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Prose Poetry Loss Poems | Prose Poetry Poems About Loss

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

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Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Loss of Innocence

I remember…

Shimmering gold ribbons
Draped over the 
Glassy surface of the bay of Fundy
On a black see through
Summer night


I was new to love
Shy beneath your penetrating gaze
At a loss for words

And you…
Telling me my eyes spoke volumes
And the tears that welled up in them 
Against my will
Eventually falling over the edge of innocence
Into adolescence 
As your whispers
And my sighs
Melted on the rippling crest 
Of  those waves
That came softly 
To break upon the shore
As the pale moon looked down 
In utter silence

Author:  Elaine George
Written: June, 2014

Copyright © Elaine George | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Kilted Warrior

He stands proud and strong, this kilted warrior
head held high against the unending pain
of a heart born out of sadness
for the loss of those who came before him
and thoughts of those who would
continue on when he himself was no more.
Proud men one and all
vows made, till surrendered in death
to defend that which
was their birthright, the very land
upon which he now stood.
The call to battle though long since silenced
came from within his very heart and soul
blood of the ancient ones raged in his veins
his sword by his side...shield upon his back
he stood ready to charge into battle
to do what was expected of him since birth
to fight as those before him fought
without fear, but with a strength
only a battle hardened warrior
knew and understood.

Copyright © Melody Coster | Year Posted 2007

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Goodbye My Love

After the snowfall but before the lily blossoms, you were this woman who left by choice. All natural decisions made from a place of despair. Darkness consumed you as you fell into an addiction with expressions of deep sorrow and remorse... Step by step by step... Taking steps... Foot by foot by foot... Slower than a run, yet faster than a turtle, closer and closer towards your oblivion... Into mysterious unconsciousness, I whispered... "Goodbye, my love"...as you walked away. After the spring but before the leaves, I found you drained of energy. Completely exhausted into nothingness, and through it all, you still loved me. Seems like yesterday we walked side by side, you..me...the gentle breeze... You need not ask for forgiveness, sweetheart, it has been granted long ago, and before you were gone I already whispered... “Goodbye, my love"...as you walked away. After the sun but before the rain, You tore out the pages from your favorite book. You wrote it at such a tender age. Too young to understand, yet too old to make believe. Big brown eyes, wearing a ball cap on your head. Smiling while hiding and running while crying... I couldn't handle this defeated hopelessness you wore on your sleeves with patches sewn on to cover up the burn holes... I sit at your grave once again. No tears, no laughter, no guilt, I stood up and whispered... “Good bye, my love" as I walked away. ~Date Written: December 14, 2015~

Copyright © Laura Loo | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Frozen Ground

I bent down to pick up a penny from the frozen ground.
I could smell myself, the acrid stench of sweat and soot,
the taint of vapored vagrancy
that marked my movements, masking me from the reality that used to be.
I hate me and what I am, more than you could ever think to,
but more so becuase you do, with your  limp laughter and scared stares. 

I never knew my life never needed me to know it could all go away in a single day.

 I see it all through dirty windows draped in singed eyelashes and gutter grime,
 the pathetic gazes from afar as another afternoon of sale shopping and shoe sizing is ruined 
by my appalling appearance.

"How dare you be here!  What's wrong with you?"
"Go get a job you junkie,  you slob,  just jump a bus so you can't disgust us with your sewer 
shoes and hard luck blues. You deserve the dirt and a kick in the teeth from the steel-tipped 
toe of a jackboot too. No one wants to see a scummy sack of crap like you, bending down to 
pick our scraps off the frozen ground."

The helping hand of man slaps the taste of humanity from my mouth with each volatile volley 
of acid arrow analogies angrily slung and fired furiously  from the bows of bastard 
businessmen and bleach blonde bimbos.
My weary wounds fill with the sea-salt of sarcastic statements and unflattering finger 
gestures from frat boys as I bend down to pick up a penny I found on the frozen ground. 
"Head's up means luck," Abe smiled at me, and suddenly my thoughts began to run 
differently.

I took a long look at the lingering light of one of the sweetest sunsets I had ever seen, and 
the simplicity and majesty washed over me.
There was no use in listening to abuse and accusations and obtuse observations any more. 
I was being shown a door.
Wrapped in the warmth of the amber and amethyst glow, I finally smile for a little while and 
close my dirty windows against the icy winds of waning words.
Tomorrow, someone will bend down to pick me up from the frozen ground.

