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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 | |


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 | |

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.

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 

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.

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.

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 | |

Winters Freedom

The Sky Wept Unendingly with Snow:

His thoughts in a Frenzied attempt at Normality,
Clung to the idea of a Priceless Freedom.

Striving Forward, splinters of Ice cut and Maimed
Revealed patches of Flesh; Each Sting a Reminder.

A Cascading Avalanche of Memories Swept him
Into the past, amidst Those he Could Remember.

Each, a diminishing aspect of his weakening 
Internal Clock; The Gears, a Rusted Brown.

The Day diminished with him,
His clock struck Twelve.

An Inescapable Crossing of Thin Ice,
Half-Way across, The Gears Halt.

The Ice Gives Way.

The Sky Weeps Unendingly with Snow.

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

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'}

Details | Prose Poetry | |


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

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 | |

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’.}

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.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Be Still

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

Details | Prose Poetry | |

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  

Details | Prose Poetry | |


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

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

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

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

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

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

I wake in scented timelessness every day.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The scent of her

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

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

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.....

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 | |

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 | |

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 | |

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.

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 
What’s the point 
in love
When you heart 
only aches
What’s the point 
of being in a 
state of 
When you are not 
really alive
What’s the point 
in doing your 
When it is 
What’s the point 
in making all 
When you are sad
What’s the point 
in smiling 
When your heart 
And that colgate 
never touches 
your eyes
What’s the point
in anything?

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 | |

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 | |

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~

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Dark Prose

A happy little girl. Bright colors and sunshine. She grows older and enters middle 
school. She is teased constantly. Not the right hair. Not the right clothes. It hurts, 
oh God it hurts. She forgoes colors. Black and gray are good enough. She gets older 
and older still. High school; a new place, new adventure. Dare she 
friends? Foolish, foolish girl. New friends? New pain. Dyed hair...what 
color? Black. Black hair, black heart. Poetry, music, the only escape. 
Dark, Pain, Despair...Destroyed. Heart bleeding and inside she's screaming. but no 
one sees. No one hears. alone. Who would understand? No one. Dying 
inside. Drowning in pain bottled up. Invisible. Misunderstood. Who is she? Who is 
she!?! Screaming, bleeding, dying. What a waste. That's what she is, a waste of 
space, a waste of breath. Better off without her. The world's better off. Despised, 

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

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Fooling us All

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

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

and then there's addictions
the medications 
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 | |


You know there are people that you love
in your life, things that you care for deep down 
inside, you want to keep forever in your time.

Can you feel the pain deep inside when
they're gone and you realize a little part 
of you has died.

Time goes on but in your heart you know, 
that things have changed forever in your life.

For My friend Polly Hollenback
 in memory of her wonderful cat 
named Trouble she had her for 17 years,
 passed away this last year, we both loved 
her and We were very sad
 to see her go.~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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 | |

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 
What’s the point 
in love
When you heart 
only aches
What’s the point 
of being in a 
state of 
When you are not 
really alive
What’s the point 
in doing your 
When it is 
What’s the point 
in making all 
When you are sad
What’s the point 
in smiling 
When your heart 
And that colgate 
never touches 
your eyes
What’s the point
in anything?

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 | |

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

Details | Prose Poetry | |


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, 

Details | Prose Poetry | |


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
so sinking


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 | |

Gator Bait Series 1st Cold Snapped

The wind was blowing when she left the city...

I believe it was twenty below...

Where she was going she already knew...

But... first she had things she had to do...

Get rid of the body that was clear....

There were no options, it had to disappear....

The heater was broken and blowing cold air...

She could feel the ice, building up in her hair..

She had cleaned up the blood as best she could...

As she had hit him hard with that log of wood...

All she had asked him, was to light a fire...

To take off the chill in the house....

Do it yourself if you are cold...he snapped

And while you’re at it get me a cold beer...from the fridge..

It was early morning when she finally arrived at the bridge..

This was his favourite fishing spot...

She pushed his body off the pier...along with his ice cold beer..

And suddenly began to shiver and sneeze.....

Oh well, she said...this too shall pass..

When I get to the Florida Keys..

PS..this is the first in a for part 2.."gator bait..the dream "

Details | Prose Poetry | |


Can ewe balance out those two final hits against the lives saved those that would have 
continued WAR on Asian Soil those days of hell of hurting men caught by bullits and the 
bayonets? Can just two bombs blasting death be counted as salvation won for all those 
young boys girls old men women who died instantly in two Atomic Blasts over those two 
cities of Japan. Nagasaki Heroshima eye have seen the END of time the BOOKS of GOD are 
open when the Dead Arrive. Arise all sleepers in those Graves can GOD usher in those 
SOULS into new places now to stay is there a place for JAPAN in Jesus Heaven? For those of 
us who sinned and suffered radiation burns lost our skins and mortal coils gone some died 
just screaming out in pain all normal living gone perhaps no time to say your HOLY NAMME 
of Jesus. Can they live there inside your heaven is it still possible that you forgive them for 
once upon the time it came to me today that a Just and Perfect GOD adjudges perfectly 
those in suffering words can not describe no time to utter words of salve; but deeds looked 
at made right by YOU salvation won given now to all. Eventide has come today to those 
whom tomb decay whom die threw no fault of there own. Just hit twice dumped down on 
Killed with anguish very slow. A special place in heaven for all those special people of Japan. 

Details | Prose Poetry | |

I Hope You Know I'll Always Love You

I am what you call a hopeless 
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 
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 
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 | |

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 

Details | Prose Poetry | |


When night falls it brings rise to my smile and mood, I rush for bed; sleep is the time 
where I am most alive. I smile into your eyes as I kiss your forehead then your nose 
and down visiting your lips for an extended stay before once again smiling into your 
eyes as I pull back. I roll you over, your back now pressed against my chest and I 
continue to firmly hold your body. The closeness ignites the heat, now open hearts 
in open hearth we melt; ingot moulds; we are one. One body, one mind; one smile; 
one love and we at peace sleep. I am in love inside this nightly ritual and dream, 
when morning arrives and your absence is once again discovered, thus triggering 
the nightmares clock punch until once again night falls and brings rise.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Reflection's of you

A new year always brings about reflection. Usually on the past year, but sometimes on many years gone by. Today I find myself reflecting and keenly missing my childhood. Times past that bring warm thoughts of visiting my favorite aunt and uncle in the country. Of waking up in the "blue room" and hearing muffled conversation at the breakfast table or the sweet humming of my aunt working in the kitchen as the smell of breakfast filled the air. Looking out the window to see the girls (white face cattle) grazing in the field. A little slice of heaven to this city girl with a country girls heart. At this time in life where I can see more years behind me than I can in front, the past comes sweeping over me with a great sense of loss. Loss of family, of innocence, of special, irreplaceable moments. But that loss holds beautiful and treasured memories that lent themselves to the warp and woof of the tapestry that was to become my life.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

lead my hand o' dear life

lead my hand o' dear life

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

o' dear thought
of comfort

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

an artwork of joy

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


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

>> ntema's unique poetry (nup)

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Last Vacation

The sun seemed to last forever
As we walked hand in hand
My dad and I together
Our feet sinking in the sand

His smile was so bright
As he looked at me
What a beautiful sight
Of the ocean we could see

The South Carolina sun rays
Beat down on our tanned skin
Like we would feel it always
Like the happiness we felt within

The waves crashed on the shore
Grazing our bare feet
Our footprints not seen anymore
As the cool water washed away the heat

We made it to the house we rented
The beach was right behind
The morning always ocean scented
Sunset and sunrise will always stick in my mind

The week was full of relaxation
And sightseeing all around
I’ll never forget that last vacation
Your laughter was a constant sound

I wish we would’ve traveled there 
At least one more time before it was too late
For life has many tragedies so unfair
And you can not dodge your fate

I will always watch the videos you took
Close my eyes as they fill with tears from the memories
For you will never again be able to look
Or feel that glorious ocean breeze

Details | Prose Poetry | |

-Needs a title. I will probably think of one later on.-

There is a single rose

kept high in the vase of her memories

she eyes thee rose with despair and sorrow

circles around and walks away.

The rose withers and petals fall

she comes back but has the same thought.

Picks up the withering rose, she starts to dance

circles around and around with the rose balanced in her palm.

-she stops-

she starts to cry and she sees streaks of blood fall from her palm

the thorns dig deep

her tears reach her collar

darkness falls, then drags her deep in it's depths.

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

Details | Prose Poetry | |

What is 'LOVE'

'What is Love?' 
For someone,its an ocean to dive. 
For someone,its like honey from hive. 
For someone,its a song to sing. 
For someone,its like flying without wing. 
But to love & to be loved is not easy. 
As everything is not always well. 
So what's love,through my pen, 
i'm going to tell. 
Once there was a boy and a girl. 
The girl was cute & boy was nice. 
Both loved each other a lot, 
& could understand each others' heart's voice. 
The boy used to say to the girl, 
"I am living with no heart. 
I have given it to you & 
now you hold my this special part." 
Everything was good and going fine, 
But no lovestory is possible without pinch of pine. 

One day the guy told her, 
"On me,my parents have good hope. 
I don't want to disgust them 
as well as with them,i can't cope. 
I can't promise you to marry 
but we will be friends always." 
The girl didn't complain for anything 
& with a compelled smile,she says, 
"My hapiness lies in that everything 
 that makes you and your family to rejoice. 
I have no issue and always agree 
with your every decision and choice." 

Few years later,  
the boy became a successful one. 
His parents chose a rich girl, 
and with her,they married their son. 

Day after his marriage, 
when he was unwrapping his gifts, 
his eyes fell upon a big box, 
that was packed attractively & hi lifts. 
On opening that,he found a glass jar, 
full of blood and a heart in it. 
Firstly he shocked but started crying 
after reading the enclosed note chit. 
Actually,the gift was from his love 
& it was last note of her life. 
"Idiot,if your heart will be with me, 
what will you give to your wife.?" 

The message from this story 
that i would like to give. 
"Never find a reason to love, 
but be the reason for someone to live. 
Love is a precious feeling. 
It never dies if it is pure. 
its not to get someone but 
to give up anything for him,make it sure.."  

