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Prose Poetry Lost Poems | Prose Poetry Poems About Lost

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Details | Prose Poetry | |

My Farewell

                      If I forget you, would you remember me?
                       If I still love you, would you still love me?
                      
                      If I fall when old, would you lift me up?
                       If I sleep, would you sleep by me?
                      
                          If I run away, would you follow me?
                       But If I stay, would you stay with me?
                     
                        If I see you, would you recognize me?
                               I know you would Not.
                        
                           That is why, I wish I would whisper 
                               And not hear myself. 
                         
                                   I wish I could cry 
                                   not feel my tears
                                    nor feel my fears.
                               Tonight, my final Farewell.
                  
                                     Therese Bacha
                                     24 August 2014


Details | Prose Poetry | |

GONE Anna Lo PH

? ...GONE... ?

I never knew until that moment how bad it could hurt
To lose someone you never really had,
Days can be tough and at times cruel
To much for one to bear alone..

I was hoping that you would say
If I feel that I can't hold on any longer,
You'll take my hand and we'll go through it until together.
When the time comes, that if I can't stand on my own again
And I won't need you anymore, I will let go.
I will let go, if that would make you happy..

If you're lonely and your heart feels empty, 
Just tell me and I will step inside.
But if One Day, you'll be needing that space for someone else
Don't worry and gladly I will give in my space..

Like in a painful, sad love story
It's amazing how easily to fall inlove with someone,
Who simply smiles, talks or stare at you
The only hard thing to do is to make that person fall for you.
They say that time heals all wounds, but all it's done so far
is give me more time to think about how much I miss You..

Okay, so maybe time heals most wounds, right?
Then why does it feel like it?
The wound is getting bigger and bigger every second.
Maybe Love is just a beautiful dream, and then we wake up..

Just as they always say when somebody leaves
When love is lost, do not bow your head in sadness,
Instead keep your head up high and gaze for the stars.
For that is where broken hearts have been sent to heal..

What is the opposite of Two?..
...A lonely me, A lonely You...

They say relationships are like glass 
That sometimes it's better to leave them broken
Than risk hurting oneself in trying to put it back together.

Lost in my heart, lost in my mind, I'm lost in your eyes
Entire days, weeks, months, ...a blur...
Flickers of light in the darkness 
Only to be enveloped in shadow once more.
And yet within the shadows of pain
Might be the faint flicker of love once fel,t
And that could make all the darkness worthwhile
Because a single "I Love You"
Is worth more than a thousand goodbyes..

I'm tired my Beloved.. 
of chafing my heart against the want of you,
Of squeezing into little inkdrops and writing it.
Ask me why I keep on loving you
When it's clear that you don't feel the same way for me.
The problem is that as much as I can't force you to love me
I can't force myself to stop loving you..

So I tell myself sometimes..
'Count the gardens by the flowers, never by the leaves that fall.
Count your life with smiles and not with tears that roll." ..

Though sometimes, these tears say all there is to say
And the scars don't ever fade away,
I am thankful that for a moment
I once met You, I once felt you look my way.
I once felt You within me, in my heart and mind
I once was happy and alive with You
I once Loved you and still Loving You... xoxo

P.S ..KYHYCYILY.. always.. ? ? ?

(re-edited letter)


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Mama's Song

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

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

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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

LOST SOULS MEET AGAIN

The spring is coming in a slow pace,
But I can sense something in the air,
Something coming out of nowhere,

I stood in front of the elevator on the third
floor in a nice old hotel,
Going to a small diner with friends,
Some nice food and wine to fill my soul with
love,

The door opened, and I saw a man inside,
Thinking how I must have lost my mind, after
so many years, it can’t be You,

And I stood frozen, and You stood frozen,
Until the grey metal doors closed and brought
me back from the Universe of lost souls,

I run downstairs to stop you leave,
Seeing unfamiliar faces, seeking for you - my
ghost from the past,
While You pushed the elevator button many
times, screaming loudly: go up, third floor,
now, go, move… Is it her, or I’m loosing my
mind?

And the doors opened, but nobody was there,
You couldn't find me- your lost love, your
ghost from the Universe of lost souls.

I screamed, You screamed,
We screamed in an erupting pain so the whole
Universe can hear us,
Could it be that we lost each other again?

I took the stairs and went up,
I could feel how our pain reunites,
I could feel that a lost soul is shouting three
floors above,

And I saw You on your knees staring in the
elevator doors,
And You felt my presence coming from
behind,
You felt my steps getting closer,
And You stood up,
Seeing tears coming from my eyes,
While I touched yours going through your
face,

We didn't say a word,
But our minds were talking,
We didn't say a word,
But our eyes were walking us through our
history together,

We didn't say a word,
But our hands....
Our hands united,
Our souls united breaking these cold hotel
walls,
Breaking the ice around our harts,
Breaking the past,
Amusing the whole Universe of lost souls!


Details | Prose Poetry | |

She wrote to me

           She Wrote To Me

My secret lover I left you 5 years ago I could not take it anymore I had 
to fill my emptiness without you since I left I would cut out my heart 
every night & in the morning its full again. 
I got married to a rich noble politician thinking I can forget you I made 
myself well known here in London as a musician playing the piano in 
my own theater every night. 

The theater was full the sound of my piano was known to everybody 
living all over London due to my husbands political involvement in the 
area for many years the whole theater would be booked.

My entrance was always approached with loud voices cheering till I give 
the sign of performing .That specific night i was in a very determined 
mood to involve my audience listen to the sound of my piano around 
and everywhere the lights were on me already but no sign to begin 
waiting for another noble to make his entry in the front row.

I was wearing that long dress in black and white strapless the one I had 
worn on our first date doing my best to belong to my audience tonight 
while craving to catch a glimpse of your existence live standing opposite 
me the way we were your place was empty but not in my heart.

The audience were standing up clapping waiting impatiently to listen to 
what they had already known music from the tip of my fingers will allow a pause through their breathing.

The lights dimmed no introduction was needed I was going to play an old
tune from the 80`s called Feelings remember when we danced to that tune I am dedicating this musical evening to you my love my first lover before we were obliged to be separated due to family upbringing.

That same evening tragedy stole my expectations of living a love to 
perform an absolute change of a physical identity a living spirit awaiting 
to be executed when suddenly I collapsed unconscious on stage my fingers 
were numb my blood betrayed my heart. 

It was a heart attack paralyzing me on the left side cure or no cure 
is still unknown that had left me scarred when witnessing my dreams 
shatter in disrepair.
I have been forced retirement at a prime age left with no choice 
hide behind the shadows of the twilight abdicate my thrown 
to an unknown.

