic world
 Conservative vs. Liberal beliefs do we really care 
  Knowing what we know today.
 The people, the lines and the togetherness
    Made it worthwhile to cast those ballots 

 The clocks where going round and round
  Thousands of clicks our votes count up 
                                                        Not down
              His words the journey have been long
                  However, he fought his way back, 
                           Now it all work
                             Jack! All work, Jack!


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Slowly fear, and sweet

Dear God,

You've probably heard this prayer
a thousand times over, and yet
I feel like I need to say it everyday
even if it's just for me

each day I realize how scary 
this world really is
and even more how frightening 
it is inside myself 

if only it were so easy to let go
as if there is something 
I want to keep inside
like if I truly to let go
I'd lose something

even though my mind is a war zone
but there is just 
a little something that 
hangs onto the notion of You

help me to love people
outside of myself
please guide me to walk,
slowly fear, and sweet


Details | Prose Poetry | |

River Jordan

Everyday I wake, I bathe in the river Jordan: taking with me the dirtiness from the yesterdays. Repeating the same sins, that were never washed clean. Reenacting the past and all its ways.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Here I Am

Dusting off myself like a book
Drawn from a case of others.

Who will I be today?
Shall my cover be an athlete
- as I run to win the prize ?

Or shall my cover be a musician
- as I quit my other profession to 
  engulf my hearers with sound from
  my heart plucked.

Even better, my cover be myself
- as I attempt to beacon me
Though it is but a trifle to some
It seems to beat all the other covers combined.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

THE TREE OF LIFE

                                  TREE OF LIFE.

I am He that gives  life to man, yet man knows  me not.
I lived  in the midst of man but man never appreciated  my importance.
Every tree  you can see around gives life; some give life  to aquatics  creatures; while   some terrestrials. 
I  stands as  the  only Tree that man needs  to resurrect    
I was called the Tree of  Life when your fathers were in the garden,
I created the tree of knowledge;  I refused to live inside the tree until fullness of time. 
Fullness of time? Yes.  

Fullness of time when man shall eat me and live forever. 
Other trees rely on me for provisions  till date, all the trees  in all  ages   knee  down  before me for  adoration.
My splendors  are in the  works  I created. 
I am He that you rejected  but was accepted by those  that deserves  life.
All the branches that   are mine  sons and daughters sprout  from me,
I am He  that  gives  life and nourishments to sons of  men.

The  waving  branches  of trees; reminds me of my numerous  glories,
My Source intervened and man departed from mine presence
Then,  man screamed,  and I saw the look at his face;
I said, Oh! one day, I the Tree of Life shall come and die for you and you shall be my branches.
Thought of all kinds  rushing as early streams  in the mind of  men,    
The  mind of man asked: How can you die for me and still have me as  your branch? 
No tree ever dies  and still remain alive to produce branches.
Dies  you said?  Asked the Tree of Life.  
Yes ! death.  It is my destiny  to die.
The glory of your existence is in my death.

In  dispensations  and ages to come, I shall be the vine  and  you be my branches.
The fruits of my Tree that you once denied shall you  eat and speak of its power to nations.
Greater will your fame be than I  when you shall know my knowledge.
I will no longer be in the garden where I was kept and guard  by Angels;  The heart of men shall be my  abode.
All the  branches whom you are, shall  spread the good news, 
 I was written in   engrafted words in tablets; So shall  I in the heart of every man.
I am the Root of roots, the only  Root that carry the universe and never complains.
You once had no access  to me; but  now, through my death  you  have  gained access.
I came as knowledge  from my Source and whosoever  eats  of me,  have the Source of  everlasting life.
You are  in me and I in you. That is why I called  you: Tree of  Life in this era.
All the saints in me, plants  me in all the gardens of the earth till my second coming.
Written by:
Omojevwe Emmanuel Brown


Details | Prose Poetry | |

New Meaning of LOVE

You know the old meaning of Love

Lake of sorrow...

Ocean of tears...

Valley of death...

End of life....

It's negative meaning of Love !

Now you read the new meaning of Love

LIFE ORIENTED VALUABLE EMOTIONS .

Truly LOVE is LIFE !

SANDIP GOSWAMI, INDIA


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Driven to Excellence

The warm, chocolate gaze in your eyes, 
promises safety, love and home.
Laughter lives in there, too, but also pain,
and mysteries of unknown size.
While quick with a smile or a laugh
and born to protect,
at times, when unguarded, your face reveals
heartaches, kept hidden away.
On rare occasions, a word will be spoken
and a glimpse into the pain is shared.
Callous, ignorant remarks made to a small 
impressionable child.
Scars carried over time through the years.
Shaping. Molding. Into the man you became.
Even as an adult, racial slurs slung absently about
by so called educated men.
Always driven to do better, be better than everyone else,
because of one thing.
Always harder on yourself than anyone else.
Driven to excellence by prejudice.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

ALL I DO

Dream dream dream

My life full of dreams

All I do is to dream

And each day I walk in the reality of my dreams

(C) 2011


Details | Prose Poetry | |

I Hope You Know I'll Always Love You

I am what you call a hopeless 
romantic,
But im also a lost lovers cause, my 
heart belongs to another
Yet in my head a love triangle starts 
to form, the girl I love doesn’t love 
me
She holds the heart to another and 
mine caged to the floor,
She isn’t afraid to fight for what she 
wants, not even when it comes to 
leaving another man torn
Trust me she’s happy, as that boy 
holds her heart ever so close
Seeing what I shouldn’t I smile as I 
wear my blind fold,
Blind to everything around, lifeless 
staring into air
My train of thought running so fast, 
the second I stop you’ll hear a crash
Derailing my hope, for ever finding a 
love so pure & rare
Wishing I could hold the hand of the 
lover who stole my flame,
Wish I could change the last days in 
which we parted ways,
Realizing now that we can never be 
the same
Finally saying it out loud as tears run 
down my face
You stole my happiness, as I walked 
away that day
But it’s because as of what you said 
I guessed I changed,
Now every relationship has just be 
the same,
No one can seem to bring back that 
flame,
Because a love likes ours comes 
once in a lifetime
Well at least it does to me,
But I mean you’re happy with who 
your with 
I mean I only wrote this as I heard 
exchanging “I love you” flow from 
each of your lips.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Diamond Toes

When life seems empty
And there’s no place to go
Unlike most artists I became Salvador Dali
 My Life daily tasks as a poet
It’s allow my spirit to go from high to low


 With my blessed hands and my tired feet 
  a hard working peasant woman with diamond toes
  I set the countdown each passing day while I slave away.

Those Infectious bole place in high positions,
 Governor of all the Nurses
Using their authorities to weaken the spirits of the peasant
And the down trodden souls who line your corridors both day and night

 however, this  burden that seem too heavy to bear now....(bibilical
God will lifts away on the wing of prayers.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

What the hell did I do

What the hell did I do..

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


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


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


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


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


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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Slow Down the Clock

When we get old with arthritis in our bones we make thoughtful decisions about the use of our time. We can amuse our grandchildren while our children inhabit their jobs. We can volunteer to help others like a wolf that knows how to hunt. We can do something creative with our hours and work toward an outcome that warms people’s hearts.

We have options about what to do with our days. We can sit alone in our homes like the last drop of water left on a rock, or we can behave like practiced magicians who can slow down the clock with the snap of two fingers and live like an elder who is not afraid of the dark and be more inclined help our family and friends as they voyage down the highway of time. 
 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Pinnacle

I
Started
Up the path,
Not knowing what
I would find up there.
Passing the foothills, then
Stopping to catch my breath,
I gazed upon the mountain itself:
Barren, rugged wind-swept granite.
The pinnacle was somewhere beyond,
Hidden by a crown of feathery rain-clouds.
The path weaved back and forth, mostly climbing,
Occasionally entering fissures, once passing by a cave.
The higher I climbed, the less worn became the pathway,
Eventually looking like something only a mountain goat would climb.
Passing through the clouds, I could seldom anymore see what was below.
It got colder. I struggled to catch my breath; I could see I was near the summit.
I didn’t have a flag to plant, so I just sat on a rock, listened to the wind and my heartbeat.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

before the party

A tight fist of emotion sprouts flames in my chest
and I fan the flames with a chilled smile
chiseled like the block of ice 
stored in the freezer for the party.

I have stood empty as a discarded seashell, perhaps a clam's shell,
whose pearl should sparkle like the sun spattered sea, that is its home.

But it gleams like the moonlight 
castings its light across surfaces- changing them to white or silver, 
like the tops of carved glaciers, drifting as they change the shape of the earth. 

Too heavy am I to walk on these surfaces, 
even if it is frozen.

Seabirds wind up and spin lazily, 
calling the wind for their flight- or at least to float momentarily, 
like my spirit, needing so much to be released


Details | Prose Poetry | |

TO LET GO by Anna Lo P

Why can't it be US?
Why does it have to be US?
We only wanted one's happiness
We just wanted love & belongingness.

Time & place, put us in regress
Worlds apart is our test,
Of life and love, so willing to offer
Because we are different, it is US who suffer.

I want to confess all the love I can give
Myself, my all, more than you can receive
You want to confess a life you can't share
Your life and self, you think is in despair.

Now, we are both in vain and agony 
We are doomed in this love & fantasy
How to part ways without US being hurt & lost
The price of love & happiness we pay with so much cost.

Is it time to let go and bid farewell?
Wishing at the end, that we'll both be well
Is it time for us to say our hurtful goodbyes?
Last kiss, last hug, end it only with but a sigh.

I don't want to listen to the drops of rain
Each drop is our weeping, that will cause me pain,
I don't want to let go, I will stay even for a while
Because it's just too hard to say the last goodbye....







Details | Prose Poetry | |

Live in The Moment

Live in the moment and enjoy life
It is all you have for now
The past is gone it is yesterday 
Don't dwell on it. Move on and be present 
Just don't forget the lessons you've learned from it 
Take it along as you go to help you grow and live better as you face today 
Stop worrying about the future 
Tomorrow is not certain 
Do not be distracted from living fully in the moment
Be where you are 
What is not here is not yours 
Just live and breath and feel life 
Be aware, be alive, be happy 
See life unfolds with a sense of wonder 
Feel everything and be moved 
Listen to the stirrings in your heart
Taste life in all its flavors
Smell it and let the scent of life awaken your soul 
Touch a life and make a difference and bring meaning to living
This is your moment
Don't waste it 
This may not come again 
Live, Love and Laugh
Your life is a gift 
Be a blessing and radiate joy and peace 
To everything and everyone that you meet. 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Beatitudes

What is it you crave? Song? It has not been long enough for my breath to play 
stealth in dedication of love gone. I know you know this love life was designed for 
persistence to glow and life to grow, allow the prosperity without surrender and 
show your face with graceful smiles. No disgrace or shame nor exiled blame, only 
pride of a love you think fondly of. Walk at my side, your soft hand inside the grip of 
mine and sunshine lights our desired path; through breeze we share a laugh. The 
calm trees shade hurt that recedes un forgave back through root to dirt. Supply my 
mind with wine then subside and be my love divine, know my thoughts at all time; 
show my hands the knots upon your spine and unwind my love. Bygone pressure 
forgot, collapse and gasp your breast on thy chest strain the hasp that holds the 
heart lock. The door is open, so without knock enter and I will be there; fair in offer 
of kiss and vows of forever. Yes, you are my wish.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Sorry I Was Thinking About Something

A man sitting across  from a woman; while in conversation gets close and closer to her face. the closer he gets the more his skins just melts upon and morphs onto her; becoming a human blob of sorts while consuming her. people walking down the street start grabbing their chest as if were obtaining the results of a heart attack; start having upright siezures and transforming into monsters. some elderly fellow answering his doorbell to a man in sunglasses that smiles, just smiles at him. his grin becomes wider and larger, just becoming a face of teeth. golden retriever puppies playing on a grassy field, bouncing around over white small moths and butterflies. two viking brothers sitting at a wooden table talking about their battles of old. a young boy standing across from a microphone on a dark lit stage, with empty chairs infront of him; wondering why he never spoke. A teenage girl whispering to a teenage boy about how fun last night was and she pulls away and laughs for the memory made. a boy dying in his hopital bed playing with his superman action figure, the life supports machines echoing through the halls. a giant hole appearing in the sky, slowly sucking away the color of the earth...
want to play a game?
1 2 3 4 5 6 9
eve ry one is fee ling fine.
stars are bright.
for they burn.
touch them. and see. what. you. learn.
1 2 3 4 8 9 10
chil dren should go.
straight. to. bed.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

RAINFALL

Whenever rain falls,
It is an answered prayer for the fruitfulness of the earth
The earth buried seeds spring up in freedom
To give expression to their potential
It is the glory of the trees in the forest
That after their death, they live on
It is joy of animals in the jungle
For they have more and fresh food to eat
Only the earth prayed for rain
The seeds buried down in the earth,
The trees of the forest, the animals in the jungle
And more benefited from the earth’s prayer
A word of prayer in faith according to His will from you
Could affect millions just at that point you are standing

(c) 2007


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Thunder Rolls

The thunder rolls now, a spring rain pours from low solid gray clouds
which wrap around in all directions, and fog banks between trees of the forest.
Tender new life formed of different shades of green decorates the woods and 
homeplaces. As the rain drip-drops from the eaves, a bird's throaty varied call 
floats across the damp soggy air. 

to the north floats a call that nearly matches.. love on the wing wind blows rain rain pours buckets poet exits porch
Three forms: Prose Poetry Haiku Brevette Just for fun...Telling about the wonderful world of nature...


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Dizzy-Busy

‘I’m dizzy being busy’, she continued
To the friend who went, ‘Yea, really’.
Twenty minutes later, Dizzy-busy was still talking,
And the other one was still nodding feebly.

I wanted to hear what the other one had to say,
But all I could make out was Busy-dizzy.

The other one, she was far more interesting.
When I finally left, Dizzy-busy was still talking!

©dbyrne feb 2013


Details | Prose Poetry | |

About Face

I lurk in the shadow of band with words worthy of the pianist's hands. My nature speaks, not rings in tones. Sadly my lady's words rain dour doubts building wall's of stone; let the music of voice reign! pleasure rain! Chip the stone pebble by pebble and remember your name, it has never changed though life's outcome shall by not embracing the day. Love me as I love you and we will be love true. Remember your mother's music, for it is the womb's tune that guides you through and through. Do those young eyes forget their right to stare without regret at revelation of a soul bared? My world harnesses lust, truth, love, desire, these attributes I long to share. Befuddled? Yes, I can be. It's nature not the choice of me. Even thoughts forgot wander wondering at how it can be, pride over perjury? Shame takes precedence  sadly through time, preceding all I believed to be mine. Defeat? No... I don't think, though, I cannot deny slight retreat. Where are the lies built on emotion? Those protective cries that hold dominion over forward motion? As always, truth stands in solitude as the only word as brave as love. When truth possesses love and selflessness! Can it actually be as it appears after all the year's of the damned favoring me? In closing it seems I'm fending the fears that taught my years the wizardry of all that I have seen.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

No One Lives His Life

       “No One Lives His Life”


A quiet face, dark brooding eyes
hiding a quizzical gaze, masked
the mystery within.  There was
a wariness about the jaw,
clenched as if holding some
small prey, some bit of information
that must be held, understood,
and dealt with.  Age brought little
relief.  It did bring greater awareness
of the treasures that had been protected.
The gentleness shared only with
babies and puppies, the smile coaxed
by the warmth of spring sunshine.
A strength, a genuine strength, not
of muscle and sinew, but of courage
borne of tenacity, of love forged on
cold metal, a determination to
absorb and rise above the pain of
life’s meanness.  These resided here,
in this “repository of un-lived things”,
encased in a kindness that was unknown,
soothed by a song unheard, loved
by a spirit that wasn’t.  These gifts,
these precious offerings, long
defended from the thieves that
stalk the innocence of youth,
wait in this treasure trove of hope.
Honest words of truth awakened,
defiant stance of newfound dreams,
first steps from darkened place of
hiding.  A quiet face, dark brooding eyes,
unmasked,  freed from living others lies,
for “no one lives his life”.

//Rilke’s Book of Hours//



4/21/2014


Details | Prose Poetry | |

RUNNING INTERFERENCE

RUNNING INTERFERENCE
by: Acquah Vicki on Saturday, June 9, 2012 at 12:07am ·

I HAVE A BRAND NEW GLOW . I AM FEELING FREE OF THESE GREMLINS. AND HOPE TO STAY THAT WAY, IT'S CALLED GROWTH !

 
 PLEASE FEEL FREE TO FEAST OFF MY SOUL AND ENJOY WITH ME THIS JOURNEY. I WILL ACCEPT NO INVITATION TO YOUR KARMIC PARTY; AND I CANNOT HELP YOU WITH THE INEVITABLE,                                                                              

 
NO LONGER RUNNING INTERFERENCE. NEITHER WILL I BE A CATCHERS MITT - WHILE YOU HAVE THE BAT AND WON'T SWING. INTERCEDING FOR YOUR NEGATIVE ACTIONS NO MORE.       

 
YOU HAVE GENERATED A STORM OF DEPLORABLE DEEDS,OUT OF CONCERN I'VE NURTURED YOUR CORRUPTED SEEDS.
 

I HAVE MENDED THE WINGS OF DIRTY BIRDS TO FLY, THERE I WRONGLY STOOD IN THE WAY OF YOUR FATE. GETTING HIT WITH YOUR CONTEMPT AS I WARDED OFF THE HATE. THE UNIVERSE HELD FOR YOU A LESSON. TO CORRECT YOUR MISTAKES.

 
YOU WILL BLAME AND THROW TANTRUMS AND SAY NO ONE LOVES YOU, AND BECOME IRATE. YOU WILL MAKE EVERYONE FEEL GUILTY BECAUSE NO ONE FEELS TO DANCE TO THAT OFF KEY TUNE. THOUGH YOU MOVE SELFISHLY AND HAVE NO REGARDS FOR THE WELL BEING OF OTHERS, I STILL LOVE YOU.

 

ONLY THIS TIME I HAVE LEARNED NOT TO FEED INTO YOUR SELFISH NEEDS; SO THE ONLY KARMA AND LESSON I AM DEALING WITH NOW IS MINE. TO YOU I PLEAD! WHEN YOUR STORM IS OVER AND YOU'VE MADE YOUR AMENDS; COME TO ME,

 

 COME TO ME, IF YOU NEED AN ENCOURAGING WORD, A BIT OF LOVE, OR A FRIEND. I HAVE LEARNED MY LESSON NEVER TO INTERFERE WITH SOMEONES LESSON, NO MATTER HOW MUCH YOU LOVE THEM, NO MATTER HOW YOU YEARN TO SAVE THEM YOUR SERVICE BECOMES A DISSERVICE: NO ONE WINS,AND NO LESSON WILL THEY HAVE LEARNED.SO I DISCERN...                     

 

SPEAK SOFTLY TO THE STARS. UPON THE UNIVERSE WHISPER A WISH

MY UNDERSTANDING IS NOW CLEAR, NEVER INTERFERE, WITH PEOPLE AND THEIR KARMA; NO MATTER HOW YOU LOVE THEM, BE IT RELATIVE OR FRIEND; IN THE END YOU'LL ONLY HURT YOURSELF AND THEM ! THE END RESULT IS ..YOU'LL ONLY PRODUCE ANOTHER " SPINELESS JELLY FISH " !


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Poem For You

Everytime I bring forth your image
From deep within the well of my mind
My heart begins shedding joyous tears
For your beautiful love that's mine

I can never escape feeling all the emotions
For they seem to overwhelm me each day
But just like the very first time I embraced you
The raging passion of my love will always stay

I was blessed the day you embraced me
That first moment you became my friend
And ever since your spirit held me close
My life changed as I was truly born again

You have never forsaken me a single day
Of the spiritual things which in life I need
And I love those very special moments
When your living word we together read

While I lift up my song of sweet love to you
Your daily showers of heaven's  joy begins
I humbly thank you for giving your life's blood
A perfect Easter sacrifice to forgive all our sins.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

All At The Same Minute

Out on the cold frozen porch in midafternoon..Ice is dripping pitter pat from the 
trees and off the roof..That north easterly wind roughly crackles the few leaves left 
hanging on the oak..Ice sickles hang releasing one drop at a time..Those wind 
chimes clank a frozen sound..Roosters crow across the creek as if the sun was 
coming up and it is a warm spring morn..A little confused somehow..As the breeze 
moves the frozen fingers of trees there is a snap crackle pop as of one who has 
suffered from arthritis for many years..Just listening to the distressed sounds of 
nature is chilling to my bones..Those few minutes out on the porch was refreshing 
and chilling all at the same minute..


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Secret Ladee Of The Night

I remember so well  
   dancing  that last, wild dance
A journey across the essence of time 
 
   Once  upon  a midnight clear  
I danced  beneath the waning moon 
   wanting to drink 
the sweet wine of  forgetfulness
   The sometimes, bitter fruit 
left a taste of regret 
   upon my tongue.
 
Now, in my older years 
   I’ll reclaim that woman child 
I’ll believe in faeries and flying saucers 
   and wash my face in fresh, fallen rain 
I’ll wear bright, wild, plume feathered hats
 
I’ll  have  a  secret name
   that no one knows but me
Then I’ll  laugh at  those 
   whose  judgements‘ and absurdities' 
so riled my fury
 
I'll pray for the sweet nature of other spirits 
   to take up their beat within my heart
I’ll be… 
           The Secret Ladee Of The Night
                                                                     
                                                                ~ *~*~
 
 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

"V~O~V"

"V~O~V"


IF I WERE GRANTED FORTUNE N' FAME...
THOSE WHO CONSIDER ME LIABILITY,WOULD ACKNOWLEDGE ME LOVED
TH' SPILLING OF MY BLOOD,MIGHT EVEN BRING A STITCH OF COMPASSION
I'D NEVER BE ALONE,'LESS I REQUESTED ME LET BE


COMPANY DOES NOT LOVE MISERY,SO NOW I'M KEPT AT A DISTANCE
ALL I EVER WANTED OUT OF LIFE,WAS TO RECIEVE AS MUCH CARE AS I GIVE
BUT MOOT IS TH' FACT,THEY WANT ME OUT OF MIND N' VIEW
LITTLE IT IS KNOWN,OF TH' AFFLICTIONS I MUST ENDURE...FOR THEM


IF I WROUGHT MIRACLES AT WILL,TH' MEEK WOULD 'DEED RULE
SINS OF TH' SHAMELESS,WOULD ALL BE MADE KNOWN
A SILVER'D SCREEN OF TH' SKIES,WOULD DISPLAY THEIR DESECRATIONS
VICTIMS OF THEIR TRESSPASSES,WOULD DECIDE OF THEIR FATES


FAR FROM BEING PERFECT,I TOO...WOULD BE ASHAMED
BUT FOR SCARLET OF PAST BREACHINGS,I WOULD BEG FOR TH' BLANCHING
NEVER THAN LESS...THEIR WILL WOULD BE DONE
FOR FUTILE IS FORGIVENESS,IF NOT TRULY...


...IT IS WON



~AZAZA~'09


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Juliet's Plea

~“Tis torture, and not mercy. Heaven is here
Where Juliet lives, and every cat and dog
And little mouse, every unworthy thing,
Live here in heaven and may look on her,
But Romeo may not."
- William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet, 3.3

Juliet's Plea

Dost thou deem, heav'n only rises with the corpse
upon the last sweet breathe of virgin light
as face dost pale to pearl and roses leave my lips tonight
Romeo, my living eyes knew naught your purpose.

In sooth, I thought thee dead on that black night
and so, no other earthly joy could stay my heart
but heav'ns had we all, before this sorry plight
pray pardon love, I would nay have thee depart.

Abide, abide my love, my Romeo, alas...
by your leave, I hold St. Peter’s gate op’ for thee
And verily, I wait for time is naught in death 
and thee, my love, my Lord, are all to me. 

*Their love and their deaths were a scandel.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Hand Poem

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

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

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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Paint the Permanent

I stand before the canvas of my life
with the arsenal of brushes I've been armed with
choosing the paints with which I'll work

My will is to paint the permanent
No watercolors that can wash
My strokes will stain the canvas true

In my art studio my brushes fire
Salvos of sultry reds
Volleys of vivacious violets

But I don't always paint alone
Others there are that share the studio
And though our canvases won't always hang together
A small army of artists are we

Who paint our lives with care
For all the world to see
The hues we use only we may choose
Brazen and bold, subtle, or stark
Soldiers of our arts
Aiming and striking and painting our hearts out
Until we die
And go to the Gallery

But as for me
I stand before the canvas of my life
And the brush is in my hand


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Let us Not Lose Sight of the Moon, While Counting Stars

Let us Not Lose Sight of the Moon, While Counting Stars
 
Sometimes we are so busy in our life with some unimportant things that we forget to give enough attention to our core and to the most important person for us.
The moon will never disappear while we counting the number of stars, and it will still remain more important than the star for our existence.
So moon represent those we dearly love and beloved, because we can always count on them when we need any support.
Deep in their heart, they will always be there for us in our daily life or whenever we have problem.
Therefore it is very important for them to be always involve in our life as a bridge between the stars and moon.
Received attention from others or give it back to them is a privileged in a relationship and it can give good feeling, so do not let the most important people in our life to suffer.
It may give a wrong impression which can cause jealousy or attention came out from deficiency and that brings us into trouble.
Because there may be disagreements come from the wrong flow and causing an unpleasant situation with mixed feeling.
That would turn our entire standard of living to be unbalanced which can give a different meaning for our life and we do not feel at ease.
If we really can think good about it and read into other’s people mind then we should have absolutely taken into account with it.
Because we ourselves were probably also not accepted it so we have to try avoid bad things from being happened.
But things done is done,  just let go but take it as a good lesson for next time.
As the proverb say “Don’t lose the moon while counting the stars”.
 
I wish you a healthy life.
Kindly Regards,
Author Jan Jansen
http://poems.easybranches.com/


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Random Thoughts on a Chlly Afternoon Pt. 1

     Thanksgiving’s just a few days away.  Yet, I feel the sudden need to write down these 
random thoughts about Christmas!  The weather today brings to life memories of the 
season!  My favorite holiday season of the year! This chill in the air, the earth-tone autumn 
leaves like kites flying so high, tripping over each other as if in a race, the beautiful giant 
oaks and elms, with their branches shivering in the cold wind…. Already, I’m picturing a 
wonderful, fantasy-like landscape of snow; the whitest fluffy, snow drifts!  Catching glimpses 
of old bushy tail digging out some buried food, from some time ago.  The rising smoke from 
chimneys reaching for gray skies, snow-covered roof tops, the unforgettable smell of 
homemade bread, baking in Mama’s oven! Then, at close of day come, the brightest 
twinkling stars, glistening like diamonds on velvet throw of mid-night blue!  And when the 
moon shines so bright, you would think it was day... so clear you could see Jupiter if you 
look closely!  And I imagine how absolutely beautiful God must be!! The most beautiful spirit 
there is! A view to die for because such beauty man's heart can not behold and remain in 
this flesh!!!  For who else would create all this magnificent beauty around us? From the 
genuine smile which graces the face of an innocent child emanating from the purest of 
hearts, to the single blade of green grass that leans into the wind, daring to stand against 
such mighty force which threatens to break huge branches off trees!

Cont'd


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

opn08022012/0106

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

>> ntema's unique poetry (nup) 
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/lead-my-hand-o-dear-life/


Details | Prose Poetry | |

X Continues Marking Many Spots

X Continues Marking Many Spots
                        by Odin Roark

Anonymous living suits many,
gypsy fever of the brain.

Seldom hiding in the shadows,
the glare of klieg-light attention
forever glares upon responsibility,
a disease to many,
a growing malady for most,
a welcome invitation to others.

Even back then,
at twenty,
the waking age,
at least for this X,
a Midwest-ignoramus,
a miscreant not even aware,
experience was about
to render raw and tender the face.

The vengeance proffered
gloriously fait accompli,
needing not the klieg light focus,
better mere awakening
by simpler means
like...
like,
a few beers,
so liberating,
so embarrassing.

This '56 student of students,
bathed in the drenching of
Kerouac,
Baldwin,
Miller,
Bergman,
Fellini,
Truffaut,
Godard,
Kieslowski,
Antonioni,
damned near drowning
in flailing need to see
and survive.

After all…

This was education,
totally missing
from cult religious dogma,
not offered in Aristotelian mode.

So…

Here X was,
always at the Plaza screens,
or the Waverly,
Saturday nights,
lasting forever.

X along with some buddy Y's and Z's
exited the art houses and made their way,
oh yeah,
to the Russian Tea Room.

Saved up rations of money…

Black Russians,
minimal water,
more Black Russians,
the world as we discovered it,
not the world as professed
All around us.

There
in Italy,
France,
Poland,
life seemed somehow more real
not caked over with candied syrup
like American’s urban seduction.

Oh how we longed
to be part of it…
make films.

But more important,
discover what it was all about,
this life
that for many

Was but professed by a God.

Those were times,
magical times
where peeling away the facade
was so delicious,
while we got wasted.

Along about 2 AM
Columbus Circle Books.

Sit on the floor,
thumb through 25 cent paperbacks,
always a Nietzsche,
a dog-eared Menninger,
a used Baldwin,
treasures we could afford.

‘Course…
We had to careful to save enough
for the subway.

We…

The X Y's and Z's hugged,
kissed with manly disregard,
Hell,
we didn’t care who was watching.

We were happy.
We were learning.
We were happening.

X dragged his weary ass up
the 4 flights
screwed back in the light bulb
old man in 4f always unscrewed,
figuring no one's gonna rob
a dark floor.

Simple shit.

But…
love him
to this day.
He was wise.
My first introduction to street cred
in spite of his oldness.

Next morning…

Ah,
Sunday New York Times,
Espresso,
Aspirin,

Growing up.

Learning the hard way.

Sublime,
One’s x’s.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Rich Man Poor Man

Human tastes vary and so are the desperate cravings to capture the best in human ambition,
A more desperate thirst for fame, riches and for power can be a low, vulgar bitter taste,
I admire the spirit of the man who sees richer recompense as a sign of alleviated misery,
And I see goodness in smiles and enlightened hearts of happy people that enjoy their life,
Men who enjoy what's free in life, the softness a beauty of a June night and warm breezes,
The calm clear loveliness of a dark sky where moon beams shine and an evening star glows,
Acknowledging wonder as the smallest sounds of the night, owl's hooting, crickets singing,
Enjoying the night time smell where different breezes unlock, the sweetest secret essences,
It could be the leafy aroma of the trees or the scents of many wild lovely forest flowers,

 
A man who knows the price of a wives 'I love you' when he comes home from his daily work,
A man who knows the value of money and would rather his name valued in poor mans prayers,
There are two choices in this world, greed or contentment but they do not go hand in hand,
So we see these choices as two garments spread out for your selection, which do you choose,
One is tattered slops of your own righteousness for ambition, to waste life chasing money,
Or be happy and live in a world that you can enjoy and afford, no one banging on your door,
Choosing between the two seem to be very simple and even a child would tell which one it is,
The fact is most grown men would choose the road to ambition and riches and all its burdens,
To these men a brilliant morning sunshine means nothing, a morning mist on a lake is wasted.

To rush through life chasing gold, not hearing curlews in far off moors, is the poor man,
The rich see joy on a beautiful day listening to quails piping from green corn in twilight,
To feel a flush of happiness along margins of a beach, waves break in flame at your feet,
To hear strokes of an oar, somewhere in the dim obscure and list, wild cries of the tern,
A plover that never sleeps soundly, sweeps past and plunges onward, until gone from sight,
The man who understands real treasures in life, remembers happy times, into his last days,
Greedy men remember too late when old and grey, reflecting through an ocean of wet tears,
These musing men spring forward forgetting poetry of the ocean and a new mornings sunrise,
Then let them go from beauty, the understanding of beauty is wasted, the poor man is rich.  


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Death is Kind

To my grieving friend....

Tell me—
What is death, oh grieving friend?

As we plummet in the midst of perversion and strife
Energy drained from the hardships of life
We lose our sense of being—we subside
We gaze upon the peace of graves—death is kind

Engraved upon the oldest stones we read “Rest in Peace”
And as the days go by it seems the pain will never cease
And as those days Die
For the living—death is kind

Why then, Life, do you torture us so?
Are you waiting for the day when we’ll let you go?
Fleeting…fading…see us unwind
Time and Life seem so unkind
As if—they have left our souls behind

Tell me—what is death?
And what of Life, oh doubtful friend?

Our souls shimmer upon the stones
With all the deceased we can’t feel alone
Freedom seeps through these eternal beds
For the gift of life will find its end

Meanwhile, we’ll just wait for the day
When pain will subside and peace will stay
And rotting centuries later—you will surely find
That—yes! Death is truly, sincerely kind

So—I implore you, my shady friend
Allow this life to find its end
Don’t lose yourself—the grieving must cease
Just let him Rest in Peace


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Cobwebs that Smiled and Tick Tocked My Teeth.

I wondered about midnight, with the

click-click

of my tongue standing straight up in between my teeth, my hair fell to places that were
begging for his fingertips, for the smooth warmth that occurs when he kisses my skin...