Copyright © Curt Mongold | Year Posted 2010

Details | Prose Poetry | |

I Shall Never Love Anyone Like You

I Shall Never Love Anyone Like You


My heart ache as I watch you fall for another.The pain hurt so much I felt sick.I didn't have the courage to tell you my feeling I din't have the courage to tell you what my hearts feels.But  I can't refuse to watch you fall into he hand of another.May i blind myself may i break my own heart may i give relief to the feeling that I had when i could no longer hear your laugh no longer see your smile and no longer feel your touch.To me being alone and feeling nothing is worthless I shall miss what I have lost but this I have done to protect what little shard of my heart remains.You feel another never knowing my feeling for you.but it fine now for I shall never love another like I loved you.

Copyright © Marcedies Rhodes | Year Posted 2012

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Bell's Blues (Conclusion)

     Today, I had a chance to ask his widow, Laurie, about this story.  She 
confirmed that it did happen, and he came home from work that day excited, and 
told her and their 3 daughters about the event.
     And sure enough, shortly thereafter, the song became a hit on the radio, and 
M.T.V., in those ancient days when they actually played music.
     This news brightened my day considerably, and I'm happy to share it with you; 
so when you next hear that song, remember my good buddy, Mark Trotiner, the 
uncredited genius behind it.
                                          tom bell

Copyright © tom bell | Year Posted 2007

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Mocking The Raven

When I was young, I would mock the raven,
Never dreaming her harsh call was a cry
Across the water to the castle of her brother
King Bram, the Raven, ruler of the British Isles.
Never did I dream of the destruction 
That would follow this desperate plea
Sent upon the wings of a blackened crow.

When I was young, I thought childhood
Would last forever; secure in my father's care,
Content in the loving arms of my mother,
Never did I dream of the devastating war
That would follow this messenger of our doom
Carried across the seas to inflict upon our land
A war of vengeful purpose and contempt.

When I was young, peace prevailed in our land;
Our King was just and beloved by his people.
Then came a marriage, an alliance between
Ireland and England.  Queen Branwen;
Discontent, lonely, hungry for power,
Hated by her court for the intrigue
And bloody sanctions imposed upon all
Who did not obey her sanctimonious whim;
Queen Branwen, beautiful daughter of England.

When I was young, I stood beneath
The blasted pine, looking up at the black bird
As she screamed out her litany of wrongs,
Watching as she lifted her wings to soar across the water.
My father, general of Ireland, fell upon the shores
Fighting to repel Bran's vengeful warriors;
My mother, condemned by her beauty
Fell among the vanquished women.

When I was young, I did not fear the raven;
Now I live in the court of the Raven King,
He, who conquered my people for naught as his sister
Queen Branwen, the White Raven, took her life
And walks now, shriven and pale, among the graves
Of the fallen warriors; forever singing her lament
Of sorrow and regret; far too late, far too late.

When I was young, I believed in the goodness of men.
Now I am old; my raven hair is streaked with silver.
The voice of Bran echoes through this palace
As he cries out exhortations to his conquering soldiers;
As he cries for peace and fellowship in his land.
When I was young, I would mock the raven;
Now I am old and have harnessed the power
Of the raven's call.  I cry to my people for vengeance;
I wait for their rescue, as I haunt the halls of the Raven King.



[Loosely based on the legend of Bran, the Raven King of England 
and Branwen, his sister, who was married to the king of Ireland.  
It is said that King Bran speaks still in England through the cries of the raven.]


{by Deb Radke -- written for the contest 'Among the Dead'}



Copyright © deb radke | Year Posted 2011

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Love's corruption

Oh love, why is it by your touch our soul's happiness withers away?
Why do you corrupt our innocent hearts with your love?
Our innocence is lost, our carefree days are over.
You enslave us with chimerical hopes
and make us suffer the loneliness of reality.

Copyright © Victor Chavez | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Lament

Solomly the mist drifted aimlessly,
cloaking moor and heather, the 
curlew and grouse silenced by
the haunting of a solitary piper.
Kilt clad from rocky outcrop,
the lament Land Of My Youth
echoed ridge and valley.
Beckoning the lost footsteps, 
the gillie, the baker, the bankers 
son, the urchin that raided your 
orchard, once names, once faces, 
now empty spaces at the dinner 
table.
And the tune reaches out beyond
the gorse and fern to strange lands,
names we failed in geography at 
school but now etched in heart
and epitaph.
The lofty peaks point skyward like 
prayers some unclimbed, some
unanswered. The grass will grow
where boys once ran, the laughter
now an aching memory.
The piper stills plays beckoning
souls not names, the stag raises 
its head and the eagle circles
this land of our youth. To duty 
or glory from boys to men, from
men to earth. The orchard will be
quiet tomorrow and the hills less
worthy. At the dinner table a
serviette to dry the tear and the
piper will fill the glen.