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Fear Please be Gone

To the death I fear
To the lost I sealed
Though sorrow be it gone
Your loves God was never be wrong

Poor love of family tree
Lack care of happiness unseen
One live coming through
One soul passes too

I live like a ghost
A soul without host
Through the night i sing
In this part I'm rumbling

Fear, please be gone
Fear, mend this wrong

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, 


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 | |

The Forever Trail

They roam miles over hillsides
stride aimlessly cross open plains
and grassy fields
unseen and silent to all cept' those
who see with more
then their eyes,
hear with more 
then their ears,
and believe with more
then their hearts and minds.
Twilight,a gray blue haze,settles in
quiet, no sound(s) heard
but those of time almost forgotten
souls lost, blanketed by death
foot-steps hushed by time
travel now in ghostly silence
their destiny, to travel the forever trail.
Physical lives long shed in defense
of the very ground they are now one with
their cries must be heard! always honored
never to be forgotten
lest their lives were sacrificed for naught.

Melody A. Coster

Details | Prose Poetry | |


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

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

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

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

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

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

Details | Prose Poetry | |


I need to purge my blood of these shivers, smoke-filled bubbles burst in blood capillaries, an embolysym of you, an embolysym of truth. So much disease carried through an artificial vein.A wire mesh heart that surrounds the tissue, and cuts, and scrapes and tears the flesh thats pulsing there. My iron lung feed me unwell. A binge on sickness that I cannot take back. And with words settling back on the heels of my fingertips, Im ready to be ill. Emesis of b***s***, of treachery. Of indecency, of dishonesty, of facelessness, of cowardice. Will anyone ever read this and understand how a broken heart heals? The maliciousness of untrust and the misuse of of courtesy have eaten away at my regenerated liver. My borrowed kidney is rejected on the operating table and I am drained of all my poisoned blood. So give me a heart outside of my body, a big plasticine box with rubber tubing. And let my eyes see the you drain out of me and the blood of unknown angels be filtered in. I wanna watch every drop be filtered from my collapsing veins, I wanna deflate every organ inside and empty every nerve synapse of memory.I want a restart button and I want a renewable source of energy. I dont want your weak blood in me anymore. I dont needd your tiny bits of protein, your half-formed enzymes. I want  anything else. An artificial sense of safety within my reach. So split me down the middle, no anesthesia, the scalpel working inch by bleeding inch. and seperate me from you.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Easel Tower

With closed eyes I lay back naked to surroundings and noise, escape. Pencil inside 
the soft grip a slide show of mind displays beauty, I see each mole, scar, shine and 
blemish as though touchable live flesh. Knowing the lids of my eyes and mind as the 
creator and opening my eyes will erase the art. I choose to sit in darkness.

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 
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   

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...


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


with the beauty that she

could never see.

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 | |

She Dreamed of Icarus- Portrait In Indigo

She seemed to be like a portrait...
   which had fallen from its gilded frame
   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


 Anne P Murray


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 | |

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 | |

The Day The Music Stopped

I know that you are gone
but I still hear your footsteps on the walk…
your key in the lock…the dog welcoming you home.
“What’s for dinner?’’ you ask
“I am,” I playfully reply and smile
as you sweep me up in a bear hug and I can hardly breathe!

Your clothes hang in the closet waiting for your return.
I listen to your voice on the answering machine 
a hundred times a day  to prove you are still here.
I never imagined when you left me that morning
That this would be the last time we kissed..
I never would have let you go.

This date will forever be a day of shame and heartbreak
The world and I will never forget
This September 11th
The day the music stopped!

Copyright©2001 Beatrice Boyle
(All rights reserved)

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Memories June 9 1999

The touches, tears and cries for help, a child living in fear.
Being told never to tell a soul, to ashamed to look in the mirror.
Not being able to trust anyone, because of being betrayed.
Now haunted by what has been done, praying the memories will fade.
Surrounded by many shattered dreams and all hope taken away.
Drowning in fear of being violated again, their eyes plead the words they can not say.
The memories will always stay with a child buried deep into the mind.
A permanent barrier now built within, keeping anything from getting inside.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Ghost of Bayou Cannot

Some folks believe it. Others do not. The legend told in the Bayou Cannot. The only witness who can swear that it's true, are the creatures who live in the bayou. The owl told the gator, the gator told the frog, about the horror filled night that changed their home in the bog. Far off on the mainland, miles from the marsh, in a large city, where living is harsh. A man's world invention sprang into life. A breath of fresh air to man's world of strife. A new deisel engine, queen of the line, would make it run for the very first time. The sunset limited it was aptly named. Gleamed in the station waiting its moment of fame. Boarded by folks going south, some headed out west, none mindful of anything, but each's own quest. New York to L.A. via the southern run. So it was, the trip had begun. Back in the bog, things were happening too. A barge made its way north with its captain and crew. The day had been hot. The night had turned cool. The fog roiled in, with its blanket of dew. The captain steered his tug, painfully slow, caution was key to safely deliver the tow. All of a sudden there was a scrape and a jolt the barge floated free, not held by a bolt. Panic seized the crew! "We've lost the tow!" "MAYDAY!" screamed the captain over the radio. Amid the chaos and moans of disdain, another great jar, "We've got it again!". Back on land not far down the track the Limited sped with a clickety-clack. Approaching the tressel no one noticed the shake. Who could blame the poor folks; the hour was late. Midway over the bayou came the tressels demise. A great shiver another great quake, tons of speeding steel, folks met their sad fate. Days went by weary and sad. Rescuers agreed none worked a wreck this bad. Twisted and bent the engine was pulled from the muck and the slime. "102" came the final count, the coroner spoke and noted the time. A weary voice shouted "Wait!" "Sir, I disagree!" Tired eyes turned, what did they see? A weary man held in his arms a child about three. Today believers say "an angel wanders." "A tiny spirit" Others agree. On foggy nights when no moon can be. A tiny light flickers so you will see. "It's a firefly!" Say the skeptics of haunt. The creatures disagree and murmur their taunt. They know the spirit of the child now lives in their swamp.

Written by my grandmother Sandra Burch

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 | |


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.

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
Woe to them who made you bear grudge
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 | |


A vociferous yowl came down to earth and slaughtered my soul
I was in deep sleep, lids were lead, and dreams were wavering spool
My problem sat on groove, heavy-hearted like slushy interference 
Passage of time was very slow but that had drawn all the inference
But I had to settle my score with her sore to keep my cranium cool

A porous body, full of neutral pricks, is amenable to insidious freaks
You may call the buccaneers on bouncing waves or to Tortuga Creeks
They will say yes we should send Mister Briggs to teach you mathematical tricks.

It makes no difference and I am bowled on the crease, life is not at all sums
Its base is neither you nor any substratum pandering to keekwulee doldrums
I know you are not a frump who kicks up the stinks with three no trumps.

I may be a tramp
Play solitaire
With invisible Dodo.

I have seen the dull grayish faces caught in Arachne’s spins, 
The fangs of spiders, teeth of snakes, and Las Vegas scorpion stings,
The emotional binges, the splurge of spending and old caddy’s sins.
I have seen them all, but how am I full of beans?
I am a nut playing a fool. Let the water run over her
Deigning a nutcracker’s rule.
Ridentem dicere verum quid vetat?

14th October,2014 20:44:00 (IST)

Details | Prose Poetry | |


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The 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 | |

Stitches of January.

“Buy me a scarf” she said and curled her toes through snow to demonstrate the color of

“Buy me a scarf and I'll wrap our memories around my neck, you can watch me smile in
storms as I contemplate warmth and look at you beneath the sky.”

I wrote promises on windows with fingers that touched shadows and counted snowflakes
crystals as I destroyed their patterns in a feeble attempt to claim love...

There, in the house that spoke one thousand tears, I thought about the secrets we
whispered when the year turned and purple was fantastic on the other side of frozen lakes
despite the voices that named us something unspeakable.

Rings and silver and I wore one on my toe, polished perfectly, my feet felt summer and I
laughed in lilts of June and breaths of lilac bushes that lined my backyard, but I kept my
closet door shut, winter stitches on shelves so January's voice would never be heard...

I boxed up photographs and letters that quoted songs we had sang together, I covered up
her haircut and placed her eyeliner in an envelope but I knew, beneath the ground where
lilac bushes rooted themselves...

she wore the ring I had placed upon her finger on her fourteenth birthday, on the day
August spoke up and we listened intently, mocking 


and bedposts that wrote her name...

and I sat, cleaning prints off of windows, erasing promises and eluding love, wondering,
if I had learned how to knit, would sidewalks have been so convincing?

I listened to memories and bought myself a scarf, wrapped stitches of January around my
neck and heard her, in laughter, as she whispered through the wind that numbed the fingers
that broke promises...

“Lend me your scarf, and I'll see you, I'll hold your hand when August knocks you down.”

Details | Prose Poetry | |

This Tree Was

I kept listening to beliefs:

“This is the way things are.”
“This is the way things have to be in order to…”
“You know, if you do this, you will receive that…”
“That’s just the way it is. That’s just the way I am.”
“What I really want for you is….”
“You’ll be happier if you would just….”
“If he really loved you, he would…”
“Well, if you really love him, you would feel…”
“If you do this for me, then you will get this…”
“If you don’t do this, then I will talk about it until you do.”

I not only listened, I became them.
My choices were based on the list of phrases.
I had to “do the right thing.” Or….
Or I would die?

Well I am dying today.
Not dying like my body has fallen and is breathless.
Dying like full of breath, full of grief.
Dying like; “I hate dying because I keep thinking it’s permanent and that I will always feeeeeeeeel.”
Dying like; “I think I am becoming weightless with all of this heavy gunk junk falling off of me.”