Escape was a forgotten word before this chute as an invalid carcass today 
my escape to the cottage was essential maybe a celestial miracle would prevail.

The cottage by the deep sea will become my quarantine from what was an enlighten world to a world of darkness, my retirement was a runaway from 
the mockery of mankind who might disperse my dissipated soul.

My shutters are unclosed as their usage was worthless brightness 
obscurity made no difference to me in that room.
The ocean view struck me by its calmness, huge waves were 
not prepared to release their passion and splash on the shore to bring 
forth their own melody.

I went for a walk walking like in a dream a dream with no feelings of body 
and soul the moon provided me to detect another lonely shadow of a stranger yet this time it was the shadow of a lost fish wavering on the sand nearly lifeless, our eyes met needed to be rescued I said to myself even not feeling my withered hand I bent down kindly carried it and threw it back to life what a wonderful sensation. You will do that to me my darling, I will wait.

My decision to escape to the un inhibited cottage was a knowledgeable 
step as only seclusion and spiritual wounds would heal to prompt a new attitude that will lessen my sorrow inspire my moral to long for 
a tomorrow differing than a yesterday. 

Stand by me today, my awakening will hoist a sparkling light of recovery 
during this long coming journey. Intentionally I am your free woman.
Here I will sleep now until destiny will allow both of us to cure and leave our fears behind with our past, together venture back to where we belong. 
I loved you and still love you. Me!


Therese Bacha
6/3/2013


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Drowning

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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

STORMS CLOUDS

                                      STORMS   DON’T ALWAYS LAST 
	
 Shipwrecked, my ship destined for destruction
 As I sailed across the ocean, storm waves beat against me 
Destined for destruction, destined for disaster
Moments of despair, silenced with fear, I tremble
My heart raced with beat of uncertainty	
Never would I imagine that this day would come 
Waters  surrounds ,  and engulfed me 
My ship continued on a course I have never experienced before
This time for sure I thought I would die 
While I sat there praying that the storm would soon be over 
Tears streams down my eyes as I battled to reach the seashore
I was lost and afraid  ,sure to sink,  lost my anchor  
Then in wink of a moment everything felt  quiet
I rush hastily  to the deck just to make sure ,it was then i realized
Suddenly the rain stopped, the thunder stop rolling 
The wind was calmed, the sea was silent 
As I gazed across I could see land for sure
It was then I recognized  that even though I go through the storms of life  
Storms  clouds always  pass.







Details | Prose Poetry | |

THE DOMINANT - PROSE

He reached the slope of lost dreams.Mountains and snow twisting like a veil 
around shadows heavy and insisting.He watched the clouds change form,
becoming the echo of his breath.Slope of lost words.Somewhere between heaven and 
earth,he stood behind the white quietness and whispered:''Close your eyes, 
unreachable sky!Everyone who dies,remembers.To the open sea of infinity let me 
fly!''And like that, without shoes, without redemption rolled on the snow. He reached 
the white cliff and came back. If he fell, he would reached the top.White convictions 
floated on the snow.Only if time was more than a heavy diversion!
Horses of freedom were travelling with him among snowflakes and naked trees of 
passion.Their steps were leaving traces like a phantom limb,stating all these passages 
which formed the seasons' conscience.The white river was floating with a constant row
like the weapon that has even another bullet inside.''Pull the trigger!Do it!'' His scream 
was the only blow.The journey of destiny was interrupted over the icy road.
So he made his own.Returning the time that he borrowed,he changed his Thursday and 
left for the unknown.Now he is looking from the top of a white world the glass doors of 
others, throwing stones to break them.He reached the abyss of purity, as an Edenic 
mortality on hell.He was the Dominant. Nothing left to judge, nothing to condemn.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Man's Best Friend

Abandoned, scared and alone he lay in his bed
Wondering if he will ever have a loving home
On the concrete floor, he lays his head
Without a care for his old bone

It’s loud and the rotten stench of shit and piss fill the air
He lay, wishing and dreaming that he didn’t have to be there
Locked up and taken prisoner he is so sad
He never thought his life could get this bad

What’d he do to deserve such a terrible fate?
Waiting for the day he reaches the end
All he is now is a cute little piece of bait
Never knowing if he will ever mend

From the terrifying experiences had
Now afraid of any large objects or yelling
He is older now and the young ones are the fad
Look in his eyes and see what they’re telling

A lost and most beautiful soul
Awaiting the day he may find love
And get out of this terrible lull
He looks up to the heavens above

All he can see are painfully fluorescent lights
Wishing so badly to see the outside
To get out of here and have play fights
What he really needs is a person, a guide

Someone to love and support him
He waits and waits for his special person
Someone who’d make his life less dim
While the pain and loneliness worsen


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 | |

Thread of Hope

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That white thread...
Of hope.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Lost One

Shivers my heart, by the sound of thunder,
In the world of darkness, alone the soul wander,
The twilight that has no string of light,
Seems its brightness is eaten by night,
Frightened, every particle, every life and the nature,
I find the world no longer has a  nomenclature,
All my directions lost, ways surrounded only by monsters and ghost,
Sails my ship in the deepest sea, with no sign of the coast,
The storm of life which is obstructing my route,
Rain! my only partner which makes me sooth,
When no one recognized drops of water from my eyes, 
You were the one who showed me where another world lies,
You changed my route, my life and brought back the hope of light,
Without you i would have never seen the sun so bright.                              
Waiting for my wrecked, sunk voyage to come ashore in the sun,
Sweet heart! move on, because I am now forever the lost one....

                                                                        -'Panchi' Panchal Hitesh D.