Copyright © Daniel Cheeseman | Year Posted 2011

Details | Prose Poetry | |

FREEZING POINT


The river flowing tumble of snow 
jackets the buildings and the road 
on the last twilight of 1998. 

As the sky is slowly draped by darkness and coolness, 
there I am on the coldest loneliest walk of my life.

All around, I can see some dancing colored lights.
The houses spells the happy shadows of families. 
Some sharing a meal.
Some laughing out loud near their Christmas tree.
Some on the middle of a party.

Christmas carols flying free on mid-air like:

"...But heaven surely knows
That packages and bows
Can never heal a hurting human soul..."

With only a coat, long thick black hair kissed by snow
and some old worn socks to warm me,
I traverse the street-- 
finding, finding a place I can call home.

About six days ago... I was also with my parents,
so happy, though we only share some bread and cheese
plus porridge that Christmas day. 

Me and my parents hugged every night
allowing me to stand the icy nights of December 
under the roof of our wooden worn-out home.

My parents though they can't read nor write, 
they diligently work day by day for our needs specially mine. 
I wasn't given any gift nor we can't everyday eat some meat.
However, my days with them are filled with fun-loving memories.

Not until...

a monstrous fire eat voraciously 
our home and three other houses nearby.
My father though old with arthritis 
carried me fast as he can to a safe place
and so my mother but --- 
father ran back to the house 
to save some of our things but unfortunately...
The roof of our home fell.
The fire so ferocious swallowed everything including my father.

My mom and I dealt with this pit of tragedy as one 
but later I saw my mother slowly, slowly crumbling down.
She more than me is slowly falling down faster. 
Her lamp of hope blown out. 
And not long, past six on the same day my mother died.

Hence as the surrounding gets cold 
so is the the life of me gradually reaching the freezing point.


---------------------------------
***Inspired by the story: The Little Match Girl by H.C. Andersen
and with some lines from the song: "My Grown Up Christmas List" by K. Clarkson

©O. E. Guillermo
Sponsor	Debbie Guzzi 
Contest Name	A Christmas Tale
Placed 2nd


08:33 pm, December 17, 2014





Copyright © Olive Eloisa Guillermo | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Man's best friend is his dog

 “A Man’s best friend is his dog” 

The phrase receives little refute 
Anecdotal history alone settles any dispute
but he’s just a dog all he needs to be is cute

Trustworthy loyal and dyeing to please                          
in return asking only to sniff around the trees
checking if  other dogs crossed their i’s or dotted their t’s

You bring him home because he is oh so adorable
Now that you’ve stepped in it it’s oh so horrable
making matters worse your mutt is now incorrigible

your dog will figure out how to pass the time away 
waiting for you to come home even if it takes all day
you’ve had to toss the things he’s trashed away
 
You know all he wants to do is play 
you break out the treats and teach him to sit and to stay
but this is not why he waited for for you all day -but OK

walking and fetching may be good clean fun
but long legged  dogs really love a good run

understanding dogs is not as easy as it seems
dogs like people take some things to extremes

We soon discover our dogs are a lot like us
so get to know him well and don’t make such a fuss 

              In Memory of our beloved Samson 
  see related poem: Tale of the Dog That Licked Me  

Copyright © Monty Newman | Year Posted 2010

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Butterflies

When ever I see the butterflies flying
I am reminded of your smiling face,
As I see them taking wing into the sky
I feel emotions which are never displaced

For deep in my heart also live the butterflies
As they come to life within my heart each day
While I count the many sweet memories of you
Which in my thoughts and dreams now stay

The sheer brilliance of their many vibrant colors
Produce a vivid rainbow deep within my mind
Which fills my heart with such an unwavering joy
Allowing me to enjoy them for endless times

And the butterflies will be my dearest treasure
Leaving me never again quite feeling the same
For the peace they bring can never be measured
As on their wings are gently imprinted your name.


Wendell A. Brown, 
2011

Copyright © Wendell Brown | Year Posted 2013

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.