I laughed at moments we shattered, because destruction is amusing when you are in love,
and I was untouchable then, my breath sounded like time and time...

bit me...

leaving bruises that resembled....

teeth.


I wanted to submerge his inebriated head with the secrets I hid behind my smile, and if
spaces were eventual then surely I'd reach for him, but he'd never remember the corners of
my mind when he slept, he'd never have nightmares from the knowledge that my cobwebs have
captured his smile...


I walked through us as if we were ghosts, I saw the images of our every mistake, I bit my
lip and threw my shoes to the bottom of forever just to see if I could hear them tumble,
so I'd know what I'd sound like if I...

were to fall in.


I begged for quiet with the twisting of rings and my thumbs seemed naked despite the
donning of Seattle, and you know the mountains there, they whisper secrets when you're too

crazy

to hear them, when you're too caught up in the beauty of possibilities to listen...


so I found myself quite possibly caught and I wondered if his webs glistened in the
moonlight that dropped from sleep

I wondered if they smiled

if their tongues clicked

if they felt

like

me.






Details | Prose Poetry | |

Why

We look up and cry, "Why me?"
Sometimes we get an answer
and sometimes we get silence,
but always... we are heard.
Our time is not His time,
our needs are His classroom,
our lives are His to mold;
our job is to live trusting that
He is there... always there 
answering us in His time and His way.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

I Wore That Yesterday

The same frown...
The same sad face...
The same dismay
 over and over ..

You said the same
mean words to hurt me. 
Today I choose
 to wear smiles.
I have come miles 
since yesterday!  
The happiness I felt...
The freedom 
I have now since you
 left and went away; 
Please in fact 
don't come back! 
Putting me down-
Wanting to see me
with that same
 sad face,with
that same 'ole frown. 
The same dismay.  
I cant wear t
hose feelings 
anymore no way
.
For I wore 
that yesterday.  
No complaints,
self esteem  
has risen.  
It feels good to be free
from your 
verbal prison. Nope-  
I am wearing a smile,
enjoying my new freedom.
No frown-no
feeling down-no dismay.  

Cant wear that outfit,
feeling like a misfit,see 
I wore that
yesterday! ....     
No way can you 
taunt or daunt 
my spirit or 
depress my spiritual side.
No more can you 
appall or terrify 
or fill me up with 
apprehensions.  
I am free ! 
No longer disabled;
 so ring the alarm-
I wont respond,
I have the courage,
the courage to say.I
am not wearing 

those feelings of dismay,
I wore them yesterday.
 So say what 
you must and do
what you will;
 My spirit has 
traveled far from you.     
Today is my day.
So don't come back
to try and dress me in
that old tired suite,
made by Mr. Dis-May ....
I don't wear that
label anymore ...  
I wore that yesterday.

End Poem


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Can't Let U Go

"You brought me into this world. You guided me the best you knew how to. You watched me 
grow before your very eyes and yet you still can't seem to let me go. Now the tables have 
turned, for I've watched you live your life with out me there. Watching you live your life 
alone and free. Now its my turn to lend you my hand. As I guide you on your way and watch 
you leave this world when the time comes even though I still can't let you go." 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Brown Spider

The very large spider sits silent patient in the center of its web not knowing
that solid gray clouds slowly float from the south.  Moisture laden clouds ready
to drop much needed water upon this dry section of earth.  The brown spider's web
is strung between the Holly Tree and the corner eight by eight post and brace.  It is placed where a blowing rain will saturate it.  The spider is unaware of the
eerie stillness in the air.  A quietness even respected by all nature's creatures. 
There are no birds chirping, no roosters crow, no buzzards soar, even the
noisy crows hush their cawing, and the coyotes' pups are silent.  Then the sound of large waterdroplets just a few which bring down some oak leaves and 
acorns with a banging upon the roof.  A strange feeling of solitude that rarely
happens.  The quiet equals the quiet before a snowstorm appears.
Will the spider have a protected place during the flooding rain blown by the wind?
Only time will tell if he is prepared to weather the storm and only time 
will tell the intensity of the impending rain after a long drought.. 
Only time will tell, only time will tell...  

Oh!! The spider and web disappeared..I will keep watch.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Daddy's Little Girl

Ballerina’d beauty…
She was always on beat and the most fluent mover. Never hesitant to step out onto her linoleum playground, Letting the stage lights beam down at her like sunshine, only refracting rays to intensify her lime light see she… was a dancer. &no I’m not talking about ya everyday tutu wearing mannequin. This one was special. The music was a part of her, she found a rhythm in every void and a tune in all speeches, it could only, flow thru her mind like water through the globe, more than she runs through my thoughts, like the way those greens slips of sustenance fell to the ground as she worked her pole. 
Tragic ending to the perfect fairytale. 
Mommy and Daddy had her dancing at six and in and out of auditions, wishing for her dreams to be realized unlike her own. Praying that her daughter could be somebody important, the next best thing since Broadway, better than Dejan Tubic, another Janelle Ginestra, but daddy had a sweet spot for his youngin. Wanting more for an innocent life and only turned her out of a fantasy. Pushing her on with the hopes only fools in the Ghetto would believe. Graduation day, she crashed hard, spinning back into reality. With no way to pay for her Julliard dream, a fistful of issues, and not a pot to piss in. She was strolling the block one night, and, heard music. Got sucked into the charisma of a strip joint. One second she was on the corner, everything goes black and when she comes to… she’s bare, with enough ones to get a place and put some food in her belly. That night she looked in the mirror… breaking down crying… all the dreams she had, crushed by the nimble fingers of fate. She doesn’t pity herself for long. Her mind’s already made up. “Gotta do this for me…” She rests, and the next day she finds herself back to the club to make more ones and satisfy more customers. It wasn’t the life she chose, but it’s one she’ll never regret, cause always had that sweet spot for her in el Corazon.. and she’ll always be, Daddy’s Little Girl.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

BIRTH OF LOVE

                                Under the tree of knowledge
                     Your figleaf dropped, my first seeds squirted
                                 A strange thing happened
                                         Love was born.

                                      Million years rolled
                                   In your black doe eyes
                                       I see her shadow
                                         She is not old
                                        She is not dead
                                 She is swimming in your lake.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

I Love You

The memories, they do nothing less than kill me now,
every one comes bearing arms and how they shoot!
Never missing and always aimed, right at my heart.
I am forever throwing myself before the firing squad.
Oh, how I can barely believe I ever held you, you of all the stars!
Those nights feel less and less real as the days goes on without you.
No amount of lifetimes however, can erase the fingerprints you left behind.
The way you sang to me, the songs you wrote, that guitar.
I was convinced my heart was growing wings, ready to fly out of my chest!
The time when you kissed my scars, every one, you kissed them all.
Named me your patchwork perfection, and I rested easy in my skin,
for the first time, in all my decades of existence.
I close my eyes to see that cherub face, it smiles at me still.
The same smile I fell into deeply, head over heel,
the first night we met amidst the first lights of twilight.
My god, how he crafted you with all the love in the world.
You radiated of it!
Still my skin glows, with the colours of your soul, eternal.
They may have taken your body away from me, but your heart,
our hearts...I still feel you inside mine. Tightly entwined.
I often wonder if I will ever be able to love another,
it's been years and the tears still stain my face with longing of you.
If only I could give up everything, all of it means nothing in comparison.
Reality tells me there are no deals I can make, no offer that won't be refused.
Well, these murderous memories, I will hold on to them for eternity
since they are all I have left.
Thankfully, I have learned to love the pain.
The exquisite pain that was born of losing you,
and now takes the form of my bullet riddled heart.

I love you.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Flame Melds So Slick the Shadows

Brown black centipedes crawl from within the white washed walls  
Their shadows, creeping and quick, are cast througout the halls  
Echoing thoughts bring a crashing sound to my ears, clattering  
Music buried deep evokes what my mind hears, shattering  
 
Rumpled white sky drifts like a melting glacier, carved flat  
Or floats like a wiffle ball hit by this Summer game's yellow bat  
Like this golden silver streak that now threads the monet-like sky  
Emerging fire I behold with my stupored, half-shut eyes 

The breeze tickles my doughy molded face with the stinging red roses  
After a day journeying inward, my shelled body reposes  
Encased like a cracked but unbroken nut, fading after the sun has ripened  
And this hummus colored sun, now amber rose as it sinks, spreads the horizon  

And the surrounding land, its bumpy rough edges and valleys, is slowly widening  


Details | Prose Poetry | |

~ (~) ~ (Four Parts-Part #3) Dedicated in Love to My Little Sister ~ Tina Marie Haynes ~ (~) ~

My Sister when I was about 8 1/2, I am 38 now, passed away but before she did, she told 
everyone this... "I am going to be Ok, and will be with God... I will get a new pair of lungs and 
some wings to fly with Him in Heaven, and I will be His little princess..." On the day she 
passed, in the midst of the dust floating in the room. Rays of light shown through that morning 
right on her on her bed, covering her, and I truly believe that God came and picked her up 
personally Himself that day, and carried her off to Heaven with Him...

Precious on her last litter had a kitten that looked, and I mean looked dead on herself... So 
we named her Princes... She was the most crazy cat I have ever known... and had an air 
about her that said to all... "Hey!" Look at me!" "I am a Princess" ... She was so very proud of 
herself for this, but never neglected her Mother's way, and was never disloyal to the family... 
She always loved to play with us and her Mother (Chasing her around the house, daring her, 
and reminding her to play), because I believe this... She was just crazy about life... "Just 
crazy about it, and as grateful as her mother, and my SIster," because though my Sister, 
though she was very spirited about her condition. She still desired to live her life just like 
another child her age would, and would carry this burden from time to time, as it would come 
to the surface, and make her blue, the fact that in reality, she could not... So princes would 
just fly around the house like a whirlwind, and would always come to land in someone's lap, 
or arms or beside you in bed purring or at the foot of someone's bed at the end of the day, 
and would awaken as lively and in a dead run, to do it all again the next day... We loved her 
dearly too... because of her adoring for her life itself... and the energy that she put into 
enjoying it... Because she too, had lost her little brother, a few hours after he was born...

She too reminds me of my Sister Tina, in this way... That life is sometimes a struggle, but is 
always evolving and always comes back to itself in time, and is always turning full circle... 
and is forever advancing towards all in gratitude... and exists and moves abundantly, within 
itself and lives for this one passion...





http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g3C7DECI0jU&feature=related


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Awakening

I awoke from a dream I was Dreaming; into a Dream I was  Dreaming
About  “ Barbara Jean “ , the Centre of my Soul, twinkling Stars ; Above
Calling my name; holding my heart, bringing Truth to unknown “ Reality “
This ; Mr. HGarvey Daniel Esquire ; is a Love you can not Escape
Hold Her, Caress Her, LOVE Her  Forever : Each Eon of ETERNITY
Together as One “ Entwined , as One “; to the FOREVER and ALWAYS
                      “ Barbara Jean : “  I LOVE YOU “


Details | Prose Poetry | |

AGRICULTURAL LOVE

I have discovered the importance of communication manure,

In the garden of life where the seeds of love and friendship are sown.

I have discovered that the healing of a broken heart,

Is in its openness to the wind of love that abide arounds.

I have discovered that the storm last only for a while,

But the peace that comes afterward abide within and ever.


(c) 2007


Details | Prose Poetry | |

ALWAYS A CHAMPION

I was born into a whole wide world
With feeble limbs and simple mind
At entrance, I could feel the heat
Suggesting another world different from where I was
Opening my eyes, I could see the faces of warriors
With hands to battle though with smiling faces
I could feel a great burden on me
I knew it was time to face my destiny
It kept ringing on my mind you are a champion, born to win
With my guardians, I began to learn
Took a step, one after the other
When I fell, I rose to walk, limp or do both
Muttered what I have to say hoping to communicate
I began to advance in height and knowledge
With great sensitivity to my environment
I felt love and hatred, brutality and friendship
I heard lies and deception, sincerity and truth
I saw light and darkness, day and night
I learned the right from wrong but found it difficult to do the right
Because the system was stuffed with evil
Since the nature could not accommodate vacuum
I chose the right because I knew my destiny
I chose to profess the truth despite the challenges faced
The opposition was great that I had to remind myself of my destiny
Born to war, destined to conquer and win
Always a champion stamped from above

(c) 2010


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Poetry and I

Poetry is not story or essay or news...

Poetry is the rhythm of life like our heartbeat ...

Working smoothly without any over react ...

Poetry is the best form of art...

Poetry is only creation in the universe 
Where creator lives hundred percent...

Every great creations are compared with poetry
But poetry has no comparison...

I like fusion ...

I respect multidimensional thoughts...

I love maximum effects with minimum materials ... 

Best wishes from India...

SANDIP GOSWAMI, INDIA


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Holy Passion

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

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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

March, February & Beyond

I saw a girl at the fag end of March, 
And how i wished she could be mine,
Then i realized it was just a dream, 
And went back to sleep,
Hoping the supernatural would happen.


Then i woke up in the middle of February 
& realized it was true,It had happened!
She was mine.. 

God had given me a gift, which i asked for
For the 1st time,
Heart of Gold, Touch of silk, which made me mad
Held her skin tight, like ma prize,
Hope to keep her that way, till the end of time.

We have come a long way,
Started in March, 
continued through February & Beyond.

Let dimensions convolve and end at infinity,
All i wanna say is, ill keep her with me,
Ill keep her happy & keep her satisfied..
just as the way i got her, if not better.

We have come a long way,
Started in March, 
continued through February & Beyond.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

MORE THAN GOLD

Gold is precious,
I am more precious
Gold is valuable,
I am more valuable
Gold is strong,
I am stronger
What make me more precious?
What make me more valuable?
What make me stronger?
Is I am a being that never quit in the face of fire

(c) 2010 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Beans on Toast

two more days before i get paid
the pantry is almost empty
4 slices of bread and a can of beans
if i'm careful this could be plenty

i have half a pint of milk and 3 bags of tea
and a little bit of sugar
things could be worse
i could have nothing
i'm really a lucky bugger


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A TRUE DESERVER

Thanks for being my life,
Which I could live my own way.
You deserve my breath that beats my heart.

Thanks for being my mother,
 You nurtured me from roots of my life.
You deserve my soul that you’re only by birth.

Thanks for being my father,
You sacrificed your big smile even for my small dreams.
You deserves my company whether in your bliss or in pain.

Thanks for being my elder,
You’ve given me sacrament for my sacred life,
You deserve my respect which is really for you.

Thanks for being my teacher,
You are a reason for making me sagacious,
You deserve my wisdom that is of yours only.

Thanks for being my friend,
With you I can share my feelings,
You deserve my luck through all the paths you go.

Thanks for being my love,
With you I can lead this life of mine,
You deserve my love  in return double than yours.

But still the one is missing- A true deserver,
To whom I daily request to sanctify me, who is creator not only of mine but of all 
those mentioned above,
He deserves my entire life from when I started my life.
 You can call him in any language,
Whether as god, Allah, Jesus but the soul is same.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Demon

When men were more primal, they were suspicious of all outside their clan, 
they would band together for survival, still today suspecting won't give way and 
lives in the heart of each, and every man. It goes by the name of indifference, the 
demon that breeds with hate. Now there's been a revival, but all men are still 
tribal, a victim of our fate. We all must fight this demon, for it is our very souls we 
have at stake.

  I never considered myself racist, because I did not hate. but I did not love; I did 
not feel, and I didn't even think. Men of another color were so little to me. I did not 
hate them, I did not loathe them, I just let them be. They were the object of my 
indifference, said that demon deep in me; buried too deep to see, the demon that 
would not go free.

  It is few men that get to look within, at the indifference they have sown. Fewer 
men still get the change to kill, that demon in their soul. At the birth of my 
grandson Jordan, who was fathered by a race not my own. Love for that child 
shined bright through my heart, so that demon in me I could see. The object of 
my indifference my grandson could never be. His love I now hold, it fill the hole in 
my soul where a demon once lived in me.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Third Fable

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

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



Details | Prose Poetry | |

If for no other reason -- ? (You fill in the blank) - ?

    There seem to be many, but never are there plenty.  In the begining was the word and
that he became life from the same (?) that has no ending.  If there are feeling's you would
like to express at this very moment, what would that word be ?  Would that word be enough
to immentily self-expose you are me.  "If for no other reason", you and only you, must de-
cide when you have reach the thressinghold of being "tired of being sick and tire", and for-
ever and ever when you have reach that plattoe do you seek out the word that truly will give
meaning to that interest of desire.  
"If for no other reason", do we all realize that the world owe's you nothing.  The blight of man
kind itself is that it has obliviated the courtship of "Trust" and looking in your rearview mirror
as you drive from one episode to the next, another question needs some answer's.  Can the
word that became life, would trust be able to lift you (me) from the sidewalk to the "good
season".  O'You, Can you see your Breakthrough.  You know never are there plenty but there
do seem to be many, people that has grown tire beyond just being (?) and now "If for no
other reason", you cann't allow your breakthrough to come to (?) then the season of spring-
summer and or fall, will never return to lift you away from being You.  And blessing goes on
and you will be stuck amoung the abusers forsakening the mystery of why you're so (?)..
    How do you really feel, "feel about life right now". Really, yes in the beginning was the 
word and now I know you have heard, that be became life and you and I are heir's on that
(?) and I myself do not know why you feel the way you do.  Why in Afghanistan is there to
come a day when peace describe the word of today and hope pertains an idea for tomorrow.
How do you (?) today.  Are you mad enough to kill, are you slouthful in all due season inso
enough you steal.
    There seem to be many, there very-well maybe people that shall not keep it real.  Send
our boy's home Mr. President, within the power of your might.  If for no other reason, just
because all the people are beyond their thresshold with no place to go but up, it is what shall
hide our pain - when your breakthrough is known as (?).  "If for no other reason", I feel
today, is my "Season".


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Loving Nana

LOVING NANA

She was born the cutest baby girl.
She loved from the very beginning.
She loved her mama, she loved her brothers and sisters.  
She, quite simply, LOVED.

She grew into a little girl.
She bounced and pounced, and played.
She loved her mama, 
She loved her brothers and sisters,
She loved her friends.
But mostly, she LOVED.

As she matured into a beautiful young lady, SHE was loved.  
She continued to love her mom and her friends.
She loved that her brothers and sisters were loved, wherever they were.
And she LOVED.

Her body and life changed and, before our eyes, she was now a loving mommy.
She ADORED and nurtured her babies, missed her siblings and friends, loved and admired 
her mother.
She just LOVED.

As life evolved, sadly, she became a frightened mother.  She saw and endured so much 
hurt, so very much pain.
And, yet, she LOVED.
She so loved her children, she loved her mother and strived to be as strong.

She knew she had to move on and, in doing so, she developed into a brave mother.  
In spite of this, she LOVED.

She humbly asked for help.  She trusted that all would be well, and she became a gracious 
and giving mom.  
She loved all those who helped.
She continued to LOVE.

As she moved on, she was taken care of, but she regressed into a withdrawn being.
She was not forgotten, and she began to pray.  
Many prayers were answered one day, and she was given a home.
She was the friend, a quiet friend.

Slowly, but steadily, she became a trusting friend.  She SO deserved this love.   She helped 
those in need by ALLOWING to be loved.
Through this, she was now a loyal friend.
And she never stopped LOVING.

She was cared for and treated like the Princess that she was.  ALL were happy.
She LOVED, and she was LOVED.

She came to believe that her life was fulfilled, her work was done.   She understood that she 
had achieved her purpose on Earth.  She joyfully accepted that she was a child of God and 
must go to Him.  
She helped her loved ones to KNOW this too.
Always, and above all, she LOVED.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

My Eyes Have Seen The Light

My Eyes Have Seen The Light
By Nate Spears


My eyes have seen the light
I’ve been trick, traded, and troubled
Separated from my father, divided from my brothers

My eyes have seen the light
I’ve been drained of my mother’s love
Dehumanized before the world
Respect lost globally 
Steady dying love

My eyes have seen the light
Violence has been manufactured into key
Absence of hard work
Rendering your rights for less than free

Now my eyes are closed
My head is bowed
In my thoughts I pray for we

My eyes have seen the light
The King rests in me
Passing self respect the next
To breath
To breed
To believe
My eyes transcend the light on you.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