Kerplunk kerplunk

The pu-u-u-u-u-u-u-lling like picking a stubborn apple.
And the plops of rot thudding the surrounding ground.
My expanded branches open out and up
Free of knowledge that once grew on me
That looked soooo pretty
But sour and fused with poison 
this tree was…

Details | Prose Poetry | |

A great artist is always before her time or behind it

As she clutched the embroidered paper, she wept, observing her tears sprinkle as they percussed the paper. Watching her droplets marinate, she was reminded of a certain pebble she tossed across the waters upon a heavenly cloud as a child, glancing at it in its attempts to clutch the current as it shimmered across the creek. Brushing the wandering dew from her cheeks, she peered sullenly towards the window as the snow danced in its patter against the mirrored pane. Bravely, she stood, aware of her head as it lowered in overcast almost to its own accord. As she grasped the stool beside her, she hurried, wearily, and approached the window and forcefully opened it. As she liberated the air, she sympathised with the tender wind that kissed her cheeks as it lost its direction. Befallen, she succumbed to the tearful weight her eyes whimpered and gracefully fell upon her bed, clutching the silken overlays as she swooned like an osprey with an artistic temperament.  Hiding herself between two pillows in a divine light, she glanced up to the tapestries as they moved gleefully to the melody of the moonlight's breeze and the howls of forsaken souls lost in the lands afore. As she focussed on the symmetrical elegance and the rich refinement of tragedy, only then did she realise that art was the only way to run away without leaving her home.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

A true best friend


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
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 
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,
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 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
now my life is smooth 
and almost all
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

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 | |

Lost Love WLM March 29 2011

I feel so hurt
And so much like a jerk
For I have lost my dream
Just let it out and scream
What did I do
Can I ask you
Am I to be alone
All I can do is groan
I ask God will it ever be
Does she really want me
Please Lord let her call
For me to be that is all
I am so stuck in a rut
Do I just give up
Can not hold back the tears
The return of all my fears
I hope to see
That she really needs me
I will never know
For she will have to show
Can you give me my best friend
Or have I lost her again
Tell me did I sin
Should I just give in
I am at my wits end
Knowing not where to begin
I sit here and moan
At me just throw the heavy stone
Please, oh please hit the mark
Then I know it will break my heart
I always feel the use
Finally I remember the abuse
My feelings inside
Will never subside
Why not go ahead and fall
With my life just end it all
Does anyone really care
That would be so rare
For all I feel is lost
And in the end that is the cost

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 | |

My Tears

i look back
the tears stream
the years we had
those good times
why did i deserve them?

i look back
i see your face
tired and drunk and dishevelled 
so pretty
this image holds fast

i recall one night
i told you everything
so rich, 
this reward of years
the banquet of our life
could sustain legions

i look back
the tears stream
we had defied love's cold truth
against all odds
that chemical lie shattered

i look at you
skin so blue
it had us fooled 

Details | Prose Poetry | |


Flashes of memories and thoughts
 whirl around in my head 
until I can't take it anymore
I don’t know what's worse; 
memories of us together 
or the reality of him being dead

Laying together in a pile of leaves
walking in the rain 
making a mess instead of making cookies
long talks deep into the night
feeling wanted and knowing that I mattered
Lying alone in the park
 crying in the shower
not eating for long stretches of time
cutting myself off from family and friends
feeling lost and empty inside.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

We Can be a Winner only If we Accept Losing

We Can be a Winner only If we Accept Losing
When we are going to be a winner in our life?
There are plenty of ways to give that winning feeling for us.
We do not necessarily to be on the first place for being a winner of ourselves.
When we manage to overcome the hurdles in life with a performance improvement also can give us a winning feeling.
If we join a competition with many participants, it is an achievement to finish first and when we have all the talent then it is also possible to get into the best place.
But if we participate in several matches then it will be more difficult to win and getting the first place in every single match.
So we must be mentally prepared on our own in which even we are always able to perform the best but that does not guarantee us a first place.
Therefore we will be classified in a lower position by someone else who get a better result in this match.
So we need to accept several things in life which cause us losing, lets move on to have a better chance to win it next time.
That’s also the same in business, we always want to win and that is normal but “a small mistake can cause a lot of trouble”.
So when we have the misfortune that we are in the losing party at that time, we should accept it with positive thinking.
Do not let ourselves slump with the loss and start to think pessimistic because then the consequences is all our behavior turns into negative approach.
That will reduce our commitment, because when we think that we are only losing will give nerves and frustrations which also reduces our opportunities.
Always stay relaxed if we are losing because only the best will always win and how relaxed we are, the more likely we possess those qualities to be a winner.
The biggest losers also can be the best winner.
I wish you a healthy life.
Kindly Regards,
Author Jan Jansen

Details | Prose Poetry | |


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 | |

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 | |

Endless Dawn

There is a soft meadow golden
where there now stands oblivion
wild mustangs comb the hard
dry grasses after a long arid winter.

In the distance, wood smoke
from a silent fire that crackles
'neath a hungry touch.

An aubade's warm hand reaches
from the silky horizon to touch love
gently upon her shoulders and roam
the hills, and dusky valleys of the
paradisiac dawn, as it stretches each stone.

...and soothed; by palpable stream;
each bend a lover's nape
endlessly explored by endless wait
to greet the welcome rise again.

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 | |


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
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 | |


We met at sunset
The golden brown	
The known tale
His linen 
A reflection of the sun
Bathed in the most charming smile
Our souls in connection
Palm in palm we
Walked the beach
With no words
Only hearts to feel
Our thoughts
A million miles away
A perfect link
I searched his face
My perfect man
Only one wrong
His eyes said different
I stopped our trail
And stared harder
His eyes screamed error
He looked away
My heart had bumped 
Into something grave
Just another look
And truth dawned
My “sun” was taken
I whispered to him
You are another’s…
He whispered back
I am taken…

©Naa Takia, All Rights Reserved 2012

Details | Prose Poetry | |

My pain

blood drips down
locked the door
the stinging starts to fade
everything becomes a blur
i know lay in the tub
in the cold water
my my arms stings
then the pain fades
i go under hopping not to come back up for air
and i feel my body going numb
i open my mouth to get a water in and blood
i tell myself to stay under
and then everything fads away
no more pain
my heart stops
the pain leaves me
my dead body is in the tub
untill someone starts looking for me
when they find my body
it will be to late

Details | Prose Poetry | |


Broken, scared and left alone,
The chaos that still resides
Chills me to the bone.

My soul is empty
As my heart cries 
You left so soon
Without even a goodbye.

Empty and hollow,
Two things you should never feel.
Yet here I stand to attest
These feelings are all too real.

Time is said to heal.
But time is not on my side
For with each passing year
Another part of me dies.

So until I see you again
And can feel your loving embrace
I will remain an empty shell
Wearing this mask of a smile to hide
The tears I cannot erase.

Details | Prose Poetry | |


I see him on the park bench, his red soccer shirt

No pain, no anguish and no deadly hurt

He flickers like a hologram, finishing its show

Clouds emerge above him, shadowing his glow

I run across to meet him, my footsteps have no sound

Before I stop he disappears, he's nowhere to be found

Details | Prose Poetry | |


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 | |


smooth mellow always sallow 
never foolish but continue to repeating
this EVOL  stay falling for my
devotion and lies 
forever trying to spell together 
fighting to stay alive.....

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 | |


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 | |


Sky blue starlet
darting through the night,
 inking herself
on the clouds as they swirl
   and pass,
           wind by wind.

The coupling of her hair
and her neck
like the shore
    and the tide
  leading somewhere and nowhere
  but  always progressing
    just a little more,
one step back,
      two steps forward,
biting and clawing ,
beating suppression
   with progression.

The taking of one more ounce of flesh
    (a requirement, desire),
   the last second
before sticking the ice pick in,
     right behind 
the ear 
              all the way in,
   piercing the brain stem,
allowing one drop of blood 
        to escape.
Gazing into those marvelous,
   scorching blue orbs
while the life drains away
   and the light in them
is snuffed out
   like a candle
tossed into a chasm,
falling forever,
    dropping through darkness.

Cradling the head 
   I lower my corpse
to the ground,
I can still feel 
    the warmth in the flesh
as it leaks away
   like the blood 
from the newly create puncture.

Details | Prose Poetry | |


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 | |

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 | |

Cadeyrm - Battle King

The battle hardened warrior
stood solemnly upon the war torn land
the battlefield before him covered
with the life's blood of his warriors
battle armour, sword and shield
lay strewn across the land.
Flags fluttered in the breeze
as grim testimony to the fierce
and bloody battle which before
his very eyes had been bravely fought
with his fellow countrymen giving their lives
for that which they had sworn to defend
the very land upon which death now ruled.
His warrior Queen by his side
her allegiance to him the same
as those who had come before her
she swore to give her life, if called upon
for her Lord! her King! her Husband!
The ground, soaked with the blood
of warriors young and old
lay open before them
like that of a bloody wound
received victouriously in battle.
The once pristine beauty of the land
upon which they now stood
lay clenched in deaths mighty grip
a stark reminder of the ravages of battle.
With a warriors cry long born of anger
his sword raised to the heavens
he vowed his life's blood
that those who lay before him would be avenged.
As he turned to walk away
he heard the shrill call of an eagle overhead
this was to him a sign
felt throughout his very soul
that his cry had been heard
and he knew he would be victorious in his quest.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Something about that emo kid

Dear make-up-wearing-emo-kid,

I hope you're having fun. I hope your life is good.
I wish you well, but I'm curious, do you wish the
same for me? I mean, you don't even talk to me
anymore. When you do talk to me, it's to question
me about my sexuality, what clothing I'm wearing
at the moment, basically anything relating to sex.
So, it's hard to tell you apart from those perverted
old creeps you might see on TV, looking up the
skirts of MILF's as they stroll on by.

Dear skinny-confused-emo-kid,
It's not about looks. It's about what's inside.
It's not about sex, it's about the love in a relationship.
It's not about having to lie to me and make me feel
like you love me, because there are millions of girls out there.
I'm not the only one to chase. I'm sure there are lots of other
girls who would just love to let you chase their skirts and
hear you lie to them repeatedly. I'm just sick of it all.
I don't need you, and you sure as hell don't need me.

Dear traitor,
You built me up,
you broke me down.
You got what you wanted.
I hope you're happy.
Wipe the smirk off your face,
I don't care that you've succeeded in making me fall for you
I don't care that you're freaking gorgeous.
I don't care.
I am not your toy.
I am not your slave.
And I am most definitely not your 'baby girl'.
Just because you have my heart doesn't mean that you can control me.
I'm not yours.
I'm my own person.
I'm me.

And there is absolutely nothing you can do about it.

But never mind that now, I must go. Mother is calling me to come to supper. Until next
time, you traitor.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Plate

I bent over to pick up the broken pieces of the plate,
this was Grandma's favorite plate.
She had gotten this plate from her mom,
it had always occupied that same spot behind the couch.
The same couch we where not allowed to sit on.
It was still like new covered with a thick piece of plastic,
the plastic used to be clear, now it was yellow with age
Beside the couch on end tables there were cut glass bowls filled with candy,
the candy was multi colored with verticle stripes, 
they looked like miniture pillow but without the softness.
Like the couch the candies were meant for looking at, 
almost to much for an eight year old boy.
I wanted to be a good boy so I only took a few,
they looked better than they tasted.
I walked to the kitchen to find some glue.
I had hoped she wouldn't notice
back it went to it's special spot
When she got home and looked at me I cried and told her it was broken
She just held me and said it was okay
Grandmas are like that

By Richard Lamoureux
"Picking up The Broken Pieces" contest

Details | Prose Poetry | |


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

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

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

Details | Prose Poetry | |


Fusty bread, larva infested water
Threadbare clothes, I dreaded morning
For it spells rumbling of my Pot
With no antidote to reverse that body butchery virus
Days longer, hunger worsening
My brow, an inch longer with sunrise…

Medicals shooting, Penny weakening
Condition worsening, my death chariot riding closer
No strength to hold-up our destined union
Till he draws near planting 
The kiss of death on my pale cheek
A pill could have delayed this rendezvous

I would call baobab my home, only I land down
Devils grass passing? I suffer its unending prick
Still the open remains my shelter
With crooks my entertainers
Rapists dancing in and out my skin
Robbers sharing my day old treasured bread

I hardly know this being they call love
They claim she remains compassionate
They say he is concerned
Be it her quality or his trait,
I know not! I never met either
This I know…

My chamber of food remains empty
My sugar level? Zilch…
Home remains my nightmarish
My voldemort, averting my rest
Chariot of death awaits me
My rider bids greetings arm stretched!