Copyright © CAROL ROBINSON | Year Posted 2007

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

Copyright © Jennifer Cahill | Year Posted 2011

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Man Who Loved Gimewanookwe

He searches her face, scarcely remembering a time
He did not know her; seeing now her dark eyes
Surrounded by age and closed against the pain.

He searches her face, remembering the first time he saw her
Stepping lightly across the river carrying the basket filled with berries.

He searches her face, remembering for a moment the sparkling defiance
Brought about by the choice she made for love.

He searches her face, scarcely daring to hope her eyes will clear
And she will know him again, know him as once she did when their love was new.

He searches her face, willing her to come back,
To lose the demons that return again and again to steal her power
And shut her away from him.

He searches her face, not wanting to look away,
He softly speaks her name, Gimewanookwe, remembering the first time
He whispered her name in love.

He searches her face, smoothing back the graying hair, stroking the lines of pain,
Feeling the faint, weak pulse of her courageous heart.

He searches her face, he speaks her name again, Gimewanookwe, she whom I love,
Gimewanookwe, Rain Woman.

He searches her face, willing her to open her eyes, willing her to remember
And rise up from this bed, rise up and be healed of this crippling fever.

He searches her face, praying for a sign, praying she will return to him
As she was before the white man’s illness.

He searches her face, wondering where she will go when she passes from him,
For he knows she is nearly gone; he takes her gently in his arms.

He searches her face and hears the first drops of rain falling softly upon the quiet land;
He knows what he must do.

He searches her face as he gently lifts her from the bed; she weighs no more than a child.
He wraps the blanket tightly around his only love and carries her out into the night rain.

He searches her face as he lays her down on the grass beside the garden.
Rain falls softly on her face; the quiet touch of God

He watches her face; her eyes widen and brighten.
Once again he searches for life, then softly whispers her name, Gimewanookwe,
Before he gently closes her eyes.


{In Honor of Constance, the Rambling Poet, 
in gratitude for inspiring this poem with her contest ‘Rain’.}

Copyright © deb radke | Year Posted 2011

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Holodomor Genocide

Holodomor Genocide 



Native of Ukraine and Soviet Union,
Known once for my independence,
Was pitied tobrutal artificial famine,
Exporting our grain,and leaving us to die,

Declared Kurkul under Stalin's policy,
Shipped to remote uninhabited Siberia,
Left to die of famine,
I was one of the millions,
Once the landlords now riches to rags,

Ghost of hunger that engulfed us all,
Even our innocent kids,
Many nights of darknessand severe ache,
More in heart than in the stomach,
Sun brought no shine,
Zero hope as deathdanced around,
As if wolves driven from the woods,
We ate our own bodies,

Every moment souls died a new death,
Horrible Helplessness, hue and cry around,
Walking amongst corpses,
 the good were first to die,
Cannibalism survived,
Could morals stay high ?

Survival a mystic miracle,
Made to deny any famine in public,
Robert conquest termed it 'Harvest of Sorrow'
Decree by Parliament proves it worst of genocide!



Written October 20th, 2014
On Holodomor In Ukraine in 1928
For contest' Genocide' by Cyndi Macmillan

Awarded 1st place





Copyright © Dr. Upma A. Sharma | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Wasteful Generation

It all started so well-life that is, under the cloudy rainy skies, under the clear blue skies.
The masters had gone-hope bekoned-now we could do it ourselves, so we taught; we, the 
renaissance generation.
But alas, we tried too much, too soon. And before we knew it, the skies had turned crimsom red-
red from the blood of the fallen that the earth had taken.
We also lost our innonence because we taught we were ready and could do it better.
Realised we were not. But really the wasted generation? No, was the answer.
Or the lost generation? No, again.  Maybe, the wasteful generation.

Copyright © Ugochukwu Okafor | Year Posted 2010

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

Copyright © CAROL ROBINSON | Year Posted 2007

Details | Prose Poetry | |

One last gift

Return the happiness you have taken from me
If you will not share it with me than it has no place
within you.  Return the happiness for my life has no
meaning no beginning or ending without it.  Return
the happiness and try to remember how you once
loved me and how sweet and sincere your words fell
from your lips.  Return the happiness for if you ever
loved me even the slightest bit you will allow me this
one final gift... 



~This form is called: Anaphora~

Copyright © Sharon Ruebel | Year Posted 2010

Details | Prose Poetry | |

THE SWEET SCENT OF TIMELESSNESS

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

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

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

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

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

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

I wake in scented timelessness every day.

Copyright © Gisele Vincent-Page | Year Posted 2011

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.