No Walls

No Walls
~~~~~~~
She ask's me this in the voice that I've come to adore so much
"Look into the deepest part of your soul and tell me what she says"
I respond to my lover in a deep and sensual voice for her only 
"She tells me that my life became more complete than I believed it could 
ever be the moment I met you my love"
A realization came upon me then, I truly love this life I live
We all take so much for granted and still much we have to give
Without a doubt I've found my other, and she's my better half
A broad spectrum of emotion I feel with her, from a smile she gives me
to the laugh from my heart
The timing seems perfect, my rough edges and shortness she has soothed
them all away
Another just and shining miracle in her love I see, and I pray that it shall 
remain forever.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Past and Present

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

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

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

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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Love Lost

Love Lost…

Morning star shines down on me
I seek the shade 
The shade of the great oak tree
It casts a giant shadow across both of your hearts
Across mine

The cool breeze blows through the field
Between the rows of etched marble stone
And beyond the blades of overgrown grass
Your resting places I see

In the peace and quiet of the morning
I sit, I stand, I talk to both of you
I breathe; deep
Exhale in a sigh
Unable to fight the tears
Not really wanting to try

I find myself needing to spend time with both of you
But have neither Mother, nor Father
I am no longer a child, but a man?
I am all that you both have made me
Your love and guidance cannot fail me now…


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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Over The Dead Body

Grim, hollow, pointless
Walk limping through its lostness
For a name he is clueless
For a past he is dreamless

His insight is only some bored routinity
Which is stuck in the airport of dead society
Killing time like it never be killed
Living a live like it never be lived

An ambush to the stadium of shelter
Was a breakthrough for the unexpected trigger
One brain consumed by the hand of a ripper
Its cerebellum emit clear memories about the lover

An outstanding memories 
Led the soulless to its side of humanities
Longing of past, stages of life
Belated hunger stop to strive

A girl with her sweet adventure
A dead body whose lost in his picture
Rely on their fate to each other
But blind in the shimmer of their clutter

Through the memory which righteously read as a diary
Through the features which bring him to the life ready
Through the whisper
Through the struggle

He entitled for the second chance
He deserved for the right romance
The new life is just waiting 
To the next chapter of the beginning

Author's Note:
Inspired by the book of "Warm Bodies"- Isaac Marion.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

CharlaXTitles11

 
Inches make feet without inches there is no foot without beginnings there is no work without measure there is no dearth without a ruler there is no worth there must be rules and there are rules but eye will let them all apply to them my enemies at work and never eye. The horse runs well it has a heart so then they fill syringes from the start to inject the muscles of the neck to make the beast faster than the wind oh heck the animal is dead it never hit the ground but flew too fast and lost the race and life. Desert life is winterless but not without some weather life the sun is always shading and the water is found in sub altern placing near the animals for killing under the ledge of apprehension near the fire of desperation comes the frog and toad and watercrest nut sandwiches. Eye had been to the desert on a horse with no namme it felt good to be out of the rain. Voices come out at me from the air into mye membrain eye call it Disraeli musick it is usually someone in the area with a boom box or even cars with the windows rolled down can be the culprits they hound me when eye am hicking place to place. There is other answers to the crazxy place eye hear noises mad mostly by people in the other cubicles the walls are just invisible the talking is allowed. The thief cannot sneak in sneakers they squeak like he is sweating in his shoe laces. This brings me to mye priority eye. The reason that no one wants to be a Detective is the movies the guy may have had DAMES by the score but he had fights and was so sore the men were ruthless and left him spinning on the side of every road. The streets of New Nuevo York has gum shoe on them. The American idea of Indians and wampum has brought us to the test of food in rest or rants of foreign style they smile and bring the menu back to make certain that the orders write the man has pointed several times at five bills a whack. One from Column A and 2 from Column B brings us to a bill of $23. Well eye wanted some meat too but you are so expansive. Rice and curry hot mustard radishes. Try finding food in the summer time how careful now that eye a homeless one should be then tossing caution to the winding blowing wind when it seems only wrapped so tightly to keep flies at night away. To feed myself is easy to offer some to others almost impossible a few times eye have asked to share they slide that nostril in the air and leave the food to the one that found it in the lair of tossed and discarded things the general city the loose leaf cabbage so nicely adds a bite to the membrain of mye priority eye. 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Rose that Bloomed

One glowing dawn he came ,

With a rose in his hand.

Rain drops were still there,

Though not over him.

“God! He was melting away!

Why are all those clouds about, Mark?

Don’t you know I have always waited for you…

I  waited for you long and long.”

“Dude! My voice left me alone!

Well…my eyes had voice!

It was all transparent with my eyes.”

At last he gazed at me and went away.

Oh! He left me without the rose.

“Well…you  know…

Another day will come.

He will step in.

A new rose will bloom for me.”


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Natures Pace

And golden ears of corn stretched to listen, to the suns 
warming ray of words, as stems swayed and rattled. In 
the next field yellow Sunflowers genuflected, lifted 
their heads to their heavenly maker, turning not to lose 
his eye. And the sun beat of an egg blue sky, a blanket 
of  life  for all to nestle. Only song rained, spilling from 
the throats of lofty Skylarks sharing their delight on this 
miracle of days. Hawthorne, Bramble and Blackberry 
wrestled creating a thorn haven for Blackbird and Thrush 
as they cared for the young ever gaping mouths. Bumble 
bees and Hover flies darted flower heads, intoxicated on 
the abundance of rich pollen, the flower kissed and life is 
granted. The fruits ripen, Field mice nibble the sweet corn's
tender pods, and the Buzzard glides softly with searching 
eye. This day takes place with no rush or haste, no agenda 
to adhere to, just to amble at natures pace. And on I walk
forever lost. 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Extraordinary

Everything is alright my life has 
heal in some area I feel like 
sharing this good ol happiness 
of Gods blessing to bring my 
life off the the cold ground up 
to the air and its warm love 
is harmless and a little bitter 
but my heart has many to give 
anit letting what happened to 
me in the past affected what I 
wan't and gotta have come feel 
the soft new meaning to my 
life of renewing improve not 
foolish move so willing never 
perswaing my mind thinks of 
something real and out of the 
ordinary what you see is what 
you get this extraodinay 
personality that I must say I 
adore


Details | Prose Poetry | |

HUMBLE

You were born into this world for me
And for all who live that would believe
You appeared among all your creation
So from our sin you might set us free

Never have you ever charged a penny
For the living words which you would speak
Even though you appeared in the flesh like us
You never coveted wealth or sinful greed

Your hands reached out to all you met
As many hearts in this world you sought to lead
You never tried to profit from the poor and widows
But freely much in their hearts you would leave

You never chose to have much materially
Though everything In this world is yours
But humbly you came and lived among us
Enriching us with the grace you kept in store

Many always claim in you they believe
But from others they seek to take away
They want to be another’s lord and master
Leaving many destroyed spirits along the way

I only want to be Christ like in my dealings
For in my life there will never be another way
I want them to see what its like to live humbly
With your true spirit teaching them every day

Remember me my LORD, each day as I rise
While by your sweet spirit I am truly led
Permit me to always be humble like you
And never please forsake me my daily bread.

For my time is very fleet in this world’s life
And before by your grace I am called away
I want to help share your light into this world
So many might find life humbly following your way.

Wendell A. Brown,
June, 2012,


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Gone and hopefully permanently forgotten

By Stanley Collymore

Never speak ill of the dead we’re constantly and solemnly
exhorted regardless of who they are or the life that
they freely chose to live, as they’re no longer
around, is the lame and unconvincing excuse
that’s often and dishonestly given in explanation, to rebut or
defend their name, any accusations or adverse criticisms,
however concrete or valid they might be, being made
against them; and in those circumstances therefore
to then embark on such a plan would in itself be
quite unbecoming while serving as nothing
more than a cheap and cowardly way of
attempting to exact one’s own revenge.

But hang on a moment, how truly valid is this
simplistic and supposedly moral exhortation; and why
should the intervention of death, distinct from any
other known phenomenon, be the sole exculpation for
someone’s life-long sins and premeditated wrongdoings
that disparagingly have callously, schemingly,
perniciously, quite methodically and comprehensively
destroyed the lives of so many who were
exclusively picked on and especially targeted for
reasons of dogmatic political ideology, or
those specifically and illogically
associated with their race
or ethnicity.

I was never a miner viewed as the country’s low-life and
thusmalevolently castigated as the enemy within, but
I am and have longstandingly been a proud trade
unionist whose movement just as
viciously by this self-centred,
venal and privileged elite was likewise tarred
with the same condemnatory brush and
scandalously branded the same.

Similarly, I was an anti-apartheid activist firmly
committed, as I always will be, to the noble concept
globally of the universality of human rights, equality
for all human beings and the ultimate eradication
of racism, tirelessly working also in tandem
for freedom of expression by everyone,
genuine democracy and the lawful and
moral right to withhold one’s labour,
and particularly so in manufactured industrial
disputes specifically designed to disrupt the cohesion,
deliberately break-up and ruthlessly destroy the
bargaining rights of all trade unions. 

So why would I, or anyone else for that matter
with a social conscience, want to actually
eulogize and not rightly despise someone who,
while together with their husband was
profiting massively financially from South Africa’s
apartheid system, none the less perversely saw fit
to label Nelson Mandela a terrorist and roundly
vilify the ANC as a terrorist organization, while
astonishingly and without a modicum of regret
laud the architects of apartheid and the
ardent supporters of institutionalized
racism as the veritable champions of
what they deem as democracy?

Unless, of course, such individuals have short or convenient
memories and are themselves a complete abomination of what
society, which we were told by this woman doesn’t exist,
or come to that humanity should actually represent!
So I’ve no apologies to make or will I relent from
the stance I’ve taken because Death, inevitable
to us all, has finally, and some would
justifiably say, long-sufferingly and somewhat
kindly stepped in and brought the life of yet
another tyrant to its end. So feel free those of you
who want to eulogize or even dress yourself up
in sackcloth and ashes if you wish amidst your contrived beating
of chests and sorrowful refrains; but in doing so, I’d like for
you in your unrestrained orgy of engineered anguish
and false grief to jointly entreat you to abstain
from ever doing any of this in my name.

© Stanley V. Collymore
12 April 2013.

In the midst of life there is death the great leveller of us all. We brought nothing into this world, and it is certain we can carry nothing out. So what doth it profit a man or woman if in their life time they gain all the riches of the world yet lose their soul for eternity? The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the Name of the Lord.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Guts To Forgive

Someone someday came to me
That someone somedy charged a fee;
That fee was realyy irreplacable	
And the loss was really intolerable.

That day i decided something very smart
Whatever it is ,but never melt your heart;
just let everything go far apart
and beleive no dart can break your heart.

Oh! 'that' someone someday came again to me
This time wont pay you any of the fee;
Now don't be sorry,it means nothing to me
Stop being burdened ;you better feel free.

Was that the right decision to take?
Was it correct not forgiving someone for a mistake?;
No; was the answer for being so rude
But everyting can't change according to your mood.

One day yself made a major mistake
Was expecting everyone to forgive and wake;
Now for myself I can't be so fake
when I myself never forgave any mistake.

How can we be so selfish sometimes
Its funny why we never hate ourselves even for the crimes;
Why then we feel so hurt if its someone other
Why our heart is not like a mother.

This time 'I' met that someone someday
Hugged him and forgave that someone that day;
We departed away with satisfied smiles
Alas! I walked with free feel for miles.

From that day I learned something really new;
One needs the guts to forgive even a few.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

TIME

Tick tack  on the wall,
Knocking all the wall,
Scaring us all,
Muscling the muscles,
Muscling the morsels in us,
Quickening the finest deep,
The hidden gold of gold,
A dignity of labour,
How loyal and diligent you are,
Precious and precarious,
Dangerous and conspicuous.
TIME !!TIME!!TICK TACK!

Running without waiting for anybody,
How impatient could man be,
In your sound you keep man,
In haste at everydawn,
Thou hath in the haste of full dawn,
Desperately desperate,
Anxiously anxious,
Wisely wise are we and you
Preciously precious,
Nothing can be done without you that's obivously obvious.
TIME !!TIME!!TICK TACK!


We chose to choose you,
Working to work with you,
Falling to fall with you,
No time no food,
No time no suite,
No time no cheat,
No time no shift,
No time no me,
there is set time for everything,
Mama use to say,
Patience is virtue of time,
that's the way whichever way.
TIME !!TIME!!TICK TACK!


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Distant Warrior

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Inadequate So They Say

A Story Of How This World  Can Bring One To Defeat......

Decrepit agony stumbles upon rain lit streets, an aimless soul wanders......in 
desperation, he mumbles confusing pain. Lifeless and beat, a need that he resents, 
he tips the bottle to his mouth, oblivion once again. Brutal words of this world
have cast a cloud of gray, in years that have past, a man believed in all the deceivers 
had to say, devastated, a man falls victim to greed, deceit and wicked games.
Inadequate slurs they spoke in vein had slowly become ingrained,
and he, he believed. Along the river he sits alone, a lesson for humanity........




___________
Words can devastate others and end lives, choose wisely.......

an aspect of inadequacy, ingrained   
___________
   CONTEST


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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Napoleon the powerful fighter

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

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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Encompassed in Memory

Cool mountain streams reflect the cobalt blues and greys of sky 		   
Restful twilight with stars scattered as if on a canvas 		   
Fire cloaks the curve of the earth and golden fish swim nearby 		   
Weeping willows in the field sway to an urgent sadness 		   
The gushing wind that stirs etches the land, channels through boundless time 		   
The carved thrust of a mountain range, maybe the Andes 		   
Will challenge the forever yielding sky, vast as the horizon 		   
Where rain batters the window and mists as far as we can see 		   
It is a warm evening in a pub in Ireland 		   
As the songs hover around us, I know this is what it is like to be free


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Imagine

Imagine 
Looking with eyes 
All events, everything 
From a viewpoint  
A perspective that sees all 
The broadest spectrum 
On a universal scale 
Natural, black and white, 
If there was a finite 
Amount of energy existing  
In the womb that is space 
Without the influence of fictitious forces 
The universe is static, 
But if gravity was rather antimatter 
Drawing upon and absorbing matter 
Producing energy as it does, 
Energy and material are interchangeable  
With no deviation from the constant 0 
Everything seems to cancel out in the end 
But time is relative 
From a universal perspective 
There is no starting point and no end 
To a cyclical event, 
Matter and antimatter exploding Into 
Existence, then snuffing each other out 
Would I be wrong of the conclusion  
In stating god is energy? 
We are in Gods image 
Not as humans, 
But all life...


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Light

The darkness that soaks you,

Dedicated to your way,

It’s all you are gifted merely.

Be your own light.

Be the firefly.

What choice else remains?

What choice?


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Education is Power

Who is in charge of our children's education?
What happens when parents don't do their job?
When children have no sense of reading, writing,
till they hit that school room head on?

Who is responsible to initiate, ingratiate, the word,
so language is understood from infancy and
not suddenly at five years old when
communication receives the attention it deserves?

Parents stand up and take notice
schools do not provide the only source
You are your child's first teacher
You are the one who gives him voice.

From you he will learn expression
From you he will learn who he is
From you he will learn his roots
Give him your love and attention.

Provide an environment filled with books
A place where reading takes precedence
Instill in him a joy for learning
With gentle hand and loving looks.

Model the love of learning
read on your own or with
till without even knowing
he'll develop a yearning
to know, to explore, to evaluate
all there is and more.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

got to work it out

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

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

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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Honesty will Always be Appreciated

Honesty will Always be Appreciated
 
We all live in a time now when crime happened to most of the people.
Doesn’t care about the unnecessary needs of life and having the different lifestyles with alcohol and drugs is the mindset of some people whom have been fallen into it dramatically.
The decency and honesty will be dropped by the influence of various addictive substances and we no longer think about how important is our attitude.
The attitude of getting the fellowship together is no longer being the most important factor because there are other desires and needs which matter most than friendship for some people.
A Good friendship is becoming rare, as fellowship has a different meaning now.
Almost everything are into financial benefits or to show how well we have done in managing our wealth.
This is just for getting the status in order to get more attention by others.
That is already a big mistake for some people, because if someone have big money, it doen’t matter how they have earned it, in the right or criminal way, because they only want to be benefited from it or enjoying the prosperity.
And this give other a free ticket to go into criminal things, because supposedly money does not smell.
These people lie, cheat and harm other but that is not a problem for people who choose to spend the money which is earn by criminal case, but they forget that the same could happen to them (The fox may loses his hair but not his cunning) thus they are also a victim by themselves.
And sooner or later they are going to pay for the consequences, because their dishonesty will be settled by law or when they meet the wrong person who does not accept what they do to them.
And to destroy our life by knowing that we are dishonest and be punished by imprisonment later or worse its not worth it and for sure they can’t keep cheating others for a long period.
What for sure is good for our habit and lasts lifelong with a good reputation is to give the opposite human an attitude without thinking bad and always to be honest and sincere.
Honesty will always be appreciated and give us the guarantee for a peaceful and good future.
 
I wish you a healthy life.
Kindly Regards,
Author Jan Jansen
http://poems.easybranches.com/


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Direction of Sheets that Kissed His Skin.

I found the break in belief upon the study of honesty...

I knew the subject of smiles and that the left sided curl of a lip decided the direction
of my kiss...

He was...

untouchable, yet I adored the feel of him, and I sat behind mirrors for months pretending
to be Alice as my skirts raced dangerously close to tomorrow, the decoration of my thighs
touching...

ground.


“This is perfection, you know,” I whispered as the sun fell, and the blankets that covered
him danced silently over his skin as I watched night fall across the shadows of his face,
and I touched...

his smile...

with desperate lips as I tasted happiness and the delicious idea of me.


I curled up for a moment and thought, pondered, I decided I'd watch the direction of his
breath as my vision faded, he slipped his fingers through my hair and I split time in half
as my legs untangled, and we were...

everything...

uncountable, the months that forgot themselves, the nights I lost myself in his dreams,
and if that wasn't beautiful then reflections were liars and I slapped dishonesty straight
in the jaw...

before I told him how much I needed him...

before he watched the patterns of my breathing without understanding...

I exhaled for him..

without knowing I loved the way summer sheets touched his skin right before I held him...

right before I knew that forever is untouchable and existence is created with the smile

that settled on his lips

after we kissed.






Details | Prose Poetry | |

There Was something

There was something in her eyes
That said to me
That what she was listening to
Couldn’t be heard
And the words being spoken
Couldn’t be said
There was something in the way
She held her head
That said to me
She really wasn’t where
She appeared to be
So I quietly whispered
Would you care to take a walk
She didn’t question why
Just quickly answered yes
Held out her hand to take
And I never said a thing
We walked through the night
Just listening to the stars
We felt the warmth of passion
Against the chill of night
And never spoke a word
For eyes, arms and lips
Say so much more
When the sun broke upon the day
The grass told where we lay
As time and years went by
I saw her eyes again
They were so much younger
As they reflected back my smile
There was nothing much to say
In the way she held her head
I just remembered how in the sun
The grass showed where we lay


Details | Prose Poetry | |

BECOMING A WOMAN

BECOMING A WOMAN

Someday...
I will be all woman...

I will be the mother...
A mommy who will tenderly care..
A mama who will prepare..
A mom who will be her "kid's saver" .

I will be the wife...
The lawfully other half..
Who will stand on his husbands behalf..

I will be the light of a home..
Each will feel happy not alone..
Giggles; laughters will be heard..
If there are tears, sure it's rare..

Despite these, still i'll be a lady..
Even if there'll be malady..
I'll remain gentle yet sturdy..
I'll be jolly ready...

I will walk in grace..
I will attempt "eloquence"..
I'll not live in tight fence..
Rather i'll be alive knowing sequences..

Even if wrinkles will steal me..
Even if illness claims my health..
Even if old age squeezes life from me..
I know, i have live as a woman..

***Hope you can check my personal blog as well: http://myblossomingthoughts.blogspot.com/... Thank you so much for reading my composition… God bless us always….. >> Olive Eloisa ? 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Forever Trail

They roam miles over hillsides
stride aimlessly cross open plains
and grassy fields
unseen and silent to all cept' those
who see with more
then their eyes,
hear with more 
then their ears,
and believe with more
then their hearts and minds.
Twilight,a gray blue haze,settles in
quiet, no sound(s) heard
but those of time almost forgotten
souls lost, blanketed by death
foot-steps hushed by time
travel now in ghostly silence
their destiny, to travel the forever trail.
Physical lives long shed in defense
of the very ground they are now one with
their cries must be heard! always honored
never to be forgotten
lest their lives were sacrificed for naught.

Melody A. Coster


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Froze

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

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

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

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

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

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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

How Did Santa Claus Broke The Reindeer Back

How Santa Claus broke the reindeer back

I am just disappointed he is such a play ball; he refuses to joined the community gym, he have no consideration for a hard working reindeer like me. Please do us all a favor and stop telling everyone that you’re tall and slim Mr. Claus
Santa put this in your pipe and smokes it. I am forming a union; you can contact my Lawyer Mr. Tin Tin

 I need some Fringe benefits else I am going to quit; year after year after year I chauffeur you around
This is not a smooth ride on green grass, it’s cold, cold snow “please looked around.
Breaking into people houses late at night, dropping off toys, we are plaster on every walls and poles
Santa this reindeer is off radar; you get off your fat ass or hire Casper the friendly ghost.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Awakening

AWAKENING

From behind the curtain

with boldness and grace,

she glides onto the stage…

Awakening

"How beautiful!"  "Gorgeous!"  "So elegant!"

The audience applauds her appearance.

"Is it me they speak of, and not someone else?"

Awakening

She opens her mouth; all eyes are upon her.

Her words soothe their ears like a song.

"What I have said, do they truly understand?"

Awakening

The last line is spoken; she begins to take a bow.

A tear forms in her eye.

"Is this all there is?  Is this the end of the story?"

Awakening

Life can seem so empty when we expect too much.

Many times things are not what they seem.

Keep searching though, do not give up hope…

seek the truth…for it is there that your light shall beam…

Awakening

Felecia R. Weber, January, 2014, www.onthewingofadove.com


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CHAMPION OF OUR TIME

Leader among leaders
Beaten, never die
Stressed, not strained a bit
Pulled apart, never deformed
But better than former
Been through fire,
never burned
Walked through storms,
last man standing
Super eagle among the eagles
Catering for the falcons
Having a heart of unconditional love
King of one queen
Great example to his offspring
True friend to his friends
Man of his words
Always walk the talk
A true ambassador in a foreign land
True champion of our time

(c) 2011


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Letters from a 'Dead Sibling' Adoptee

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

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


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Life Is Just, and also

And…Life is just
Well, life is also
Then, the gift of Love
Then, the liberty of willing


Life is the freedom
To share moments with God,
To allow moments to ourselves,
To offer some times to our nice causes!


Life is also learning
To live in community (friends, human brothers...)
Life is also to recognize the others as equals
And life, is also to accept differences!


Life  is  so nice, so  Simple
That, by times, we Easily
Forget to Enjoy  it,
The more naturally and possible!
Life can offer Love  to (each one of) us!!!


Copyright June 12th, 2013. Rita Solis Radius.


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Moments to Reflect Forgotten Valentine

 Moments to Reflect 2/5/2013
                                              The forgotten Valentine
The Lord is my shepherd and the keeper of my hope and dreams. I hold Him close to my heart so that we are never far apart. The love of my life and in this I take delight. His light will always be seen in me in all things that I do. The way I walk even when I talk. For it is not what inside of you that defiles you, it’s what comes out. 
My trust in the Lord is sight unseen and it is my faith that keeps me clean. My problems may be many but there is no need to worry; because my belief is just too strong. Can’t you see that in Jesus, you will not go wrong? Your love is so pure and clean it gives life new meaning; Rose are red, reminds me of the blood you did shed and violets are blue there no truer love than you. There a song in my soul that sends my spirit high and I will praise Jesus until the day that I die; in doing this I know that I will be by His side. Keep in mind of what Jesus divine nature is not all mine and it not hard to find. It’s the gift that the Father has given to all of mankind.
Now I tell you about a Child that was born in glory, salvation was the pearl that was bought into this world and this is His story. To the poor and the despaired He gave hope and healing, with His power reveling. Love and praise the people did give. All that He wanted was for us to stop sinning. To you I give a thousand roses and a million kisses for you are a truly my blessing. The dead He did raise, and life He gave. Those that were in power never did they honor; but instead they fear the One who was foretold as the prophecy before their eyes was unfolded. Crime they cry and this was the lie that sentences our savior on earth to die. A thousands tears is not enough I fear; so in my heart I will hold you dear.
From the Heaven to the earth He came to teach us a way, from the earth to the cross, a debt He paid, from the cross to the graves, from the grave to the sky He ascended home to His throne. There He sits waiting for those that he paid that prices so that we might have life and have it more abundantly. Having faith and trust in the Christ you will find an everlasting life free from suffering in a paradise. You will always be my Valentine love.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

My In Heritage

To know your history is to know your literature a lesson to learn, which will Stand the test of time and what one founds of their in heritage no matter how enduring and grim it may seem it something you should embrace- I came from a small city with big roots and routinely I was ask “where are you from”, especially from girls, if it wasn’t that it he thinks he cutie? And I’m asking why I would say something like that. Or He thinks him smart, God!!! I’m just answer the teacher question? But when I got older, older woman told me they probably think that ascent was sexy and I’m thinking where in high school what do they know about sexy? Man is her computer seat warm? America woman I just don’t understand them? I wonder what they do if they heard me speak a few difference language at same time? Thank god I’m quite because it not like they can read my mind. But it got me thinking from and questioning My Roots- What I found was the name Borgo had many difference Ethnicity & meaning with it as well as nationalities and that Borgo is Small Island between France and Italy. And if history may not mention it was a Borgia who captured Napoleon? How do I know where did it take place? BorgoBaby- No wonder I like Caribbean woman and it is this one that get my heart beat beating up to 400 beats per seconds if that is possible I can’t say it is a forbidden love but what I will say is breaking the ice and melt when think out loud? And yes she knows my name but why ask not why but why are some lyrics so deep my dear? Remember some old friends asking don’t you make beats? As I have some bread and tea. And that Bourbon is a drink, a Pecan Pie and a Street I’m thinking man if I have girlfriend What date it would be- Then I dig deeper and found the prime sources that seem to let to these events the Borgia or borja married into royalty which happen to be Louisa Borgia who married Philp De Bourbon or Philip V of Spain. He was rejected as King Louis legitimate son because born out of wedlock but later accepted but Philp never forgave and where he could have been both king of France and Spain he was just the king of Spain. Question I ask do any one know today the real reason why France has no nationality? Hurtfully to write or hear but i heritage mean full name as should other take to one, I have heard rumors that true bloodlines of nations of Kings that don’t rightfully take the throne it is a reason for that but not my place to say the way history is written is just to say to remember men wrote history but literature holds another tell? Who can tell the differences, but one question for god I always ask Why so much war my lord, I truly feel like a man without a country and Just walking away- I myself never came from money I start literally from nothing but as I got older I was given legitimate connection legitimate ideas and principals and the understanding of wealth but so trying of spending night and days with no day off of a seven day week wonder if I can make those principals work for me as sick as I am there are reason undefined why I do this things and money is not the endorsement my life is more complication then eye may receive to capture but if you listen you learn more than just hand written if you get the drift- I was never told of my in heritage put as one will it something like a scare or tattoo I had to found to adjust to my nick name is “Jason” but my full name is Louis Antonio Borgo III as I’m about to fall to sleep and lost all aim of conscience I see a email with my full name spell out in Ancestry.com question how did they know I was search for them and if I ever be accepted from this other half as I am a man literally without a country and in love with French woman more than American the phone rings and a woman from Canada called speaking French I drop the phone and finally I fall to sleep and As I sleep dreaming could anyone imagine wanting to go home but where? Remembering the ringing noise of girls ask ” where are you from”...


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Two Minutes Too Late and the Clock Struck June.

We fell, two miles too far down to count the days ahead...

Two hours too late for me to forgive myself, I kissed him in the morning when the clock
struck...

five...

and tears covered me in a bath of fear...

I asked him if he knew, if he understood, as he mumbled and held me in his sleep.


Two days passed and I watched the sunset, I found it far

too

hot

to breathe.


I wondered, as I circled, as I watched him in memories, as I watched his face glow and fade...

I wondered where the comfort of January ran...

I wondered if he swallowed it as I brushed my tongue across his open mouth when he
whispered the promises I knew, even then, 

he wouldn't keep.


And hope was funny, she stayed by my side for two months plus three, I found myself waking
up in May, amidst the lilacs and unusual heat, I wanted to close my eyes and let my lashes
fall down as they tickled tomorrow so maybe..

he'd see...

but obsessions are addictions and he had an affiliation with the color blue.


“I love you,” I told him, with eyes wide open when the clock struck two...but I was three
months too late and my heart
held onto January
for the fear
of sight
in
June.



Details | Prose Poetry | |

Confetti of Flesh

 
Would I rather go too slow,

Damp breath feeding the soil, 

worms to grow, an

old mans toil.

 

For me the answer is clear;

Though not today and I hope not here – 

To explode with love and feelings gold – 

Not too young and not too old

Wise enough to see my growth

But not old enough to have outgrown 

My sprit, 

Fun,

this place called home

That’s how to die

 

A confetti of flesh ruptures the Sky.

Feeding the air, water and earth.

Why you ask do I care how I die –

My love, that is the whole reason -

We’re here

to ask why.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

She Dreamed of Icarus- Portrait In Indigo

She seemed to be like a portrait...
   which had fallen from its gilded frame
Abandoned...
   Lying face down on the empty, cold wintry floor. 
An elegantly created portrait once painted in striking hues of indigo blue.
   Her eyes told a story of  bittersweet, magenta colored sorrows
That etched themselves throughout the frail, intricately woven canvas of her soul
 
Over time...
   Thoughtless hands subtly contrived and manipulated the beauty of her painted portrait Into a resemblance -  likened to that of a cold chiseled statue
   Calloused, careless fingers molded her - lancinating the fragile fragments of her spirit
Leaving her heart with the etoliated, worn material - called her life                     

She dreamed of Icarus - soaring down on steel wings
   Shrouded in cobalt, magenta clouds- with outstretched, feathery fingers...
Lifting her up to dance with him in a Stravinsky ballet...
   As it is was meant to be
Not how it was                
 
She was a beautiful, delicate butterfly...
   Bruised by many shadows in her world
Leaving her unable to fly away from its thirsting arid rain filled skies
   It left her struggling to stay afloat in the spring's melting snow
 
Life had bruised her tender skin...
    Gnawing away like insatiable insects on her delicate pink frescoed soul
Leaving her feeling like a fabricated, plastic manikin on display...
    For all to pose her as they selfishly may
 
Muddied soil was the blood that coursed through her veins
    Holding her tethered heart in fleshy, lumpy mounds of dark, chocolate brown earth 
It held her helplessly clogged in the dirt...
    That descended down in the empty spaces of her soul...
Like the muddied strings of yellow, tattered maize 
    That entwined their ragged tassels through her life flowing veins...
Choking off the blood she needed to nourish her weakened, hungry heart 
 
Mighty winds toppled her willowy, limber tree...
    Snapping the delicate boughs of her arms
As it pulled at the fleshy bark of her skin
    She stood cold and alone in the cold wintry night...
Wrapped only in her naked flesh - with open, bleeding indigo wounds
    Standing under the icy, mist of the cold, winter moon...
Her heart and soul painfully revealed - in shades of indigo blue
 



 LadeeAnne~C@2011 

 Anne P Murray

 
 
 


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Message Of Hope

Life’s tortures seem a part of my biological design absorbing pain, a phenotype and solutions, seemingly advancing in a slow motion ten hands all over, tearing my blouse hundred long nails shredding my skin down to the dermis The waters have turned salty and all edibles-decayed with maggots I’m roasted by hunger and fried with thirst pressed by two rocks and the valley of escape filled with thorns and reptiles I’ve been tied to the Earth for even animals to trample upon escaping from a dangerous path lands me on a slippery ground sliding down, having a free fall with no help But! The same life which once passes urine on me has now provided a fresh stream for a deep bath the same sky, once filled with pregnant dark clouds shines the light of hope and freedom I’ve been hit but not crushed, bruised but not bleeding heated but not burnt and swallowed but not chewed I’m out! I’ve overcomed and now I’m free!


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A Sit and A Smoke

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


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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.


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Pale Red Sun

The pale red sun rises on the eastern horizon casting light upon a low crescent
moon and morning star.  A Whip-Poor-Will with a sore throat sings his love song to
his mate or maybe to the master artist who paints the constantly changing canopy.
The once smokey gray horizonal clouds have turned a shade of cerise.  So much
sound reverberates this still morning.  The roosters echo in the hollow, doves coo
upon the hill, mockingbirds sing their varied tunes back and forth through the 
oaks while all the neighboring folk lie in bed.


indigo buntings in flight... share piece of bread
Blessings sometimes come in strange places. The Indigo Buntings are a rare sight their beauty shone forth in which there came delight. Thank you Lord for this beautiful sight. Finis'


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A Start For Sunday

Rainbow like reflection in the wispy jet clouds against periwinkle blue morning
sky.  Jets going where? One going in an unusual direction across one in the set 
pattern of travel. Since the latest happening with a jet one's thoughts turns to the 
incident. Try to put tradegy away, compartmentalize it. Tiny pears are on the trees
survivors of the warm, cold, frost, warm, cold back and forth weather. God is good
even though mankind's nature runs to evil. The sun comes on up into the wispy clouds.
A beautiful day given to mankind in this area. Spring weather that is so comfortable.
Thank you God for this day. Help me to use it as best for you. Amen


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Thinking

If I were To walk the edge of the moon and 
bark like a loon
Or be angry at the blazing day and shun the 
night as I lay;
I would feel glory so sincere for what I revere
reverencial fear from bullets of thoughts so clear
Amidst the wasted youth of candy coated truth
Lies the callous disregard of the heinous and marred bloodied and scarred
But I maintain