 ©Naa Takia, All rights Reserved 2012

Details | Prose Poetry | |

People are like flowers

People are like flowers, 
they stay and enrich our lives in the summer ,
and then winter comes.
you know winter makes way for new flowers in your life, 
even though it's very cold, you just have to wait.
Don't worry Katie summer will come again
You have to be strong!
You need to survive the cold winter to see summer again.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Maiden

There once was a fair maiden 
Who sat on a pedestal up high? 
With raven locks and eyes of ice blue 
But a heart of stone 
For a love she once knew. 
The prince he was 
Unintentional love doomed by above 
So she was shunned and locked away 
So to the ledge she did run. 
Tears rolling down her fair cheeks 
Too distraught to form words to speak 
She raised her head to the sky above 
And screamed why him? 
Why my one true love? 
As the last word left her lips 
She took that final step 
Down she fell onto the cliffs below 
No sound did she make 
Nothing, not even a goodbye.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Dance of the Dead

Like autumn leaves blowing in the winds of time
Whispering tales of heartless crime
Your spirit resonates all around
I cannot escape the chilling sound
That last golden beam of sunlight fades away
Resuming once again this midnight play
Ghosts of the past smolder in the moonlight
Silver flame such a beautiful sight
Look but don’t touch is what they say
From fingertips they prance away
Endless dance in a lonely night
Lasting until the world begins to dew
Separating fantasy from what is true
Left to wander aimlessly through another day
Will the guilt ever fade away?

Details | Prose Poetry | |


July 31, 2011

Been caught in a scam
Should I have just ran
Try to be good
For God as we should
Always to get bit
Just take another hit
Never knowing why
But continue to try
To live with the strife
Just wanted a wife
Will we ever just fit in the groove
Or should we just move
On the Golden list
I do not jist
Or just change my name
To fit and stay in the game
Never, never win
So I will just give in

Details | Prose Poetry | |


“What wound did ever heal, 
But by degrees”
Except my mother was dear
…Very dear

Count me among men
Who can read and write
Count me among them
Who finds book a delight
Not about intelligence
Mother taught me diligence
Scrapped for a living
So I could get learning
I am a dead woman’s sweat
My worries cracked her chest
My mother was my literacy
My literacy is my treasure
My treasure…is you
I wrote what you can read
She was its measure.
I never paid back 
Never gave thanks.
Prodigal son playing pranks

On me,
She had learned to hope
Then died
In last breath still in hope
That I lose not hope
But what hope lies there 
For a drawing man to hope
Last straw, just sank in
Wide Sea without and within

Wounds heal by degrees
But some can’t heal
Only permitted to blurred
My tears blur my view
Soaks the ink in papers
Forcing me to rewrite and renew
She will not want me to cry
Rather that I sit up and try
Dab my eyes, let the tears dry.
“I know who you are my son”
You are awesome”
Mama, you always tell me that
But am breaking down.
Your lose never healed
Shakespeare said its by degrees
Said the pain will decrease
But I detest full healing
You were so appealing.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

no regret

My friend there is no regret
as you made your choice for good
i thought you know what you were doing
but you were like a lost goat

i knew a chance comes once
never the less you wasted it
it wont came again in your life
as it might remain barren or doomed

as for the oned you hurt
they will suceed in front of your naked eyes
you will cry and fill up a dam
in the end you will regret

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Like Him

His love for her 
Was so deep 
And so strong 
That he would never 
Allow her 
To fall in love 
With a fool 
Like him

Details | Prose Poetry | |

morning light

Morning light seeping in
Like a wisp of a breath
In winters frigid air

Spectrum of silver light
Like sunlit cushioned clouds 
Against paper-like walls

And shadows disappear
Quick, like snakes tunneling

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Chill of Your Touch

I feel a chill in your kiss...
like the cold, February wind that rushes through my veins 
Oh, how I long for the soft tenderness of your caress
which has now become strangely vacant
Your warm embrace seems to have lost its fire
and you no longer stroke my face while I sleep

The warmth is gone from your touch
I swallow the pain down inside
not wanting to notice our bridge may be burning
Why can't you just say it-instead of pulling away?
Do the risks seem too high to take a chance? 

The painful words in my soul bring tears to my eyes
We used to find love in quiet, hidden places
You without pity -  I without shame
Who has taken my place...
Entered my space?
How could I have known you'd tire of me so?

Will you no longer stand by my side?
we could make things right 
your silence is so deafening 

Raindrops pour their waters
washing away my hopes, singing a melancholy song
of lost hope -  of disappearing dreams
I lift my face to the darkened sky
feeling the rain slide down my cheeks
Staring into emptiness
as my heart cries out in silent pain 
blinding me from the light 

I feel so lost without you
But then I realize...
You never really found me

Now my heart says...
Where do I go from here?
Oh God...
Tell me -  where do I go from here


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Forgotten Fairytale

I caught a glimpse of you 
    when you didn’t know I was looking 
 Trying to rediscover what I'd forgotten about you 
                About us
         Why I'd once loved you... 
              In that other time
You were standing naked in front of the mirror 
         Your auburn hair glistening on your wet, mortal body
  You had just stepped out of your morning shower 
       humming the customary tune you do so well 

I stood quietly in the hall...
watching you shave your golden, red beard 
       while you hummed... 
  keeping the rhythm with your foot 

It was intoxicating, observing your routine 
    without you knowing I was there 
  I'd watched your morning ritual a thousand times 
                 You - always aware when I was looking 
 In the past   
    In that other time
  watching you more with my heart, than with my eyes 
              made me melancholy 
  Missing those feelings I'd once felt for you 
             For us... 
       So deep within my heart...
   For awhile back then
Did we ever really love? 
  Was it kismet? 
       Was it fate?    
         The question sits on unspoken lips 

I sighed... 
     Missing us, missing you
  Back then... 
        In another time     

When our melody began 
   you sang the notes to my heart so well 
       so tender 
  We soared on the music 
         our mouths relishing the kiss
      In our moments back then   
     For a time...        
We were us, you and I 
    Tracing our love with thirsy lips 
  hungry bodies 

I stood there looking at you for quite some time... 
        Pausing at the door before I left
 I might never open that door again                 

    I turned back once more before turning to go 
       making sure to remember just why I was leaving 

     But now... 
        Every time I see a man shaving
   I find myself thinking of you

         Goodbye my love

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Never got to say goodbye

Screaming in my head not able to hear nothing else.
the screaming is Me saying come back so I can say goodbye.
but the screaming goes unnoticed due to only me hearing them.
  I wish I could have you one last time to say one last goodbye.
Before you go but your already gone, never even got to say goodbye.
Maybe one day soon I will get to say goodbye and hello, as I will be dead 
to with no regrets.
the screaming in my head goes silent as I finally get to say goodbye forevevr.
 the screaming in my head is because I never got to say goodbye.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Pity Trip

Pity Trip
July 24, 2011

I need to die
And I know why
The pity trip
My soul to rip
I have no life
So full of strife
No one knows
How can they
There is no way
Shall I stay another day
WHY oh Why
I just want to die
But what of Darla
My only friend
What will happen to her
She is the only one who needs and wants me
She is the my freedom
She soothes my soul
And makes me whole
She always knows
When I am down
With the whole world closing around
I need my puppy so
And only she will ever know
Now I must go
To where I do not know

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Ten Years


10 Years to the day and the tears still fall
Falling harder than day one at ground zero
Stunned silence and shock at what seemed to be
The beginning of the end, of our world…

Images, in still life, forever frozen in time
Now replayed again for me in my subconscious
We can never erase the memories of when and where we were
And how unimportant all of that really seems to be today…

I hear the voices of so many loved ones, echoing
Eternal in their quest for an answer in return
Hands held together, hearts joined as one
As our only hope to overcome…the sadness, the pain…
Of that day…

Details | Prose Poetry | |

My Pa

Had a dream about my Pa tonight, We all went out with them to Lake Loral Nancy His wife cooking up a good ol' Chicken Pot Stew slow-cooked set way up high atop the hickory us loading up the Bayliner for our afternoon fishing trip. We reminisced, Canoe in toe as we used to do just in case, yes just as we did back then; you-know if either would wished to float to one or more sides with the Canoe tied to the railings of the boat, or more or less to widen the chance at a greater spot to cast a gander upon our luck... . My Father by adoption; having-stated many times early on in-all of our teenier all together, God being-in-charge of all good-Blessings and if-you will--luck... we'll always catch some albeit one Yes I began to see through this statement he mentioned often God is always presenting always providing this-His Honest Hope, for us both--as I believe like my Pa, for any one yes everyone who is patient remains-open... ! Our woes, and Peace abiding... uncertainty grievances questions yes laughter were our main recollections as we dropped our first lines as we cast them... . I tell you I truly did love Him, still love Him, will always I figure... yes I know Some folk are so defined never wish to grow any further their Character divorced by Cancer, Nary did my Father allow it. On the day he passed He told Nancy, "I love my life. My Family Children. Love all those close to me.... but I'm tiered just plain wore out." the Lord took Him that night, the next day forthcoming I was told and O how I cried — But then realized as I saw he lived the greater life - He worked on this purpose until the day he died, and so for all he work for this final reprieve — it was for all of the ones he loved, because I feel for all whom he loved, he'd prayed for all to do the same... Yes a suffering in kind the same I'm seeing now - All-of-it I'm-finding; because he taught me the greater of his Faith nary a day apart from Him, and me... his youngest Son two Others older Sons if you will, yes I feel his family and friends still have this eminent belief to boast; Yes, in-the Company--Comfort... of Jesus' Peace... !

Details | Prose Poetry | |


Within a last breath
It disappears 
A bond, a heart, and shed of tears 
Fragile, to actions revenge 
Forewarned and foretold true 
What I wouldn't give for more time with you.
The verse becomes shallow 
Following the ashes, wind, and rain 
Outward cover recognized 
Its only the true that will remain

Details | Prose Poetry | |


I attended a funeral today, for someone's loved one...
The room was full of garments of black, consoling gestures, and fond memories.
Tears were shed, sobbing was heard... but grief cannot be abated, with only a word.