Copyright © Kanour Med | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Broken

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

Copyright © Buffy Sammons | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Tale of the Dog That Licked Me (a memoriam)

Poor old Sammy warming his tired bones in the morning sun
the passing car excited him so he forgot his age and tried to run

I got his breakfast ready something easy to chew with an added treat
placing his bowl within easy reach in time he comes to his feet to eat

I stroke his head and I am moved to reflect on the passing of time
In dog years he is as old as dirt surely neither of us are in our prime

Yesterday he could run like a little quarter horse doing what a dog does best
Today he contents him self with short walks, gentle play and plenty of rest

When he barks in his sleep his paws are on the run
 running and barking in his dream just having fun.

He’s a Weimaraner in love with a Great Dane her legs go all the way up
love is blind and he’s out of his league but that would be a beautiful pup

As he guards our home all nobel nosed wearing that doggy grin
I like to think his daydreams are of things that might have been
         
              In Memory of our beloved Samson 
  see related poem: A Man’s best friend is his dog

Copyright © Monty Newman | Year Posted 2010

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The scent of her

Her hair.....So blonde
The scent of it....I love it...it trapped me.

Her full breasts temped me
To do bad things...together
We danced....
At night and again in the morning...

Amsterdam....Christmas...
And New Years....just a soldier
We did things...together....
She was from Los Angeles...
My home town...

I knew her name
But a plane she took....
In the morning..
As she kissed me good bye...

This was our moment
She said to me.....
My one week....
Before I die.

Years later I read her daughters poetry
About a man her mother once knew....

He was a gentle man
He made me laugh as I
Never knew I could.....
He was a soldier....
A man....
Who simply loved me
For the woman
He saw.....




Copyright © Randall Smith | Year Posted 2010

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.

Copyright © kelleyana junique | Year Posted 2011

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Age of Forgetfulness

I have begun the process of forgetting
(and of selective remembrance),
apathetic to once-important retention
of what I thought defined me as myself.

The flow of words is slowed and stumbling --
to be sought out, puzzled over.
Still, they reveal themselves.

This would have dismayed me once;
now, not so much.
I sip  coffee, read the news, pet the cat,
and raise the blind to morning sun,
to mundane life, to rife green, 
green grass and over-arching sky.

Copyright © Leo Larry Amadore | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Fog

I can no longer see past the trees
They stand solemn in line. 
Their dark outline 
Weeping from the sky.
All I can hear 
Is the faint heartbeat 
Coming from my chest. 
It’s getting faster 
As my breaths 
Become shallower. 
It would appear 
That I am choking 
On the fog.
My lungs can no longer take 
This dense air 
That’s creeping in my mouth 
And filling me. 
I start to run 
Into the forest  
How far can I go in?
Before I’m halfway out 
The fog chases
Until it has consumed
Me.


Copyright © Faith Carmichael | Year Posted 2014

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

Copyright © JSLambert Mister ROBOTO | Year Posted 2012

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...

Copyright © Tirzah Conway | Year Posted 2010

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Things To Give Away

Tarny was a little bear 
A teddy bear he be 
Coat was as white as snow 
To this we all agree 
. 
Tarny was a Christmas gift 
Given to a lady fair 
Was sent by her Tarnished Knight 
How she wished that he was there 
. 
Tarny wore a little coat 
Where pinned upon his sleeve 
A note from her Tarnished Knight 
Said "will you read me please " 
. 
"Sorry I can't be with you 
On this Christmas day 
I know its very hard for you 
That I'm so far away" 
. 
"So I am sending Tarny 
For you to now embrace 
I will be there very soon 
Then I will take his place" 
. 
"Tarny has a special gift 
He'll make your dreams come true 
Just close your eyes and make a wish 
You will see what he can do" 
. 
Tears now flowed from her eyes 
Squeezing Tarny oh so tight 
Closed her eyes and made wish 
To dream of the Tarnished one tonight 
. 
That was some time ago 
In another Christmas past 
Once there was hopes and dreams 
Somehow they didn't last 
. 
Tarny now is put away 
Never sees the light of day 
Shares a space with odds and ends 
In box of " things to give away" 
. 
Fleece once of snow flake white 
Now has stains of crimson red 
Came from a broken heart 
Oh! how Tarny bled 
. 
So if you find a little bear 
Slightly stained in red 
May not be a teddy 
But this Tarnished Knight instead 

Copyright © Donald Eissler | Year Posted 2012