(for more please visit: www.reckonhp.blogspot.in)


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The moon, a golden doubloon buried in the midnight sky

The moon, a golden doubloon buried in the midnight sky, amongst a billion diamond 
speckles, shimmers in the warm summer night’s air, as it slowly climbs to its zenith. The 
lake reflects the scene back a thousands times on a thousand different ripples as oars 
silently part the dark waters leaving star trails in their wake. In the small boat a girl lies 
on the bottom, her long dark tresses hidden beneath a dark woolen cloak. Her sparkling 
green eyes squeezed closed tight. Her full lips hold no emotion in them only lay still, 
betraying nothing. Her delicate hands clasped behind her back bound there by a coarse 
rope which winds its way around her small soft breasts and makes its way down to her 
bare tender feet, trussing her up as neatly as a pig on its way to market. Yet there is no 
fear in her eyes. No tears running down her smooth pale cheeks. No breath quickening in 
her chest. Yet when she opens her bright green eyes, out emits what can only be called 
faith and hope, like sunbeams through holes in the clouds, as if she knows someone is 
waiting for her just on the other side of this moment, waiting to rescue her from a peril 
she knows not what. Yet no one does. She is now laying on a cold gray beach. The girl 
turns away. Not caring about the pain that tears through her hands and feet. Tears run 
down her cheeks in torrents. Her body convulses silently. And there in the first of the 
morning light, lying on the pale white sand, she fills utterly alone for the first time in her 
life. And as the waves crash on the shore, the suns rays burst forth filling the world, she 
lets herself go. Her hair is plastered to her face, she doesn’t notice. Someone has undone 
her bound legs. She didn’t even feel it. Slowly a strong calloused hand pulls her to her 
feet. She lets it. Empty now she lets them gently push her along a narrow trail that leads  
farther away from the place that use to be her home. She sags to the ground. Let them 
kill her. She would welcome it. She would beg for it if she could only find her voice, but 
she lost that when she lost her heart. Her heart, somewhere back on the sands, at the 
edge of the lake. Somewhere where the waves are crashing down on top of it, crushing it, 
slowly dragging it out to a dark watery grave, where it wont have to bare the light of day 
again, where it can dwell in the darkness that it so desperately wants to consume it.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

An End to Aloneness

In my life I often feel I am alone; alone in my thoughts, alone in my musings, alone in my day-to-day movements and unsatisfying activities. I move like a ghost through hallways and down sidewalks, unnoticed and, at times, gratefully so. 
I do not wish to be eternally alone. I long for togetherness. But despite this desire for a real connection, I find myself regularly retreating from that temperamental beast that is human interaction. 

“Come on now, sweetheart. Don’t lower your head. Don’t look away. Look up! Smile at someone! No! Don’t go back into your bedroom. Don’t lock the door! Why are you doing this?” my brain will plea. 

I can’t help myself. Aloneness is comfortable. In being alone, I don’t have to worry about anyone but myself. I don’t have to please anyone else. I can think anything I want, wear anything I want, listen to anything I want, and laugh at anything I want. 

And still there remains that nagging desire to be loved and wanted and needed by somebody. I do not know the feeling of being truly desired. I do not know what it is like for someone to crave my company, my smile, my kiss, or my touch. 

                                                                              But I would like to…

I cannot make someone love me or like me or want me in some primal way. It may hurt, but I cannot make that handsome boy want to hold my hand or brush my hair back behind my ear. I can only struggle on. I can only work within myself. I can only try every God damn day to hold my head up, keep my eyes fixed ahead, a give the world the best smile I have. I and I alone can bring myself out of the safety of my bedroom and into the bright world that lies beyond that locked door. 
	
I often find myself alone with nothing more than my thoughts and the ever-strong glow of a computer screen. But no longer will aloneness be the constant in my life. It is true that never having known the caress of a man’s hand on my thigh doesn't make me any less of a woman, but I fear that if I stay confined within myself much longer I will begin to become less of a human. A flower cannot grow if it retracts its leaves and petals every time it feels the warmth of the sun or the kiss of a gentle spring rain.  
	
And I want to grow. I want to grow so tall and blossom so big and beautifully that every place on earth is touched by my shadow at some point in the day. And I will grow. I will push myself and share myself with the world, and finally
							                                 finally
								                                   finally
know the closeness and comfort of love and honest, unabashed companionship.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Lord God

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

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

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

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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Hide and seek

The darkness covers every inch on my skin though
I'm hiding from you, you run from me.
I step loudly on a broken twig and watch as you
Frantically you search for me but
To no avail
I am lost to you but
you are not lost to me when
I still see you
Giving up your search
you run for the forests
seconds pass
before I give chase
Why ruin the game
when it has only begun
this is my revenge
for what you did to me
our relationship was
just a game in your mind
but this is my game
time to
hide and seek.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Emerging life

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

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

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

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

© Brenda V Northeast 3 March 2012


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Let Us All Save The Broken Wings

"Buhaha"
I laughed as my dad almost slipped
Off the steep slope
And he got up pissed

"Old men cant climb"
My brother said
As he passed by dad
While the old man went red


I,trying to keep in shape
Drops of sweat running down my chest
"At least im no size 12"
A sarcastic old man said during a rest

I narrowed my eyes
And started to climb faster
And all in all my fat was burned
And the hill was what i mastered

By nightfall i seeked for branches
And fallen woods froom trees
But what i found curled in a nest
Was none other than a broken winged bumble bee

A small little black and yellow thing
still buzzing with no energy to it left
I picked it up with fear
But the thing was no pest

I walked around to find tents
And somehow I lost my way 
below the now appearing moon
And a coyote suddenly shows  before the end of day

I stay still
Hoping no screams will let it go away
And although it began to come closer
With the bee is where i stayed

When the coyote started to dance around
I was not sure what was it i see
but i looked down at my palms
I saw no bee

The bee flunged around
Like a drunk neighbour on halloween
And the coyote runaway
Along with the bee

Although ive never in my life so the broken winged bee again
I thank it

(I was alway afraid of bees .Never liked them.If a bee appeared in my face i ran like a 
loony.What made me to pick up that obiviously living bee i dont know.But since them ive 
been quite fund of them,never afraid again.I also grow a garden to welcome them in with my 
sunflowers.Since its hardwork keeping up with a garden in the middle of this heated country 
of 40 degrees(dubai),ive lost about enough to make me a size 8)


Details | Prose Poetry | |

I Hope You Know I'll Always Love You

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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Homelands

====================
Homelands
Arabic poem by: Adel Said*
Translated into English by: 
Inaam Al-Hashimi (Gold_N_Silk)
=====================

At the end of the line I stand
As should a professional homeless do
Exactly at the end of the line
Before the committee on homelands distribution 
Among those who fall in the overflow
Over the needs and capacity of time, place, 
Maps, 
Population records,
And cemeteries. 

At the end of the line I stand 
Hanging like a teardrop in a funeral 
Collecting what have fallen of my years,
My fables
And my extinct dreams,
In the bundle of my childhood that missed her doll
And my deferred share of my mother’s tenderness.

I have a flavor the midwife failed to sever
With the umbilical cord
In my heart, there is still a nursery rhyme
About a duck swimming in a river
And a songs about a fair maiden’s tear dripped down with  kohl
And my fingers are still trembling
In fear of the lesson and the swish of the teacher’s ruler.