Attentive ears, as the prayers were read...
Hearts deeply saddened by the loss, could only remain heavy in their anguish.
Memories of a life given, now taken the Master who leads us all on our way.

The slow ride to that final resting place...
Passing through red lights, as thoughtful men watched the cortege in respect.
The last lonely place of stone...where so many laid their troubles before the Master's throne.

A few last words of comfort said, before we say goodbye...
Sobbing will stop soon, as the gloves and flower are laid gently down.
The hand of the Lord is shown the silent petals are swept by wisps of wind.

In life there is death, for this is the rule...
It comes for us all too soon, and we know not how, or where, or when.
But in death there is life, for this is the truth...if only we believe, in God's holy proof.

The child born in Bethlehem so long ago...
Raised in love, youthful days filled with child's play and a heavenly mission.
His Son to die, so we could rise with Him, make no mistake.

The morning has passed, the mourning has broken...
Not through the words, or gestures, or flowers, or memories, or even the prayers.
Remember it was broken long ago...when Christ died for us, and then arose.

(See my poem - A' Ma which was dedicated to her.)

Details | Prose Poetry | |

My Brother

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

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Dark Depression

Dark Depression 
Suicidal Thoughts
William L. Moore

Let go of all the strife
Just snuff out my life
Make a strong fist
And Slit my Wrist

Make me cry
Hope to die
Call to get help
Only to Yelp

I can not stall
Just end it all
Would anyone care? 
If only I dare

Would someone come by?
To check, to say goodbye
No one would crave
The stink that would Rave

This was written when the whole world was falling down around me.  When life was not 
important any more.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Ole Shoebox

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

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Home at Last


It was a bright sunny day in two thousand and seven.

September twenty first at quarter to eleven.

In a coma you lay without even a stir.

With our eyes full of tears it just never occurred.


That this was the last time we would see you alive.

At your bedside your family, children, and wife.

We watched you all night and part of the morning.

Then you sighed your last breath without any warning.


We hoped  before you parted to your home up above.

We could  take you in our arms and give you a hug.

Your body all broken and ruptured with pain.

All our hopes and desires were all in vain.


For God had decided it was your time to go.

To that place they call heaven that we all know.

You left us your poetry , teachings and books.

So let us make use of your wonderful works.


When we visit your grave now we know your not there.

You are up in that College without any care.

So look kindly on all that are left here a mourning.

And please God tomorrow we all have a bright morning.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Who Needs You Now

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

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Adulteress's missing thread

missing threads
She looks outside. The pale moonlight has fallen across the tributary, illusory moonshine,
like an intimate emission, now that the urgency is gone, meaningless. 
She looks inside. The sprawled bed sheet of flesh shines in luminous darkness which she
thinks she is. 
Remember the worth and compare with leaving behind the cords, one son and a lethargic
clergy who divides his self between interpreting the God and being her husband. 
She remembers the cats, the weekend cooking classes and small garden of oriental roses.
The pale moon is always hiding behind the clouds when you need it. The clarity is a burnt
out butt of the cigarette learning to jump overboard. She waves away the smoke. She looks,
once more, inside and outside.  
=© 2009 - All Rights Reserved Kushal Poddar

Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Blind Man's Tale

All  dimensions  are  hidden  from  me;
I  fail  to  envision  the  mystic  beauties  of  nature,
My  world  is  packed  with  dense  fog  all  around  me.

I  was  born  to  see  a  never-ending  darkness,
A  darkness  so  profound  that  it  conceals everything  from  me.

For  40  years  now  my  vision  has  betrayed  me  and ,
I  continue  to  walk  along  a  dark  tunnel  hoping  to  see  light  at 
the  end  of  it  someday.

I  have  not  seen  my  mother’s  face. I  know  not  how  the  lady
who  gave  me  my  existence  looks.

But  the  immense  shadow   that  covers  me  also  raises  my 
consciousness  to  the  highest  level.

I  know  that

“  Within  me  I  have  an  enlightened  soul  that  radiates  light
more  influencial  than  the  sun  and  it  traverses  the  whole  
of  universe  to  reach  the  heavens.

At  this  moment  I  feel  the  prescence  of  God.
 A  God  that  pervades  my  entire  existence. 
I  can  feel  that  He  uncondiotionally  loves  me.
It  is  now  that  I  see  the  Light  of  Truth.” 

Ronak Sanjay Bhavana Muchhala

G-601, Satellite Gardens CHS,
Film city road, Goregaon [east],
Mumbai 400063.  INDIA

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Without The Box

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

Details | Prose Poetry | |


Cahill Minot Assignment
July 23, 2009

Gravedigger and his assistant
“Come on, dig the grave much deeper. You always dig such shallow graves, and then the coffin is too close to the surface, causing too many cosmetic problems with the cemetery, never mind the vegetation.”
“Come on, now, Ralph.” The gravedigger drew a deep breath on his cigarette, preferring to absorb the nitrates as deeply as possible; he did not seem to care or notice how shallow his breathing had become over the years, a little too labored, a little too soon.
“I said, come on!”
Ralph grumbled something like not really my boss, while spitting on the ground. But he took bigger sweeps with the shovel. He dug deeper.
“Heard who we’re digging the grave for? Old Mr. Hines, the one who lived alone all his life and never came to the community gatherings; never gossiped, but those who claimed to have known him told tall tales of his younger years on a farm in South Africa.”
Ralph muttered “Good for him.” He dug deeper.
“Anyway, Ralph, looks to me he was a wealthy landowner in South Africa, accumulating much wealth after he served in WW II. Rumor had it though he lost almost all that he had because of a bribe necessary to keep him out of jail. He killed a woman and her small child. He killed them.”
The gravedigger lit a second cigarette. His talking seemed to distract him from his task. Ralph kept digging.
“Mr. Hines fled the country. Rumor had it he became a recluse, rarely seen around town.  Please prepare the grave for a pauper, heh, heh.” The gravedigger flicked some of his ash into the opening in the thawing spring soil; he seemed to smile down at the smoldering embers as they hit the softening earth. Ralph kept digging. A soft rain began to fall, ever so gently. Their shoulders and the tops of their heads became moist, the raindrops reflecting the flickering dim light of the streetlights near the entrance to the cemetery.
“Alright, we’re almost through. Let’s finish up and call it a day.”
Ralph took a few more sweeps with his assistant’s shovel. He wiped his brow, and then attempted to dry his hand on his damp jacket. It was futile: he lifted his face to the drops and let the sweat and tears mingle with the rain. Tears he shed for his father, who died alone.
Tears he shed because his father is to be buried in this very grave.
A final glance, a grey yellow streak breaking up the heavy edges of the twilight sky, and the gravedigger departs.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Here's The Thing

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

Details | Prose Poetry | |

You Were There

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

Details | Prose Poetry | |


Mr. Copperhead went to the copper mines
to see what fortunes he could find
Pick and shovel followed close behind
On a burrow named Ole Bleu

Mr. Copperhead was boon-town sick
He struck so much ore 
Even pranced around like he was city slick

Though Ole Bleu toted the pick and shovel
And now the sacks of ore too
With all the excitement Mr. Copperhead had forgot
As he should not 
To give Good Ole Bleu the Lil Sugar that 
He had promised once they got back into town
Instead he slithered into the nearest saloon
Asked Saray Jane to play him a tune

She was obliging to do so of course
When out came Lil Sugar to sing a little tune
Sweet as can be she looked round the room 
For Ole Bleu
Who was no where's to see 

Upon finishing the chord 
Mr. Copperhead was trashed
Said he would finish all that he'd started 
After taking a nap
Well Ole Bleu didn't take to kindly to that
In fact that Ole Burrow knew a trick or two of his own

He made sure Ole Mr. Copperhead was asleep 
Then down to the minters he did creep
Made a lot of cents or so they say
Got gussied up for his Lil Sugar
They drank carrot juice and ate bales of hay

Mr. Copperhead awoke after three days to learn 
That Ole Bleu had made the mint and laid claims
On the ore mines leaving him to hiss in a fit 
As he slithered out of town

Thinking that if he had only given Ole Bleu the Sugar 
He had promised he'd still have his ore
Mean while Ole Bleu and His lil Filly Sugar 
Were down at the livery getting ready to be hitched
Seeing as now they were filthy rich
As Mr. Copperhead slithered 
Down to a town called old dusty ditch

Copyright Adell1 © 2006

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Because she still clung to his promises

The girl was legend

All empty eyes & purple painted smiles. Every sweet white inch of her. And everyone knew 
her name

She danced in satin skirts that only moved when she took them off. She was everything 
delicate, everything demure. She was beautiful even when she wasnt

She watched the world with terror filled saucer eyes & the world looked right back with eyes 
that were unmistakably green

It was clear glass, they envied her & she wondered why

She knew they hung up her picture, plastered her to walls&books&frames that made her 
their prisoner. They stared at her when they were alone & forged a kind of intimacy she 
could thrive on

But it was temporary & in the morning she was left to sing her own self to sleep since no one 
cared enough to do it for her

The people that loved her, that glimpsed the real her when she uncovered it, all those people 
left her at the end & she saw what they'd done

They'd led her down the wrong track but they peppered it with glitter & held her just right so 
she was blind to every bit of it

She was the diamond dying in the night, she was the candied rose melting in the morning 
dew. They lured her with promises of love & took her innocence before she even knew it was 

She hated them but started to love them almost obsessively. The love hate became another 
prison & she thought she was free because she always got nine seconds of pleasure before 
the sun rose

Back bars catered to her kind & she walked in just to stand there & let their hands go places 
she'd never gone herself. It felt like the past & she convinced herself it was right

One night she walked in, skirt past the legal limit & eyes bright like they used to be. It was a 
shock-making moment, she hadnt looked so sweet in oh so many years & they were afraid 
to touch her

She'd been their girl forever, passed around & used like an old movie that cant be rewound. 
They knew every mark on her body, every scar where they signed her, a kind of "I was 
here" of the human body. They couldnt recognize her. It was the first time she walked out 
alone. Faintly she hoped to be pressed against a wall & killed but it didnt happen

She kept turning around haunted by phantom-feels & ghost-touches. Her body just wanted to 
suffer. It was instinct & who was she to fight it?

Every step was agony. She walked so carefully as though she was afraid of falling in a river 
of her own dark thoughts

But it was hopeless, darkness followed her wherever she went

Details | Prose Poetry | |

May Soon Be

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

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Looking Forward

The higher I go;
The lower I’ll sink.