Strain to maintain on an sland of insane...
Then I awoke..as if a stranger spoke~

Shalom


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A Childs Concept

There was a little girl 
barely more than three.
She went for a ride
to the country one Sunday
with her family.

She laughed and laughed
with glee
at all the animals
that she could see.

Then she spotted
something that before
She had not seen.

Now from the back seat
came the cry
UTS DAT  MOMMIE !!
UTS DAT !

There in the field was 
a tractor and a wagon.
Her mother told her what 
it was and all fell quiet.

Being that it was about nap time
and she was quiet for so long
they thought her asleep.

Suddenly     
a cry rang out 
from the back seat.

aaahh !!!  A Twagon !











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One More Thanksgiving

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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

rage

it dosen't come with age,its in a cage trapped inside dont let it out your mouth without a doubt 
it will destroy us all,if we fall for rages tricks, envy, jealousy,anger love is the answer to keeping 
rage locked up , i know i let it out it tried to destroy me, but ive been set free love saved me


Details | Prose Poetry | |

For a Thousand Years

I kneel beside your bed, and I just want you to know wherever I am, your husband is always thinking about you. The time we spent together has been the happiest in my life. You look like an angel as you lay there, but unlike the movie Snow White, you're still sleeping. Some say your eyes are deep blue like Crater Lake in Oregon, but your smile to me is more beautiful than the stars on a clear moonless night. I lit a candle at La Cathédrale de St. Corentin today.  I remember the first time we visited there. I stood back and watched you with your long shapely Norwegian legs. The wonderment, innocence, and look on your face is unforgettable. You must know I would give anything for you to open your eyes again, to hold you in my arms with you looking at me with your smile. Instead there are tears and the sheet beside your bed is starting to get wet, but I’m here kneeling by your side each and every day. At night they let me in to light a candle at La Cathédrale as I plead my case to take your place.  In the morning I light another candle before I come to see my love, my life.  What am I going to do, I was always your rock and your shoulder, but now I am broken, I am lost baby. I brush your hair to the side of your face remembering that your touch used to make me tremble, your kiss would make my knees quiver.  I touch your hand and remember that I was so sure of everything when we held hands together walking side by side. My faith, my devotion, and my passion is strong, I will come back here for a thousand years just to be by your side. For now I need to leave again to lite another candle and tomorrow I will return to hold your hand, and take care of you as long as I breathe.  I love you baby.

Edward J Ebbs - Nov 19, 2014
Written for Contest: Make Love To Me In That Ancient Place


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ABOVE THE CLOUD

I have always dreamt of flying
Lifting my legs off the ground
Running in the mist of clouds
Carried in the arms of the winds
I know I don’t belong here
That’s all my mind tells me
I am an eagle though not fully developed
Up I look unto the sky top of the mountains
There I belong my soul sings
I run for awhile, lift my wings
Up I go and down I return
Never give up lifting my wings
And at last, I stretch my wings
Up I go and never to come down
And now I am there where I belong 
Above the cloud in the sky. 

(c) 2011


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Take Off the Mask and Be Yourself

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

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

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

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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Hell is a Fine Line Between Forgiveness and Heaven

      “Although meaning well, the bottom line shows that a “Jersey Rules” Adoption Attorney, 
a Children of the World Executive Director and the sidling State that is New Jersey had all gambled with the path of lives.
 And now hopeful we should be, each and every soul carries a sealed fate according to visions of karma. 
     One wonders about the autumn of life – if in some of their minds…? 
…Seen loosed for the first time are an infant’s fenced-in lonely springs of life cries, which time had been known to eventually turn into joyous laughter when windblown and lost amongst a summer’s children’s own. 
    This endure of karmic atonement I can only compare if viewed as a metaphoric wind born penance remind given to a phalanx of the forgiven, 
now found ironically within a snow fence’s charged duty to help clear the avenue to adoption. 
Yet for the task of some snow fences, 
found bound is the standing turpitude of the not forgiven; it is when these weathered pickets are subjected to that same constant echoing wind that rushes past, 
drawn out from its gusts is the steady drone of haunted howls for the cold, cold company to once again surround and soon forever to be their winter life’s keep!” …An Unknown Father  



Details | Prose Poetry | |

Was That Me

These steps
These steps thru life
Where have I been?
Where did I go?
What was there when I stood alone?
With only a love between me and death
Are the shadows my story?
Were my footsteps my pleas?
Are the echoes my history?
Was youth my mirror?
My shadow my mystery?
Was my return my dying?
Am I, am I but a lost dream?
That wants to keep trying?
What was never alive?
But a dream walking
Was that me?


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Cherry Blossom

Delicate buds open to the suns touch,
warmth and light herald the Spring
The beauty of nature unfolds around Us.
 
Walking across the carpet of Cherry Blossom
Soft scents and a gentle touch
I feel spent blossom on my face and you,
in your hair
 
Petals sit atop of your head
A crown I say,
you smile, 
A King yet to Find.
 
We part, neither needs to Cry,
as we both know, 
the Samurai say,
today is a good day to die


Details | Prose Poetry | |

First Slamwork, I'm REALLY Nervous

It feels as if this should be wrong 
But after today I don’t think that there is such a thing as wrong or right
Because what if 
What if 
What if I have been going about my life with non-existent parallels, juxtapositions, black and whites? 
Not what if, but why?
Why have I been wandering? 
Why have I been looking at the world through my eyes? 
These eyes, that are the spirit guide of my brain 
These two things, that have been trained, conditioned, and molded 
Into seeing 
Seeing and labeling 
Labeling and judging
Even when my eyes see, when they take a match, light it
Burn it 
Flare it
Igniting neurons and thoughts that result it in a line of words and letters
“I won’t judge”
“I don’t care”
“I’m not one to stare”
Those in itself, in themselves, cause myself 
To be what I don’t want to be 
One thought, one red herring
Destined to be captured and sent to one of two prisons
Right or wrong
Right says its righteous 
Wrong says it’s not righteous enough
One is seen as week the other as too rough 
But why have I been listening to these eyes?
That in themselves makes me a prisoner 
Two keys that force me to see in ways that I have been taught
Why can’t I listen with my soul?
And see with my heart?
Because this is what I have been taught.
But I can recognize that this train of thought 
Can be
Derailed
Redirected
As long as I saw. 




Details | Prose Poetry | |

Three Strings Of A Web

The big brown spider has three strings of his web strung. He rest 'pon the eve
waiting in the cold crisp autumn air.  He is draw up in a tight ball anticipating the sun 
to rise above the horizon.  A gentle airy breeze zips by cooling the spider to the core
as acorns bounce from tree to roof to ground. Trapped by circumstances of nature
he can not rebuild his web today.  Will he go without food with no trap to
catch insects?Web completely gone after heavy wind of the night and early morn.
The wind comesfrom the east with a chill like artic's breath. The brown spider is
drawn up in a ball attached to the ceiling beam of the porch. Will he be able to rebuild?..That will be a story for another day..  


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Loss of Appetite

The world shifted a bit when I walked inside,

my resolution blind to the choke of memory.

It wasn't even you, just your little sister..

I still wanted to turn around, and walk right 

back out of the restaurant. Go home.

**** lunch. Hungry for solitude, I fumbled

with the menu and meditated on the restless

scabs of a beer battered soul.

My father watched my jaw clench

and squinted. Mumbled his query,

but didn't push it. I couldn't speak,

bloody tidal waves surging toward

my eyelids, blurred the menu.

Brinzano? Sea Bass with a 

Chipotle sauce on a bed of rice.

Unsure of my palate, my tongue 

slowly shoveled the words out

and I ordered despite my appetite 

for closure. We locked eyes for a

moment, and she smiled. 

I nodded. Stroked my beard,

and looked toward the truck.

Stuck. 

It was probably rude.

A bit pathetic.

It wasn't even you, just your sister.

But a relative of a butcher,

still sometimes smells of blood.

The food, flavorless in the mouth

of bitter reflection wasted.

The wait for the check, ticked

slowly across my spine

and I wondered if you ever 

saw the flesh of my posture

in a crowd; If it stood out?

Made you hungry?

Or if you have forgotten,

the way I've been trying to

for so long.

-James Kelley 2014, All rights reserved.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The dying in belonging

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

World is a bee

The world is a bee that stings

Sometimes you need to be poisoned

To know what you are capable of surviving

Sometimes survival is the purpose

And the achievement

Passion may find you in this maze of life

And for it, you are privileged

It may come to you in any form

The aroma of freshly brewed coffee

The notes of a magical song

The promise of a place unknown

It may come from inside you

A deep love for someone, or something or somewhere

An unspeakable connection

Weaving dominently throughout your soul

A fascination with existence

And a ravenous thirst for knowledge

Don't be afraid of the bee

It's the sting that makes you stronger


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Blind Side II - The Veja Du

 …Previous to viewed enlightenment, it was his adoption social studies that 
analytically suggested that this “openness” failure with an unheard congruence of 
single lives would increase each burden to-fold. Yet, only the truly broken hearted 
with an ever deepening sense of a mother’s regret would indeed, endure potential 
happiness instead turn to become added weight to loneliness. 
This was an extra load carried by his mother and obviously based on guilt. Yet, 
through the years he unknowingly turned blindly to this; obviously having thoughts 
that she and the many like her, never had enough hurt to make him realize one 
major factor: The swaying of a young mother’s mind to agree to the foreseen 
benefits of an Open Adoption could’ve led any one of them to find comfort in the 
knowing of a child’s presented future destiny… 
Yet, this wasn’t the way her life ended. However, it had ended with no contact and 
no photograph!
    To edify such, of the few times she spoke to other people concerning the Open 
Adoption, in her voice there always maintained a high level of self-doubting 
inflection. This was a conscience still ensconced at the summit of its grief; there 
would never be a fulfillment of her self-sacrificing penance.
   In stark, contrasting analogy of her coercion, was that he too, had since found 
himself on same like hilltop. Only this place was real, in overlook and on earth. A 
place of anomaly, one that evokes true ironies, where metaphors in life’s journey’s 
reflections do view from both sides …, but sometimes, - will stop you cold! It could 
be a life changing experience…


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Four Little Boxes

Four little boxes all in a row
Four little boxes, each has a story that people should be blessed to know
One box is fair
One box is made with care
One is covered with stains
And the last is easy to see that someone loved to play games
Four little boxes all in a row
Four little boxes, each has a story that people should be blessed to know
Four little heads, playing pretend
Four little mouths, walking on the river and around the bed
Four little eyes, seeing the world with wonder
Four little minds, adding their own touch to people's hearts
Four memories, full with pretend
Playing house, and yelling when they couldn't go out
Four little people, hugging and kissing, the purest way to mend
Four little boxes, all in a row
Covered in dust and snow
Four little boxes, put away
Never to come back and play
The first little box passed away
The second little box lost her way
The third little box grew up
And the fourth little box is making new little boxes that will one day
Maybe be put away…


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Backwash

I closed my mouth around the words,

felt my skeletons wash up against

the shore of a silver tongue;

Driftwood,

laying still on the bank,

charred and cracking open

inside the swallow of shameful 

Determination.

“I never wanted it to be like this,

             never thought it would go

                                         …this far" 

I watched your finger list its way 

around an empty highball glass,

its fragility reminding us both of 

the damage of throwing stones

in a house ready to shatter. 

I couldn’t look you in the eyes. 

              Couldn’t let you see

the poison forcing its way out. 

No matter, how badly I needed 

to feel anchored.

I was better off;

left to drown,

than to pull you under

the waves birthed by 

my lack of transparency. 

"I never wanted it to be like this, 

            never wanted to bring you down.” 

I couldn’t look you in the eyes;

 as the light shined through

the gleaming vessel wrenched

in your palms,

I ordered another round,

Unable to stand the spectrum 

cast, the colors of truth,

with nothing to hide.

So, I finished my beer.

Tasted the backwash cast back,

from every selfish, thoughtless

draft, and forced it down. 

The amber tint of the bottle 

reflected nothing;

As volatile and opaque as

the soul clinging to it. 

"I have to go, 

                      I’m sorry.” 

I left the money on the bar,

hoping it was enough to sate 

our demons for the night. 

-James Kelley 2014, All rights reserved


Details | Prose Poetry | |

the World is Full of Critics

the world is full of critics: both the Young who scoff at love, and the Old who ridicule desire.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Still Life in Shadows

 
Figures like shadowed burnt molded clay mimic life		   
As they are cast in the sliver of light that passes		   
Through a crack in the rotted wood of the house slowly		   
Collapsing as days stretch endless under grey or blue of		   
Skies with the sun burning in their hearts beating		   
Like the wings of the robin that kisses		   
The first dew of spring		   
		   
They remember their dreams transparent and watery		   
Like the surface of the lake rippling and catching the sheen		   
Of the moon on a Shakespearean summer night,		   
The crickets lulling with their song, the warm breeze		   
Sifting through the darkness that is broken like shards		   
By the street lights that shine for the lonely nightwalker		   
Or the lit window casting the glow from our home		 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

INTIZAAR

Hazaar khuwahishein hazar khuwaab 
Hazaar rustey hazaar sarab 
Hey kitni aankhein jo rusta deykhti hein ab bhi ..
Hey kitney diye jo julney k muntazir hein abhi ..
Hein kitney log ..jo khali daman ..
Khali haath …chultey jatey hein
Waqt key hathon zindagi key rustey kut tey jatey hein
hein kitney rung..
Jo abhi zindagi key khanon mey bhurna hein baki 
Hein kitney manzar jin ko abhi ubherna hein baki 
Yeh sooni aankhein ..yeh khali haath…
yeh udaas chehrey ..adhoorey saath
Aatey jaatey manzaron sey poochtey hein pata apni manzil ka
Apni zindagi key hasil ka..
Kiya yeh udaas chehrey ..khali hath 
Kisi ka sath payengey kabhi …ya ..
Intizaar ki aag mey jul ker ..
Matti mey miljayengey sabhi …!!!


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Absurd Lives

A bitter drop to the cup of joy, LIFE
Mixture of dappled emotions, perhaps 
In adazzle outfits or tattered garbs 
Entangled in esotericism menfolk
Accosted themselves in absurd

Running to victory, hectic world
In deliberate attempt to seize ‘IT ‘
Did he attain? Nothing of the sort
Transcendental existence! 
LIFE mocked mischievously

Advanced age showered wrinkles
Like withered leaves on earth
Hectic world, gone beneath the clouds
Sprawled on green sward
Accosted himself in absurd

What’s Achieved?
LIFE mocked mischievously.



Details | Prose Poetry | |

Dread

What is it about dread that controls us?  The mixture of fear and loathing that 
consumes the contents of an empty bottle, longing for concentration and proof.  
Do we confuse the child within with the promise of loving past?  To be trapped in 
the closet crying insinuates passion that is manifested through burden of truth.  
Fallen is the plight of earthbound angels with clipped wings of faith.  Paralysis 
inhibits the quest of sequestered fanaticism and belief.  Eaten by earthly gilded 
belief.  Why does the clock taunt the merciful memories of divine imagery?  Why 
must that price be paid to know isolation?  From birth the struggle defines and 
outlines the matrix of conflicting souls.  The constant crash and collision of 
innocence tainted by truth.  This feeling is certain and intoxicating.  No truth could 
be truer.  No faith could be more devout.  The absolution of death disembowels 
the continuance of self-repair.  Does the collar impair judgment or empower 
concentration?  Can the songs of holy impunity comfort like the caress of a 
mother?  Will the tears drown unselfish giving?  

The answer is simple. 
The journey is hard.  
The gift is reverence. 

 Light, when will I learn the lesson?


Details | Prose Poetry | |

January's Wishes Spoken Through the Dishonesty of April.

Her eyes amused me, slices of January that held April tightly....

she could rain in snow, drop from upside-down skies, and we held tightly to the tears that
only appeared on the opposite side of closet doors as we marked our claim on unusual with
hand prints that never saw the sun.

Two days could have passed underneath us before we blinked, my windows whispered glorious
promises but we kept them closed for safety, for the opposition of who we could be, and
she knew the secret of every season, she knew how to laugh when bedroom doors...

closed.


I drew her behind the mirror and we created October across December stars, we became
disobedient underneath the glorious names we sang that night for lips speak magic when
they pretend to lie and dishonesty was but a kiss away from sunrise.


Time stung me come August, come March, come the age of thirty-two, her eyes had been shut
for years now and she sunk beneath flowers I am positive would be beautiful enough to
photograph had I the courage to glance, but my feet have never crossed the grass that
blankets her and roots her promises...

tangled beneath tomorrow with a tight grasp on yesterday, and I wonder if the days have
yet to fade the color of her hair.


It rained in January when I existed miles away, teardrops of memories that fell as softly
as the whispers of her name, I closed the bedroom door tightly and listened intensely for
the echoes of dishonesty, for she remained there, somewhere, behind mirrors that painted
her and the lies that bit my tongue, that reassured me...


our hand prints would hide from summer...

covered in ice-cream secrets that screamed her pain from a smile, from a foolish wish that
spoke us inseparable.


Her eyes, blue as October, slapped me, that day, as they painted themselves the secrets
girls are never supposed to witness, as they refused to allow April to fall but declared

honesty

with the beauty that she

could never see.




Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Chase

Sounds of laughter shake the trees
Sounds of screaming bring me to my knees
Living is so hard
But I really love this world
Nothing's gonna change me
I will sign myself and turn into a tree
Sounds of laughter
Dancing to nonexistent music
I will never regret leaving you even this, even after
I will live my life
I will cheat Her
I will avoid the old age and strife
It's hard to be someone in this time
What time is it?
And what are we upon?
In the company of the stars, my purple eyes almost look lit
The fires that She caused
To ensnare me
I escaped
Laughter shakes the trees
Screaming brings you to your knees
She is coming after me
But I will live and live, and I love life
And I learn from all this strife
And I love and despise humanity
And I will forever hold on to my sanity
Because She will never get to me


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Respect

Respect
 
The word respect generates many different views for various people.
But it is actually our basic foundation of attitude toward others.
We always should appreciate and accept others no matter how,  what or who they are.
Respect can be in any kind of value but everyone are treated in the same level of influence.
Some people quickly feel offended and do not want to discuss further thus they start to think and speak that others do not respect them.
But to be respected, we must earn it by ourselves by being polite and have good manners for others.
Everyone has their own attitude and character, we are all in a learning process, so it is the duty for all of us to respect each other.
We also should show respect for someone whose personality may not fully match with us, because every human being have their own attitude and character.
Respect means be respectful for each other to let everyone keeping their own value of life.
We should have respect for any person in front of us regardless of the skin color, ethnicity or their knowledge.
It doesn’t matter how is their skills, qualities or performance, most important is to give full respect to everyone around us with good attitude and being politeness.
Always think positive about others even though some of them may give us a false impression at that time.
Peace will begin when we are able to respect each other equally.
Treat others with decency and honesty as they way we want to be treated.
Respect give joy in a peaceful world which will eventually triumph over poverty and violence.
 
I wish you a healthy life.
Kindly Regards,
Author Jan Jansen
http://poems.easybranches.com


Details | Prose Poetry | |

That was then, this is now

In the wind that blows with the rain
is a man with a past very dark
lonesome he was, and in pain
through years all fruitless and stark

now, life for him is beautiful and new
the tears and fears of old have no power
the long journey is nearly through
as the gale becomes a spring shower

this life has in cycles and circles been led
round and round, up and down, before and after
countless are the tears he has shed
yet sometimes smiles too, and laughter

once a beggar, then a king, then a beggar again
in ignorance and blindness he once stumbled
now dimly seeing, the man does begin
to awaken and realize how he tumbled

it was drugs!  it was drink!
it was "i"
he barely noticed the brink
then, shuddering, he...

looked forward, and then peered behind
seeing nothing, then looking back he recoiled
he had been no king, noble and kind
but a knave, a slave, still bleeding and soiled

so close to his grave, yet so far from his heart
ruled by feelings, urges, and addictions
and attended by demons, all playing a part
in dramatic delusions, and fantastic fictions

thinking life was lost, and the end was near
all was in vain, and no credit was due
he set out to change from need and from fear
and he stumbled some more it is true

but that first moment of sight will never be over
a feeling worse than can be described
once a carefree wanderer and restless rover
he became an accuser who couldn't be bribed

that was then, this is now
and i have reason to believe
the way is clear, and is how
to renew, not to fail, or to grieve

and one fine day, clear and bright
the light will grace his rising frace
what was wrong will be right
and he will be done with the chase


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Fourth Fable

 The Fourth Fable 
The Fourth Fable 
 
A Jesus Cowboy Song 
 
Eye am a strong man iff strength is not physical alone, 
but charachter and hope, love become my armour 
 my arm as gates once opened close now new ones open at a glance in poverty 
of riches poor people there in Heaven sing to Jesus as they wave branches from 
the richness of the trees beside the waters running in the trenches freely given 
overflowing when a little lamb just wants a drink of water another drink the water 
bubbles up so no one has to lift her she can reach the water carefully she drinks 
and then she sings…' 
'my holster is empty my life is complete my love is in Heaven 
eye have plenty to eat and to drink ' 
life is not meant to be a shoot em up rodeo 
life is not meant to be a shoot um up movie 
my life is in Heaven my holster is empty 
eye have LOVE' 
 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Random Thoughts on a Chlly Afternoon

Pt.2

      I think of my favorite itty, bitty bugs, so gentle, harmless, my Ladybugs hibernating 
now, or they would be out showing their beautiful satin-like polka dot dresses of red and 
black, or tan and black...  I have been feeling a bit down lately but who has not been down 
this path at some time or other in this life?  And so I must thank my few friends, whom I 
know have been praying for me, because some of the dark clouds were suddenly lifted 
today! Most of the fog has vanished!  My circumstances have not changed, but my soul is at 
peace once more.  I’m beginning to see!  Yes, today, I parked the car.. I did not enter the 
house but went for the usual walk instead. And I watched nature changing, saw how it was 
adjusting to all the elements in stride- the temperature, the wind, the sun and rain.  It 
reminded me to “taste and see” how sweet life is and to remember that it doesn’t matter 
what is going on today, there will be a tomorrow. And if tomorrow doesn’t come for me, in 
this place, so what? I will be at home where all of my sorrows and regrets and the tears and 
all the fears, will be buried in ancient graveyards of yesterday.  I look forward to welcoming 
another beautiful Christmas, with the beautiful music, the wonderful smells, the laughter and 
joy, the brightly colored lights, including the craziness of it all- which I can do without 
sometimes, lol—But yes, I embrace it all!


~*~


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The rarest tale of love

Today my heart is caught in a great dilemma,
 It is unusual,uncommon & very rare,
 when mind stops to think,but heart continues its work,
 today i am in that stage of love.
 
This tragedy with someone is really very rare,
 That secret of my life today i want to share,
 Unconditional & uncertain towards him i was walking,
 At that moment mind was ceased to think what i was doing.
 
That extreme care & commitment so intense,
 this was the only feeling in my whole soul which i can sense,
 but in a second got shattered all my dream,
 When i realize that in his world,only a little i mean.
 
my life entered in that darkness,where light even fears to go,
 The lips which were ever smiling,on those lips now smile fears to grow. 
At that worst moment of life,someone entered my lane,
 I couldn't even noticed that he loved me like an insane.
 
Now here also once again got repeated the tale,
 situation made me so, that to love him i fail,
 It was impossible for me to fall in love anymore,
 'Love' & 'me' became the two sides of a seashore.
 
This was the tale uptil here,
 about which you can think that isn't so rare,
 But there is a truth making it EXTRAORDINARY,
 Not a lie,not a story,it is something real about me.
 
About the two person i told were not the different two,
 Yeah he was the same whom i loved,& who loved me too.
 The situation made him so different at different time,
 That's the RARENESS with the life of mine.
 
I never got the one,whom i really loved,
 He never got the one,whom he really loved,
 With every breath now,myself melting i find,
 I broked someone's heart & couldn't even saved mine


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Free me please

I have to hide how I feel 
I can't tell any of my friends about my deviant art
I can't say how I feel to him
(Beleive me I have tried he won't listen)

On sundays 
I dred the hour
Of six 'o clock 
At that moment in time is when I must leave
At that time my eyes begin to water

I love to go to Church,yes,
But I hate to go back to him




Our lives are in ruins because of him
He's heartless
Cruel
And only cares about him 


One day soon I hope to be free 

One day soon I can be me.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

~ (~) ~ (Four Part-s-Part #2) Dedicated in Love to My Little Sister ~ Tina Marie Haynes ~ (~) ~

She reminded me of my Sister Tina... She had been adopted by a Christian Minister and her family, as we all eventually were, each separately adopted... who lived life to the fullest of faith. As they adopted so many children that had their own particular needs for love, and had had their struggle themselves with their own desire for it... Tina had a rare lung disorder, a form of Emphysema, and passed away at 6 1/2 years of age... But was as grateful for life as I feel a person could aspire to be... Every time she was asked "Tina" How are you feeling today?" She would fight, and I mean with all of her love for life to say... "I am just fine today, and how are you yourself today?" And she would talk with them for a time. She could barely even speak most of the time, and was in a wheel chair and on oxygen for the majority of her life, but she wanted people to know still that her life was wonderful... and was still concerned about another's day... She new that with God, she was well taken care of, and wanted the world to know this too... "I have always found this to be the most precious and endearing thing, among the very many things about her... and so the kitten that my daughter brought home for us could barely meow, and welcomed life and struggled to embrace it even though hers was distraught at the time... We kept her, and loved her greatly, and intently for this one reason... and every time someone was not feeling well, she would lay by their side or on there chest, upon their heart, and would stay there purring until they were well... A peculiar side note about her... My wife read the bible every day, and left it on our bed... and every time Precious was in labor, she would lay on that bible, and "I believe" Be praying to God for us and her new kittens that were on the way... That their life would bring a new life of this kind to another's, and so I find that she reminded me of my Sister Tina... in so many ways... because she was always grateful for life, and another's life, loved God, and moved to show it in all her ways, and I always found that the name that we gave her "Precious". Was the most fitting and adoring and endearing name that we could have given her... Because this is what she, like my little Sister, was to all of us, and to everyone she came in contact with, and who came in contact with her... . http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=28yTkaR-q3Q&feature=related


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Heart of a POET -- Speaks (Part 3)

Disintegrated
Red Tears , Create a Black Lake
Where my Heart now swims

You may Kiss your Bride : I raise HER veil, see the essence of my universe
Wrapping my arms around Her; drawing Her closer, We kiss our tongues dance
The eyes, ears the depths of my soul ; screaming “Rejoice; our host is Whole
 I remember Our Wedding Dance a Rhapsody to Eternity, the rest of the day 
                                            A soporiferous trance
I remember the last  Beautiful  Picture  I ever Felt of  “  L E N O R E  “
 My host  was  standing on the Shuffle-Board Court talking with Mr. Adams
 His only “FATHER” - in law :  Respectfully  my host gazes beyond “TO LENORE”
 Standing by the railing  on the main deck a few feet below : He glances and catches
 THE flash in LENORE’s Green Eyes : the mirrors of HER SOUL a silhouette :
  Against the Sun standing upon his own reflection Smiling at His smile : I Smile
 Sending  LENORE ‘s Heart a whisper :  a LOVE Song;  Singing of our FOREVER
 A Toast to MRS LENORE ELLEN(Adams)JOHNSON The Heartbeat of my SOUL
 Her eyes bypass me to her Daddy,  I nod my appreciation, He nods Saying call me D A D 
 OUR eyes  revert to LENORE who raises her glass which flies from her hand:  I glimps
As a sailing boom sweeps across the main deck Hearing the wails of fear and pain
The boom lifts LENORE up and throws Her over the Railing I glance at DAD “FROZEN
 In that second of time” I tore off my cummerbund tie and my shoes “All HANDS on Deck  
ALL HANDS ON DECK Man Overboard  I start to leap as the arms of a monster puts me in a
                                                       Bearhug
I can’t break through “ Let me go YOU stupid  M___er - F___er  Please LET ME GO I cried 
                                                        PLEASE


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Doorway

I’ve cut my hands on the broken screen door
of dreams meant to be deserted;
I can feel the rush of inclusion in a state of decay
as it gasps open against tucked in eyelids.
Smiles caught in dim headlights,
before the empty sway of drunken iron
drips from my palms as
inertia drives it all to fruition,
abstract revelations come to life.
My eyes stutter, fighting to 
keep them alive. 
I press reddened palms against 
the dusty doorway, count in
cadence meant for a heartbeat,
and breath in harmonic patience 
with something I wish I could understand,
but my sort of muscles are too weak to make an 
impact, my palms have become imprinted with the wake 
of trembling foundation’s sorrow.
               ….I look at them
pruned by the sour chaste of possibility;
rivers of emptiness run through my 
own imperfections. 
I’ve mended nothing.
they’re still…
cold. 
These dreams are stone,
and I am only flesh;
Pounding my fists against a doorway
that has long forgotten I am here. 
-James Kelley 2014, All rights reserved.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Lily

	

 Fragrance of red rose
	Embracing morning due
	Looking for a rising sun
	To brighten up the day

	Fragrance of red rose
	Embracing eagle’s wing
	Waiting for a flight
	To fly high in the sky

	Fragrance of red rose
	Embracing the ocean
	Sailing on a titanic ship
	To taste the other side of the coin

	Fragrance of red rose
	Embracing life
	Running with a goal
	To become a star 

	  



Details | Prose Poetry | |

Modern Day Merlin

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

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

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

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

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

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

So float on by.

Let the wind keep you steady.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Desert Edge (part one)

The desert edge lies on the fringe of three worlds
And under this one sun I sit alone with one crow for company
Behind my worn down shack of lack lustre dreams
Rises to the horizon a jungle of Heaven’s Gate a lush and verdant wonder
To the right hand of my chair thunders the Blue Divide
Chill blue seas like the unrelenting hammer of a Dwarven God
It beats the rocks beneath the cliff with a lulling weary rhythm
That echo of the searing fire baking the earth on the left of my smile
Where the rocks steam in pain and crack beneath the weight they carry
Where the sands burn like coal in that desert forge

I tilted my head to the bright blue sky with its rising pastel hues
Listening to the murmurs across my back of Heaven’s Gate and her leaves
Sighing of the Blue Divide with her sweet breath rolling in with her thunder
Feeling the wafting of warmth billow over me from the desert forge
I sat as I have from the death of my youth to this the twilight of my days
It was a hot and sundering day, chill like no other before it thought my friend the crow
And he was right for it was a day of change, a day of foreshadows deep

On came a wanderer from lands that I have not travelled only visited
Bringing with him memories of the trails I have wrought through my own life
In brief glimpses I did sojourn into the emerald vault of Heaven’s Gate
Barely through the vines that choke the border of that world I strove in my search
And there beyond the wall I fell upon a path of soft grass damp with life
But I was not alone under the shadowy sunlight filtering down through the leaves
I could hear them moving all around me in the gloomy depths of the jungle
What they were I never knew, never caught sight of them completely
I only heard in horrified rapture their howling, their cackling echoes in the trees
They knew I was there though I could not see them they knew I was there
A stranger in their world, perhaps they thought me an invader, an interloper
So it was they chased me with screams and wailing cries like a thousand jackals
Ran me down biting the shadow of my heels as I ran blindly back, back, back to the edge
Stumbling I found myself broken down having past beyond the great barrier of vines
Those silent and vigilant protectors holding within their grasp a promise



Details | Prose Poetry | |

WEIGH ME DOWN

WEIGH ME DOWN
                                               

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

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

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

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

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

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




Details | Prose Poetry | |

COURAGE

Summon the strength 
to confront pain, grief;
to endure danger 
or the threat thereof. 
Campaign with determination 
to face a valiant struggle. 
Boldly challenge the fear within 
to prepare for resistance 
with instinctive 
physiological response.
Compel a coercive compulsion 
to become valid.
Assume risk when others retreat.
Stand for righteousness
in the face of adversity.
This is the nature of courage.

          


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Behind the curtains

Behind the curtains,
Behind it all,
looking at it from the higher throne,
the throne of a higher purpose,
the throne consisting a universal spectrum.,

Architectural designs screeching through the data of the universe,
one eating the other like a game of pacman,
artificialness spreading its disease towards the human creation,
preventing it from extracting its inner release!.,

Universal beings we are,
infinite our spiritual growth indeed is,
infinite life is,
life at the moment is just not is,
its just the pure artificialness.,

The artificialness which is preventing us from becoming complete and destroying the privilege of we obtaining our higher purpose in life,
the higher purpose that we would be the universal beings we had to be and that's truly be connected to god and its creation the universe as one divine formulation.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Fraternity of Bearded Poets

Jack wrote a poem about his beard and it got me to thinking. What is it about our facial hair that causes us to hold on to it? For me, when I grew my first mustache at sixteen, it was almost a right of passage to manhood. When I look back at old pictures, it doesn't look so manly. My Mom had always threatened to shave it off in my sleep. She never did, so here I am Thirtyfive years later still sporting a mustache with an added Goatie under my chin. The younger amongst us may consider me an old goat so I think it is appropriate. I prefer of course to think it is distinguished, especially considering the amount of grey that has appeared. Perhaps in a few years I will look back and think, it looks as silly as that picture of my Sixteen year old Self.   For now it will remain, kind of like an old friend you don't wish to part with.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Spirit of Christmas

John and Bath, short for Bathsheba Adams, were quite a pair.  Nothing ever got them down, except maybe an occasional cold.  Even then she would take hers out into the cold winter day of the back parking lot of the slum tenement building.  Where, there, she would nudge three of the fifteen cats trying to climb her double tattered blue jeans, out of the way, in order to stand and offer her cold up to God, seeing that it was all she had to offer Him and really she would be grateful, as well as giving up her only possession.   She often asked God why He didn’t seem inclined to come and keep them company, because she believed in Him heart, body and soul and talked to him constantly because John just got tired of listening.  She and John loved each other and no other.  She hadn’t worked steadily in Lord knows when.  John on the other hand got hurt on the job just before he was vested in company rights and the pitiful settlement he received was long gone.  He was left as barely good company for Bath, telling her over and over to just wait ‘til “he gets back on his feet” literally.  But that is not an option any longer, so Bath feels the need to keep him company. They really only had what you might call one vice.  That being because you might say they were wasting good money for no good reason.  They religiously bought two, one dollar lottery tickets every day that passed.  Well, there it was, the day before Christmas and Bath didn’t have money but for one ticket.  Well, she hotfooted down through Chinatown because there were still barbers there who would buy hair and she wanted to give John a special lottery ticket for Christmas.  The deal done she was cold as the mischief and begging God not to let her sinus get worse as she headed through the light rain for those lottery tickets.  John, meanwhile was hobbling down to get his ticket.  She always insisted that he walk to the corner himself so if he won he would feel like he had bought the ticket.  The rascal stopped and sold his crutch.  Can you belive, for $1 he sold his crutch.  Well, to cut to the chase, some friends carried him home after he bought the ticket.  Beth came in and after a bowl of soup, they had a prayer and wished each other merry Christmas and exchanged the two tickets which were the gifts.  Well, my story ends here.  I'm not going to tell you one or both won the lottery.  But in the spirit of Christmas I will say they lived quite long, and they were very happy while they lived. 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

settle for the right one

We all have to settle for the right one,
each of us will one day choose one,
and in the choices you make,go for one,
 
Right job
Right girl,
Right boy,
Right husband,
Right wife material,