I have in the piggy bank of my life
Volumes about hunger and wars of social classes
Burned by the fascists 
Who also snuffed out the tears of forbidden love.
I have in the piggy bank of my life
Dates I saved of palm tree’s yearning for the land
And some palm pollen dust still traveling in my lungs. 

I have no signs of prophecy on my forehead 
And no halos of saints 
But my homeland that’s sitting there 
Amidst the committee on the homelands distribution
Will recognize me
And I'm in the queue 
I will not compete with the homeless comrades 
For their homelands 
And will not accept that illustrious one on the right 
And not that opulent one on the left
I’ll accept only that one,
That one whose head is a palm tree 
And whose arms are two rivers.
 
- You , O Mister!
 You who was at the end of the line,
 You haven’t been recognized
 By any of the homelands gathered in the committee,
 The exiles snuffed out your flavor
 And withered your songs;
 Despite the high level of adoration in you
 No homeland on earth
 Understands your language.

 - Even  that one? !

 - Even  that one ..
And out of pity 
We decided to grant you a berth,
A berth that will never come to an end
You will waste on it  
All that’s left in your lifetime’s piggy bank 
Of tears, 
Of dreams loitering outside the fence of life 
And of years flying, like neglected pieces of paper,
Out of the window of history! 

===========
Translated by: Em. Prof. Inaam al-Hashimi
USA
*  Adel Said is a poet from Iraq who resides in Norway


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Why So Sad

Why So Sad?

Why do you look lonely, 
Bereft and so, so sad?
Has someone been quite nasty? 
Have you been really bad?

What lies beyond your haunted eyes,
Your melancholy stare?
Do you want to tell me what it is?
Do you want to take me there?

Your doleful gaze cements your face,
Your shoulders hanging low.
Do you want to tell me what it is?
Or would you prefer that I go?

I stand transfixed, absorbing your pain,
My breath is quick and light.
Do you want to tell me what it is?
What causes your terrible plight?

What demons grasp your very soul?
Why do they steal your smile?
Do you want to tell me what it is?
This cruel and evil bile.

Can you see through your vacant gaze?
Do you know that I am here?
Do you want to tell me what it is?
And explain what monsters are near?

What has sucked the life from you?
Who have you become?
Do you want to tell me what it is?
What nefarious deed has been done?





Details | Prose Poetry | |

Power and Form

Power and Form

Are the two elements of a human life
Our words are sweet and sometimes sour 
However it’s a deadly trace throughout the human race
We say yes too often to satisfy our so-called rational minds
 
Is the life of a poet/poetess more fulfilling than a farmer?
Are we the expression of nature? 
Or  victims of a regimental affiliations 
We are as you know impossible and unpredictable
Because we all are crazy species

Power and form 
There is no more secret society
The secret of man is publicize under watchful eyes
The world looks into our families’ photos
Looking for the perfect quota, 
As each and everyone one of us partake in online revelry
Like an disciplinary cavalry

However, within our soul lies the truth.
I lost one year, one birthday
I rebirth and lost my power and position
Atlas!  I am in the lower realms
 Now I am in heaven


Details | Prose Poetry | |

We Ain't Got That Kind-a Shine

ladies of the night 
are dressed in finest lace 
while hiding in the shadows 
where they never leave a trace 
on barren - broken - bastard streets 
these ladies have no face 
with tarnished tassels in their hair 
they stand like statues there and stare 

the ladies of the night 
now lean in darkened doorways while 
they sip selected wine 
and watch two lovers writhe entwined 
upon the floor where bleeding whores 
are losing life from open sores 
where punctured veins and death remains 
inside a fantasy that reigns 
with bitter dreams of better things 
that lost tomorrows never bring 

now lovers covered - soiled and stained 
with bursting leaks from wounded veins 
where needles of inclusion 
can create and make illusion 
last beyond the degradation 
as they stride in "sharp" persuasion 
unto death of one whole nation 
in complete discreet oblation 

can't find a lot of pity 
in a dark and dirty city 
as the waste is placed in alleyways 
and vagrants void themselves 
on steamin' streets at dawn 
while new commuters stop to yawn 
as night concerns now fade to gone 

all is lost at higher cost 
inside a pride that has been tossed 
onto the gutter - 
where machismo men just shudder 
as they lose their life-time rudder 
leaving all directions and erections 
on the street's abstract inflections 
just before they lose connection 
with their soul 

forgetting obligations 
where unique configurations 
seem to supplement and compliment 
the pain 
the mutual - conceptual - PAIN 

who is the dreamer and who owns the dream? 
who is the screamer in the scream? 
it's you and I dear friend of mine 
we dream the dream and scream the scream 
as part of Eden's Garden Scene 
but we don't ever cross the line 
cause we ain't got that kind-a shine 













Details | Prose Poetry | |

House of the Rising Sun

In a smokey room, each time I awake, the dream again descends.  Deeper into the 
abyss I fall to a sea of melancholic funk.  Souls waft by on clouds of imagination, 
clinging to the dank ceiling.  The raven sits, waiting, to carry its troth to Amadeus, 
the who in charge.  Its red eyes gleaming reflections of misery and living death; of 
hell in abundance, as it collects the souls.  Amadeus, licks his lip, unknowingly.  
Small beads of spittle glow from the corners of his mouth.  He and the raven sing
soft and low.  They sing to music of pipes sucked and drawn dry.  Dry from the dying
gurgle of moisture collected in the stem, Hallelujah! Where is God for me this day,
this hour, this moment in time?  My innermost thoughts being fed to the who.  Show
me the smallest spark of a flame of divine presence.  Am I so lost as to lose the glow
of his love placed into my heart, even as in the womb, by my mother’s joy and her
presence of being in Christ.  Please Lord, travel even that thin thread to rescue me.
Not for my sake, but hers.  Not for my soul, but her legacy.  Not for my tears but her
joy.  Not for my pain but her peace.  Not for my work but her faith.  He said it is so.  I 
think it must be so.  The ground began to tremor.  It sighed as it shifted ever so 
slightly, not felt by Amadeus, but noticeable, in the fetid liquid constantly weeping 
onto the walls and puddling in the floor.  The tremors still vibrated, as I was moved 
away from the deep.  Gathering strength as Amadeus lost control, I moved farther 
and farther up the stairs, praying for no interference.  Suddenly, it seemed the  
universe was changing, moving somehow to accomadate, I knew not what.  Mind 
bending, shape shifting molecular alterations, occurring in four different planes at 
once.  I was losing uniformity, cohesion, sensibility and reason.  Light, darkness, 
sweat, transference, crept into and over me as I passed over and under things.  
Beings? semi-beings, merging, separating, into total nothingness.  Rraaammuus, 
very far off, as my head began to clear.   Ramus!  Ramus?  “Oh, you are awake.” her 
lilting voice bringing back my sanity.  “Where did we go last night Baby”? I remarked. 
“Where did we go?” she asked.  Explaining further, she had dropped me off at the 
House of the Rising Sun, over on the bay front.  I hadn’t come home up until she 
came back, about twenty minutes before.  She said I must have stumbled in, 
sometime in the last ten minutes. Strange though----I did not have my key to that 
lock---!!!