The one thing I desire
Is the one that destroys me.

The closer to the end,
The more devastating the failure seems.

When there is much to say,
The only answer is silence.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

I Came To You

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

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Running shoeless

Black cherries
Platonic hearts
Remembering moments from the past
Climbing railings
Watching cars pass
Red, white, green and blue
A picture of a world I once knew.
Loss of breath
Running shoeless
Suffocating smoke filling the air
Angered cries
Too many lives
taken in like a fishing net.
We are only people in the end.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Day After I Was Born

he day after i was born was a day seen tragic by members of blood. Thicker than water, but never stronger than the bonds of sons and mothers, suns and seasons, logic with reasoning, looking for reason to beseech the death of she. My mother. The day after i was born was exiled to the far corners of my mind. shunned by my inner fears of rejection. seen as the demon child, reconciled its falsehood, but couldn't clear the thoughts of these images due to insecurities. Everyday after the day i was born.,now seems meaningless. without her I've become a monster. something i'm ashamed to see in this mirror that stands in front of me. shattering  glass breaking apart reflections of this shell of a man i call self.self called of my own. Save m, save me from self. I can feel myself giving up like the virgins to their firsts. Giving way to damnation, born of sin, made a sinner, and overpopulating this sinner's nation.The days i knew of my mother were happy ones. Tales of her everlasting glow and charismatic charm, tiptoeing through me and reeling in my heart, bones of the sea serpent, fresh outta the water. Flailing about in the hopes of achieving freedom. Hooked on the memories. The day after I was born I envied those who lived before me, to know her essence, even my elder sister with whom a year exactly separates our bond. We both miss her dearly. & the day after I was born & everyday after ceased to exist, temporarily.

But the day i was born, my mother held me close as if i were her all. She told me,.. she told me, "I love you son."

Her first and only son. and hours later, she rested in peace. & I this shell of a man in the form of an infant, weeped in regret. Never to know her true compassion but for a moments glance. & I became her heir, the bastard child. Living with thoughts of her in mind. May she rest.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

the games of our mouths are but forest darkness.

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

The sharp dampness of well acquainted sheets, Swells,

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

This room is crowded in Vanished Smiles.

I Want them Back.

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

To be There Forever.

I Want The Sounds that you Never imagined Would involuntarily 

Slip out of your Lips,

To Be memorized by these Walls

And Repeated to me. Over. 

And over.


Death is in the Folding of Sheets.


The Idea that Happiness

Is Simply the Prayer 

that Tomorrow Never Comes.


I Don’t Want to Accept That.


Tomorrows been coming just the Same.


Where is my Measureless Night?

Time… cruel efficiency, Written out in Ashes….

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

To have you Back.

You had eyes 

That no one could look at without Dying.

But this After…

Has become a Never-After,

And somehow Life has stopped coming with the Breeze…

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

No Green. No Blue.

Just You.

And You.

And You…

Into the Shelter of the Months I fly.

I Wanted the Impossible…

And Somehow… everything… has become It.

Even Breathing, now, Lifting my Voice to Speak, 

All of it, Is beyond Me.

You are out Of Reach

And Apparently 

So is Life.

From substance to substance, water to water,

Love to Love,

I Died into You.

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

I Can’t.

That Is why 

You are Endless,

So Please… Gather me up 

As If you Were.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

the games of our mouths are but forest darkness.

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

The sharp dampness of well acquainted sheets, Swells,

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

This room is crowded in Vanished Smiles.

I Want them Back.

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

To be There Forever.

I Want The Sounds that you Never imagined Would involuntarily 

Slip out of your Lips,

To Be memorized by these Walls

And Repeated to me. Over. 

And over.


Death is in the Folding of Sheets.


The Idea that Happiness

Is Simply the Prayer 

that Tomorrow Never Comes.


I Don’t Want to Accept That.


Tomorrows been coming just the Same.


Where is my Measureless Night?

Time… cruel efficiency, Written out in Ashes….

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

To have you Back.

You had eyes 

That no one could look at without Dying.

But this After…

Has become a Never-After,

And somehow Life has stopped coming with the Breeze…

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

No Green. No Blue.

Just You.

And You.

And You…

Into the Shelter of the Months I fly.

I Wanted the Impossible…

And Somehow… everything… has become It.

Even Breathing, now, Lifting my Voice to Speak, 

All of it, Is beyond Me.

You are out Of Reach

And Apparently 

So is Life.

From substance to substance, water to water,

Love to Love,

I Died into You.

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

I Can’t.

That Is why 

You are Endless,

So Please… Gather me up 

As If you Were.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Sudden Apparitions In The Night In Rural Somerset

White cars stationary on their roofs blocking rural arteries whilst severing others
Unexpected loss of vertical hold and bodily functions frozen in the failing headlights
Beautiful greenery ablaze, beside the twisted wreckage of man.
A movement shakes away broken glass and the tarmac writhes free of the terrible pictures
Running on the wide screen’s of my mind. Dripping petrol explosions and decapitation,
Gruesome pictures I dreamt up while reality passed the windscreen and
I, 	I sat there screaming inside.

Luminous blue and an echoing voice rouse me from that dangerous moment,
The phone weighs in once again in my hand. I’m rambling, or worse, but I get the message out
And the comfort of my task ends with the depressed red button as
The door clicks open

A familiar face brings mind of the other and I’m out into the cold darkness
Stepping slowly toward a nightmare vision that grew up in the dusk
I find her and for a second we’re back laughing and smiling. Over her shoulder I see
The groupings of people that sprung up from hedgerows, their halogen shadows
Merged with the darkness of the incident. The car is much too white.
Too strange an angle, yet there they sit
Tingling on the verge of the roaring tributary
And casually stemming the tide

Details | Prose Poetry | |


April 18, 2011

Waiting on the corner
Should we warn her
Of the approaching danger
Like a silent still ranger
She has been caught as a snitch
Out comes the evil, mean witch
We may to her have to slice
Into little pieces we love to dice
With a rock to her neck she will sink
After a while she will begin to stink
And no one will ever know
For through time she will never show
This is a terrible place
 Which has fallen from all of God’s grace 
We hope we may
Live through the day
And hope to always stay
To live another day

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Decide What To Do

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

Details | Prose Poetry | |

It Is Important

    It is important, we old men, must teach young men to skip a stone over water. First you must 
pick the perfect stone, a stone to love, a solid stone, like a friend or father. It is important you find 
one that is smooth, encompassing, and flat. A stone with the right feel to fit your hand, a stone 
you can put your power into. Pick a stone -not for a boy but a man. It is important when you toss 
it over the lake to keep it flat with the water’s surface, let it roll off your finger tips with ease and 
never, never make a poignant face. It is important you must make it skip, jump, and plane over 
the façade, the wet, the stream it does not matter how many times it skips it can be as few as 
two, as many as nineteen. It is important that you know that the rock you pick will never come 
back to you. It will skip for a few times then sink; lost forever, the stone you threw. It is important 
that you learn to skip a rock over water, you must let it go; even if you love it. You can kiss it, 
miss it, tell it goodbye but to the loss of it -you cannot submit, it is important. 

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Lady London

What trace of shadow, of language long and distempered in memorial
elegy, of abbeys as dismembered dolls lifted from their wrappings, of
hallowed grounds embedded with upturned forks while cigarette
embers chuckle soon sound aslumber in the crooks of pews, of 
fallow convictions interred between dour stones of the Thames,
retracted like a lover's kiss, of security in flightless ebon wings
while its mercurial eye peeps on Marriott's old ladies for 30 quid,
of refuse systems as landmarks to history, dear old old Form(al) 

no cat no cradle in its strings of moving metal carriages in the heavens
and hell,
Shakespeare Shakespeare! What a play you've made of her, our fair
Lady London

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Life is Cruel

Life is Cruel
April 6, 2011

Always things to face
Will we ever finish the race
Is it meant for me
Or will it ever be
The continuing strife
Always screwing up my life
It seems that I try and try again
But I never know where to begin
The problems that I face
Daily they put me in my place
 I thought of my friends
Will they be there at the end
I wish for their support
Or will I be treated like a dork
I really need them as such 
If they really knew how much
Not saying that I was wrong
With or without them I will be strong

Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Derelict

I am, I guess, a tattered soul. 
A vagabond of sort. 
A derelict adrift at sea. 
No captain and no port. 

Nowhere to go, no one to guide.
This frail and haggard bark,
Aimlessly drifts out to sea, 
Piteously and stark. 

No pilot here the helm to take.
No first mate to assist.
Into oblivion adrift,
Into a dark abyss.

Will there one day a solace be?
Will nepenthe be won?
Can a sweet respite be found
Before my setting sun?

Details | Prose Poetry | |

no homecoming

No Homecoming
Memory flows like the wind through chimes
Of a love so sweet only a fool would not know
To remember forever the passing of a sublime
 Giving of a love so timeless, so bold

Perhaps etched in stone, a remembrance displaying
An imbedded longing, a need to take back
A life, ending so sudden and cruel, displacing
A hope, a promise not kept for a lack

Of a knowledge yet to be discovered
Despite for centuries past progress so swift
Has yet to seal a chasm, uncovered
Of a despair of loss, a smile to uplift

No broken spirit, however, ‘tis only body
Unscathed thy soul, a candle that burns
Within the reminiscing of truth not forgotten
A lover, a fool at times, yes, who still yearns

To trace his words, words under no pretense
Will give forth his mournful meaning
Flavored with life’s riches, bounty, a permeation like incense
Words etched with caution, for he hopes for this to be his dreaming

Fool cannot sustain his own life for
The grievance of his promise broken too soon
Through death a betrayal leaving fool forlorn
Yet was witness to a lover whose own devotion waxed and waned like the elliptical moon

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Uncle Charlie's Friend

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

Details | Prose Poetry | |

If Wishes Were Horses

I say goodbye a lot—not in an “I’ll see you later” or “until next time” sort of way—but in a “goodbye for good” and “never speak to you again” sort of way. I’ve always been all right with it, accepted it, and embraced it, even. You know, people come and go; they serve their purpose and even though sometimes it’s worth it, they go away. I’m guilty of it myself. Just leave. Get out. Go. Don’t stay. I’ve said goodbye so many times to so many people in so many ways, but you posed a problem that my brain, mind, soul, body can’t escape. I just want to be back inside your arms, your bed, your life, your heart, you. Instead, I ran off, 9 thousand miles away to wake up as you go to bed, to play in a giant sandbox. I do not want to stay here; June cannot come quickly enough. March, April, May—three more months of this living in your tomorrow, you in my yesterday. I miss you. I fear you. I long for you with intensity as deep, as overwhelming, as powerful and dominating as the sky’s infinity. I love you. I want you. I yearn for you in every single way; the tears I’ve bled for you are insurmountable. I wish for Home; I wish for the West. Even greater than my desperation for friends, family, familiar faces, familiar places, is my ache to have you near; if wishes were horses, and if horses had wings, I’d have one to take me there.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

No Death For The Weary

...I loved like a run on sentence mentally continuing thoughts of love lost silently withering away... & they would say my heart resembles barren land barely surviving the winter's harshest frost heaven had froze over hell to pay was the cost & based on our trials I sentenced myself into becoming a hollowed structure & I structured my spine into a physical slump so the world could see how hard it is for a mere human baring ungodly emotional weights I weighed... multiple options of opinionated open ended questions questioning us while sleeping eyes wide shut wishing our love would thrive like vines entangled around coffins wishing for a breath of fresh air to enter a corpse esophagus which meant... in order for us to appreciate such a love one of us would have to die & I'm still breathing... ...your death was a must...