and settle for the right one,
 
The Sun,
settled for the right one,
rising at dawn,
setting at dusk,
Her brother the Moon
chose to do the exact opposite,
in the end,they both settled for the right one.
 
Your parents,
settled for one,two,three,...
you know better how many you are,
but they settled for the right one,
even if u the example setting 1st born,
forever spoilt last born,
only girl among boys,
only boy among girls,
or you are one of the late coming kids,
they say '' we don't know how it happened''
 
your friends,
settled for the right one,
they choose to praise you,
they choose to diss you,
they talk behind your back,
they talk right within your earshot.
but hey, 
they settled for the right one.
 
your family,
sisters and brothers
settled for the right one,
they love you, adore you,
look upto you,
seek your advice,
do you do the same?
choose
and settle for the right one.
 
partners,
don't rush for them,
dont get one coz your friend 
just had one,
take your time and settle for the right one,
don't think that the adorable SMS's 
she sends you indicates her as the one,
maybe the one with mean texts
is just the one.
dont let coffee dates seal the one for you,
take your time..
and settle for the right one
...
i am writing this,
in hopes that you will find time,
settle for the right one 
and read this.
 
just remember,..
 
..... Settle for the right one....
 
...(*_^)......


Details | Prose Poetry | |

1one2two9nine

 1one2two9nine 
1one2two9nine 
 
 
CharlaXFabels 
 
 
WiseorFoolish 

 DOING WHAT THE JESUS SAID 
Eye am risking the loss of some merits to at least prove to some of you that to do 
the works of JESUS is the right and lawful thing to do the man was just like me 
he seems to be a homeless and eye asked him to share my food he said no he 
was taken care of a food card from the service. Eye wound up giving nothing but 
a courtesy yet my blessing is unending the words that JESUS speaks are meant 
to be the life we breathe and giving is so certainly the thing to do. Not bragging 
unnecessarily just letting people knoe to do the works he says to do. Offer 
someone food if they can take it it will help you if they refuse it you can eat it 
seems to me there is nothing there to lose. Now the food eye have to eat is better 
for the act of sharing even the man is not eating with me the food it's doubly 
better in proportions. Show me the house that's built on stilts that's built on sand. 
There is a temporary church that meets inside the main church building they 
usually start the service at nine thirty today they went out on a run away there was 
no church service even eye usually go just to knell down near the table and thank 
Jesus for the offering there there is Coffee and some coffee cake and other 
things as well but today eye am on mye own attempting more than one thing at a 
time it seems beyond the eye trying to stay hooked into the wonder of this life for 
it seems like GOD is just like Santa Clause to me when we have it in our heart to 
do he sees it just the same. 
Eye still carry my raincoat my umbrella even though it has not rained for many 
weeks I'm ready. The place eye like to visit has been pulled out from under me 
the preacher needs to visit his own prayer room just to see how dark his heart is 
to become without his love. He warned me not to trespass and so far eye have 
not been back but the wonder of it all is that the place still seems to stand a 
monument to decadence a monument to disgrace. They knoe that eye am 
homeless eye still walk the street without a place. The blankets in the dump 
seem so nice when eye am cold. Foolishness or wisdom tell me preacher what 
would you do when the sky was falling would you stick your turkey neck up to the 
rain and then just drown or would you find a church with a poor doorway to get 
dry. The path is narrow the climb is steep and harrow the preacher fast asleep. 
Eye cry a homeless to the end of time. 



Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Scattering that Comes With Painful Impossibility.

Morning light and time breathing, he slipped himself underneath me as daylight broke,
I fought tears, I fought him, I fought myself and life happened in the midst of refusal...


I fumbled in my pockets for pieces of him when the puzzle of me scattered, I watched
months become rich with memories and curls tangle themselves into shadows against the
moon, I yanked out promises as my elbows bruised and wished my mouth had been sewn shut as
my jeans could erase the treasures that were left by his fingerprints...

Letting go of me and I forced myself to reach too far, I challenged my beliefs for the
taste of him, for the taste of a smile when my eyes were wet with the tears I refused to
let fall and I fell, underneath him, on a Sunday, in June, when we spoke too softly for
the sun to hear us and I don't think summer ever knew I was waiting, I don't think he knew
that I patiently watched my heart break.....


Dawn rose in October, afternoon glared at me from beneath the stars in January and I felt
him again as I wrestled with ideas of why I wanted to, and I wondered what his motivation
was in March, on the night the snow fell without regard for our safety, I almost knew it
couldn't be my curls, I felt I was way too...

...scattered.



I felt him in May, I reached for his hand when our windows erased the nightmares, I lay by
his side and listened to his heartbeat to find my voice and we breathed...

when lips touched without speaking, when eyes locked and closed and whispers danced
through sunbeams, when he told me, from underneath me...

he loved me...

before the sun fell and after heartbreak felt a little bit too much like June.






Details | Prose Poetry | |

Brave Soldier

Eleven years ago, my father died.
Divorced from my mother when I was two, 
he was a stranger to me most of my life.
I had no tears as the Marine handed me the flag.
He said, "This is a gift from the President of the
United States in honor of the service that your father
gave to his country". 

Five years ago, as my mother died,
I touched her face and held her hand -
something she never allowed when we were children.
I told her everything was all right
and she could let go.
My eyes were dry, she had no funeral.

Later that year,
my husband packed his suitcase.
He told me of his plans
to find his "spiritual path", and left.
I said nothing and went inside.

But last night, my sweet little Aussie
stumbled and fell, unable to move.
With wide eyes slightly opaque,
her dear face grey around the muzzle,
she told me, its time.

This sweet companion,
faithful and brave, has only asked
for my presence in her life.

This morning, I awoke,
and I cried a  child,
with my mouth open,
eyes streaming,
nose running.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Magic of High Tide and Butterfly Wings.

On wings and above oceans, in the days where it rained to the left while the sun peeked
from the right, and underneath magical dewdrop butterfly breezes, she stood in the wind,
in the freedom of imagination where windows were doorways to heaven, and fairy dust fell
from the ceilings that contained her heart...

above the roaring of high tide and next to the balcony where the winds untied the braids
her mother had placed carefully in her hair, her tiny hands lifted, up, towards storm
clouds and hidden suns...

and she blew, exacting her breath to dandelion seed releasing, and counted made~up nursery
rhymes, as she fluttered her heart...

and out of her mouth flew a butterfly, wings beating in the rhythm of love, her eyes
opened and she reached her palms to the ceiling, watched drapes fall from wings and....

fairy dust...

take flight, and she whispered in a voice intelligent enough to only belong to a little girl,

“Goodbye, my heart, flutter your wings to the sky, then find me one day, sprinkle me with
smiles, find me and take me...

home.”


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Sweet Lucy - Final Part

Lucy, sweet little thing, life was boring for me,
She made me wonder. She woke me up
A sweet sound, barking excited as always.
I reach for the door for my daily newspaper, 
On the back I saw an ad, a picture that looked like Lucy.
The owner was a little girl, quote “Please, if you see her, bring it back to me”
A reward was posted, 500 dollars! 
Money was something I was not interested in.
Lucy, Her name was actually Susie.
What should I do now? Deciding to stay true to myself,
I took her to the rightful owner,
I drove all the way to the little girl’s apartment in Manhattan
Room 307, I must have hesitated at first, I could just walk away.
But to see a sad little girl, because of me…is not what I do.
I looked at Lucy, sweet little thing, 
She stared at me again with those eyes of hers
That sweet face of hers’ made me gloomy. 
Barking and wagging her tail.
Even before I could ring the door bell, the door suddenly opened.
And I knew it was over between Lucy and me.
Little girl must have recognize that sound of sweet Lucy.
She ran towards me and pointed and said
"I found her, Susie!" I was saddened.
Lucy sweet little thing, I looked at her for the last time and pet her saying goodbye.
She kept on making a noise, the same noise when I found her on the alley
But it sounded different, like she knew this was my goodbye.
As I got on the elevator, I saw her playing with her real family
With the little girl parents, I didn't bother about the reward, for I have already gotten my reward from Lucy…that is when I met her on that alley.
She gave me a new look at my life…Lucy Sweet little thing..Goodbye!


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Days and Nights

Day after day .. night after night
We recite! Poems from memoirs, lose or gain
Again and again.
You fix one
Another comes!
We twit our time!
Reproaching nowadays.
We often blame others not ourselves.
We rode.
We grow old reciting a list of bad and good.
We should not or we should!?


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Kitsune

As Both human and fox, she knows the pains of life that belong to each.

Her cunning, wit, and charm serve her well. her life has been harrowing 
Outcast from both her kith and kin she is too human for the fox, too fox for the humans.
But she at last found a place where she belonged thanks to the one human who  can still accept her For what she is, both human and fox

Your welcome Kitsune

you have made my life peacefull whilst you are near
and for that i thank you


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Valley of the Universe

It matters not how we flourish in this valley of the universe, grazing in our meadow of celestial existence.

Life blossoms, life perishes on this pinhead of eternity but we strive to see the seasons through and escape the lurking perils, whether nature's or man's will.

In trepidation we anticipate the seasons predictable course. Springtime comes bringing beauty and warmth, igniting life, our petals unfolding in full glory.

For all mankind, there's a time, one season will not appear. Predictable as timely segments but not in content, we love the treasures that they bring but know they're mere signals to the finish line.

Life should be cherished, we should grow to be our absolute best but deep inside us we're aware that life is but a smudge on the handkerchief of Creation.

Our Earthly minds can not comprehend the endless possibilities beyond the stars and while space expands we continue to rape and pillage our own gift of a planet. 

But to the juggernaut called Creation it matters not how we flourish in this valley of the universe.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Thirteenth Fable

 Thirteenth Fable 
Thirteenth Fable 
 
Superstition 
 
Fables of CharlaX 
 
There is far too many to make a short list there is superstitions eye remember 
when eye was just a kid. The many things my girlfriends had to tell me things 
they ruined life at such an early age there is the BROKEN MIRROR that brings 
the SEVEN YEARS bad luck? The black cat crossing my path. The ladder that 
was never under the beam do not step under that in a funk of disbelief eye did all 
them things and now eye am homeless could it be that eye am superstitious or 
just unlucky in my life but then eye have met my violet flower my only one and only 
new life partner she is such a wonderful person not a superstitious reason in her 
curtain eye am certain of that now? The cat was never black enough to scare me 
but there was that just one time? It ran of course because my petting would have 
kept it from the dinner the mouse tail sticking out of a very black and ebon mouth. 
No bad luck can come to me AH HA eye cried its nothing. Then eye ran a little up 
the hill to home. And almost strangeld self eye ran full tilt boogie into the wire 
clothes line nearly taking off my head and losing all the dread of dying for there it 
nearly was. That was back in 1961 the time is not important there was never any 
time for love. Some things eye can remember but choose not to keep at all. Do 
not mop the floor under my feet is one. 
Do not make such sweeps under my feet and yes we did we told the girls to put 
the feet up so we must seep there anyway do you want me to get fired from such 
an important job as this one? 
They screamed and left the diner sure that bad luck was to come upon them oh 
gentle reader ewe don't laugh Erline never sweeps behind the counter. 



Details | Prose Poetry | |

life lessons of a car

Life lessons of a Car 
Im cruising down the road 
The cars at normal speed 
Everyones in their own lane 
Meeting their own needs 
I see the green trees 
starting to so beautifully grow 
In a twinkle of an eye 
Things start to  move real slow, 
Do I have a clue whats going on 
Have my rights outweighed my wrong 
Sometimes im stuck in traffic  
Its at a stand still , sometimes reality just gets more real 
Certain places youre not suppose to enter 
Because there could be danger 
Sometimes thats how our life treats us 
We do things out of anger 
Am I a stranger on the passenger side, if I was walking 
Would I be offered a ride 
Or would you turn your face 
And continue to hide 
Would you let me out 
On a lonely rode 
Would you pick me up 
If I was freezing cold 
I dont know but I do care 
If your tire went flat 
Id give you a spare 
Thats what my lifes all about 
Lighting the fire.thats in my heart Your car wont power on 
Ill give yours a start 
I know that start will get you very far 
These are the life lessons of a car! 
          By: Concetta S. Hardnett 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

On the Sundays I Cried and Tasted His Kiss.

My eyes closed, he made me breathe, he stopped...

and I cried, I drowned myself in the taste of how it should be as he opened me, opened his
hand and showed me the way time escapes from us, and I would say...

yes...

in that moment, I would whisper myself across his hands and we'd watch yesterday scatter,
I'd study confusion and laugh.


I wanted to tell him that if I walked, I'd stumble, my head would turn backwards towards
him waiting to see him run...

but I'd never call, not once, not on a Saturday when the sun broke the sky and clouds
shattered, pieces of my heart breaking...

waiting...

for him to understand.


Nights followed me and daydreams appeared in his open mouth as I brushed my lips across
his shoulders and watched tomorrow come true, and I never wanted much, I never begged for
him, I fell to his side, I felt my life dissolve into him, I whispered secrets because
when he sleeps...

he never hears me...

he never knows I'm scared.



I wanted to agree, but blue never dropped down in straight lines and I was terrified my
tears would fall in patterns that resembled pain, I wanted to open my mouth and show him
who I was, but my voice sounds too pretty when I speak his name...

I wanted to tell him, but he slept...

he dreamed while my secrets kissed his skin and hushed the Saturdays I'd 

waited

for him to call

and the Sundays when my tears tasted a little bit like how it should be

when my lips

still

tasted him.





Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Invisible Lover

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

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

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

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

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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

MY HUSBAND THE FATHER OF MY CHILDREN

I landed down
I dropped down to
My native soil
A tradition met
An initiative into womanhood
I am a woman
And a man I must choose
Norms speaks not of any man
But “The man”
The real man
Is there a man in every man?
Not in the least
The man is my life’s side warrior
My life’s second guard
He must remain the protector of my eggs
This man I search
Amongst all men
He stands tall
With none coming first 
But me, his woman
This man must have a woman in him
The side that gives him compassion
A feminine sense of love
That man I seek
He is the real man
My husband, the father of my children!


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Springtime Interlude

Slowly I am drifting, fluttering across a lush and green meadow, 
seeking out the life giving nectar of your flower. 
Your ruby red pedals spread wide and inviting, 
anticipating my arrival. 

Gently I land upon your silken but firm pedal. 
I kiss you softly as I move slowly across your surface 
towards the soft and sensual spot 
that hides your precious gift. 

Caressing and probing with maddening desire 
I thrust inside you.
Overwhelmed with ecstasy and pleasure 
I drink the delectable essence of your being.
 
I drink your life giving juices 
until I am drunk with your intoxicating liquid 
and can no longer feel the wings upon my back. 
I pull away to recover my senses. 

Slowly I regain control 
and caress you softly with my pollen covered hands 
then bid you farewell. 
As I lift away with sadness in my heart 
I am comforted to know 
that I will find you again next spring.   


Details | Prose Poetry | |

PRETTY EYES

they  or  round
and very sound
the look get you hook
these or know lies
you have
PERTTY EYES


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Children Of The Night

In paradox with the living world,
Day breaks at dusk,
Reminiscences of the preceding night,
Lost to substance abuse induced amnesia,
Breakfast is served,
Flunitrazepam, ethanol and cannabis,
A balanced diet of solid, liquid and gas,
Like a decaying carcass,
The remnant of the prior nights hunt, 
Lays naked and lifeless,
Inebriated by debauchery,
Only awakened to gain her recompense,
Her departure leaves both souls in depletion,
Like an eloquent and articulate preacher,
The tube propagates hells propaganda,
Corrupting the subconscious,
By its message of profligacy,
As darkness encompasses the metropolis,
Its offspring emerge from the shadows,
Adorned in gold and glitter,
Bathed in fragrant perfume,
Concealing rot and decay,
Congregating in tabernacles of immorality,
Flickering and flashing lights,
Tobacco burnt as offering,
Its smoke rising as repugnant incense,
Alcohol and drugs served as unholy communion,
Bodies swaying to hypnotic melodies,
All in total adulation,
To the lord of the night,
In this realm of perversion,
Where virtue is sacrilege,
Abomination is sacrosanct,
In pairs they fellowship,
Sons with sons,
Sons with daughters,
Daughters with daughters,
To consummate their worship,
By sacrifice on the altar of iniquity,
In total defilement of their temples,
As dawn approaches,
The darkness recedes,
Only to resurface,
At the break of dusk.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Love Poem

The love poem is written
for somebody special
the one you truely care about
in life

And only that one

And only that
one true somebody
should be the only
one to read the love poem

And no one else

For who else could
ever know
what it is about

Love


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Truth

I woke up not feeling myself
Although it’s how I know
That this day is like any other
It’s still impossible to asunder

Drugs, death, it’s just a game
Even my name

We fight
There’s no light 
I have no sight 

How can I be released?
All I want is peace…


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Strenght

A warrior, a man of integrity and honour will bow to his enemies some see that as a weakness,
He has respect for all, as we live together, on this isolated planet far away from the stars,
His beliefs are not shared by all, some think their existence much more important than others,
What makes these men better men is it wealth or power, are they lost in righteous indignation.

The warrior asks for nothing he has simple joys and lives a life that does not effect others,
He has strength to show weakness that is real power, real courage, and bow down to ignorance,
His life is his own life and he scatters petals in the wind and enjoys them as they fly high,
They are so beautiful as they rain back to earth a pink snow storm on a brilliant spring day.

He is as tender as nature, nature can show kingcups as perfect blazing plots of living gold,
And listens to the cry of a woodpecker the harsh tunes of jay birds the dusky squawks of rooks,
Watching bees hovering into the bells of flowers, making sunshiny hums in springs happiness,
And he watches over the green fields men, women and children livening and working a landscape.

When he is called he has no fear and listens to the nightingales with their songs of sadness,
Through dark green grasses feeling the whip of the stems on his knees careful of wild flowers,
Shepherds lead their flocks to fallow fields to graze on sweeter grass they follow each other,
The warrior takes these memories with him to God knows where and as nature he can be a storm.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Days Of Youth And Fish


Fishing was a joy 
A way to let time float by 
Every weekend with his St. Croix in hand 
He would take a leisurely walk to the lake 
And as he did for over fifty years 
Fly fish 

It was always the act 
Not the catch 
That was his way of letting the world 
Fade magically away 

Still… these last several years 
The lake had been quiet and still 
And try as he did 
All the fish seemed to be… gone 

There were times as a boy 
When bite by bite 
The crowded lake, filled with fish 
Would grab the hook 
Until forced to stop by the weight of the load 
He would lie on the cool green grass 
And enjoy the summer sun 

But those were the days of youth and fish 
When the earth was still warmed by the sun 
We’ve taken so much and given back less 
Those days are long since gone


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Behind it all

What I feel inside is something I usually hide
No one sees the tears behind my smile,
the sadness behind the jokes
or the pain behind my eyes

What I think about is for me to know
and for everyone else, just a question
I don't show emotions, so everyone thinks  I'm fine
Even though there's so much more then the happy girl

On the outside, everything is fine
But once you look inside...
You'll see where the pain comes from
But you won't be able to tell, behind my angel smile 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

We Expand

When I was a kid, i believed that I would never stop growing. I measured myself, and knew that everything taller was a glimpse of the future. 
We would all be giants eventually. The tallest man that ever lived was named Robert Wadlow. He couldn't stop growing. On his first day of school, 
he was taller than his father. They say, that when he tripped on the playground his knees made twin craters from falling so far. By the time he was 10, the dirt in his home town was pot-marked like a second moon. 
Size always seems to matter most when we are falling. An ant dropped from an airplane will survive with no injuries, if an elephant slips 3 feet, 
it's legs will snap beneath it, and or us, it is those dreams that we remember most. The ones where the harness breaks. 
Where you step from the roof of a building without knowing why. When a plane rushes back toward the earth like a lost lover. We always wait just before impact, unsure of shattering or survival, 
and unable to accept our own size. 
Maybe this is why we hunt the large animals to extinction; To make ourselves seem greater. In the end, the victory of the atom bomb was not in the arms raised, but it's ability to topple all of the smallest creatures. We dream of surviving as mountains; of never having to look up again. 
We long for longer conquests. 
The ship vaster than the ocean. 
The fire dwarfing the fuel. We expand. We expand,. 
Weapons add more than just inches to your arm span. When you fire a gun, you can touch someone a thousand of feet away just think of all the giants our wars have already created. Cemeteries are like an infinity of white cross hairs. Mass graves that are just twisting of what we have always wanted; A mountain built from our bodies. We expand, we expand,. 
Our empires, stretching like red lips opening into the widest sssmile, and then swallowing the face whole. We build our largest statues for our war heroes, greater your conquest, the taller we will make you. We are taller than our fathers now. We cannot stop growing. Robert Wadlow did not want to be a legend. He wanted to train as a lawyer, but his hands were to large to 
write and type with. He died at age 22, half an inch short of 9 feet from an infection he never felt, because his nerves could not transmit signals that far. So stop trying to be statues. 
Walk. 
Feel the signals your feet send back to you and say "It is good to feel this close". It is good to live in our own bodies. Our bodies are whispers. Are bodies are matchsticks in the dark that light the small parts of us; The parts of us that can accomplish impossible things.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Land of The Living

Face the west. 
Face the stone and turn your back on your chains.

A wraith you arrived, but now life overflows with every ragged breath.

Let your heart brim with resolve, your eyes with the mountain and wake from the dream.

Your legs be your escape, fill them with your ambition. 
Bend the world on it’s side with your will and ascend Jacob’s Ladder.

Gently kindle the cold flame of fear to lend your hand a mighty aspect, and squeeze life itself from the ancient stone.

A hold secure -- your anchor to the living, relinquished reluctantly for another a little further up.

Ascend till the mountain speaks: "No higher can I bear you mortal." "Take your prize and share this lonely view with me awhile."

Pride swells as the turn of your head commands reality's scope.

This is your Triumph. 
The summit -- your chariot. 
The wind -- your anthem. 
The mountain -- your charioteer, whispers: "Memento Mori."

A few moments of freedom and then like the doppleganger of all western heroes, face the east, turn your back to the setting sun and descend.

The journey is only half finished. Bear out your exhausted dounemount to it's conclusion and reluctantly leave the land of the living.

Home is a place you can only visit between your slumbers.
God preserve me in my sleep that I might wake once more.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

the Indian Tsunami

My heart cries for thousands and thousands of people
those who perished in the earthquake-spawned waves;
known as tsunami, the worst natural disaster
that caused tons and tons of deaths across Asian countries.

It’s a great tragedy, a giant blow to humanity,
with its repercussions to all spheres of life –
a wake-up call, an immediate response
that needs to be attended to and done forthwith.

Global mourning takes its course in every nation,
particularly in these countries of Asia where –
Indonesia, Thailand, Sri Lanka are faced with difficulties;
in coping with destructions, tragedies, and other commotions
indeed, an urgent call that needs an international attention.

In four decades this catastrophe has ceased its wrath,
but after that starts another episode, so terrifying
that people who are caught up in that mere situation
can solemnly declare and profess their fears.

Oh, Mother Nature! at times we don’t know
your reactions that cause pandemonium,
tragedy, destruction, sorrow, and pain to all
like this one, a very strong and powerful disaster.

However, across the world, people show their compassion
with their unwavering generosity that floods in all levels
it’s an illustration that we’re humans with caring behaviors
to all those who’re afflicted and severely hit by this phenomenon.

I can’t imagine how the world mobilizes and responds
showing their love and concern to these people in pain
loss of lives, heart brokenness, and other misfortunes;
these generate an answer to be mindful of them in many ways.

I see the unprecedented generosity that rolls in every land,
institutions and other organizations make a collaboration
in what is conceived and put into action: fund raising,
charity, and pledges of thousands of donors.

Horrific media images shown in television channels,
are remarkable pointers for reflection and yet an invitation;
for someone who needs conversion and a return to church call,
that life can be as quick as those giant waves that killed many people.

It’s a theological reflection which embraces human sufferings,
Like a pathway to profound invocation, faith and trust in Him;
Oh God, our source of strength and goal to fulfill this portion
Where we unite ourselves to all those who’re in afflictions.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Mom's Death

I will always recall the day
my mom died.

She was in recovery for 
congestive heart surgery.
The work itself had gone well 
but brought on massive clots 
to the lungs.

I was an hour and a half away
and when I arrived, 
Mom was talking to the doctor.
He had tears in his eyes,
apologizing for getting hopes up 
where there was no hope now.
She looked him straight in the eye
and told him that she didn’t want to die.
But, if the Lord was ready 
the doctor didn’t need to cry.
“I know you did everything in your power 
to make me well”, she said. “So don’t you feel bad, 
don’t apologize for trying to help me.  
God is the one to have the final say.
I will resist going until my absolutely final breath. 
Because, I think that is what he expects of me.  
When I know it’s time I will be with him.”
The doctor left, I don’t know if he felt better. 
Probably not. He had promised her five more years.

I stayed and talked to mom for a while, 
before my brother came back in.
“Now Bunky, you know your brothers
are not as strong as you.  
You will have to help them through this.  
That is what I know you will do.”  
I said “yes Momma,” 
no longer fighting the wetness profusely rolling down my cheeks.
“Where’s Carolyn” she said of my wife. 
“I called her and she is on the way shortly. 
She will get here as soon as she can.” 
My brother came back in 
and I went out to the doctor again.

He said her lungs were completely clogged 
and she would slowly suffocate.  
But, it would be painless because she could breathe.  
She just couldn’t process the air.
She would simply go to sleep.
And that is the way the next four hours went,
with Mom going little by little.  
She napped, 
and woke up once in a while 
to ask about my younger brother 
and his wife and my wife. 
Telling all how much she loved them. 
She slept a little longer each
time she closed her eyes
and finally the only one not 
there was my wife.  
We thought a couple of times she had passed.  
But the nurse said she just wouldn’t give up. 
She sunk so low they couldn't find a pulse
or read blood pressure. 
I don’t remember how they knew she was not gone.  
Finally just before my wife
came in they actually didn’t know 
if she was still alive.
My wife came in and Mom spoke.
“Carolyn, Carolyn", very weakly and 
they talked softly for a while and Mom died. 
She had held on beyond a readable pulse.  
Beyond blood pressure. 
To tell my wife good bye. 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Autumn Leaves

Autumn leaves.
The ones that coloured my days golden, I long for them during the winter of my life.
I long for their warmth and how I long for their beauty.
Why have they left me?
I cannot bare the cold.

Numbed by the snow I gaze out into what is left of the seasons.
I cannot see clearly as nostalgia dances around me, twirling among the blinding shadows,
always just out of reach.
I can never hold her again.
She taunts me, but I can never hold her again.

My heart, my poor suffering heart.
There is no fixing this break, there is no going home again and there is no hope for
another Autumn.
I have come to the end of the road and there is nothing left but fields of white.
They beckon me.
I take a step and all at once a feeling of calm, complete calm, washes over me.
The world stands still, waiting for my descent.
I realize, then and there, this is the final chapter.
My last season, ending.
I take one last look at the dancer and dream one last dream of Autumn leaves.
My finale.
I am forever now, in the endless white.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Petals

A handful of petals
Scattered through the air
Sent with a smile
Watched with a prayer
Each took a seperate path
Gathering it's own triumphs and trials
Many wilted,many died
Leaving dead a part of life not to be
Friendship so like the petals
So many start, so many there
So many letdowns, so many tears
I've wished upon so many petals
But more are buried beneath the dirt
Buried beneath the tears, buried beneath the hurt
Yet, one still gently drifts in the breeze
One beautiful, fair, graceful
Coming to rest, it begins to bloom
Filling the air with sweet, fragrant perfume
But to no surprise is this fragrance oh so sweet
For all of nature knows
There's nothing sweeter than a rose


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A true best friend

Murder.

My soul's contaminated with spit
and you walk all over me- 
each and every single time-
It's like I blink 
and you take one more slap
whack!
While my face red spurs out guilt of being a victim-
the one who always to blame
who is always wrong
and does wrong-
while you look down to me 
expecting.
It's neverending
and i'm unsympathetic as we speak.
Now so vulnerable and familiar to your cursed speech
lucifer's lies-
becoming true between the lies
you just start the fire.
You don't know how to put it out,
gassing it, lighter at hand 
yet you don't seem to care.
And my emotions,
they're toys-
broken, stomped on,
crushed.
Like my loyalty is not enough,
after I stand behind you,
strong and neutral-
while you whip my heart
and test me some more.
I've had enough.
And you've had plenty of chances before,
plenty of criticizing 
and it's too much,
 i'm not good enough
I'm the "bad" friend
i'm just not worth your time
so this is the end.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

a love letter

Love is here, then and now;
often hidden, and hard to define.
I have won, and lost, and how
i long again to win your heart for mine.

if i gave up everything i had,
and stand alone in a place forbidden;
still my life wouldn't be so bad;
if i can hold within a hope unbidden.

For you.

i hope and pray, and pine away;
remembering moments gone, and treasured still.
there is no place my heart can run and play,
except around the thought of you, until

With you

in the past, i only knew that you were by my side.
but looking forward, to face our life together,
i missed moments of "your" life; now, wondering if "then",  you cried.
while my life was easy, the world light and airy as a feather. 

when "we" were one, yet i was "me"
tears wonder now, my love, who were "you"
maybe, it's to late, for selfishness was my reality
but today, love, i want to say, anew:

"i was never a "me", never a "we", never could been, or be
never the man, so self assured and confident, so free
never the me that i once was, never so worthy, never so happy
never what i value, never who i loved, never, ever,

could see;

myself, without looking through both our eyes, or through our peers;
and though back then you didn't cry;  there were seldom any tears.
now, i wonder, when i think of you,  as my vision clears,
thinking back, to that moment in time, the lonely and dismal; cheers


i once looked at you (and told you so),
with love, and gratitude.  i was overwhelmed by you.
laying next to me, in my bed and life, a moment quiet and slow.
i felt, deeper, higher, better, my spirit near heaven flew,

with love for you

i never can, never enough, or earnest and sincerely enow;
thank you enough, love you enough, to express my heart.
there is no human "how".
though i'll try again, and here's a start:

for what it's worth,
from "me"
you mean more, than the whole earth
and myself, in the past, that "he"

who didn't often enough look to the side,
and took for granted Gods gift. 
if i had it to do over again, you'd have been my bride.

i love you,
loved you;
never again will i be,
as happy.

as when "i" was "we"


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Number Eight

Can’t sleep
My night fades into 
The bright numbers
Of a digital clock

I make coffee
Which at this time of night
Feels good
As it slowly rolls down my throat

Beginning with a single thought
Ten thousand follow
Thoughts 
That make no sense at all

All the while
I stare at the brightness
Of a digital clock
And suddenly realize

The number eight
Is brighter
Than any other number
In the darkness


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Serene Night

Serene Night
 
The  ingress of celestial shadows above,
Around the surface of material structure.
Swallowing the brightness of day,darkness exchange,
And snaffling away what once deemed spate.
 
The soprano gradually creeping into solitude,
When the movers of life have journeyed in trance.
You enveloped the colour sheets in purple glimmers,
And sunlight bask diminished like game of solitaire.
 
 
Only the baste of soot creeps bated along,
The basket of life sleeps sinking prolong.
Of the capacious loom with loops of inapt tendencies,
And the cape of rest cresting the creole crevice.
 
 
When slumber is far taken and numbers regain,
And dews pervade the face of burgeoning light.
The beckon of bed and breakfast treat delight,
Will welcome the led of tracks from dusk till dawn.
 
 
 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Strange philosophy

i've always been so afraid of flying,
is it my fear of heights,is it my fear of falling?
it's a strange philosophy,
a troubled heart,a shooting star,life's a remedy
for who we are.
oftentimes my hope is fleeting,
so engrossed in so believing,
in who i am ,the calling,
it's a strange philosophy,
that up is down and down is up,
no doubt my truth is your lie,
but this is music,hear the heart.
it's a strange philosophy,
i live in you,you live in me,
you're trying hard to make it,
work it!
you lose your soul and hope it's worth it?
we trusted in whoever we believed,
Jesus died for my own fault,
i heard that all things pass away,
but love like this never fades away.
one last thing,
it is what it is,
a seriously strange philosophy,
all that and so much more.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Sweet Lucy part-1

I was in the coffee house, sipping from that old cup.
I was in New York; winter had never felt so cold,
Yet fitting for such a cold hearted city as this
It was at mid-night, just me and the bar keeper.
He must have gotten a cold, for he kept on rubbing his nose

I drank my last cup of coffee for the road, and made my way,
With a 2 dollar dip in the jar; it was dark and yet another scream
From the dark alley, it all seems normal for the lost of life.
It was snowing, like the snow angel herself was here in this city.

As I walked across the alley, 
As that alley was a shortcut to my apartment
Maybe I was cheap to take a taxi!
Too cheap to even consider using my own car
But, hay, saving fuel is saving environment or something.
I heard a noise or was it my imagination, 
A little puppy, shivering, loss, hungry and cold
She had cute round eyes and stared at me,
With brown hair, alone with spotted white fur around her neck
And long ears, I just couldn't ignore her.

I looked around and saw no one looking for her,
What was I thinking? Surely nobody would care if i just took this puppy in.
I took off my coat and warp the sweet little thing;
"The city that doesn't care, life is a strange thing."
As I made my way to my apartment, 
I wondered, of what I should call her;
'Lucy sounds nice, don't you think", as I pet her.

My apartment is too big for me, just a lonely place for my head to rest.
I fed her some of the leftovers. She just kept on munching
Police sirens and helicopters, "ah…the sound of the concrete jungle"
Count your blessings the priest says, count your money the city says.
Fortunate or not I was lucky to cross path with Lucy, sweet little thing. 
She kept on barking, with her tail shaking, 
She seemed excited to be in her new home.

Gave her a good hot bath, she made quiet a messed!
She was playful, I slept on my couch in front of the fireplace,
Nothing new, on my television screen;
The same old news, gags, game shows, you know... excreta!
Lucy was something new though, she slept on my belly, 
She looked so innocent and peaceful, Lucy…sweet little thing in my life.
I gently pet her, and slowly played my saxophone.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

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.





Details | Prose Poetry | |

Creation, Curse and Promise

Since eternity past God the Father Son & Holy Spirit dwelled in unity and sweet fellowship.
Then Three-In-One decided to make a marvelous universe with an earth for life to dwell.
Creating an amazing array of creatures was the easy part – the risk was on the last made.
For unlike other creatures, man & woman were made in God's likeness with a Spirit.

That Spirit communicated with God, and harmony reigned as earth was well cared for.
Freedom to do was great – limited by but one tree that the humans were not to ear from.
At that tree, Satan disguised himself as an innocent snake and asked the woman questions.
Did God really say don't eat from this tree?  Well, that's to keep you from becoming like Him.

Look its fruit is beautiful and one bite and you'll know what God does and be Jehovah's equal.
Eve was confused, for this didn't sound like what Adam said God told her, but wouldn't it be grand.
If God is so good, why would he keep this secret from us of being able to be like Him – is He jealous?
The firm, juicy fruit was indeed delicious, and she quickly called Adam to taste, which soon he did.

A small act? Every war, family problem, anger, hatred, lie, killing, stealing, rape, abuse came herefrom.
The beauty of God's creation was now marred with sin that affected every part with death and decay.
God graciously gave Adam & Eve animal skins for no longer would they live in Eden's perfect climate.
From now on there would be sweat for the food they ate and exceedingly great pain during childbirth.
Even their firstborn would murder their second, starting the cycle of revenge and killing that's ongoing.

Yet God also made a promise that one would come who would crush Satan's head while being bruised.
"In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God and the Word was God" clues us in to who.
For God's Son Himself would come to teach, heal and offer His life on a Cross to destroy our death curse.
Our sins He would bear and in rising He's seal the promise of eternal life, so great we Jesus' love for us.

For Jesus the cost was unbelievably high, and for us the reward is incredibly great – if we but accept.