For Catie's dark prose contest


Details | Prose Poetry | |

HOPE

HOPE BY N3
Slashed at the throat a blow aimed not at the esophagus but at the vocal cords
Paralyzed by something worst than fear,
Speech grows limp even as silent screams are constrained by shame’s chord.
Tethered like a felon and led by wary oppressors, fragile from blows and scorn,
Our soul stands trial before a court where the judge is rightly wrong.
Fused with chains our voices are imprisoned and the tear cavernous to reveal speechlessness in our gullet is the only sign of our voiceless enslavement.
In steps the first witness clothed in the shroud of despair, hunched from the weight of her truthful lies, testimony of that night of lust.
That night plays out clearly; more vivid than a motion picture is that night of this slavery, blown by ripple of our thoughts, we wobbled from the comforts our beds into the confines of sexual promiscuity.
Then the witness speaks of how thirsty we seemed to taste from the well of fiendish desires even when our spirits recoiled from that fetish neediness.
Now we stand guilty of not only our immorality but also damned so we grope like one lost soul unsure of its mortality when kindled in hell’s fires.
Now a murmur of distaste and a sigh of revolt as the witness go on, not one, not two, not three not four of times we met.
No objections and no cross examinations, the court sits shouting silent accusations cause in the emptiness of our fall the only defendants present are our faults boldly stamped to our essence, 
So our souls are judged and found accountable of fanning wrongness, guilty of backsliding to a third degree.
Yes even when in church we decree in hymns our convictions of faith, yet we accept our blindness as rightness failing to visualize yet believing the devil as he feeds us visual lies then we accept as fate.
Now with smiles on a frown we say God bless you sister and amen brother with muted diction thinking we are fine while the entire world see the signs.
Yes we sign because we have gone deaf to Gods text and lost the strength of spoken words.
We are invariably held down sunken in the gloominess of this bright blackness and we face certain death because j663 say “the words I speak to you are spirit and life”
So our souls begin to gasp for his breath which gives life and spasm like hiccups hit every marrow of our soul.
Like addicts to a new drug, our spirits tear through the volumes of his words searching for a cure to this suicide.
In our dyingness we find Christ rose after 3 days in his glory and holiness not to cast us down but because he had to rise up a new people, he died to give hope.
So whenever we fall guilty, charged, and convicted of our transgressions and our voices swaddled to the cage and imprisoned by silence of our sexual encounters,
Christ still calls us to his pierced side.
And for that singleness of purpose we were proclaimed blameless because how do we stand in judgment when the lamb has made us spotless?
So brother, next time the accuser stands before you not to judge you but to condemn you remember that Christ paid the price and paid it fully not to judge you but to redeem. 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Rural Tragedy

Act 1: Scene 1:  (As the curtain opens, we see the bulky frame of Farmer George. He paces 
the worn floor of his large open kitchen. He has just come in from harvesting his crops. 
Seated at the table is his wife, Florence (Flo), a more educated person, demure, and usually 
calm. Today she sits, as if in peril, large green eyes darting nervously back and forth as they 
follow his every move. Across from her on the table is an uncut melon; next to it, a large 
knife. Both husband and wife appear agitated, and an argument is about to ensue as George 
leans suddenly forward, glaring at his wife’s startled face, placing both his large rough hands 
heavily down on the table squarely in front of Flo. . . )

Flo: Mercy, George, what’s gotten into you? You’re nearly giving me a heart attack! 

George:  Don’t tempt me, woman. I want an explanation from you and I want it RIGHT 
NOW!  No more ‘a this dilly dallying around. What in tarnation was ya doin’ out there?

Flo:  Why, I’ve been in here cooking, can’t you see? 

George:  Cooking? Cooking? I’d say you been cooking up something all right and it ain’t 
been here in this kitchen! 

Flo: Why, whatever do you mean, George? 

George:  I seen you out there by the barn, Flo. Don’t you deny it.

Flo: I am being perfectly candid with you. I’ve been right here cooking you this supper since 
4 o’clock! Why on earth would I be out behind the barn and at this hour?

George: That’s what I wanna  know! I seen you from the field, Florence. Not more than 
fifteen minutes ago! I might’a lost some hearing, but I sure ain’t lost my sight yet! You was 
runnin’ toward the house like yer skirt was on fire. So whaddaya not telling me? 

(Florences’ gaze settles on the one kitchen window, and suddenly her eyes get very large. At 
this precise moment, a loud crash is heard from outside. Bruce picks up the knife from the 
table and dashes off, bellowing, exiting stage left.)


For Rambling Roses' Act 1, Scene 1 Contest


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Lucy

 

I find the red light
On a corner of a field of stone.
Lucy something – was she just thirteen?
Or maybe that century was a carved eighteen?
I ponder what she lived in stories I will never know.
Dropped by the hands of ghosts and demons,
Choking on Forever’s bread crumbs
Into always another tomorrow.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Life or Death

I sit here pondering my death. 
As I look upon the remnants of my tattered remains for signs of my so called life, I come to the conclusion that to do this, I must first accept the fact that I even had a life. 
But how can one have lived without the rhythmic beating of a heart, or the spiritual foundation of a soul to support ones wants and desires, or the will that encourages the thoughts and dreams of existence. 

How could the emptiness that was inside me have housed such a wonder? 
How is it possible the weakness I felt could ever have held such a power within? 
Is it possible I had reached the pinnacle of my suffering and committed emotional suicide?

Is it possible my demise was due to the ravenous wants and needs of man, disguised as passion and love which lured me into my willingness to give all that I had so freely, to satisfy a gluttonous appetite that consumed everything in its path including the memory of who and what I was?

But to acknowledge this would be to admit I gave my precious gift of life in exchange for a lie wrapped in the promise of everlasting happiness and love.

I sit here and ponder my death but I do not mourn. 
For I have only lost the vessel which held my true spirit, the one which now looks for the light and the chance to be reborn. 