Details | Prose Poetry | |


With many endless nights I bid you farewell,
Among the thrones of pale love I kiss you for the last time,
The mortality of the mind, the failure of my memory,
Those that can keep you alive. Goodbye.

The more I tip toed around what used to be,
The further I am from tomorrow,
Hence I say adieu,
Forever I’ll neglect my sorrow.

Love is the greatest mystery I can never tell,
A game I’ll never win,
An instrument I’ll never master,
Its height far beyond my reach.

With each fading dreams I close this door,
As the music we used to hum dies off I bow my hat,
To each shadow of you,
Those that I paint each morning. No more.

A tale too beautiful for a life as mine,
You said it too and I know it well,
Our time is too short and fate has not been fair,
It’s life they say, it’s just life.

To the secret tears,
To the painful remedies of true love,

This chapter is done.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Sometimes Being Alone

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

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Code of Lost Romance

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Details | Prose Poetry | |


Eating the weeds from the grass you slept in last night.
Don't look down or you'll fall from the moon.

Can you pick yourself up?
can you make it home?
Jump, and hope god will save you.

No faith.

No G.O.D

Just you

Bruised and rotting
You make it seem easy

Dream in the fields of all those yesterdays
and pick the weeds for the hope of  tom marrow

Details | Prose Poetry | |

When You Push You Fall

Overstepping boundaries,
clinging onto an empty marriage,
carrying the family alone.
Husband fighting war with 
General dreams, of glory, in his head.
Carrying myself alone.
Knowing alone is lonely, lonelier every day.

We are carrying bodies, buddies and homeboys home to their families.
Poor mothers, fathers, sisters and brothers,
longing for a glimpse of their boy or girl, dead to this world.
They grow lonely, lonelier day by day and night by night.
Carrying on, pushing harder and harder
to make it through with all their fight.
Smiling the smile, greeting the greetings, and saying I'm okay.

Falling apart from the very start, 
until you push too hard and the wound is now a scar,
and you say I can't go on 
and the loneliness is gone.
You are gone when you push, you fall.

Take it easy, easier everyday.
Company comes by and then they go away.
Easy, easier, easily they say it takes time and the pain will not stay,
so they say, so they say.

Please I cry to the wind and the sea I want to play, I want to play..with my love.
Too many soldiers died today, died today, died today.
When I push I fall, when we push we fall, when they push they fall.
We all fall down.
Marla Stone

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Lost Dreams

I watched
As my dreams
Tumbled and fell

Like a beautiful crystal
Sitting high upon a shelf
I watched them fall
In slow motion
As they went
Tumbling, tumbling, tumbling down
In what seemed like
... Forever 

Like a giant drop of water
Falling into a lake
In flawless synchronicity
I watched the sides
Rise up
In a perfect circle
Reaching all about

I watched
As my dreams splashed
All around the room
Covering the walls 
And everything about
Lost hope
Lost expectations
Lost wishes

And yes…
Most of all…

Lost dreams

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Little Girl 'You' Ran Away

After You Have Run Away; 
and after the money, 
that you need has run like you so low.
How long can you live off those small, 
packets of sweet honey, So 'dear'.
Warm each they gave you, when you bought that
last finger of chicken, 
you being hungry and so thin you must eat it all.
They who eat only sweet candy, soft it is moist taffy
bagged candy and treats in cups each girl holds,
such as yours.
They can see the toothache you now have
not some small widening stain, 
that's your soul that you carry inside from them.
Your little suit case, dainty and small packed inside.
One pair of jeans your skirt from church some knee socks
and your flops and pink clear panties, 
because you are a pink oyster they all want to drain you.
Sixteen or younger the dark living jungle you see.
The whole world is locked so far now away, from you.
The man in blue would take you home, child again.
The other lives in the back red Allys way.
He does not smell the Lilly or Rose he just cracks, 
open the moon and moves around each clouds soft face.
Mean are the bruises around what were once your, 
soft and milk thistle your silkies.
Winter looks down and comes back to keep in us all, 
but not like that, 
in the back of a stall, on your hands and knees
where those old salty leaves, 
always rain down from the trees,that can't stand on there own.

Is It Poetry


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Tell a Friend!

My life is goin on,
Its a roller-coaster, ups and downs,
so many things to tel,
cant tel it to the walls around,
they dont reciprocate,
need a soul, need a person,
Feeling happy? Feeling sad?
Tell a friend...

met you as a stranger,
took a walk to know you better,
and never turned back,
look back on the path we led,
there were no footsteps,
oh i remember, we flew, n dint walk,
Feeling happy? feeling sad?
Tell a friend..

chose different paths,
yet our lives intertwined,
i dint ask for this, yet it came,
wouldnt have wished for the happiness,
if i knew the pain,
the end is near,
Feeling happy, Feeling sad,
have always shared,
hope we meet again, oh friend,
cuz they say world is a small place,
To embrace again, i hope....

Details | Prose Poetry | |



Are we meant to walk a tight straight line,
Wouldn’t that be saying to walk like the blind.
How will the hollow be treated in the end,
The two edge sword is being used for family and friend.
A crooked smile is hard to bend right,
The strong is most needy when using their might.
Unconscious wisdom spoken to bring down to the top,
A cliff is extended in sight of the short stop.
Wrongful delight can’t teach a child confusion,
But a picture made by evil hands gives a right way illusion.
Falling short to the tall brings along a silent bed,
Hot air in a head makes no stop air blown on hot makes stop while ahead.
Carving your pumpkin with heart out of chest,
To take a heart out of evil empty chest is best.
Cut off your left if it hinders your right,
Close your eyes to see dark to realize whose light!

Ashley Hogan AH

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Love, my 'Hope' In One Life

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

Is It Poetry

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Long Gaze

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

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

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

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Navriss in the still

I closed my eyes to dream and my dreams were empty
The Angel, the stairway, the stars, the star
They were all gone
It’s been so long since I felt her presence in my life
In dream where once I liked to go for solace
I find a void

In the face of such silence
What am I supposed to do?
I reach out into the wellspring and find it empty
There’s nothing left and still
Still I know something secret
Something sweet

Silence has fallen across my dreams like a blanket of snow
Somehow cold and desolate in the quiet
I know that I am supposed to feel despair
Because I am alone
Bereft of my guide, has fled me
But there is no despair
There is nothing

I am alone in the silence of my dreams

I know

I guess in the absence of despair
I am just left to wonder
Just left to wonder

How come I know it is silent at all? 

Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Tear

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

Details | Prose Poetry | |

It Wasn't

Well, one could not call it a church for it was not white, pure, or religious nor could it be 
called a Police Department or Sheriff Department with the attached jail for it was not that 
bad or evil.  This place was unpainted, bare wood, and with four rock chimneys which 
sometimes smoked no matter how old or young they were but the smoke only appeared in 
the early morn and late afternoon for the occupants were about life or should I say survival. 
Making it from pay check to pay check barely getting by with nothing to spare.  Inside was 
emotional barreness, loneliness, and inferiority at the max for love and hope had died so 
long ago.  Isolation of the soul with preditory instincts to encapsulate all with the preditory 
instincts of a wild animal this being done to one so young rightly separates this place from a 
church but yet it is not a prison.  Permanently emotionally destroys the child......

(Is this prose poetry or do I need to work on it.  Be honest.  I need to know where to go with 

Details | Prose Poetry | |


Bought a pad of paper
	Has lines on it
	One hundred pages of paper
	Already stained

Stole a Staedtler marker
	Just a pen really
	Stuffed with ink all waterproof
	Document proof and lightfast

Wrote a poem just like this one
	Used the pen to do it
	Filled exactly one page of one hundred too
	Just to spit this kyfe off

Too tired to do anything else
	Waste time accept it
	Because I don’t give a damn
	Too tired to care

Shredded and burned this pad of paper
	One hundred dreams too ashes
	A million memories smoked
	So what burned my hand too

Carried a flame in my heart
	Left it in those pages
	Hung out to dry
	Like my soul in jet ink

Smeared across my face my hand
	Smudged across my face too
	So what, so who cares
	The cliff base kicked me in the face

Details | Prose Poetry | |


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

Details | Prose Poetry | |


Did you hear my scream from the darkness!!
	Of the day when the sun failed to shine

Did you hear my cries screeching from my soul!!
	When the heavens broke from the sky
		To fall away and into nothing

Did you hear me die!!
	In the whispering across your skin

Did you hear me scream out in the night
	Just before the dying of day!!

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The More I Try

the more i try to show you exactly who i am you turn your back on me and i don't know why 
my heart ached for you and it shattered really fine 
i kissed my futures goodnight and drummed up my strength to cry
i am a mourning masochist and a shattered sadist i cut my soul just to see if it's real
your heart never knew the dangers in my eyes i am sick inside my soul over and over again 
i can't think about the futures without realizing the past knowing i was wrong when i chose to 
make love to you each time i felt dejected because i was untrue my heart cried bloody 
murder when i feel in love with you i screamed to the heavens and shouted down to hell i 
needed you to love me but my futures are too bright i thought it was love but i now came to 
see that deep inside of me i truly hate you there wasn't any guilt when i let you go i felt 
more relief that i don't have to try no more.

Details | Prose Poetry | |


Beauty is the beast.
Wondrous its aroma, that leaves the senses numb.
Its desires indecent, its sadness delicious.
In the eyes of your love.

When in your presence, I am lost.
Your delicacy undulating my core,
lubricating oneself, swallowing the heart and mind.
In the eyes of your love.