Accept that I am a sinner, I've done wrong and need God's forgiveness to live with His perfection.
Accept that Jesus can do what I cannot – change my heart, make my Spirit alive to forever live with God.
This being GOD, the promise of heaven and new earth is sure, though pain lies in between.  Choose now.

For GOD and all creation cry out – this is what life is meant for – to know and love One's Maker.
As humans we live eternally with or apart from God, and His great desire is that we choose with.
But just as an earthly Father cannot force true love, nor does our Heavenly Father – He waits.
Though He made all and knows beginning from end, he waits and yearns that we receive His love.

Then love and be loved by Jesus in life's harshness & delight, sharing that love with other lost children
To work in harmony with the One who made us, makes life new again as our spirit is filled with new life.
There can be dry days when we don't feel His presence, and others so full that we want to shout for joy.
The fact is Our Father GOD, our Savior Jesus, the Holy Spirit, are always with us and never will leave us. Amen.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

HEART BREAK

A fine morning to watch the birds
By the ocean side. My dog by my side.
Deep cool breeze
Setting ablaze my ribs
My jacket and the dog’s fur
All I needed and asked for
Perfect company and comfort
…a lonely life.

My surrounding,
Oblivion of me
And me too, void of all
Very deep in thought
Knowing not when,
I sipped from the coffee cup
Wincing in disagreement,
I jolted back to memory
By its bitter taste.
Hahahahahaha

What a way to discover.
But discovered I have.
A great deal of life is false and bitter
It’s bitter when you love
Yet, you be not loved
It’s false, thinking you are loved
But all the while, mugged

Why do you tell me
All is fair in love and war?
When I know what I saw?
The weak is the stepping stone
For the wicked
The honest a tool
In the hands of the fraud
But…
Woe to them who made you bear grudge
And…
Woe to you who got soiled in vengeance.

Nature is smart…so smart with it
For the sun must rise again
And time must heal your pain
Like the Americans will say
Every dog has its day
Dust up and take a walk
For your new lover
Might be waiting by the side walk


Details | Prose Poetry | |

LOVE ON DEATH LINE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Today

You brighten my day
Watching the clouds go away
I feel the spark
Lighting my heart
Looking at the sun light
So very very bright
You take away the strife
By giving me new life
Entering my soul
Once again I feel whole
Wanting to survive
I feel so alive
Feeling so free
That feeling belongs to me
And I will be
Just wait and see
Like a little boy
I see the joy
And feel the breeze
As it whispers through the trees
Singing a song
For now I belong

, This is how life should be, A new adventure every day


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A LONG SHOT

                 A LONG SHOT

My doc ,lousy smile on lips
White fumes emitting, my disease
Panic syndrome ,
Curable, Time heals .
Chillness creeping leeches
Stripped delusions, fear flows
Veins shrnk
Life cling on hanger
Paranoid schizophrenia  
 .Fever smear blue dye
Over brain
Shuddered ,desperatly looking 
I could see her snoring facing the wall.
My pal far away
On rocky land ,knows nothing .

Tracy, that spiritted negress sings
'Gimme your life
I shall purify it with a can of petrol'.

Tabs,shots ,scans
Unconditional surrender-
Knotted threads,mystic chants
Copper plates with primitive scribes
To see, hear , feel
Before final fall


Gas cylinder turned on Odour of death
A flicker, turbulence-
Charred floor caught
In a long freeze shot............


Details | Prose Poetry | |

WHERE A MANs HEART IS

I am not handsome
So my love is not in my physique
Am not rich,
So my love is not bulging in my pocket
Only my brain is wild
And my mind is mild
A fanciful tunnel links both
Its walls,
Romance lurks and links close

Where a man’s treasure is
There you search out his heart
Mine locked you in as its treasure
A drop of tear from your eye
Is twin to a sword thrust through my heart.
My love is in you
...


Details | Prose Poetry | |

This Basement Of Ours

We never enter the basement.
It is a place of horrors, fears, and sorrows.
Our basement is a black door surrounded by the fogs of mystery, chilled with neglect.
I've seen it once, this basement of ours.
I felt its chill, at first what I saw was unknown. It was another world, a new land, unlike anything I'd ever seen.

This basement of ours was dark, it was a place where the black sun hung high, it has a warm hypothermic kiss to the surface of the skin. I saw ravens flying, riding on the wings of burnt and unopened love letters, frames of a talented and widely loved young wolf gone omega.

Here in this world I feel the weight of silence. It rains silence, blanketing what was once golden. It fills my nose with every breath. A I sift through this place, wipe away the residue of silence and time, I see frozen moments, temporary forevers. I see pictures, what this land might have been.

I've seen many things in this basement. But in this moment that seemed to last forever, I found quite a find. I found a find that intrigued me down to the deepest recess of my mind.

It was on the outskirts of this wasteland. Covered in silence, it lay beneath dancing weavers weaving silk bed traps. What I found was a product of the twisted oak, carved with the legacies of the natives, the light in a dark world.

It was a chair, a rocking chair. A chair placed by the window yet untouched by the sun. A chair I'd heard stories about, a chair that had lived a long life, raising small children now grown. Yet her sweet whispering allure called to me.

On it I read stories of the seasons, from the blazing summer sun, to the frozen winter nights. It had curves as the hills in Italy, depicting the wild horses that roam. This land of silence and pain now turned loud, deafening with the questions and thoughts racing through my mind.

Where was it made? How did it get here? When did its journey end? Why was it forsaken? But most of all, What was this place? This land I found now stuck in time. This land full of things now covered in silence, wrapped in pain and mystery.

I hear footsteps, up in the world above. They call out to me, time has come rushing back. This wasteland will return to silence. I never forgot that place, now grown, my children will soon discover that land. They will journey for the answer to what lies below. I found the answer. This place, this is the place of lost sons, broken dreams, and bad memories.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Age

Defeated men, seeking solace Elbows posed on time polished bar Staring numbly into empty glass Eyes gazing dumbly, sadly, humbly Reliving the unforgiving Lost time…long past


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Dreaming is like seeing the things you want with your eyes open

When I wake from my slumber I want you to be the first sight I see,
Being like the sun in the sky; because you’ll always be right above me,
And I, all the star high up in the night sky, I’ll watch you during the night of course,
but in the morning I’d disappear, yet still keeping a close over view,
you are the only girl to find most of the missing pieces of my heart, and the ones you
couldn’t find you filled in with yours but before sowing everything together you embedded
a four letter word inside the pieces of the heart that you were about to give me, 
Now honestly the four letter word isn’t just a word, but a way of life that I want to live
with you, the way you made me realize that my life is perfect, but it’s only because
you’re my better half, I don’t want to think were I’d be if I didn’t meet you but I don’t
have to because I met you, and I have you, 
You still being the sunshine through the darkest of days and showing me the path to where
you’d be, 
You’re so soft and kind hearted, sweet and beautiful, amazing and one of a kind, when you
saw me broken and thrown on  the side of the road, and you not being like everyone else
picked me up and kept me even though there was some assemble required, you built be from
scratch, and not in someone else’s image, but in my own, and after you saw me fully fixed
yet still missing some pieces you love me like no other, and kept me even though you had
miles of guys to choose from,
You and me hand in hand, we lived every day like it was our last, you talked about wanting
to grow old together and the idea was perfect, because you’re so amazing, 
Then I really woke up, and tragically you were nowhere to be found…


Details | Prose Poetry | |

What Wakes Me Up

Monday – just happens 'round 5 am.
Tuesday – pretty much happens, but set alarm clock just in case.
Wednesday -  alarm clock more often than not.
Thursday -  alarm clock if I hear it, but sometimes I don't.  Thursday's a perpetual late day.
Friday – Fear of repercussion from being late on Thursday .
Saturday – what for?
Sunday – The sunrise the bird chirps the cats wanting food.  The garden, the neighborhood, breakfast with who knows who.  My religion's quite offbeat, I recognize that.  And Sabbath means something to me where I'm at.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Alibi

Alias
Short hair, red dress, and bag with a computer recorded mess
Drop of the hat
Drop of the pen
A lawyer, getting the scoop with a camera pen,
just like that
Dangling over a mountain
Following a shadow
Chasing a figurative ghost
I can say I'm sick at rush hour at the most

Alias
Track star
Racing a black car
With a drop of the pen
With a flick of the wrist
There's a new twist
Chasing a tip
Running after a shadow
Open ears, closed lips
I guess I'm calling in sick

Hot shot lawyer
Fast talking reporter
High tech recorder
Modern day Tom Sawyer
Alibi
Alias
A fake goodbye
A goodnight kiss
I guess the question is…
Who am I?


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Addicted

My life has dumps and learning experience
and pain but 
I had grown to understand that 
                             this is not the end
I feel that I answer a question 
that's been bothing me for so
                                     long
now my life is smooth 
and almost all
right
now I have 
to heal this 
feeling that

spreads poison inside
bring back that power
 
and marvelous feelings 
that I once had for
                    me love stills a beautiful thing
its not hormlous its lovelous with addiction still
at harmful recovery 

body so a mude to the actions you
serve 

my thinking is you
and my body craved for
you my lips less tasteful
my heart is fighting every man that come close
 to the heart I shared with you
bring back you give me back what I need and thats 
you that keep my soul, world and life alive


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Summoned by the Past

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

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

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

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

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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

~ In the Innocence Sublime ~

We lay fallen as velvet roses divinity-promenading in our wake. Innocence sublime weeping still-puddles... blessing-our-first-kiss. Beauty eminent one heart securing all we share-tongues-entwined hopes defined joined together-soaring-free-as-one... a kin to love, swept-away-by-it-we-were... . I believe the heart of grace adamant, generous-tender and-aware honest and faithful- awaiting-patiently... moves freely, because it knows, the-pureness of love always inspires the-opportunity, and so enchantment-gazed upon innocence and desire knew-itself, when-first God showed Adam Eve... ! Now-here today as time has-kept-us in-its ardent-march-I-say I believe-it was-the same with-him back then... . Because simple-smiles day-dreams and quiet eye-beams alone... for me-too-with-you just wouldn't have been-enough, and-when-I-think-of-you, I thank-God for the blessing of our-time, because my heart enchanted, elated, complete... from-here on-out will I forever- know-and be-grateful to-have-loved the-beautiful-angel, that is you. As-so-enticed by the light in your-eyes, the hopeful-manner the-playfulness of your-lips, I tell-you-intrigued, to entwine-them-together, (with mine)... ! I figured I'd have a day to share, and a lifetime, from-then-on, (to touch)... . (if only just), I-could-chance to-embrace them... ((once)). Author notes The hyphens are all used in conjunction-with one-another for recording-purposes for the- disabled... . My Mac computer I can here and as it interprets the differing punctuations it gives the work in there differing usages a clearer and more realistic soft higher and lower Ebb and Flo when it is heard... ! The work can as well be reformatted into proper engine form for those whom may not be disabled... ! Entered into this contest as such and mainly for these reasoning's... ! Thank you for allowing and for considering my entry. I am entirely honored to be a small part... ! Written for my Jenny... . ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ....... ...... ..... .... ... .. . http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jqTLlHkfSC4


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Heaven and Hell

Life has no guarantees 
Death is no different 
Heaven is not up 
Hell is not down 
They are both achievable on Earth. 
Verily, an evil man can live a heavenly life 
As a good man can live in hell 
Paradise is a state of mind. 
Where everything falls into place 
And there is peace and tranquility 
Do not waste your love on a deity 
Made up by men of the past 
Give your heart to a human 
Pour your soul into theirs 
Become one 
Face your future's together 
Do not speed your way through this wonderful gift 
Rushing towards the promise of 
Redemption 
And paradise 
For nothing is guaranteed in life 
And death is no different


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The war that can be won

The mind commands the body immediately obeys, the mind order itself and it meets arrogance and lets that mean genie out of the bottle.

In your addictions the line between life and death is very thin a war that has only one win if you keep using and letting that evil genie in; death is slow and sure. These are the guideline that you have set; stop and think, do you like being satan pet? keep this thought on your mind, the setting of guidelines belong to God not man!

Logic is blinded and you forget about the past, the future is an unknown; why just to get high? Every endeavor is a challenge is it not, just for a high that just don't last.

Fear not all is not lost! Addiction is a war that can be won, that is if you keep certain things in your mind, fighting it with all your heart, and all of your mind. Lean not on your own understanding, but finding faith in God of your own understanding;. Place your trust in Him; He not demanding.

Addiction and recovery encompass neatly identical tactics, they are both learned behavior and they are both controlling factors. Neither one accept anything less than total victory. the first one will bring about your destruction and second one brings about a chance to live a life free from bondage.

Open your eyes don't let illogical thinking be your guide, living life with satan by your side, just for the brief moment of that high. This life type of living is shaded and it is unkind; demons controlling your mind.
 Word to the wise, wisdom and strength comes from the One that is Setting most high; let the Lord edify. Life in the Word will become excitedly gratifying ; in this your will find strength without any boundaries and all that you need is faith and belief that Jesus can set you free; Pick up His words and read John 3:16.  
Nothing beat a failure but a try; so I pray for you and so please stop getting high.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Potbound

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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Milroy Farm

Milroy Farm
11-30-08
By
William L. Moore
For
William McCracken Milroy

Sitting in my Deer stand
Upon my Uncles land
Feel the simple breeze
As it whispers through the trees

Waiting for the Deer
Not a single hint of fear
Hear the leaves rustle
In all of the bustle

As they encroach
The closer they approach
It’s really really strange
As they cross the range

As you hear the gun go CRACK
I may have hit his back
He stumbles gently away
And falls where he may lay

I must wait until he dies
Let alone through the cries
I am through with the season
Since I have accomplished my reason

Uncle Bill I thought of you when
I wrote this and wanted to make
Sure that you got it
Love
William Lewis Moore
Bill


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Grinning Tears That Held the Shade of Southern Suicides.

There was the capture of life somewhere inside his eyes...

We wiped away tears in the slipping of secrets, and I remembered the draw of suicide as
the shade of Southern Octobers grasped me in his glance.

He pursued me, his kiss and his smile the nets that tangled my feet up North, somewhere,
on I-95, his voice interrupted my destination and I supposed his face at midnight would be
my end, ironic, as he turned death....

upside

down.


We fed on control, that of ourselves, lost it in the snows that blanketed March, and
though I counted every one of my footprints, I only circled myself right back to him.


I never realized the nightmares that held me, the three a.m. teardrops that would stain
his perfect shoulders because my lips tasted that skin right before my last breath was
taken, in the seconds that proceeded the metamorphosis of life, and we took a turn to the
left as we discovered each other on the inside, and I felt that existing in the middle was
better...

than never

existing

at.all.


He heard me, every catch in my voice, every lost word that floated in between the curtains
that we drew for safety, he agreed in the direction of sunrise, for who was I to argue
with silence and the sleep that occurred after I broke my most famous rule?


He wanted us to be normal as laughter interrupted me, as fear grasped my throat, and I
choked on my own words as the dictionary definition of life eluded me, and for those
seconds that threw honesty away, I remembered it was yet September, we were up North, and
the surrealism of tragic Southern October nights were but the embers that burned on the
edge of his 

snow-white cigarette

and the ashes of his exhalations

that scoffed impossibility at me with the hope

that the end would recall I-95

and the remembrance of his smile

at midnight.






Details | Prose Poetry | |

When you're just not thinking

Remorse is building up inside of me,
Everyone has to know fairy tales don’t always have happy endings,
Never thought you could try so hard and still fall short,
I’m in need of something to fill this hole in my chest,
It grows bigger,
Moving deeper,
Making me realize that some things can’t ever be achieved or obtained,
I’m gonna bottle up my heart and let it float out in the sea,
Never to be found,
Never to be seen,
No more pain can be caused when it’s somewhere at the bottom of the sea,
I need to face the fact that I’m going to lose everything if I keep on the path of my sanity,
I want to believe that things can only go up for me,
But that’s life,
Your gonna suffer,
Sitting in the corner rocking back and forth,
Head so low you can see caskets from the recently diseased,
It’ll be pouring showers from all the crying that’s going to be happening,
I know life might seem hard sometimes,
And trust me it is,
I know that shotgun looks shiner by the minute,
And trust me it does,
But just bottle up your heart and send it away,
Like I did,
Because no matter what you’re going through,
What might be going through your head right now,
Just isn’t worth it..



Details | Prose Poetry | |

Love is Life

Freind and foe
are made to grow
in the dark waters of destiny.
But men of wisdom
betrays venegeance and
seeks to maintain harmony.
Love is life and life is love.
Adore it and you'll be free.
And w'll float freely
like a feather of wing
in the wind of time.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Not Now Girl

Low, low, low
I brought myself
Down, down, down
To the ground, ground, ground
Where I started to shatter and break
I started to transform and I started to raise the stake
Hiss, hiss, hiss went the light
Stop! Stop! Stop! Said my fight
don't say what you got, girl
Don't say what you have, girl
Just walk away now, girl
My head started to scream
Not now, girl
Not now, girl
Run away, girl
Get away, girl
You're in too deep
Don't take it out of your pocket
Go home and go to sleep
Stay in your dreams
Don't rip yourself up by your seams
Not now, girl
Run away, girl
This is not a good idea!
But They were so enchanting
They were fearless and free
I used my one wild card
I wanted to not be me
And I fell down hard, my card was a joke
And there goes the smoke


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Dancing On Ice-Cream

Sometimes
Life is like
Dancing on ice-cream

Each day
A different flavor

Although
Some days are all vanilla
You know what I mean
Boring!

Other days
No matter how hard we try
We just keep
Slipping on down the mound

Today
Was a good day
It was… Rocky Road!

I just love
Those Rock Road days
--------------------------------
Written in collaboration 
with Peter Williams


Details | Prose Poetry | |

116onesix

 116onesix 
116onesix 
 
 
CharlaXFabels 
 
TESTED 
 
 There is a personal testimony and everyone's focus is on the group and on the 
self and not on JESUS where it was supposed to be the reason eye won't go to 
fellowship with rich working Christians meeting at a SUNDAY SUPPER to drive to 
a pizza place where everyone pays something for the food even if they share it the 
cost is still beyond the pocketbook of yew. The added price of fellowship with 
world is loss of spirit functions eye am not suggesting we have meetings in the 
desert with the hedgehogs but there could be a meeting place for all the 
Christians like the fish doors of the early days of meetings they were in and out 
so furtive searching alleyways for soldiers avoiding arrests and fighting and 
bringing lots of food in the bags of fishes and the loaves of breads in pockets of 
the tunaes fishes smile eye could just not resist this in almost every Church 
there is a Kitchen and in some of them is love the people make the soup for the 
homeless and the court appointed prisoners and even important people come. 
Hang a fish upon the door of every kitchen in the nation make a place with tables 
where the poor can come in love do not forget the love the soup is  nice but even 
slabs of raw meat are not enough with hate. 
Eye could not write a word on yesterday the things that eye had wanted to write 
left on the flight of lost ideas and night came again without a thought and then the 
day came back this fable was born and eye decided to try religion again. The 
focus of a lot of people is the congregation the error being life is not a middle 
class house with people making money in a paper plate of life some people 
need a cup of soup just to survive please open up your love first open up your 
hearts then open all them kitchen cupboards up. There is another thing that eye 
must say to all the bible thumpers not yet in the grave what does it matter what 
the date and day of this my own salvation come the day of JESUS was 33 AD the 
date that GOD was saving me. 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Forever is really never

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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

CHARACTER MAN

We are all creation
Running through our veins, dust!
We are all moulds
Shaped and patterned into beings
Of different moral fibre
Our lives are but a personality played
The character man in our life’s tale
Drama, intrigue, tragedy
The roles we choose to play

We are all creation
Dust runs in our veins
The character men in our life’s script
Our lives’ none but a screenplay
We write our play
We act our play
And live our play
We remain the only make-up
That matters in 
Our dramatic piece of life!

©Naa Takia, All Rights Reserved 2012.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Suicidal thoughts

The milieu of 
Social injustice combined 
With deep seated spiritual poverty 
Where suicidal thoughts incubate!

The secular world run by the god’s of 
Politicians 
The media
Stars of stage and
Sports,
Modeling the art of instant gratification 
A mere mortal may only dream about.

Facts of ill health
Loneliness
Unemployment
Homelessness 
Fear of death and 
Failure to recognize that Man indeed
Immortal, splitting the human mind.

The milieu of 
Social injustice combined 
With deep seated spiritual poverty 
Where suicidal thoughts incubate! 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

From dusk to dawn

Night comes and calls for darkness,
bringing end of the day or something, or the hope for a new sunshine ,
For the rise of a new day ;
a newfangled day wrapped like a bride in unrevealed attire,
don’t know what will be inside?
Perhaps new paths to fulfill our dreams, or vicious way to destroy our desires??
like a house newly built or an already built house on fire?
Whatever comes across, in the journey of life-
Why worry?
Why hurry?
to discover the unknown, and forget the present?
Nope, why do that? Why not enjoy the existing life and why forget our life's essence?
Thee is the creator,
And we- the exciting creations.
Life is a game we playing,
but full of expectations.
one day I just thought-
and my mind states fought,
with each other....and finally-
I was dancing on the hill top singing my favorite song,
When suddenly the bell rang at the time so wrong!,
and my dream came to end,
It’s the time to go to work, finally.
bye to dreams, welcome the new day,
an another humdrum day,
And somebody felt how the sunshine burnt the hay…….


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Concrete, Skinned Knees, and the Conclusion of Forever.

He grasped my fingers and I took a breath,

I counted to five and allowed my palms to sweat...

I stood, Converse clad feet turned inwards towards my opposite knees and thought about the
irony of plaid, I looked to rabbit ear shoelaces with tugs in the bows, and wondered...

how to make decisions.


Here we were and ankle length white skirts held the past in their hems, I fell beyond the
boat docks that became swallowed by the sea, once, twice, and someone told me, on a warm
afternoon in September where trees sheltered us from pouring rain, I spun on concrete as
if it couldn't break me....

I replied in a grinning whisper, words that danced through raindrops and giggled through
clouds,

“No, it shatters.”


I shook in the moment I remembered with my heart first and my mind later, because I loved
him so much on that night that the words didn't matter and I spun as April melted
inbetween us and sheets held the skin that told my secrets, the tattoo who heard
everything, and she heard me sigh, she heard me...

smile when I slept...

the sound of him, the days flooded, I fell...

on concrete...

and skinned my knee, I studied the shade of my bruises and the tiny drops of blood, I got
up and wiped the dirt off my hands, I studied my palms and my fingers and counted to

f i v e...

months later, I swallowed his voice, I attacked the shame I had in holding onto him for so
long, and I changed my shoes, untied the laces and zipped up boots, whose black leather
hugged my calves, whose toes were scuffed from all the miles I had walked, ran, and bumped
into him...

and the hems of my jeans, frayed, and stained with the dirt that settles on...

concrete...

rubbed up against his as I took his hand and looked down at the intricate patterns of the
way we held on...

I kissed him, then, when the rain stopped, and counted, as my teeth ran across the lips
that still tasted of his breath...

to one, and closed my eyes, to two, and opened them, and underneath the shadows that broke
the sky with my lashes, I reached...

forever. 






Details | Prose Poetry | |

Define yourself

Through the wings of breath 
Descending to the blue framed
Mirror of the mind,
To project the desire 
Of being an instrument of peace:
Suddenly, the blue frame changes
Into a white oscillating wave

Questioning:
Do you think I am very far from you?
No
If so, why is this rare visit?
It's urgent; I need to fulfill my task
What's your task?
To be an instrument of your peace

Questioning stops, the voice 
Of wave almost inaudible,
Your task is to define yourself:
Who you are
Where you are and 
Where are you going,
Can you define yourself?


Details | Prose Poetry | |

i hate love


How do I live without her?
How do I face the day?
How do I keep my sanity?
While my life slips away

How do I survive with out her?
Now my life is so cold
I can’t live without her
 She no longer walks this world 

Try so hard to understand
Because there’s no reasons why
She belongs beside me
Not with god in the sky

Want to say goodbye to tomorrow
But this life don’t belong to me
So until god really for me to join her
I must learn to live in misery

Love turns my mountain
In to a little stone
Love sends a knife inside me
Didn’t stop till it hit the bone

How do I tell my heart? 
There’s nothing to live for
How do i say to my life? 
 I don’t need you no more

And oh how I hate love
For what it’s done to me
It turns my fairy tale
In to a horror mystery

Why did faith direct this?
And who wrote the script
Why did they turn my life? 
Into a tales fro the crypt

Everyday I get older
My pain is getting worst
And when the grim reaper comes
This chapter will close

And in the green valley
Where the water flows
On the hill under a willow
Is where my soul will go


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Scrambled Clues

Scrambled Clues…

Night has fallen
The fog settles over the land
Only in closeness
Can you see the faces
The eyes closed, windows against torrid rain
While ideas flash and beat the mind

Helplessly watching
Waiting for the escalator to reach the top
So you may step into daylight

But in daylight
The fog drifts to the water
Always a step ahead
Blinding me to the depths
Through which I am falling

Please someone
Help me
I am losing my mind
And as of yet not certain,
Even faintly aware,
  Of when night will fall again
  Bringing with it,
  The soothing rain of darkness


For my brother Gregory.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Nikhil Chandwani releases his poetry book titled Ink'd With Love

The must awaited poetry book by a national awardee Nikhil Chandwani has finally been released. With high expectations and very high potential buyers due to his massive fan support, Nikhil finally released his poetry book titled Ink'd With Love.

There have been books on teenagers and there have been books on their emotions but somehow, these images are not of only one individual. Hence a new poetry book that is titled Ink'd With Love.  It involves many romantic poems written by a national award winner, Nikhil Chandwani.. At every stage of the teenager’s life he or she faces deception, is cheated and the hurt refuses to go away. It is an interesting portrayal of the neo-adult life- where aspirations are on the high, the zeal to make a difference for oneself is acute- and still the mind is overlapped with childlike innocence ready to take the deadly plunge into the real mayhem of chaotic existence. What seems rosy attracts but the taste of reality is later bittersweet leaving a long lasting impact in the reader’s mind- giving him the chance to identity with the protagonist.

Much of the work comes across as poetic images, disjointed sentences… the stream of consciousness that pervades the young… they do so many things at the same time. They live their own lives and also lives of others around them. It affects them and yet they are unable to perceive the feelings as one whole. Some can take the hurt along with the accolades but some are unable to take the hurt. They suffer broken, disjointed lives and some are even forced to give up the struggle. This is the life of a teenager portrayed by one of the fastest rising author from India, Nikhil Chandwani. 
This is his second book. First one of an international best seller 

Nineteen year old Nikhil Chandwani is a prolific writer. He writes fictional stories for various magazines, newspapers and websites. He is a gifted lyricist, best selling author (I wrote your name in the sky) and a national award winning poet rolled into one. He is, at present, pursuing his engineering degree from VIT Vellore.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Quest for Love

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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Yes, Yes

“May we find depth in our answer of “No More” as if taken is our foundation for change built upright from the point of its refusal!”


Details | Prose Poetry | |

JOURNAL ENTRY

I lacked a lot of sleep these past couple of months.

and abandoned the routine I’ve grown so comfortable with

in this time by myself.

I didn’t realize how much slack was in my learning curve lately,

and I was starting to forget how incredible it is to wake up by

hairs being plucked from my arms.

Miracle workers.

My mother is the only one who saw me lose patience.

2 am on the wood floor, sweating like I just got done fighting.

Spewing out questions to God as fast

one would spit out sour milk.

Ground stomper. Neighbor waker.

A lot of people didn’t really like me talking to them during this time,

just like I didn’t like anybody talking to me

when I’m too busy worrying.

I was a jerk.

My swings get triggered far less than ever before

now that I’m more squared up with stability.

I’ve come a long way from a short fuse.

I sure am glad my brother was there to cover for me

while my sanity took a break, and

in the moments I had to check out

because the tantrums in my own mind got too loud.

My own thoughts, or yours. 

Together or separate. Relative or irrelevant.

It has been a roller coaster school year so far

for more reasons than are appropriate to detail herein.

Thank goodness for the true friends,

and the doors of her aunties house

and ice cream, and mindless television on soccer trips,

and family,

and people looking at me like a role model,

and the act of blowing on my little cousins belly,

and my skateboard, and Mother’s Day,

and having food, and graduations,

and getting lost sometimes,

and poetry slam night, and for Steven Brooks.

and for my elephant.

Really y’all, every last one.

L. Cohen said,

“And draw us near

and bind us tight

all your children here

in their rags of light

in our rags of light

all dressed to kill

and end this night

if it be your will.”


Details | Prose Poetry | |

How Sunrise Practiced Never When I Forgot to Sing.

I used to sing to him, my mouth would brush across his shoulders and he would dream...

I captured his hair and apologized for staying too long, but, God, what was time when his
breath hung about me, the dancing proclamations that I could be...

more.


I whispered promises to no one but me, I broke every one as the tears I cried for him
became the paintbrushes and canvases that spoke me, and October afternoons were way too
warm when his voice became absent, as I sang to him, through the wind and remembered...

nothing.



He appeared to be way too much and I couldn't hold my hands tight enough to let go, I
wished for his eyes as I blew a strand of summer blond hair to the west and watched the
sky blink and become the moment of waking, and I woke...

up...

to silence as I held myself tighter in the dark that appears right before storms.


Disbelief covered me because time lied and forever ended way too soon, I knew he told me
never and I searched for it, I decided it must exist in tomorrow's sky, in the clouds that
sometimes...

blinked...

but refused to smile.


My lips permitted the escape of my tongue to speak my experiences clearly as I found
myself on the edge of a dream that almost dropped me, and gray blue dresses tear so easily
when storms are unforgiving at the sight of a woman's foolishness, still...

I ran to him with summer feet, bare and burnt, however unaware they were of pain, for I
couldn't lose forever and never was only the way sunrise smiled at me...

teeth missing and fire~struck~angry when alone...

just to find out if sometimes was the way we left when tears strike and his eyes forget
the blue that silences the sky when we laugh the way children do...

and I sing...

forever back to sleep.





Details | Prose Poetry | |

Reality

perfection, who would have thought him perfect?
without his words, i know no other truth
reality,
the mother of my existence, you gave birth to twins
euphoria and agony,
oh agony!
reality,
i ask for only a moment to bury myself inside
his soul, his mind, I want to be with it, of it
i need to breathe him, fill my lungs with love,
with life,
why can't I?
REALITY!
oh to cast you back to the depths of hell, demon!
to come into a life, just to taunt...
there is no hatred so pure, as the one i hold for you
for you today,
reality,
you have taken away my heart,
that was your wicked plan all along
was it not?
well,
reality,
without him,  I have nothing left to lose,
no sanity left to keep me afloat
so,
reality,
today you have been defeated
i have always held the key
it's almost tragic, oh
reality,
do you realize you cannot exist
without me?
so say your prayers,
as this war comes to a bloody end
we were both martyrs for the same cause-
reality.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Finding Innocence in the Laughter That Escapes Pillowcases.

Behind the sun, with a little bit of assuredness, I saw the shades of his smile
swing toward the moon...
and I cursed six p.m. In a voice that hid the memories of
nineteen~ninety~two
when I wore my shoes underneath the shadows of stars and in the feel of his lips
when sixteen is innocent despite the cold exposure
of skin.


I wonder if he knows I whisper to him in his sleep, my promises slipping underneath the
blanket he holds tight around him,
and feathers escape pillowcases when I laugh,
they tickle toes and dissolve the taste of fear
as my tongue finds the outline of his lips after the sun falls down and his
smile
is apparent.


I tidy myself up on Mondays, and wreck the idea of perfection with my curls...
I wear jeans that smudge mountains across back pockets and imagine how the hem of my
burgandy dress would fall across chilled creek splashed rocks,
I wonder if I'd be able to stay pretty when my hands fall into mud and the wind attacks my
cheeks...
but he smiles, you see, when the sun falls...
he smiles when I change my clothes...
and he kisses me when my curls detest reality and Monday smirks at the idea of cleanliness
as my imagination drowns hems and rips fabric.


So I kick off my shoes with the idea that my toes can taste Tuesday and my feet can squash
the memories of
nineteen~ninety~two
and revel in innocence as I discover
the cold exposure
of skin.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

a resolution to recovery

in the recognition of a fault
lies the critical step called first
and though it be difficult
still, it is not the worst

to assume that the hardest part is over
is lacking in accuracy
no one is in the clover
in the cognizance of his infancy

like an infant within a circular fence
round and round i scamper
although in my just defence
my laundry's in the hamper

this is a time for solution
a moment feared and anticipated
having potential for contrabution
i wait in a place i created

not with intention or precognition
did i live my life this way
it was taught me, and i seek intervention
my children need not be clay

molding my own self is my goal
to seek, and speak the truth
i wish to be one, and whole
enjoying life as in my youth

with my words and heart i commit
to a path that will lead to recovery
i will not ever succumb, or submit
to any distress of my discovery

i have done no harm, i can not repair
no mischief i have not revealed
i beg to abide at home, i love, i care
and with help, we can be healed

this is my plea, for them, and for me
to rejoin, and rejoice in our home
we can become, together, free
together, for i would no longer roam

hear them, hear me, here we are
come at your behest
to wish upon an American star
please grant us this request
and may you thus be blessed

with respect for persons worthy of it,

-------recovery from a meth overdose-------


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Tater Sack Annie

On a raft in the river tied to a tree, lived in an old woman of whom most folks made fun. She didn't talk much, most thought she was dumb. Kids being curious, and the summer being hot, the cool of the river drew our disobedient lot. We kids soon discovered the crude raft and the tent. We oddly made friends with its strange occupant. Tried as we might to find out her name. All we got was a smile from the toothless old dame. One thing for certain we kids soon found out. Social graces she lacked, but her kindness made up for that fact. Times being tough and money being tight, often we kids confided our plight. She didn't care if we were dirty or poor. She loved her little friends all the more. We didn't mind her fashion was lack. She wore a dress made from and old "tater sack." What troubled us was she didn't have a name. We didn't care from where she came. One day as we sat on the bank, a thought came to mind. We were disgusted with folks being unkind. "Everybody's got a name," said one. "Let's call her 'Tater Sack Annie'", said another, so it was done. Annie smiled at us. She liked her new name. She didn't say much, just smiled again. She motioned for us kids to her camp for lunch. She always fed our whole bunch. Fried taters, catfish and greens. All of us believed she was a woman of means. Several summers went by. One year the fall came. A saturday night, folks out for a lark. Didn't see Annie walking home in the dark. Somebody sent, and a somber Sherriff came, "Anybody her know her name?" He spoke to the group. Two boys stepped forward, both knelt to a stoop. "That's our 'Tater Sack Annie'", they spoke in a low tone. Both their faces ashen and as white as bone. Today in a churchyard no monument gleams. Only a simple stone reads, "Annie a lady of means."

Written by my grandmother Sandra Burch


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Sally Martin

She saw him walk on their hats,
a bold rat swallowed by the fat man.
His screams bounce back as their windows
close with thuds that echo.
Who turns their back a child cries
zigzagging down the steet into oblivion. 
Sally Martin sits on her beggar's seat 
and listens to the bleating sheep.
Sally Martin bites her coins smiling when
they crack her teeth.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Sunshine By WLM November 25, 2008

Outside the sun is grand
In which I love to stand
Soaking up all the rays
Hope it stays this way for days

The breeze is cool
Like a shining Jewel 
The noise is so quiet
You wish you could buy it 

How heavenly I feel
It tis the real deal
The beauty abounds
As I walk around

The planes fly high
In the deep blue sky
Marking their time
Just follow the line

The tall trees that show
Will continue to grow
And are the trees we love to see
Glory Be!  We will jump up with Glee!


Details | Prose Poetry | |

SO LOW

Falling away,
Fading fast,
My heartbeat fainter and fainter,
My confidence lesser and lesser,
I’m now even afraid,