A new being of strength and wisdom who realizes the mistake made in that other form, but will now hold dear all that is to come and all that will be. 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

my shell

I closed my eyes with anticipation for sunrise,
I wanted the daylight, illuminating my shell, and me
But when i opened my eyes, it was still dark
I realized, i must have awakened earlier.
so i closed my eyes , again , this time my eyes felt heavy , however i closed 
them , with a fear somewhere in my heart.
I slept
I slept and slept for as long as i could
My bones started to ache
But i tried…
I wanted to prolong my sleep just to look at the sunrise, the day, a new 
beginning
But when my heart started to tremble
I felt as i lost my breath
This compelled my to wake up, so i did
I opened my eyes
And looked at my shell
I looked and kept looking
It was still dark
There was no light, revealing me
There was no breeze blowing my hair
there was no humming of life
I kept looking -at the dark room, the dark shell
It turned my eyes gloomy and apathetic
Empty, empty as the shell
Without winking but watched
My gaping sight struck something
It was a broken mirror; it was hanging on the side wall
Just beside my bed
While it’s every broken sharp wedged piece but clinging to each other,
As a whole, struck my sight
Every broken pieced reflected
Reflected the ambushing of my misery
It reflected the darkness
It reflected my dark shell
And my empty eyes kept looking at it
Darkness of my shell reflected in the mirror, somehow made me feel, that it 
exists in me.
And As I kept looking, I looked at my face reflecting,
Broken, and my lips uttering without frowning,
Convincing _ it all exists in me and darkens day by day,
Emptying me


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Lost Cause

An ugly duckling, psychotic peeping Tom
creeping along dirty Blvd.
squatting behind dumpster
hidden shadow in back alley
drowning sorrows in a 40 ounce 211 beer bottle
'Cause it's the only way 
that this skid-row poet knows how to cope
there's no hope for a down and out low-life psychopath


Details | Prose Poetry | |

They Sit At Benches

They sit at benches;
Small legs swing above
Green industrial tile.

They sit at benches;
Thin arms cross around
Frail, frightened bodies.

They sit at benches;
Lips thinned upon
Tightly clenched teeth.

They sit at benches;
Down-cast eyes inside
Sunken, hollow faces.

They sit at benches;
Tiny fists clutch at
The narrow rail.

They sit at benches;
Pale chins duck into
Quivering throats.

They do not look up
As I enter the room,
They do not dare
To hope.

They do not smile
When I say ‘hello’,
They do not dare
To care.

They do not answer
When I ask their name,
They do not dare
To speak.

These children,
Belonging to no one,
Sit at benches
In defeated postures
Waiting for fate
To deliver them onward.


$25,000 would not rescue these children.  Perhaps, used wisely, it would feed them or 
clothe them in some small measure.  But their need is truly far greater than anything 
money could provide.  These are the lost children.  They are my children and your 
children; yet they are no one’s children.  They wait for foster homes, for court orders 
sending them back to abusive homes and fighting parents.  They wait for the bus to take 
them back to state funded orphanages.  They wait for the well-meaning social worker to 
tell them their mother is not coming for them today.  They wait for the well-meaning 
social worker to tell them their mother will never come again.  They wait for the sound of 
the door shutting, the lock turning, and the silence.  These are the lost children.  Perhaps 
I could sponsor a contest awarding $25,000 to the person who came up with a solution to 
care for the 150 million children who are homeless today.  Children who are called 
‘community children’ by the United Nations, who gives us the latest information on their 
numbers. 150 million lost children.  What do we do with these children.  These children 
who cry themselves to sleep.  These children who no longer cry because they no longer 
have the tears.  These children who no longer cry because they have given up all hope 
and now simply accept their fate for what it will be.

These children sit at benches.  They sit on street corners.  They sit in burned out 
buildings.  They sit under bridges.  They sit in subway stations.  They sit in condemned 
houses.  They sit in wards, in hospitals, in agencies, in police stations, in jails, in children’s 
homes...

I hand each of these children an equal measure of my allotted $25,000
I hand each of these children their .00017 portion of one penny


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Grinning Tears That Held the Shade of Southern Suicides.

There was the capture of life somewhere inside his eyes...

We wiped away tears in the slipping of secrets, and I remembered the draw of suicide as
the shade of Southern Octobers grasped me in his glance.

He pursued me, his kiss and his smile the nets that tangled my feet up North, somewhere,
on I-95, his voice interrupted my destination and I supposed his face at midnight would be
my end, ironic, as he turned death....

upside

down.


We fed on control, that of ourselves, lost it in the snows that blanketed March, and
though I counted every one of my footprints, I only circled myself right back to him.


I never realized the nightmares that held me, the three a.m. teardrops that would stain
his perfect shoulders because my lips tasted that skin right before my last breath was
taken, in the seconds that proceeded the metamorphosis of life, and we took a turn to the
left as we discovered each other on the inside, and I felt that existing in the middle was
better...

than never

existing

at.all.


He heard me, every catch in my voice, every lost word that floated in between the curtains
that we drew for safety, he agreed in the direction of sunrise, for who was I to argue
with silence and the sleep that occurred after I broke my most famous rule?


He wanted us to be normal as laughter interrupted me, as fear grasped my throat, and I
choked on my own words as the dictionary definition of life eluded me, and for those
seconds that threw honesty away, I remembered it was yet September, we were up North, and
the surrealism of tragic Southern October nights were but the embers that burned on the
edge of his 

snow-white cigarette

and the ashes of his exhalations

that scoffed impossibility at me with the hope

that the end would recall I-95

and the remembrance of his smile

at midnight.






Details | Prose Poetry | |

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 | |

Would there be The Great War

Where are my sweetest dreams, where are my happy memories, where are my dearest friends,
If I could light a candle for each lost friend, it would be a huge inferno, would this be hell,
Could there enough wax, in this wretched angry world, to make candles for all our lost souls,
If there were wax, would there be sufficient forests for matches to light so many candles,
And will there be a day when one man is left, he would have nobody to fight, nor to kill.

Would it be the last day of the Great War, would that man sit listening to birds singing,
And if he listened to the birdsong, would it be a song about the brutal stupidity of man,
Or would it be nightingales singing sad songs, so very sad songs, your heart would break,
Could the last man live on with his broken heart, the losses, and the horrors of the war,
And if that man walked back home would he be given a white feather because he did not die.