But when love escapes you,
foreboding are the feelings, left the emptiness.
Symphony of misery, frightens the air.
In the eyes of your love.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Ode to the Unsaid Said

It matters not no I think this is so and thus it is no?
Yea, I do believe this to be the way it shall be
From this past moment justly risen and so it will 
Catering forth from my lips espoused with what I know not
Nor care I will from the why of this passing flame
Between my fingers like sand across the ocean floor forgotten yet never so
For why should my mind leave it behind discarded and unused?
Lest it truly desire to forget and abstain from whence this feeling born be
And yes I say and cringe when I do, that I do not, nor shall not do as I was to do
When I said in the day and cried in the night that I would do as I was bade
From your lips expressed a promise pleased and yearned to fall from mine do
Did not and cannot truly give lest I bound be to what and why I cannot say
For I am not of myself nor am I of my own counseling freely
Nor will this do for me in this day and night come forth unbidden yet anyway 
Still I plainly ask you in the knowing there be an answer for me never shall
Not from your lips crested with strawberries untasted, so I remain veiled
Because of one transgression against fate, unforgiven still I be and stay
When never more have I wanted of and for but one lingering pass of petals fallen
Across my own silent breath like the whispered songs of those forlorn birds
Never touched with such knowledge and yet sail between heaven and earth
No, this will not do to pass and me my heartfelt friend in loss
Instead the petals fell and the dirt packed itself down across the burial of we 
Long ago it feels to breeding in my mind and soul, like tears unheard,  fallen still
And so I say to you once more before with a lost looking inside		"				”
Therein you know me, do you not truly and you do so did, do see I that you do indeed
Yet still herein you lie what yawns you see to know not and hold you alone it does
Do not, no I pray and shout hold onto that no more for it is false
Stead know you this and this alone to be truest and boldly so for this day and next
In one pouch I placed a breath, a tear, a stone, a pinch, a braid and feather thoughts all
Wear it long into the summer of life will you do and I feel it to so I do, I did, will do
For knowing under the moon in the winter between you and me of the birth emoted to
Unhappy be one and one till the moment falls again when one smiles to do and do
I do, will do again as when last I saw with these my eyes shaded behind the sunny
Shied out and eye filled smile of parting with  . . . 

Then come what dreams shall we see to breathe across the day breaking anew

Details | Prose Poetry | |

My growth!

I had to say good bye to my beloved kitty, Sydney.  Syd-Syd as I called her, loved 
to be held.  Her favorite spot was on my shoulder, as if I were burping a baby, 
she would sleep there for hours if I would allow.  I would walk around with her 
there doing my work, never once was she disturbed.

Before I married, she'd join me in  praises to the Lord.  As I sang along  with my 
favorite tapes, she would dance around as if she were chasing angles in the 
room.  Always jumping, looking upward and having what seemed to be a smile 
on her face. This continued after I married too.

 My husband noticed her favorite place on my shoulder and called her ‘my 
growth’.  He thought she was a special little cat.

She was a great traveler!  She loved Nacho Chips or cheese,  so when we 
traveled, my husband loved feeding them to her because they gave her the 
smelliest gas in the world!  When we were in the car together with her, and then 
got blasted with a ‘pooter’ ... I would turn every shade of green imaginable, and 
he'd laugh!  Because of course .... 'my growth' was on my shoulder, so I got the 
full impact!

She was the pet that was with me the longest .... 20+ years!  She used to sit in 
my lap and we would have a ‘meowing’ conversation, this could go on forever!  
She would share .... (or should I say steal) bites of my peanut butter sandwiches, 
sneak a lick or two of my chocolate ice cream or Instant Breakfast, when my head 
was turned.

She outlived several of our dogs, and in the year without a dog, she became 
one.   So when we again had dogs,  my husband’s favorite, she continued sitting 
at our feet begging with our dogs.  Then there came a time to return to my 
shoulder.  The last few years she spent in front of the heater or curled in bed 
under the covers at my side.  She sometimes would sleep on a pillow next to 
mine, and occasionally stretch herself across my head,  I’d wake to a paw in my 
eye or ear.  If I made a move she disapproved of, she let me know in no uncertain 
terms. Yeah, I’d say she was my growth!

I guess she was so much a part of me, that she had become ... ‘my growth’.  I 
know that now I feel a huge void in my life and household, because of that frail 4 
lb kitty, when we had her put to sleep.  That small cat made a HUGE gaping hole 
in my heart now that she is gone.  I loved her so.  I miss 'my growth'!

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Many Things

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

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

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

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

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

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

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Hitchhiker

It's dark and i'm tired
dazed with flickering lights.
I see a flowing robe
in the middle of the road,
with a thumb out for a ride.
I slow to see - a car pulls over,
my sister who has been gone
picks up the robe and
goes the other way.
With his hands he gives direction
she pays no attention, and
takes him far away.That is 
why the black cat which ran into
the street turned around with fear
when hit by the light.

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Someone above me

I know you said you will be there for me
You said everything happen for a reason
Everything that we do together is meant to be
The day you went a way
For me it was a bad season 
When you left I wasn't sad 
It made me STRONG
Because I know you in a better place
It was just a matter of time that I seen you then you where gone
Even though I miss seeing your face
When it's pretty outside 
and it's one beautiful day
I know you looking down on me with a smile on your face 
Saying everything OKAY

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Rip Rippy

It was long ago,
Whilst I was still going to college,
Way back during the dawn of mankind,
Still living with my first wife, with my parents,
And my beloved mutt-dog, Rippy...
A smallish, black dog,
Long a part of the family,
He loved cheese, like all Bells,
And hated harmonicas, I guess,
As he would howl when my father played...
But we didn't know that then,
We thought the cutie was merely singing along...
Well, Rippy was in the habit of being let out,
On his own, as we had a big yard,
And always came back without incident...
Until one winter's day, when he never returned...
All hearts were broken,
But none more than mine...
I went out after a snow storm tapered off,
Found his frozen carcass in a street nearby,
And buried him, not an easy task,
In the frozen back yard ground...
Set up a cross,
Although he never admitted to a religion...
And sadly resumed my routine...

Two days later, I came home from C.C.N.Y.,
One afternoon, via bus and subway...
When I came in the door,
My young first wife, Ann, and my mother,
Greeted me with mysterious, mischievous smiles...
They told me to close my eyes,
They would take me inside my parents'
Sealed close bedroom, for a surprise...
Great mystery was evident,
And it was evident they were enjoying
My perplexed looks...

Well, I did as told,
They took me into my parents bedroom,
I was told to open my eyes,
I did, and there on the bed,
Was my beloved Rippy!!
I was delighted, of course,
But wondering if this was some evil magic,
As I had buried him some days prior,
But no, it was Rip, and he was find,
Just a bit skinnier than usual.

So, who had I buried?
To this day I don't know,
But what are the odds,
A dog of similar shape and size,
Should appear dead, frozen,
Directly across the street?

Was his whitish frozen hue
The reason I was fooled?
I don't know,
But I was so overjoyed,
To have my favorite dog of all times, back...

When he ultimately did die...
My wife was gone from the scene,
And my dog died in my arms...
And if I live to be 600,
And have 100 dogs more
Before I die,
I will always miss my Rippy most,
So deeply did he I adore.

For Rhoda, who is about to lose a favored cat,
whose posted picture proved that
that particular cat was gorgeous
beyond normal expectations.   tom bell

Details | Prose Poetry | |


The natural flow
Of each life into the next world,
Hard to grasp at times,
Cruel, heartless, yet natural??

Mark Trotiner, musician,
Friend, teacher to me
Lighter of rooms on entry,
Suffering misunderstandings,
As we all do,
Blessed with lovely daughters,
Meaning the world to him,
Borderline genius,
I would venture to say...

I trust God has accepted him
With the love he warrants,
I will walk a little sader,
From this day on,
For I have lost a friend,
One who helped me through hard times,
One who held my respect,,
No easy chore, believe me
He's playing with the greats now,
To his family, my condolences,
I too weep tonight.

Details | Prose Poetry | |


Perhaps the stifled conversation, the contact Of Bodies

Or the Building and Spitting and Swearing

The Light, the graze of many Nameless finger-tips

Or the tenderness, which in the end, Deciphered Nothing.

The words addressed and loved by Someone,

But never repeated, nor spoken of since,

Vanished Smiles, lost  while pursuing things

 piled up

In the moist corner of some heated soul, 

The feeling of Black hair,

Soft and brief, against a nipple, A Thigh wrapped loose

And lazy across Jutted hips.

Or Withered clocks, the blue cement of dreams,

The Passed over Jokes, Or all those hushed Anguish hearts,

Sipped Steamy, With Coffee.

Casually flicked Loves, like Stomped Cigarette Butts

Or maybe abandoned street wise and left 

For a car to run over. Finish Off. 

(We never did think about Ashtrays or Forest Fires)

Your Stampede of Breath, those Trampling hoofs of Wine,

The sight of pants, tussled, awry, spread eagle over a lamp,

“But, what If it Catches Fire?”

That girl who came to shout. 

But forgot her Tongue, Her Throat , Her Mouth.

And Ended up just standing there crying.

Of splendor and Steaming, the Mouth of never Say, Not-No-I’m Tired,

The soft Peach Fuzz hair, of everywhere Dear

The taste of licked dew across your cheek-bones

(Just How long… did we sleep on that Park Bench?)

The Palm trees harried by Squirrels pretending to be Roosters

The sea left Behind, the ground darkened by stones,

How Long Baby? It’s been such a Long time…

This tiny house, the floors covered in Papers

“But, What if it Catches Fire?”

To late though… 

Even I Realize.

These Memories Are Already Ablaze. 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

My Dear Mother Teresa

I imagine you're as sick of the mother teresa jokes, as I am of the bell 
ones..."ding, dong" ring my chimes, on and on.etc.

anyway: re; the door; me too, and countless zillions of others.. but to us, ours are 
the ones we deem to count to ...this is purely a natural trait...Death is the sword of 
Damacles' held over all our heads, and worse yet, to those we love...and when it 
collects it toll...our hearts have to dig a new hole.
best regards, tom

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Valentine's Day Birthday

My sweet Ruby's birthday,
Naturally on Valentine's day,
In her honor, the NY city of Beacon
Will close their schools!
Ain't that a kick?
Though, sadly, 
She seems to be "missing in action" lately,
Many wonder why,
She is so loved on this site,
Many of us cry....
So come back home,
To the five and dime,
We'll even through in some 
Jimmy Dean sausages!!!

Or, as Kenny Roger's first song went,
"Ruby, don't take your poems to town!"