To do the things that I could do,
To live the life that I’m supposed to,
I just can’t understand,
Why I’m so low,
Feeling so alone,
Like I don’t belong anywhere,
Feeling Like I should not exist at all.

Falling fast,
Fading away,
My heartbeat lesser and lesser,
My confidence fainter and fainter,
I’m now even afraid,
To do the things I’m supposed to,
To live the life that I could,
I just can’t understand,
Why I’m alone,
Feeling so low,
Like I don’t exist,
Feeling Like I should not belong anywhere.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Blue Daffodils

If I was a blue daffodil 
I would be different
If I was a blue daffodil
I would be fun
If there were blue daffodils
I wouldn’t be different
If there were blue daffodils
I wouldn’t be alone

What if there were blue daffodils?
Would we be together?
Would we be forever?
What if we were all different?
What if I was violet and you were red?
Would you still like me?
Would you still enjoy my company?
I like being different,
Being a blue daffodil…


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Deep in the Shallows

Deep in the shallows...

Water lapse with time...

Yesterday all borrowed...

As mind sways third eye...

To contemplate fools whim...

Silence greets mind door...

We mere ponder, in mornings first light...

...Deep in the shallows...

...Deep breath we gently release...
thought into stolen silence...

...As our response...

...sealed within the secrets bestowed
within our dreams...

...Softly we tread once more...

...Silence greets mind door...

...Softly we tread once more...

...This new day...

...Deep in the shallows... 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Time Of Butterflies

From the milk weed fields
Outside of town
I watch small rugs 
Of reds, browns and blacks
Slowly make their way
Across the road

A thousand legs
Simultaneously striking the ground
Going somewhere 
From someplace unknown
It’s the march of the caterpillars

This is a time of transformation
A time of change
Soon 
They will be out of sight
Carpets running into the woods
Fading into the countryside

Someday soon I’ll return
To watch the beauty of nature
Dance in the milkweed fields
Sometime soon
I will come to see
A time of the butterflies


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Seasons of no reasons

seasons have became with no reasons,
looking at the light of the sun in winter and rainy clouds in summer,
I start to ask myself why all this?
perfect silence I tune into as I start to realize seasons do not exist anymore,
the temperature of earth has changed into a really confused state,
natural life is dying infront of our eyes!,
we still don't even do anything about it!,
big pain I start to feel in my heart,
as I realize we are destroying the tree of life and the spark of natural goodness from our creator, God Itself.,

The colorful fruit starts to become the rotten fruit,
the green trees start to become the black trees,
every natural thing starts to turn into dust!.,

The color of our planet starts to change,
everything starts to fade as the procession of the spiritual revelation starts to get deeper.,

The human being starts to feel sorrowfulness down the pipe of its life!,
as it realizes that only trying to find meaning for it's life is causing others to suffer,
thus their is no meaning for it's existence,
thy to bond & share with others by experiencing oneness it would find meaning.,

Meaning of it's existence would be valid as it is being what it had to be and thats the guardian & true parent of it's species just by becoming selfless,
transcending to us all where we would be experiencing the wisdom of true love as one sequence elevating towards resurrecting the formulation of our divinity.




Details | Prose Poetry | |

LOST AND FOUND

My world was empty,
And no real joy filled my life.
Lonliness,Depression and Fear were my constant companions.
I sought reliief from my lonliness in dreams and books,
For they were my only friends.

Then, You found me.
You quietly called to me.
You patiently waited for me to finally hear Your voice.
Your gentleness slowly calmed my fears,
And assuaged my emptiness.

Now my world is no longer empty;
For You have filled it with Your love.
Joy fills my soul,
And I no longer seek escape in dreams or fantasy,
For Your love is real.

I hungered, and You fed my spirit.
I thirsted, and You filled my soul.
I feared, and You comforted me.
I was so alone, and You called me Your Own.
I was lost, and now I am found.

I love You.



At times people everywhere will take advantage of you, whether at work, at home or wherever, that happens sometimes. Maybe more often to some than to others. The thing is, PEOPLE will fail you, let you down, disappoint you, That's LIFE.
God won't fail you. God won't let you down. God won't disappoint you. THAT'S GOD, He's there. You just have to look for Him and trust Him.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

NO MANS LAND

She is finished; her mission done with ease
She feels great, grinning from ear to ear;  
Her satisfaction exceeds everything; her joy.
She is programmed to kill; 
To leave her victim paralysed with fulfilment
Tis the only thing she’s good at; 
She executes her duty with professionalism;
Leaving her regulars wordless
She enjoys updating her chic,
 Lest she be replaced in the service market.
Her technique, always refreshing;
You are guaranteed of a full package.
Nothing less than to expect; diversity always
Her patrons are left dazzled; 
Snooping around wanting more
To them she is just a machine assembled to serve
They never notice her vulnerability and soft tissue
She looks rough no doubt; but she’s also weak.
Her spirit broken so many times
Like a wild horse; she refuses to be tamed now
She will never allow that side out in the open anymore
She does what she does; for it must be done
She is used to it now; she has accepted what others see to be a fact; 
She is no man’s land…and can’t be blamed.

©Naa Takia, All rights Reserved 2012











Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Friend in Doubt

A Friend in Doubt
WLM
Wildncrazy555
July 2, 2011 

Thought I had a true friend
He would be there till the end
In the end I found out 
What he was all about
Making me the shrew
And giving me the screw
Though the years we were there
All we did was help and share
You show concern 
But then you learn
His name is Jimmy and so full of bull
He treats most as a fool
Once he is alone
It will finally lost last be shown
Just keep on to thyself lying
Because soon you will be dying
Things will be better in the end
Cause life will be begin again
But now a lost friend to me 
So my life is finally free


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Dignity is Something that Can Not be Compromised

Dignity is Something that Can Not be Compromised
 
Dignity is a value that applicable to both individual and a collective of people on the Global.
The value of connection between individual and social environment is highly respected in a positive way.
Every Individual’s dignity can only be recognized from the experience by other who would judge and assess.
But human dignity must be inviolable and everyone should respect that, this is a normal behavior towards others.
Dignity must be well respected and protected, because when people are united, there should be no differences and we are all the same.
Human dignity is not only a fundamental right but it constitutes the real basis rights to respect, and wealthy should not be valued higher than one’s life.
And whereas many people tends to forget to recognize the dignity and equal rights from every human being.
Those are an inalienable rights of all inhabitants of the earth to keep the freedom, justice and peace in the world.
This word confirms a personal’s dignity within the part of legal system and it should not use to violate the name of others.
And human dignity must be respected with the same rules.
Nobody wants to lose their self-esteem and respect because of the attitude of somebody who like to belittle other and only praise for themselves.
We cannot effect the dignity of other, for the fact that we were more luckier at birth and therefore have a better place in this society .
We should just respect and appreciate everyone for their own value.
 
I wish you a healthy life.
Kindly Regards,
Author Jan Jansen

http://poems.easybranches.com/


Details | Prose Poetry | |

imagine this

                              (8/31/12)

Try to imagine and visualize if every household
In  n. y. c. was to light and hold up a candle
How bright that would be ?
Now imagine every town in the united states
And every city doing the same thing.
How much brighter that would be.

Now imagine every country joining in
With every household doing the same.
It would be trillions of people holding
Up a candle - it would be as bright or even 
Brighter than the sun in the sky
And that’s because everyone was willing to try.

Now if - and that IF is quite big 
Everyone that held that candle 
Raised their voices for peace
For love of one another, and treated
Each other like sisters and brothers.

Imagine how it would spread
Like a wildfire out of control
And from one person to another
it would be told.
If we must fight - let us fight for peace
Let us fight to stamp out hunger
Then human trafficking in slavery
And abuse of every kind, verbal
And physical.

This is the war that we should be in
Because these are the wars that
We can’t seem to win.
After this all the rest of the worlds 
Problems will fall into place
And you will see a much happier face.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Calling You

Through the darkest of dark forests
Where the spiring snake-like sprouts
Fasten you,
And piercing the spooky blackness
That pervades all of your space,
Shoots the sound 
Of a gushing stream,
The ethereal smell 
Of a fire,
The intangible ashes,
The wet earth,
The rains,
And life,
Carried over to you.
 
 
Breaking away from
The binding shoots
That stake you,
Crossing the barrier
Of tapering stems,
That pain you,
If you dare to look at
The tiny source of light,
The small fire, the water,
At the very end of 
Your eternally dark forest,
Where the blue sky 
Extends to infinity,
On the other side
Of that stream of life,
 
I would be standing.
Always.


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
Written for GENOCIDE: SPEAK FOR THE LOST 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Unraveling of August.

I've wrecked me again, scattered, undone...

and here...

We were foolish to believe and he was simple, then, I could have told him...

underneath me...

but I turned upside down, you see, and tumbled from up above.


Bee stings and southern air, and if I thought I didn't remember, if I thought it was
easier to smile when words weren't spoken...


brilliance is never found in silence and oh, how I knew I was right, how I knew hearts
didn't break when the moon was full...

I forgot to look, through the months that his eyes shone brighter, and I almost stopped
myself because when almost everything is right....

what does it matter?


I wished that he was never enough, though I felt him deep inside, though I rocked through
weeks that confused me, though I slipped through fear alone by his side and Wednesday
whispered her premonitions from skies that were slightly too dark....

too full of August...

for safety.


I wanted him to hold me, just once, when the sky fell, I repeated words over and again and
found myself...

wishing...

I was new...

and I could feel him breathing when I stopped as irony slapped me back to life, I saw the
mirrors crack a little, I saw who I was underneath, I kissed the surface to convince
myself I was still beautiful, despite the changes in my mind....

I knew I loved him, I knew...

I couldn't hold his hand...

so I held onto nothing a little bit tighter, I suffocated circulation, I stopped....

breathing...

and came undone...

because I could still feel August...

and I still...

needed him.





Details | Prose Poetry | |

Walking on the Stars

WALKING ON THE STARS


Waves break white
Far out behind the tide line.
The summer wind, moves the light night clouds
As the stars slide down to touch the trawler lights.
And the sky
A dark blue tent all around
Is pegged to the sea.
Whisper wind
Moves through dry sand grass
Soft on bare skin
Like fine cotton sheets.
All around the sky, the sea
And the sand a mirror lake, reflects the stars
Shining phosphorous in the dark.
Our footprints deep on the sky
We are walking on the stars.

Jenny Magrath
Fraser Island 1988




Details | Prose Poetry | |

RELEASE OR QUARANTINE

Demography,
Geography,
Gender.
Age.

Curb,
Obtain,
Courtship.
Parenthood.

The shape of life is staired,
Either irregularly paired,
or regularly squared.
We find shame in familiar places,
Stamp fame over unventured traces.

Bond to fulfill culture.
Pendulum swings affirming the law of nature.
Sowing coincides with reap.

As man toils to control sanity,mortality leaps.
For restricting malevolent norms unleashes explosive neferity.
Asleep or awake this is the in-between reality,
Of capturing the needless,freeing the worthful.

Farm dilemma of the cow or bull?

By M.O.O aka C.E the free prison-worden


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Setting Sun

THE SETTING SUN 

I LOOK OUT OVER THE HORIZON AT WHAT HAS PAST
THE SHADOWS CAST UPON MY LIFE 
AND THE LIGHT OF THE SUN THAT I NO LONGER SEE
I ONCE FELT ITS WARMTH, ONCE FELT NO SHROUD
COULD BLOCK ITS RAYS
NOW AS I ENTER A NEW STAGE IN MY LIFE, THE DUSK
AND NOT THE DAWN WILL GUIDE ME
WEARY OF THE WORLD, OF THE HECTIC PACE OF LIFE
I’M FORCED TO KEEP
THE ENERGY OF YOUTH HAS FADED AND THE UPHILL CLIMB
IS FAR TOO STEEP
A VICTIM OF THE CHAOS, EVERY DAY HAS PLACED 
UPON ME
A VICTIM OF THE BELIEF THAT THERE IS NO TOMORROW 
WAITING BEYOND TODAY
I AWAKE EACH DAY NOT WANTING THE NIGHT TO END
I LAY DOWN TO SLEEP EACH DAY NOT WANTING THE NIGHT TO BEGIN
NOT NEAR ENOUGH TO THE START YET TO FAR FROM THE FINISH
SOMEWHERE, HERE IN THE MIDDLE OF MY LIFE
PURPOSE IS THE FORGOTTEN CAUSE                              
I LACK THE SLEEP TO REST IN PEACE, LACK THE PEACE
TO SLEEP AT REST
UNABLE TO BEGIN AGAIN AND SOMEHOW UNABLE TO CHANGE
CAUGHT IN THIS STATE, VOID OF ALL UNDERSTANDING
UNABLE TO SEE BEYOND THE DARKNESS 
THAT SEEMS TO HAVE FALLEN AGAIN
WITH THE SETTING OF THE SUN…


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Beau lacrima -beautiful tears

She cried and she cried
and i tried and i tried
but she just cried and she cried 
and i pained and i cried
she told me its alright to die
but i kept holding on 
couldn't let her go
she just kept crying tears
some from anger some from sad
My heart dropped right then and there
she clutched my shirt and cried more
I held her there and smiled small
"mi amor,mi corozan,cry no more for you will always have me in your heart" 
I whispered in her ear as i kissed away her tears
she looked up at me and she made me swear that no matter what
i'd stay in her heart 
i told her i would and to never forget me 
as i told her this she cried some last tears
I stroked her cheek and kissed her tear
one last time i told her,your still beautiful when you cry
mi beau lacrima



Details | Prose Poetry | |

Opression

Present, in this bed I lay, and
tonight, they will order me to pray.
Within these four walls that contain my madness,
only god and repentance will absolve me of my sadness,
for I had once dared leave the solitude of my mind.
How can I pray when my hands you bind?
No longer a free being am I, in this world.
I can no longer shout, so how will I be heard?
Yesterday, my spirit and I were defeated, and
tomorrow I fear this will all be repeated.
Haven't you heard a word that I say?
How will I get better, bound, gagged and unable to pray?
Why in your faces, does my agony bring you gladness?
Am I onto a secret, therefore deemed made of badness?
The only thing you have ever inclined,
is that no free thinking man will be left unrefined.
All will be plucked, one by one from the herd,
and if non-compliant, forever be labeled absurd.
Like sinners, and the insane, they will be treated,
and if not changed, they will be deleted.
Well then, a martyr in this life I will now play, for
your disgrace I will not now, I will not ever obey.

-May god have mercy on your souls.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Basic Rules to Live By

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

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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Audacity

My elementary school was a box full of broken crayons. 
You know, the kind that no one likes to use because they fit inside your hands like a hug that lasts three seconds too long. 
Me and my classmates wore 
hand-me-down smiles. 
They were too big for our faces. We figured that eventually we would somehow grow into the sound of our own laughter, put on our happiness like gloves and wear our skin as if our bodies were made by Louie Vuitton, just hoping to be more than tattered pages ripped from the torso of coloring books.
More than the aftermath of two runaway trains headed to the same direction. Our parents drove their affection without insurance, and we are just head on collisions with no coverage. We got shattered windshields for eyes, and tongues made out of safely glass held together by super glue. It’s no wonder we spoke broken English. 
With an entire orchestra drowning inside our throats, veins like guitar strings, our voices cracked like the self esteem of single mothers who carried us in their wombs like Molotov cocktails, and prayed that we would somehow find a way to mature into land mines
exploding underneath the feet that have trampled them for too long. These women, they dream in a language only fully understood by the tiles of an abortion clinic on a busy afternoon.
They raised us on top of broken promises made by men with grape jelly in their spines who were too busy jamming to their own 
two-cent mix tape that they chose over their priceless women.
We didn’t come with a screwdriver. There is no picture on our box to show you what we should look like when this all is over.
We were just put into this world with a note that read 
“Some assembly required.”
We were built inside of a neighborhood that looked as though it was slowly loosing a fist fight to cancer and kemotherapy claimed all of it’s dreams.
You see at a young age I was told that no matter how much furniture you move with a Honda Civic, it’ll never be a pick up truck 
but have you ever wanted to be more than what you were made for?
Was there ever moment in your life when all you wanted was to be more than the wounded options that circumstance has nailed to your shoulders? 
People question why we even have the audacity to breathe. That’s why when we walk it looks as though we are apologizing for our lungs.
But we ate not sorry for living this loudly.
It’s the only way we know how.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

RELIGION AGAINST MAN

He hated his brother
Because he practiced another
Men of same wombs
On each other, inflict wounds
The free thinker; their observer
And he saw; eye sores
Men beheaded… burned
Women disemboweled
Bombed
Drug traffickers and the mafia
Show more angels heart
Men obsessed with religion
No place free of them
Hold this illusion
Four virgins and a mansion
For just one man in heaven
So die a martyr
And make it even
In the beginning, was this so?
When men die, do they go?
PLEASE: give me no fairy answer
Except self proven ponder

On the other side
I heard Christ died
Men turned it merchandise
One name, many voices
As the voices, so the vices
Repent. Be baptized
Or die ostracized
Yet in sex, their leaders
Abuse youths and feeders
Adultery in the upper chambers
Sucked the poor dry
So the rich benefits and not die
Name not names
Lest you give them more fame
The free thinker; their observer
And he saw…eye sores
Grieve not alone in chest
It’s same in north; south; east; west

I heard God has his own powers
And he for himself mighty might
So why do for him men fight?
I heard also, the goat can bite
When pushed to the wall
Be that so,
Then there is:
The goat-
The applied force-
And the wall.
Who is the Goat? Man
Who is the force applied?
Circumstances against man
And who is the wall?
Religions against man


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Concrete Block

Square off
Center
Bogus
I am a concrete block.


Kitty-cornered
Straight down the middle
Weathered but useable
Concrete block with a cross


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Ghosts of South Dakota part 3

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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Une Douleur Exquise

I have never seen such a face, not in my most perfect of dreams
To look upon you would be the purest of masochistic pleasures…

I beg of you, be the death of me!

Destroy me!

 

Self-aware, I cannot understand what is behind our paths intertwined
What a cruel mistake fate has made, to bring you into my existence…

Yet, here I am!

Here you are!

 

If it were only your face, had the artist only perfected your portrait
If you were nothing more than a vision, still you’d…

shine in the darkest of nights!
Silence the loudest of sounds!

 

Your mind, your words, every action creates a chaotic stillness inside me
I fear I could lose myself in your flawless existence…

I can only taint it!

I am only poison!

 

I have now seen such a face, often in my most perfect of dreams
I have looked upon you, felt the purest of masochistic pleasures…

You have been the death of me!

Destroyed me!


Details | Prose Poetry | |

I'M A SINNER, I'M A SAINT

It’s been 22years now; and I look upon those hills
The twin hills; that stand facing each other
The great towers that rise in full distinct of each other
The great book says I was born a sinner; man says I was born a saint
With no blemish; a little child dressed in white
Who landed all naked with a cry; a cry into an immoral world
I grew in innocence and grace; till I became eve
Yearning for a forbidden fruit
It drew me to it; it told me it was the sweetest
I believed it; I tasted it
Indeed, it had the sweetest taste
I feel bad for Adam; he didn’t taste as much as I tasted
Yet he suffers a great deal
My eyes beseech these unlike hills that towers up to the heavens
The first a dump for sinners and its twin a heap for saints
I’ve seen Christ; I’ve seen the devil
I know them both; I try to belong to one
I try to be a saint; but my thoughts wouldn’t allow me
Is it my thoughts that cause me to sin? Or my body
Sin is sweet; sin is pain…It is a sweet evil
Being a saint is hard…and glorious
I dream of white robes; the songs of saints
I live in the joys of the world
The loud banging music; the clubs of men and stench of beer
I dream of showing the woman I can be; and having the praises of Adam
Don’t blame me Jesus…
Don’t blame me devil…
I was born a sinner; I was born a saint!

©Naa Takia, All Rights Reserved 2012


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A sad love story

Her spouse is a little bit physically unfit
So she wanted my body - 
I wanted her heart because I was not so smart
Then couple of years later she found a partner
And lost interest in me

Now I need her body
As the earth needs the sky
As the hungry ones need the food

But she has found a partner
Now she doesn’t need me anymore! 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Moment of Hope The Invisible Man 30

Sometimes I have the courage to think of the things that made me what I am today,
My memory takes me back to terrible things far away far off into my bitter past,
My mind like a maze of dirty black alleys that smell of waste, loss and disgust,
The losses, the drink ripped away, not happy until it was all gone respect as well.

Invisible thinks of a garden where roses clustered with lilies scent on the breeze,
Bees found stores of honey in the petals of a thousand and one different flowers,
Lovers walked hand in hand along its winding path a beautiful dream of the man,
Bright with the embroidery of nature where children played in new myrtle flowers,

As Invisible thinks of this garden it is neglected but flowers can grow with weeds,
It could put a smile upon his face, a face that had never known any joy recently,
He hopes a gardener can covert this garden get rid of ruined waste, back into Eden,
Tending all the beautiful flowers that spring up with the weeds and smell gladness.

If he helped the gardener in his quest a hand might hold his and guide him through,
Maybe a hand would go around his waist to support him as well as guide his hand,
Dare he wish that the guiding hand and the support would be his angel from heaven,
A dear person to help him clear his garden and walk down the winding path as lovers.

An angel that would smile at him maybe hold his hand and squeeze it so very gently,
Would the angel talk to him and tell him that one day they would be together again,
Her beautiful grace shining warmly as she looks up to him, to her he is her hero,
Not a drunken mess that cannot cope, not a dirty vagrant, but her knight her love.

The tenderness of this beautiful scene in his poisoned mind became real he smiled,
He grinned as she sat down next to him as close a she could get then wriggled closer,
Warmth from her body not only warmed him but gave hope this what he has waited for,
She whispered sweetly she loved him and would be waiting for him and they kissed.

Invisible woke with a start and was she not by his side, was she ever with him,
A dream another heart wrenching let down and how could he have dreamed the dream,
It was so real he still felt the warmth, the impression of her hand holding his,
But it must have been a dream his own mind conspired to deliver the hardest blow.


Lost in a grief so deep, his loneliness complete he talks to Sam his imaginary friend.

These days get worse Sam they really do please help me,
I need to change but I need my drink more what can I do,
But I need to change so desperately Sam can you help?
My world has cracked and I've fallen into the crack,
But what I don't understand Sam that I was once good,
If I had any courage Sam I would be laying in my coffin,
Why does life drag you along with it I don't want to go,
Just a bit of icing on my cake Sam it is freezing cold,
Did you know this is where I was brought up my friend,
Did you know that most of the people that walk past I knew,
Sam! I know many of there people but they don't know me,
Why do they all walk past I wish somebody would help,
Maybe when I have drunk more cider I might feel better Sam,
I can remember being happy but not what being happy is like,

As Invisible sits drinking shoppers give him a wide berth and they look at him with hate.

These people Sam they look at me as if I have hurt them,
The people they are not our sort of people they hate me,
Has the world changed like I have but in opposite ways,
My life is full of sorrow drunkenness and dreams Sam,
Old sorrows wont go away new sorrows should take over,
So we have to face both the old and the new that's bad,
At night I try to close my drunken eyes it all returns,
Sam is that the same as you can you close your eyes,
Can you remember the valleys Sam the ones we used to play,
When we ran about all day Sam in the sun rolling in grass,
The old stream that twisted and turned, it had lost its way,
Floating lolly sticks watching them bounce away on ripples,
Buying bangers in November and throwing them into the water,
What I wouldn't do to go back for just a couple of hours Sam,
Just to feel the innocence and try to bring it back to now,
To enjoy what there is to enjoy and maybe get better Sam,
But that will never happen Sam we are lost on an island,
A well populated island but an island all the same Sam,
People are not like ships they don't bother to rescue people,
They just walk around or just walk away all the nice ones gone,
I remember my school Sam it's now been knocked down and left,
It has all gone, all gone no primroses in spring or bluebells,
Do you remember Sam the bluebells used to nod in the wind,
But they have all been built on, whats the use in talking,
Nothing changes from bad to good Sam remember that, eh Sam,

Still drinking his cider tears well into his eyes his nose runs and begins to quietly
to sob. He sits on the shopping parade seat, shaking as he sobs. His throat has a lump
in it so he stops talking to Sam. Invisible sinks his wet face into his overcoat
hides his misery from the people that walk past he just sat there lost and confused. His
greatest sadness an angel paid a visit to the maze of dirty black alleys that smell of waste,
loss and disgust,


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Perfect

Her blood lies upon your perfect hands
All the pain you have put her through
Has ended her life for good
Upon your perfect hands 
Connected to your perfect body
Not so perfect now, are you?

You made her weep
And you made her drink
You made her scream
And you made her cry
Made her breathe her last broken sigh
You....you made her die

Those hands that once held her
Before they became hard and cruel
Those hands that once calmed her fears
Before they began to cause them
Before they took her life away
Those hands --- Your hands

You had no right, no right!
And now my sister has no life


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Crooked Sorrow

Canoe, golden brown inking rust colored depths, reflects the shape of my buried soul in rootless flight
Grassy banks envelop the waters and root the hoary trees that are the ghostly spectres bending
To reach for me with blackened toothed arms jaggedly carving silhouettes into the waning light
 Hush their soft murmuring, the rustle of their fading leaves the whispered voices of chis descending

Melodiously they speak of the angst simmering from where the sinful spirits are beckoning
The eclipsing moon’s tide that pulls the unhurried river meets the sullied shores of my reckoning 

The shadows of a godless eternity darkens the ancient seams of life and is slowly spreading


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Lost Love Found by WLM on March 29, 2011

I need not scream
For the return of my dream
I feel so much better
For from her I received a letter
Her feelings were not of being mad
But of making me feel glad
She still wants me
And that is the way it should be
There was never a great cost
Nor even a feeling of being lost
When I heard from my love
All was still sent from heaven above
She finally did show
And my face had such a great glow
For me she does still need
So for now I will not concede
She still loves me so
In my heart I will always know
To me she will still marry
Now my head is not in a flurry
And a family we will still start
In mine heart I will sing like a lark
As God meant us to see
Together we will always be
In the simple breeze
I will hold her in my arms to squeeze
Now that I have my dear
I will lose all my fear
I have my best friend back
Oh God thank you for that
For with her I have no doubt
Thank you God I will never be without
She has made me so happy I still cry
For in my heart I do not want to die
All the feelings of dread
Have been put out of my head
To her I have so much to give
And for all of that we will always live
We must always treat each so well
My heart can only swell
I feel so young again
And that is where she will begin


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Lithium, Lithium

My torment contains their solution,
I never wanted your pollution.
Why must I force myself to decompose?
You're nothing but a thorn without the Rose.
How can they tell me, this is existence?
Why must you fight, my every resistance?
Don't you understand? I'm in love with my despair!
It is my reason for enduring, it is my light, it is my air.
I fear I cannot fight this war much longer.
Every day you grow strong and stronger.
Why is no one helping, can't anybody see?
Slowly, but surely, you're destroying me.
However, surrender, I never will.
This is one soldier you'll have to kill,
A life with you I refuse to share,
My only love, is my darling despair.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

"The Snakes"

The Snakes are moving to Washington,
where they'll buy real estate and visit
the Smithsonian,
They'll set up a residence next to the President,
trying very hard to be his best friend,
Mrs. Snake will befriend the children and the First Lady,
but their motives will be quite shady,

The Snakes are getting ready to make their move,
with their spyware and smoothe grooves,
part of their plan is to win over Capitol Hill
so they can make their "Big Kill",

The Snakes are coming!
slithering slowly,
when their cover gets exposed,
things are going to get ugly!

They will sneak in the nooks and crannies,
They may even try to upset Granny,
but they are coming in disguise,
while their daggers are traveling behind in the skies.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Mirror

I see two faces
Inside and out
Side by side bickering about

They fight for food
They fight for thought
They fight for everything they haven’t got

I see two faces 
Inside and out
Side by side thinking about


                                                      Soumit Dey


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A WORLD BEYOND

His frosty grasp conveyed shivers down my achy spine
My weight as thin as air; cold air rushing past me
I stood apart watching down to earth, where I had dwelled
A different chill down my spineless soul
The light led me on to a beautiful spectacle
None as pleasing as that grandeur Mansion
I moved an inch closer; it moved twice away
It was in sight but far within reach
There stood another, a much disturbing figure
It looked as torment, it’s hurt as Tartarus
Hades saluted at its opening
And sin, its shame in one word
I remained suspended, in comparison of the unlike
In clear vision of sorrow pending guests of Hades
In plain vision of joy awaiting those of the Great Mansion
Earth lay drenched in its past greatness
Bathing in sin; choking in black dirt
There stood anew a fine build
A voice as loud and thundering searched through me
The Ultimate question, “How many can I bring ashore?”
The clock ticked on more than deafening
Each loose second, an additional wasted life.
I looked on pleadingly, my life and many others to implore
A great commission to realize. The alpha? Me!
I was fading, I was tearing beneath
A fall as unhurried as midnight
Transporting  into my departed limbs, life
A new dawn planted the only resurgence kiss
Resting on my clammy breath, a heave of relief
A sigh of truth dawned… of A world beyond.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

an angel

An angel.

I thought I saw an angel today when I was remembering you.
You are in my waking day, I dream its just me and you.

When I go and walk a while I think your by my side
And then I remember the truth of it all and that you had to die.

I don’t know why im so confused
They say death is  part of life
But you were so little my love
You had not lived your life.

They say you have gone to heaven
And that you are a star
But I don’t believe them, not at all
I just know that you are far

I hope one day I will see you again 
And we will smile and laugh and dance
And I wait with anticipation for the day
That I will get another chance.

I love you


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Where I'm From

I am from my daddy's drunken heart, beating so fast as though flung from a 
furious circle of women who are welcoming the men back from the hunt.

I am from my mother's matted eyes.  My mother, a lil' orphan girl who often was 
told, "Step back, black! You too po."  My mother, who cried out, " I have my sisters 
to love."  My mother, who beat up the world to protect me.

I am from my cousin Cora's womb, which wasted away, but only after seven 
babies grew into children who lived in a ditch to escape the streets and ate out of 
garbage cans.

I am from the son of God, the Mother Hen of the world.  Careening down a dark 
alley, I run into myself, leopard legs, little streaks.

I am from the Yoakum Chaparral Chalet, covered in chicken grease and bathing 
in a washtub.

I am from Jasper, Texas, grasping my knuckles into the cement as I am dragged 
to death.

I am from music, Stravinsky's "Rite of Spring" and Ellington's "Catch the A Train."

I am from gardens, honeysuckled and herbed, growing health and healing.

I am from nerves, stressed, tired and tangled.

I am from the hospital today where I watch my dad's eyes grow big and his body 
shrink.  I watch my mother skate into the room nodding and dreaming.

I am from the bottom of the Atlantic, screaming Holocaust, millions of dead 
bones chilled and cried out, "Murderer, thief, betrayer."

I am from the eighteen hundred block of Isabella in Houston's Third Ward where 
Mr. Evans used to sit on his porch and nod and Mrs. Turner used to sit on her 
porch and talk, and everybody said, "Hey Baby, how ya been doin'?"


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Lifetime Poetry

In life, do we only
Know the main reason 
Why we are here for?

In life, do you exactly know
Your particular mission down here?

In life, do I really feel?
Where is my place?

***
We should get more attentive
To the essential and creative
Facts in life, instead of doing negative
Actions that impeach us to bring positive
Ideas to our Great and Beautiful Humanity.

***
Because, your mission here
Could be to approach near
The total (entire) happiness and…
And, I really feel that my 
Place is where I am b
Now. So, I can lean 
And concentrate on high
Thoughts: Writing poetry!!!

Copyright Rita Solis Radius. Prose “Lifetime Poetry”.Dec. 3rd – May 13th.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

On Verge

Have you ever jumped in and out of your skin?
Found yourself on top of a hill with no shade to stand under, the skin around your lips and eyes starts to crack and peel.  Don’t you wish for one moment you could simply have a hand to cover the glare and give you a screen, to sooth them for just one instant and feel a breath of relief.

Have you ever bled without pain?
You are soiled red but the gates of pain are simply numb. You simply watch the drops stain. If only a hand could compress the hurt and brake the flow of this rouge river game.

Have you ever spat words of scorn? Only to discover it was a feeble attempt that bounced the daggers back at your wall of ice. They simply echo back, the acid splatters in your face. You regret what you said; you wish you were dead.

Have you ever defied your own line of fire? You’ve broken down your walls of guard and allowed trespassers to rape your morals. If only a hand could pull you back and tug you in, the rules you made would still be in.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Did You

I am sitting here all alone,
not really knowing how it hit once again,
the wealth of emotions that travel here,
calm to tears in a matter of moments,
sadness that weighs heavy in my eyes,
flashes of my memories every day,
it is overwhelming, your loss, some days.

Looking over at my half empty coffee cup,
remembering our private talks of life,
the unconditional encouragement,
so freely given when others would not,
understanding the complexity of me,
loving me for just being me.

No one has ever said an unkind word,
when they pass by and share memories of you,
their memories of gentleness,
bring the eyes to tears,
and my expression to humble,
so nice to hear what I already knew.

Maybe it is guilt that everything floods back,
in never letting you know,
who you were in my eyes,
hope deep down you did,
or hear me now in my whispers and tears.

The feeling that has never left,
is the belief that you had to pass away from me,
for me to reach every goal or success,
we talked about over half empty cups of coffee,
though I know you can see every step,
grief just comes over me,
for me to grow, did you think you had to go?

October 6, 2011
© Andrew Scott – Just a Maritime Boy 2011


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Woods

The Woods
11-29-08
By
William L. Moore
For
William McCracken Milroy

In the woods the trees so tall
Mourning birds begin to call
Waiting for the break of day
Scattering seed where it may lay

From the little wooden basket
Which resembles a tiny casket
As far as it may be seen
The willowy grass so green

The leafy branches may break or bend
But in the time it takes to mend
Grow roots so straight and  true
Forever catching all the dew

So straight, so true, so strong
At which they do belong
Keeps us all on our toes
So we should always know

The trees so full of Dove
Cooing of their love
Always will return to dust
This great earth belongs to us

After the end
We will begin again

Uncle Bill
This was written
When I thought
Of the Farm west of 
Okmulgee, Oklahoma


Details | Prose Poetry | |

KID AGAIN

i feel like am small
tho am tall
strong as a wall
i won't so much
i need to be in touch
to get in
i feel like a
KID AGAIN


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Reading Heiroglyphics and the Shadows That Dance on the Wall

He impressed me, his eyes were reflections of fire, his wrists were his passion and his
hands drew patterns over my skin...

He glanced, over to the left, and I imagined something important must be written on the
walls...

There were shadows dancing, the way we kissed on moonlit nights, the way we played out
secrets and turned silence into games, and somewhere on the right side of all this, I
slept and he breathed and I learned how to read the

hieroglyphics

of us, the language of who we were...


“We're somewhere in the middle, Dear,” I told him as I traced my hands lightly over the
center of his chest, I watched his arms move, slightly, to pick up my past, and I made
figures under the blankets that saved us from the chill of March with my knees...

Every scar can be counted, every flaw tells a story, and I knew they were written upon the
way he furrowed his brow, I knew that if I counted the moments in which he kept his eyes
closed, I could find the letters that wrote his sentences...

I could speak like him and amaze myself...

I could corner him and back out before he trapped the meaning of trust...


“You don't have to worry,” I told him as he breathed the air we slept in, “You are poetry,
the embodiment of my words, you are the ink captured secrets that appear on my every page,
you are the tear stained notebook that holds herself through years, and you are the
corners in my pages, carefully folded over, carefully...

bent.”

He replied with a dream, he replied with a breath, and he impressed me, his smile, and the
shadow he placed on the left side of my walls when I got stuck
somewhere
in
the
middle.





Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Artist

My bed of roses, underneath it hides an army of nails.
Crimson spills but remains unseen behind this tattered veil.
Mona Lisa smile, but my buds bloom only in the light of pain,
howling ghosts of the past still haunt me, I fear myself no longer sane.
Concrete exhaustion, it weighs me down and I'm barely able to move,
painting pictures of who I'm not, this mask I'm unable to remove.
I've torn open my ribcage and there's no heart, only purgatory to be seen,
I've sown myself shut, I'll never let you notice I'm anything but pristine.
Trapped in the deepest depths of this hell, I've burned my skin trying to escape,
there are no exit signs any more, only oceans of fire amidst this war-torn landscape.
I am embedded here now, forced to dance forever with only demons and sorrow,
and all I have left to do is paint yet another lie to deceive you tomorrow.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Paid In Full