Would he be called lazy if he did not dig many millions of graves to bury our dead hero's,
Before each burial would he take a last letter from everyone's pockets and send them home,
If he did would he pencil footnotes of how brave the son was, the husband was, the father was,
Would his gallant lies be justified and give solace to the millions of grieving families,
And would there be that many wooden pencils because the forest were felled to make matches.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

FREEZING POINT


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

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

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

Christmas carols flying free on mid-air like:

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

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

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

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

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

Not until...

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

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

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


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

©O. E. Guillermo
08:33 pm, December 17, 2014






Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Friend in Doubt

A Friend in Doubt
WLM
Wildncrazy555
July 2, 2011 

Thought I had a true friend
He would be there till the end
In the end I found out 
What he was all about
Making me the shrew
And giving me the screw
Though the years we were there
All we did was help and share
You show concern 
But then you learn
His name is Jimmy and so full of bull
He treats most as a fool
Once he is alone
It will finally lost last be shown
Just keep on to thyself lying
Because soon you will be dying
Things will be better in the end
Cause life will be begin again
But now a lost friend to me 
So my life is finally free


Details | Prose Poetry | |

train ride

Riding on the train 
Trying to make it to my destination 
Getting on board with different people 
Feel like a replacement, 
Each stop gives you a sense of direction 
If you miss yours,its a hint of rejection 
Its a blessing 
You get there on time 
You may not have a seat 
But you.dont look behind 
For your not blind 
Or you clearly dont want to see 
That you could be next to someone who are going through misery 
They feel as if life couldnt  get  any more tears to be set free 
Is it me, the only one who notices, 
Have we honestly lost all our focuses 
All we have left is hope and its 
Seem like its slowly fading 
Somedays awaiting 
People on the train asking for help 
We never reach.out a hand because we stuck on self 
Id rather.have wealth in my heart than in my mind 
Id rather make make someone smile anytime 
Talking talking in the spirit 
Helping being a change i can feel it 
Crowds and crowds of people getting off and getting on 
Carrying loads of heavy luggage 
God youve made,them strong 
Youve given them strength 
Their lifes not so drinched 
The strong are able to survive 
they start appreciating you and praising u 
For granting them a,gift of staying,alive 
People so lost in their,eyes 
Tired of trying to make away 
The,passengers go up and down 
The bounds so freely 
To clear their minds 
Know that its fine 
Remember those asking for help 
Whether its a prayer or some change 
What would jesus have done 
In his fathers name 
He wouldnt complain 
He would help 
Turn frowns upside down 
Help you climb those steps 
Help you up the elevator 
Hes here for us now or even later He will never leave our side 
And ive had a great experience of the,train ride 
By: Concetta Hardnett 
     
 
 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Moment of Hope The Invisible Man 30

Sometimes I have the courage to think of the things that made me what I am today,
My memory takes me back to terrible things far away far off into my bitter past,
My mind like a maze of dirty black alleys that smell of waste, loss and disgust,
The losses, the drink ripped away, not happy until it was all gone respect as well.

Invisible thinks of a garden where roses clustered with lilies scent on the breeze,
Bees found stores of honey in the petals of a thousand and one different flowers,
Lovers walked hand in hand along its winding path a beautiful dream of the man,
Bright with the embroidery of nature where children played in new myrtle flowers,

As Invisible thinks of this garden it is neglected but flowers can grow with weeds,
It could put a smile upon his face, a face that had never known any joy recently,
He hopes a gardener can covert this garden get rid of ruined waste, back into Eden,
Tending all the beautiful flowers that spring up with the weeds and smell gladness.

If he helped the gardener in his quest a hand might hold his and guide him through,
Maybe a hand would go around his waist to support him as well as guide his hand,
Dare he wish that the guiding hand and the support would be his angel from heaven,
A dear person to help him clear his garden and walk down the winding path as lovers.

An angel that would smile at him maybe hold his hand and squeeze it so very gently,
Would the angel talk to him and tell him that one day they would be together again,
Her beautiful grace shining warmly as she looks up to him, to her he is her hero,
Not a drunken mess that cannot cope, not a dirty vagrant, but her knight her love.

The tenderness of this beautiful scene in his poisoned mind became real he smiled,
He grinned as she sat down next to him as close a she could get then wriggled closer,
Warmth from her body not only warmed him but gave hope this what he has waited for,
She whispered sweetly she loved him and would be waiting for him and they kissed.

Invisible woke with a start and was she not by his side, was she ever with him,
A dream another heart wrenching let down and how could he have dreamed the dream,
It was so real he still felt the warmth, the impression of her hand holding his,
But it must have been a dream his own mind conspired to deliver the hardest blow.


Lost in a grief so deep, his loneliness complete he talks to Sam his imaginary friend.

These days get worse Sam they really do please help me,
I need to change but I need my drink more what can I do,
But I need to change so desperately Sam can you help?
My world has cracked and I've fallen into the crack,
But what I don't understand Sam that I was once good,
If I had any courage Sam I would be laying in my coffin,
Why does life drag you along with it I don't want to go,
Just a bit of icing on my cake Sam it is freezing cold,
Did you know this is where I was brought up my friend,
Did you know that most of the people that walk past I knew,
Sam! I know many of there people but they don't know me,
Why do they all walk past I wish somebody would help,
Maybe when I have drunk more cider I might feel better Sam,
I can remember being happy but not what being happy is like,

As Invisible sits drinking shoppers give him a wide berth and they look at him with hate.

These people Sam they look at me as if I have hurt them,
The people they are not our sort of people they hate me,
Has the world changed like I have but in opposite ways,
My life is full of sorrow drunkenness and dreams Sam,
Old sorrows wont go away new sorrows should take over,
So we have to face both the old and the new that's bad,
At night I try to close my drunken eyes it all returns,
Sam is that the same as you can you close your eyes,
Can you remember the valleys Sam the ones we used to play,
When we ran about all day Sam in the sun rolling in grass,
The old stream that twisted and turned, it had lost its way,
Floating lolly sticks watching them bounce away on ripples,
Buying bangers in November and throwing them into the water,
What I wouldn't do to go back for just a couple of hours Sam,
Just to feel the innocence and try to bring it back to now,
To enjoy what there is to enjoy and maybe get better Sam,
But that will never happen Sam we are lost on an island,
A well populated island but an island all the same Sam,
People are not like ships they don't bother to rescue people,
They just walk around or just walk away all the nice ones gone,
I remember my school Sam it's now been knocked down and left,
It has all gone, all gone no primroses in spring or bluebells,
Do you remember Sam the bluebells used to nod in the wind,
But they have all been built on, whats the use in talking,
Nothing changes from bad to good Sam remember that, eh Sam,

Still drinking his cider tears well into his eyes his nose runs and begins to quietly
to sob. He sits on the shopping parade seat, shaking as he sobs. His throat has a lump
in it so he stops talking to Sam. Invisible sinks his wet face into his overcoat
hides his misery from the people that walk past he just sat there lost and confused. His
greatest sadness an angel paid a visit to the maze of dirty black alleys that smell of waste,
loss and disgust,


Details | Prose Poetry | |

I'm Not Gonna Let You Say

Whispers in the dark Thoughts of you. a meeting at the park, A memory, a flash Surrounded by pin-drop silence. The saddest thing in the world, I have lost all meanings of life. My mind overflows with memories Of those few green and fair days. How do I mend my broken heart ? I hate this idea of my heart That you are the one thing, Whom I want the most but can't have. You tore my heart into two, One part has lost all and The other still thinking for you. I hate this feeling of pain, I'm not gonna let you say.....