On this day we sing and praise Your name as You prepare to give Your life for ours. 
There is nothing in this life more precious than a man, although not a man, who would 
willingly give his life for another and asking for nothing in return only that we turn our 
life over to Him and walk out our lives as He did. What more must we do for You on 
this day?

We stand here tonight singing, praying and crying out for You. Our tears are of joy 
because we have come to know You. Our tears are of sadness of the horrible and 
brutal way in which Your life was taken. You were whipped, stripped, pummeled and spit 
upon before the brutality ended with Your being nailed viciously to a tree, a cross 
created for You at Calvary. Why, oh why did it have to end that way? Why, oh why, did 
Your life had to end so abruptly? You came, lived briefly and died for me.

 I thank You, Dear Jesus for all that You have done for me. I give my life to You. I want 
to follow Your words. I want to be a good student of all that You can teach me through 
those You may put in my life. Dear Father You have done it all. You took the abuse. 
You took on my sins and washed me clean. You showed us how we are to live…honest 
and good.

Tomorrow You will be lead to that place. You will lay and take Your last breath as man 
on that cross. Dear Father You have rescued us all, even those who do not know You, 
yet. Three days later You rose from the grave as none other has ever done. You would 
walk this earth again, briefly, letting all those who knew You before, know that You are 
real and You will see them all again in Heaven. Oh how I long for the day to see Your 
face. To live in a place of peace, love, no pain, just comfort and joy with everlasting life 
and praising Your name. 

Hallelujah to the Lord on High


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Hello

Empty cocoons
Are all that remain
While in the field
Picasso-like wings soar

Changing the brown color
Of a fading autumn field
Beat the wings 
Of new born butterflies

Fearlessly
They dance all about me
Touching my nose
Gently alighting 
On my shoulders

It’s as if they are saying
Nice to see you my friend
Glad you came by
To say
Hello


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Deepening

Take deep breaths and inhale love reborn.
Times ago in a place a meadowlark could not sing.
Recreate the romance and mend up all that was torn.
Within a unbreakable fortress a Queen reunites with her King.
Those dreams of falling towers are left far behind.
A refreshed phase of adoration carried on a crane type wing.
Though shaken but not broken are the toughened coils that bind.
The air bubbles of lives connected in a slow motion breeze.
Creatures from the deep emerge, an enamored heart restored.
In the eye intimacy with dangled fibers aimed to please.
A real life tale of the sorceress and the lord.
Dynamic forces beating odds and hailing pride.
The souls of them truly are willed to remain.
On a stallion of passion through enticing nights they ride.
Celebrate, celebrate a union made by amore' and pain.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Perfect Day To Go

I watched
While the tall weeds 
Waved back and forth
And the north wind
Bellowed down the mountainside

The sky
Gray and black
Gathered unto itself
Readying 
For the oncoming rains

The dampness in the air
Hung like a fortuneteller
With a sad face
About ready to read a future
No one wanted to hear
As I opened the door
To an empty house
That I once had called
My home

Walking into the kitchen
I sat down at the table
Where an envelope
Had been carefully placed
Between an old ivory 
Salt and pepper shaker

To this day
That envelope still remains
Unopened 
I didn’t need to read
The letter you wrote 
To know why you had gone
Or need to see the words
Or feel the pain that they held

Looking out the window
I couldn’t help thinking
As the rain started to fall
What a perfect day it was
To go


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Lady Vice

That smell, there ain' quite nothin' like it.
Not an aroma on gods green earth so intoxicating,
it has taken me on a roller-coaster ride;
through love,
through hate,
heaven and hell,
past and present.
Toxic to every ounce of my being-
yet life without it does not exist, could not exist
-it infuses within me, setting the wheels of my mind
in motion.
It only takes a moment for all I know;
about right,
about wrong,
to dissolve into pure impulse.
There is faux euphoria inside us all.
The memories wash over me,
wave after wave they hit.
I am broken,
drowning amidst the stormy seas of nostalgia,
down the bottom of a bottle.
With every mouthful I sink deeper,
I'm being suffocated by the love of my life tonight,
and,
I'm loving every breathless second.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Soft Glowing Embers

The birds are rejoicing this morning...Each species is trying to out sing the other..The 
sunrise calls me to enjoy its glow of kaleidoscope of color dancing off the whispy 
charcoal clouds..The quiet__freedom from manmade sound is just temporary for cars and 
trucks constantly interrupt the peace but the birds don't slow down one bit...They are just 
praising God for the glorious day that he has honored them to live.. The mist or fog in the 
first valley is not as dense this morning as if it is has dried out somewhat but rain is 
suppose to come back in so we will be having more fog and mist..Thanks God for the 
moisture and the cool of the day for the heat of summer will be here and along with it 
uncomfortable weather...The color of the sky has changed again ..It seems that the sun 
is trying to warm the sand colored clouds with a soft glowing fire that is just barely 
burning.. The embers are soft red hot on the horizon. . The roosters are trying their best 
to bring the sun on up....The other birds have quieted somewhat..It seems that they have 
had their time of worship and have gathered food to carry home to the young...Now the 
embers on the horizon have renewed and a bright glow comes form the sun fire that 
warms the earth....Thank you Lord for the time on the porch to renew and refresh my inner 
being...Amen


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The blind man from mid-west town

A blind man hailed from mid-west town
A mild but lonley clown
In search of love and happy times
A life so filled with rhymes

His friends would tease and call him blind
But still he would'nt mind
They say deep down he is truely kind
And deserves a worthy find

So he set off-shore "the fairy tales"
With gusto that never fails
He sailed accross the bitter niles 
And the shores of lonely miles

He went on-ward with head ahead
With little or no bread
In hope of making mends amend
With glimmer of uncertain end

An abrupt stop suprised he made
Cos he saw what none could see
A vista view of a pretty maid
Behold!...a magic tree

With leafs cut out in golden sheets
And sterms stretched out in fleets
Upon each nod a diamond ring
Of roses and lilies bling

"Oh! heavens i must be dreaming here"
So he said with uneasy stare
He tried to place in harmony
That life is such an irony
For years he prayed his sight would be
But the world was blind but he


Details | Prose Poetry | |

When Old Dancers Die

She was a dancer
But now at age sixty seven
During the days
Her ghost leads small groups
Of aging seniors
In pilates stretching 
Several times a week

She was a dancer
And though her feet
Remember every heel and toe
That she had ever done
Arthritis keeps her 
From ever thinking 
Of a simple lock step
Ever again

She was a dancer
Whose feet flew
This way and that
Across every stage
From New York to California
But was never chosen
To be the one
To play that special role

And though
She is sixty seven
And the direction of time
Can never flow back
Somewhere
After the sun departs
And night time covers the land
She closes her eyes
And still dreams
Of the time

She was a dancer


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Prey for Me

I searched for you through the endless expanse of night’s long blackness, 
The shimmering light from a crescent moon offered little help in my quest for your elusive form. The pale light dimly lit inconspicuous objects and cast shadows of their beautiful contours upon the ground to thwart my pursuit at every turn. 

Radiant eyes peered at me from within the cover of darkness, 
And mysterious intonations and melodic resonance echoed into the night air, confusing my sense of direction until I was lost in a maze within your protective purlieu. 

Fighting my frustration and fear that I may never gaze upon your majestic beauty, nor hold your rapturous warm body against my cool skin, or savor the taste of you on my tongue, I gathered what was left of my strength and resolve, and continued my silent pursuit. 

Guided by my heart and uncontrollable emotions and hunger for you, I somehow broke free of the discountenance feints set upon me to mask your true course. The hunger within my heart and the vision of you brazed within my eyes, guided me toward your lingering essence and ultimately to where you now hide, deep within the confines of your sheltering den safely held tight within the cool moist earth. 

As my long sleek form slithers into your place of refuge I strike and sink my teeth deep into your neck and as my coils embrace your supple body, I am overcome with powerful emotions emanating from your very being, and at that moment I knew my hunt was not in vain. To taste your sweet flesh wound be unlike any that has ever been known between predator and prey.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

How I Will Remember You

Every time I think of you
I’ll see your smiling face
In your hands you kept my heart
And within my arms your embrace. 

We had our share of ups and downs
We didn’t always see eye to eye
Remembering the times you made me laugh
Made it easy to forget each time I cried.

We always stood up for the good in each other
And with God’s help got rid of the bad
What better a family could one man have asked for
Than the one I’ve had.

I thank you for all you’ve done
I was blessed to have you at my side
Your job as my guardian angels is done
Now God’s angels will be my guide.

When I needed you most you were there for me
Now there’s nothing more to worry about
Although God’s always had it
He’s got it from here on out.


This is how I will remember you.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Fish

Fish

Parts of the stream became fish
and some of these fish returned to water
there are thoughts older than the universe
and some of these threads stretch forth forever
for these are the thoughts that reign down
from the seven spirits of God
many threads are traps, mazes, and prisons
the beasts do not choose their thoughts
they simply run the programs that they inherit
forced to accept and/or where given
while seekers posses the liberty to choose their input
and we all build and tune our channels
according to the perceptions that suite our ideas of reality
or focus on goals that feed some kind of hunger
planted or imagined and aching inside
and we all wonder why we are here
some kind of file for groups of thoughts
to be played out under the sun
until we are done and out of sight
and slipping down into the archives
as the universe keeps expanding
making the small even smaller
insignificant except for the sins
that put us under
as death marches on
the illusion that the physical is real
while dreams spur the spiritual
beings that live forever
may yours always find a good host
with memories intact
and blessed by the creator
while riding the threads of life
that find grace in the mighty kings eyes
that you might be called a child of God
just like Jesus the Christ
and for what will you live and die
glorify the innocent father of life
that you might win the eternal fight
for children shall fill the expanse
and there is a great purpose to fill
the duty of the angels to bring them light
those who live must learn to love and bring out
their hosts that die 
this challenge must begin at home
so build your faith as a rock
and a mountain high






Details | Prose Poetry | |

When they love their children as much as they hate us the war will be over

When they love their children as much as they hate us the war will be over

Its doesn't matter which side your on
Whether your a viva viva palestina
Or an am yisrael chai
You know which side is evil, committed all
Wrongs, sometimes you meet people who 
Extol the virtues of this treacherous, 
Terrible oppressor /terrorist
With their shock and awe tactics and 
Disregard for freedom or the right to life And the pursuit of happiness
And sometimes for a minute, particularly 
When you talk to someone you think is 
Intelligent it becomes harder to maintain the 
View on this malignant party you tried hard 
To campaign for and against and although 
Peace (of mind) is all you want
All you could dream of
With this entity at the negotiating table 
Independence is swapped for catastrophe And war
If you give them what they want you will
Have nothing except the need to a right of 
Return to a better time


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Prisoner

She has taken herself
Off the open market
And made herself available
To the wealthy at private auctions
Wearing only the finest
In silks and satins and sparkling diamonds 

And though everything she wears is new
She herself is a hand me down
Shared for the price of Tiffany bracelet
Or an Oscar de la Renta dress 
Longing for happiness
Praying that someone might keep her
Never seeing that she, herself, is kept


Details | Prose Poetry | |

I Cry

I cry for a loved one
I cry for I hurt that he is gone
I cry through the memories of 40 years ago
I cry for I hurt deeply 
I cry for the comfort to ease my pain
I cry and as I do; I feel guilt grasping my soul
I cry for as I see memories pass away,  which I cannot reach again
I cry to see my dear friend again and his company to ease my pain
I cry for wrongs done in my life long to atone with my friend
I cry for the people I have hurt, and wish for them, with me to lament
I cry, for in 40 years I saw my good friend once as a complete and gracious soul
I cry, as God holds my friend’s hand and walks through death to a life with no end
I cry for I see happiness in the face of God and friend
I cry and mourn, with a yearning to see my friend again, a friend of God’s
I cry for all the pain I have suffered all my life as anger builds and to self hate
Teeth, grind, gnash and resentment builds within my self-pity
I cry for things I have not gained in my life and my anger builds higher, higher and 
mounts as if to reach no end
I cry! But it is true that my friend and GOD know my thoughts are hopelessly 
I pause, and listen to the silence
“You cry for yourself and you’re your selfish misdoings.” A voice does  
exclaim. “Stop; for your God and passing friend love you.”
 “You cry for the materials of a world which you leave behind.”
“Please friend of mine let our Creator and this friend smile with you.”
“Rise above your pity; smile, laugh and live, full, as we all did before.”
And cease your tears; for God and your friend love you.”


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Soliloquies

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

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

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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Never Coming Home

I watched
 As the waves sounded heavily
 Against the old worn jetties
 Hammering at the wall of stone
 That rose up from the beach
 Before fading away
 And once again
 Racing back out to sea
 
High up
 In a clouded blue sky
 Seagulls danced in acrobatic flight
 Tapping each others wings
 When they flew by
 As if to say
 Nice seeing you again!
 
Above the billowing clouds
 That seemed to reach up forever
 Sat a bright yellow sun
 In a cold sky of gusting winds
 Though try as it might
 Could not find a way
 To warm land nor sea or me
 
So I watched
 As the waves pounded on
 Rolling up the beach
 Until they touched the tips
 Of the old pair of shoes I wore
 While I waited for you
 The same way I did yesterday
 And the day before 
 And the day before that
 For what seemed like forever
 Always hoping I was wrong
 But always knowing… nonetheless
 That you 
 Were never 
 Coming home


Details | Prose Poetry | |

AND THE MAN DIED

He woke in the chilling morn of Monday
Standing tall and stretching like a snake
His son lay carelessly on the old ragged mat
Innocence envelops him like a clean blanket
Unnoticed, he trudged past his dear son
Gathering implements crude and shabby too

He jumped without delay on his old motorbike
Rolling it away from the thatched roof hut
That the engine shrilling noise may not spread
Like the wheezing cry of the morning wind
Through the windows of many blocked houses
That never was heard in his old derelict hut

Wearing many tattered shirts, he zoomed off
Into the thick dark bush that stood just ahead
The speed was great and the rain drizzles
Drenching him thorough to his very soul
His arms shiver as they held the motorbike
Unsteady he rode on, into the forest

Before him lie, a thunder-stricken tree
Crossing the road that leads to the farm
Head on collision, the bike tumbled 
He lay on the wet ground, without a help
It was still dawn and none around
He writhes in pain and with tears-filled eyes

Blood in his eyes, one thought filled his mind
His son at home, an innocent in this world
He wished he lived a better life than his
He struggled to survive death’s strong grip
Squeezing strongly the last of his breath
With tears in his eyes, the man died.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Life Goes On

Life is a game, life goes on, Wins who honestly tries. Life doesn't wait for ones death, Life goes on. Our imagine floating like a butterfly We dancing around the stage and Millions of people watching this. All we trying to strengthen life any way. Our heart should be lose their tenderness If we never shed a tear. Don't go for wealth, Go for someone who makes you smile. Because you have only one life. When you were born you cry And all around you were smile. Live so that at the end...... You the person lying With a face, full of smile And every one around you Crying for a big loss.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Reformation of Character

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Tattoo

A tattoo drawn,unlike no other.                                                                                             Embossing skin,with inks of color.                                                                                           Dragons,snakes,and other whims.                                                                                         Upon the skin,of a living canvas.                                                                                           Sometimes we wish,these things to be.                                                                                 A colored dream,that we can see.                                                                                           A picture postcard,for eyes to vision.                                                                                     For some a concept,for some revulsion.                                                                                 Beauty is,what the eye beholds.                                                                                           Some say yes,and some say no.                                                                                            For some it's art,for some it's not.                                                                                          But the choice is yours,and yours alone.                                                                                To dream a dream,unlike no other.                                                                                         And place this dream,in living color.                                                                                        Embossing skin,with inks of color.                                                                                           A tattoo drawn,unlike no other.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

THE ROUTINE LIFE OF NATURE.....

The routine life of nature,
makes a lone like me
dread in boredom
 seeing the clouds of the sky,
always moving to and fro,
to a wonderland 
 I ever wish to be,
life looks so lonely,
 in this tImes only
to find my life,
abandoned by the
intrigue of life.
I only stand still,
to view the moon
stand still,
in the range of the skies,
high o'er the hills
          of horizon.
the routine stand of life,
redefines the native stress of life,
into o single booklet of wits.
Life is routine.....................
  the routine life of nature,
makes me drown in anxiety,
waiting for the fates of open gates.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

BLOOD AND LOVE

Shriek of pain
A famous terror
Paralyzing oneself
The fear of three
Death of all
Survival of all
Or just one…
The kicks of the little
An attempt of landing
On what could be
An infertile land
The battle long awaited
All preparations made
Yet none ceases to fear
The pain suffered
They lie between
Death and life
She fights
It fights
They both fight
For survival
The old death
On standby
In anticipation of a choice
In wait of mishap
Who shall it be?
The carrier?
Whose nine months 
Nurtured and caressed?
Or the carried?
Whose life is yet to begin?
The first is chosen
The latter lives
On a sacrifice
Brewed on blood and love
They both could have lived
Couldn’t they?

©Naa Takia, All Rights Reserved 2012



Details | Prose Poetry | |

A left hand made verse 8

Homeland, do spread a net in the hungry child’s eyes.
Fishes grab with backbones the seaweeds in the swampy coloured lake.  
Homeland, have no mercy on us, show your utmost hate.
 It’s so easy to reserve in regret ...
For global hardship we will justify the time, in which
 You have not been changed,- 
Just we turned into  the globally dangerous beasts. 
The time does not move.
Probably water has leaked in its feet,
Make us see the spring,
But...
We were cold.
Homeland, do colour the street with fresh blood
Paint bloody circles on the streets.
As if the suns. 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Thoughtless Explosions of Verbiage

In times of joy and in times of pain 
words are the only elusive attempt at portrayal 
Daunting Contraptions Contracted in a few fleshy pounds 
hidden in a bloody swirling cesspool hiding in our skulls 
Thoughtless explosions of verbiage fill the pages of 
time & space in this place, feeble attempts at nothing 
merely interjections of uselessness. We canter down 
these halls of life opening doors & closing others, 
doors hard to shut are better left open. To breath the 
breath of life through these pounding heads of humanity. 
Beating its burden of confusion & false hope straight to 
the source ... producing order? What a concept in this place 
as to say a controlled explosion our existence is 
the oxymoron that is all. We live the days like 
the pun of some joke that's been forgotten. 
We soothe our souls with others expressions, broadcasting 
feeling to the masses. Ideas thought for someone else 
helpless sheep in this hillside pasture we're spinning on. 
Songs of hope & joy inspire & drive others to the end. Confident 
that more words will help in the future. Addicted to 
others feelings & ideas to produce our own. Mindless bites 
gurgle out real life for ratings while we all watch 
ourselves and turn back to the box. The box should 
falsify our existence but then the black emptiness that 
has become our hard existence. Tired lonely 
followers dancing till the end .... 
Ah the end 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Untitled 8

Appearing from nowhere, a red stain in my colourless 
vision, I found them cold in the whiteness of the first 

snowfall. They lay there in the misty haze, stunned to silence,
smothered in their white blanket; that splendid state 

beyond shivering. All the swans are dead, their bodies 
melt, reclaimed by the snow. I watch myself in their vacant eyes,

staring out at me, as if I’m some kind of god- the sun’s 
sparkle has faded; black mirrors, an onyx iris. With wings

contorted, they lay limp, their broken necks hanging like empty white bags, 
their once-upon-a-time white feathers twitching in the wind, the veins

on their sagging skins unwrapped, all speckled with flashes 
of ruby, brighter than fire, and just as untameable. This

scalded mess looks at me; the ends molt through, peeping like scared 
children, and crawl along my frozen skin; it’s almost

pleading, the red ocean growing and overflowing, staining 
the pinking dirt. They are all equal here, entwined in strands that slither

like embracing fingers, numb to the bone from the biting frost; iced
to perfection, inseparable chunks. From high above in the black sky, he saw

it all, creaming with knowledge- watching through his terrible spyhole,
that ghostly hue that bones this new aurora’s gleam with sallow blemishes.

This scene infects me; I circle the remains in awe and continue; this sight’s 
colouring me green:  it is over; they are finished, laying in the soiled snow.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Truth

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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Airline Without A Conscience

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

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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Lies

I wake up in the morning, The smell of your perfume lingering on my skin, I roll over to see if your body still lay there, & I realize everything I loved vanished. I just have these images and scents stuck in my head, I have everything you ever gave me packed away, I look through it again and again each day. Trying to piece the puzzle together, & figure out why we drifted apart. I want to know if you still think about me like I think about you, I want to know if you still have the things I made and gave to you. I just wish I could stop smelling you, Stop thinking about you, Just everything about you brings me to my knees, & I am begging you please, Please just let me forget you. I wake up the next morning and realize, Everything about you was lies.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

In the full view of things

In the full view of things 
people will always be harsh 
People will always be stuck up 
Nobody will ever try to help 
Whenever I cry for someone to help 


Nobody comes....


Sometimes I think I am not crying loud enough to hear 
But then I relize,
They only pretend not to hear 
He tells me he cares 
But I know he lies 


He ALWAYS lies....


No matter how hard I try 
No matter what I do 
He still is not satisfied 
He and his frankinstine bride 
Be forwarned... the tale about step mothers.... is true.


They always lie....


They think I am insane 
So they send me to this person
She calls herself a consoler... haha.....
She doesn't have a clue 
She lies, she knows nothing of privet thoughts, and should not be called a counsoler.


What do they know any way....


My mind is my mind 
No one elses to invade 
But if you're brave enough to try 
Good luck getting out... well ...you could say the same 
My mind is always busy 
I can't remember a time when I wasn't thinking 
About the past 
About things I could have said or done 
Or about the future I wish could be true 


I don't know who to trust..... except for one........


My mom 
My sweet and loveing mother 
She is my everything
I love and trust her  
More than I can say


I trust her I love her....


My mom knows me better than anyone I know
She knows my fears, dreams, and hopes
She loves me 
She trust me 
She is the one who helped me when no one would 


I hate him......


The man poseing as a father 
The man who was never there for me
The person I want to be the farthest away from 
I am forced to live with 
By a boges court 
Full of hypocrits and morons 


Why should they get to pick.......


They tell me where I get to go 
They tell me I don't know
OH but I do 
I know more than they could possibly dream of knowing 
Seven years I had been hideing 
Seven years I have known 
He is a heartless monster 


I was there.....


All they had was papers 
I wasn't even aloud in the room 
I had all the proff they needed 
Seven years of experence
But it didn't matter 

One day we will be home with our mother where we belong.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

My Enthusiast

Enthusiasm is a sharp blade in our toolbox of genuine stories.
The box embroidered with desire and filled with emotions you learned before thinking
to raise your right hand 
and give your answer an
honest try.

A want
to be willing 
to be worth it.
That’s what enthusiasm brings.

A hammering heart next to 
the beating one you have 
no control over.
It beats the blood upward like piano keys
hammering your brain to 
make a decision for your body to act upon.
A decision that breaks 
mantic-metallic peace and concrete brick chaos 
into two opaque pieces
and welds a glass mirror of love 
in between 
to remind you that the 
happiest time of life prescribed 
to you was when you saw 
your reflection 
and could see through any
circumstance
clearly.

We call ourselves blacksmiths.
Take bits and pieces of moments 
and memories
lay them across the 
old wooden table 
and try to piece together
a sword shiny enough to
smile at your problems in the steel.
But there is sword so spotless
No, there is no sword
strong enough to keep the 
table from splintering your fingers.
Foundation is everything.
A deaf man screaming at 
a blind girl’s watch dog 
to direct her out of green light traffic 
will do nothing more but 
make the mutt angry
and he will bite at your hand
for feeding his master murderous
mumbles. 
If there is one thing 
that my life stories have 
taught me 
it’s that you can’t wield an excalibur of peace 
with a wood-splintered vision
of the future
And that you can be 
the cause of chaos 
if no one understands
what you’re saying.
‘Grabbing for breath has now broken my fingers.’
No matter what your 
intentions are 
actions will always speak louder than traffic-signal speech. 
So forge enthusiasm inside
of a burning desire 
to love other 
people 
without being so judgmental.
The toolbox of genuine,
embroidered with desire
grins at me
every time I see my reflection
and see you standing
by my side.
My enthusiast.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Sins I Commited When I Loved Him Too Much.

I knew the rules, the engagement of us, he had a wound on his chin, he told me it was ages
ago...

he told me about her, he never spoke her name softly enough.

I sat on floors as I looked out windows, I stared for the time it took him to pull his
jeans up, I heard his fingers fumble at the button, his callouses rubbing against metal
and the quick goodbye of a zipper, and I knew it was summer, but the sun seemed to mock
me, the sun rose two hands too far for me to feel her.


“One day, one day, you'll love only me,” I whispered to myself, loud enough to break the
silence but quiet enough so he wouldn't know he had hurt me, though my tone wasn't
convincing and I could never stop the tears.


I pressed my back against pillows and sunk quietly into where he lay his head as I closed
my eyes, I made myself familiar with the fabric of blankets, the soft pattern of quilts
and discovered a new way to hide, and I hid from him so he would stay...

I would have done anything if he would just stay.


He reached over to kiss me, to touch my cheek and run his hand over the freckles no one
ever saw, he smiled for a second, for the moment it took for me to curl up into him, my
lashes tickled his arm, my tears traced over his tattoo and I found it hard to let go.

I composed myself, I looked into his eyes, I thought about how sad it was that I begged
for him even when he was right there, I stopped for a second when he opened his mouth, I
followed the trails of his breath as if they were swimming through my air, and he told me
that I was the only one who ever made him happy...

I shook my head, I blinked and found love to be ironic because the feel of him was killing
me, I kissed him, lips meeting and sins committed, and for the time it took him to walk
out my door, I turned my head and stared out my summer promising window...

just to watch him leave.



Details | Prose Poetry | |

Benediction

one fine morning
I arouse and found
myself in a new world 
of love and art.
A world were there was
smile on every face.
a life sound and satisfied.

I thanked God for his benediction
and wandered on its flat surface 
with, joy and freedom.
Here there was no crime
and no punishment
but an honest love
for every human.

Here lived Men and women
together without any
lust or any scare.And there
was in its every corner 
spark of Life and flux of glee.
But alas! my sleep 
was broken and once
again I found myself
in the world of mystery.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Are You Knocking- Do You Hear The Wind Sing Your Name

I seem to have lived my life in thrice written scrolls
    flowing throughout the eternal winds 
in bits and pieces of torn paper

I’ve searched my heart for you my love
    I’ve sent your name to the stars -
sending it throughout the Universe…
    floating across the essence of time

I seek my heart’s desire…
    Bidding him to send the mysteries of his soul
I search and search - oh, there must be more
    Is that you knocking at my door?

Why is love so hidden?
    We think it has arrived, only to find…
it was not for ourheart - our soul

In my dreams - you’ve come a thousand times
    Your spirit sings
I’m aroused by the gentleness of your touch
    I feel the passion of your caress
My heart keeps searching 
    My soul yearns for the sweet taste of your kiss

Where are you my love...
    There must be more
Is that you knocking at my door?

You sleep in the recesses of my mind - my heart
    Come fill the emptiness within - 
draw me into your warm embrace 

I’ll wait a lifetime ...
    for there must be more 
“Shh”…
    Is that you knocking at my door?

 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Ghosts of South Dakota Intro

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

                                                       GHOSTS

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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Catholic School Girls

Catholic School Girls always seem demure and calm,
cloistered beneath the walls of sanctity their
imaginations roam, dying to be set free,
repressed by the cloaks of chastity
they long to grow up and set their hearts
ablaze, but the religious life and their parents,
keeps their daydreaming in a haze,
until boys start piquing their curiosity
and their hearts start beating rampantly,
All the golden rules they have learned,
goes out the window and infatuation takes its place,
Sometimes the crushes they display takes them all the 
way into a life they are not ready for, then there are the times
when their feelings get spurned, making them think they have 
nowhere to turn, causing little women to think of the unusual,
such as elaborate stories to get their way,
especially when their secret love interests stop 
giving them the time of day.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Dream Come True

Dream Come True
WLM
January 12, 2011


I will not be blue
For my dream has come true
She has come to me
We will just let it be
I have waited so long
And my love has grown so strong
To have and to hold
For to always be bold
To let her know
How my love will show
To make it right
And look into the bright light
I want her to stay
For she will have it her way
She is so smart
I will sing like a lark
For she is mine 
In this day and this time
Our love will grow
To others it will show
Her and I surely long
For together we belong
And to her I yearn
Not a hint of concern
We will always be
As one entity




Details | Prose Poetry | |

LIFE WHAT IS

LIFE: WHAT IS?

Full of pain
With never any gain
This life seems to be one big willful game 

Tumbling headlong through this maze of chance
Our paths are littered with memories 

We seldom know 
Where we are going 
Nor the reason for living 

Life can be brutal
It can swallow you whole 
A vexatious burden for some 
Who know not how to live 
A joy for those who understand 
That life is for living

The prolonged day to day existence 
That life can seem to be 
Brings both misery or hope
Depending on how empty or full
Your tea cup is 

Life is to be lived 
The journey to death
Is varied 
No ideal way exists
That tells the truth 
Of our existence

Live life to the fullest 
Accept what you have 
Change what you can
Hopefully you will
Figure out your life plan 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Daisies and the Way to Undress Summer.

“Dress me in daises,” I said, as if flowers could cover my skin in respectable ways, and
he smiled as my shoe boxes of paint tipped over, as the floor became art and the way I
walked towards him smeared my heart at his feet.


We captured laughter this way, drawing insensibilities in between us, and there was an
element of beauty in the grin of a child when it appeared to dance across his grown up
cheeks, an attraction to Peter Pan, and blond hair in the summer, as I thought I could
capture July...


The month used to sit beside my bed, fluttering night lights to save me from dreams, stars
danced in mason jars and fairytales were whispered beyond moonlight as I wrote them in my
dreams, as I watched seasons disappear into morning light.


I arrested kisses with a word and slipped them in my pockets, he commented on the rips
that always decorated the hems of my blue jeans, I played with the brown flowered
patches at me knees, I looked at him and told him my secrets, I whispered content beneath
the spring as we watched summer rise, as the sky became a canvas and I wished my hands
were more capable...


“Show me the way beyond you,” he requested, as my glance became puzzled, “Show me who you
are.”


He handed me a daisy, he told me to undress, I studied the petals as they fell to my feet,
my toes became blanketed...

and I walked towards him...


the decoration of spring mapping out my heart, and he smiled with a mouth that grinned
when he spoke my name, when he laughed in the fashion of a child and held me under
moonlight when spring faded and summer came.





Details | Prose Poetry | |

MIGRATORY

I dreamed she housed her love in the shape of a living bird. How much do migratory creatures know, I wonder, of the weather on the other side? A week ago, the heart that is in my body from time to time leaves me a note I don’t answer. Can we at least talk? it asks, and I think “yes,” and then I lay down, exhausted. In the letter I finally write back. I don’t even apologize, I don’t think. “With you gone, it’s like I’m gone too.” That’s all I say. Words are harder to come and I myself am migratory, though these days lacking in wings or feet. I know nothing of the weather on the other side. I don’t even speak the language that I want to understand. Living as opposed to what? Her living bird made me wonder. Living in what way? I’m watching our wings, hung, ready for tomorrow. I’m looking for a place to put my arms.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Thursday's Destructive Inconsistencies.

He believed in inconsistency, with the claim that he believed in me...

I held onto every word as I watched the the ashes of my heart scatter into rain and I
stopped, stuttered and shut.down., the key to everywhere ripping through my palms as I
realized

everywhere

bit.


Hope lay immortal inside my smile, the rainbow of dreams slipped through my teeth, he slid
down my colors with arms that entwined around my calves, I screamed his name with the
earthquake of secrets and he bruised possession into my skin, but I knew he was already
inside, I knew he had planted years of unreason into the separation of my soul, I knew he
stood right

in between

me.


Too many narcissistic dreams, mirrors grinned at us from every angle, I shut doors in the
faces that frowned, I felt I must be dreaming but the kicks inside my stomach woke me up
and, here, I knew the hold of sanity existed throughout the idea of being needed as the
edge of tears fell down with the thought that maybe I wouldn't be wanted as time...

destructed herself.


I allowed him to choke me, I fell apart in the intimidation of strength, but I knew we'd
be beautiful as our smiles stared life from the pages of picture books, I knew the corners
would turn up from eager fingerprints that would shame our past, and seasons change~

don't they?~

so why shouldn't we?


Two hours too soon and I had to admit through painted eyes that once I was wrong, twice
I'd been a fool, three times I swore I'd leave...

but promises broke and fell into ashes as hope arrested me into believing we could
inconsistently shock the world if the world took the time to cry for us...

if children held onto the dishonesty of fairy tales...

and I forgot to lift my feet...

when my secrets gathered themselves into a kiss that colored his shoulders and left us bare

on

Thursday.








Details | Prose Poetry | |

Death lives for death

He stands there, alone.  Alone, looking out. Looking out across the vast empty lands.
Lands now cold, dark, and void of life.  Life that had once stampeded through the continents.  
Continents that now were as lifeless as the moon.  The moon whose eye stared down in its 
socket in the heavens, at an empty planet that no longer was entertaining.  Entertaining 
now, only death.  Death, he stands there alone, finally.  Finally he has accomplished all that 
he is, all he had lived for.  Lived for, yes Death lived for death.  For death is the only life that 
he contains.  Contains, contains like the vast body of water, the sea, contains salt, cursed so 
it can never quench thirst.  Thirst, like Death thirsts for his own death, yet he lives on.  
Lives on and on.  On and On.  On and on.  on and on. 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

mortal immortal

ALL THE DAY LONG 
I USED TO BREAK THE STONES
AND ALL THE NIGHTS KEEP COUNTING THE STARS
NEITHER THE STONES WILL OVER
NOR THE NUMBER OF STARS
ONLY I WILL CEASE TO EXIST


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Sea Is Never Filled

I watch
As the raging river’s waters
Pour into the sea
Wondering
Why the sea has never filled

All about me 
The rains keep falling
Filling the earth
As far as the eye can see

It is a cold rain
A winter rain
A rain that holds
No love or dreams

Off in the distance
I can hear the melodies
Of autumn birds
They are like me
Asking with their sweet songs
For the rain to go away

Standing by the windows
In the homes on the street
I can see the faces
Of children
Waiting for the sun
To free them
From their wandering imaginations

They wait impatiently
Tapping on their windowpanes
Faces pressed against the glass
Watching the drops of water
Run into each other
All the way to the bottom
Before being washed away

They wait impatiently
To go outside and play
But the rain doesn’t hear them
It just keeps drizzling
On the houses
On the windows
On the world
And on the river
That pours into the sea
Which has never
As far as I know
Been filled


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Prison life

Prison life 
Written 5-4-07 Edited 5-5-07
 
Your locked up inside
 For years at once
 With a future waiting ahead 
You try to reach
 But it slips awa