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Death Calls Out to Us

What does death want with us? Why does it laugh viciously when it takes another? Why do we cry so when we loose yet another? When will we realize that the end an end is near? How can we, be ready, in every moment? How can we, stand, when all around us falls? How can we carry on when everything emits death? How can we continue on, brushing death aside? What gives us that false sense of pride? Oh, that which we try to hide, That, That which we try to hide… How long will it take until the tide washes over??When will it wash over our lines in the sand? Will you and I then run hand in hand? Or, will the waves wash away our names? IS it all these silly games? All the silly things that I call fame. How simple is it, that the sand simply returns? Never the same as it was, but washed away. Like time in a bottle, Dripping away. Dripping, slowly, quickly away. How will I face the entire onslaught of the waves? When the water is rushing in, will I sink or swim? How can I blame the water, When I never learned to swim? How can I blame the air? The air I never learned to breathe. How can I blame the water that drags me down? What does it do? Nothing… Can’t I still breathe? Aren’t my lungs filling with water? How can I blame this feeling, so painful, for how I feel? Don’t I have myself? Myself and only I? Am I truly the reason? The reason why waves crash and pour from my eyes? Am I the reason they fill my lungs? Am I the reason death’s pain still stung?


Details | Prose Poetry | |

These Salty Waves Pt 1

What am I supposed to think? What am I supposed to say? All these lies you bottled up come sweeping, crashing with the tides. My footing's gone, the ocean real, but how am I supposed to feel? And here I am, a drowning mess, a loveless lie, I do protest. And here I am a drowning mess. So all those things you said to me? Where they just lies out of pity? So all those things you said to me? Or am I lost in salty waves? Yes I know my future's grave. Or am I lost in salty waves?And now the panic in my head, when I should be tucked up in your bed, reels and reels right here instead.I'm going down, a sinking ship, funny what name drips off my lips. It is not God, or Angles plenty, or even that I'm just damn ready To let go of the hell and the lies. I'm wishing for your gentle eyes. Or at least the way they always seemed, but perhaps that's just this salty dream. I have no clue what I'm to do! A drowning hopeless mess, for you-- think it's cute, and oh so funny, but here's the bitter truth now honey. I'm going down. There is no help. I can't be saved by God himself. I put my life, my whole world of trust, and you've thrown it away for lust. Well what the hell's a girl to do? I'm just so entranced by you!


Details | Prose Poetry | |

92

92
How some students grew up on the Computor? 
and can't function in the real world right click the bus mommy and place it at the 
stop it is taking much too long to come around the horn. form method="post" 
This paragraphic is free to be a space bar for mee and ewe. 
option>Sometimes in my fables there is parts and pieces of mye poems this is 
not yellow journalism or nepotism or even bad form eye can copy and paste and 
then add text eye can translate pictures into banners and banners into love eye 
can relate a page to GOD and find a way to enter clouds formed and someday 
eye will make it rain inside this idiot Computor box and it will fry all the electronic 
components of every Computor in the world then we will all go outside again and 
inhale the fresher air. 
value="Radio" 
Just now eye went to a Bravenet website to make me a new website and its free 
but of course the upgrades would cost me but the free sights is challenging and 
it gave me a code for a welcome type box and it did NOT work as it is in the form 
of a a href not a url. The idea is the webpage would bring me people they would 
sign my little guestbook too bad it does not even relate to the page it won't 
translate at all the code is wrong its backwards to a forum type webpage the url 
is too long. The HEY REF only works on websites the URL IMG thing only works 
on FORUMS how many people have followed links to there destruction. When 
eye got the thing on my FIRST PAGE of HOME the thing took off with me when eye 
clicked it open we went for an internet ride and eye lost the page eye was on NO 
fun. Eye would not want a HOME Computor user to become lost in navigation 
when he was just trying to let me knoe that he had viewed my poems. The thing 
is done the web page that they gave me is very green and nice looking but does 
not do a real function oh well in this Brave New World does anything rally have to 
have a function and so mye gentle reader ewe it seems to mee the eye the poet 
fable maker fabulist like Aesop that eye am just the new proud owner of another 
big white elephant so they will always benefit from instruction of this knowledge 
from someone please open windows as many as yew want and let them learn 
yew some. 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Reformation of Character

I’ve been down this road
So many times before
I often wonder if at the end
Will there be an open door?

What seemed to be
What I thought once was
A hopeless dream, in fact
A totally lost cause.

Is now actually a series of events
Coming to fruition
But in a more peaceful, loving
And different rendition.

Is this my chance to try again?
To set things right with my life?
Or is it just a visualization?
Of what could’ve been perhaps an insight?

Only time will tell as the
Fragmented pieces fall into place
Making a difference and a change
In my life as the memories give chase.

Being sure to keep up
Not ever to be missed
But yet called upon at a moments notice
So I can reminisce.

Whenever I feel down and out
Like I lost my friend,
I can reach back into my mind
To smile and laugh once again.

You see, that’s the thing about
Memories both good and bad
They will always be there for you
Whenever you’re happy or sad.

They level the playing field of your mind
Keeping everything on an even keel
Especially those times when
You’re not sure what or how you feel.

Life is full of ups and downs
As well as trials and tribulations
It’s up to us as individuals
To know when and how to set the stipulations.

When we reach that final chapter
And the last page has been turned
You can stop, look back and say
Wow, this is what I’ve learned

Now take this and share it with everyone
Even those you may not know,
So we all as individuals and
A collective will continue to grow.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

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
http://poems.easybranches.com/


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Reality at its best

The human mind
so unkind, so devious,
it can sting like a bee
then leave,
before your eyes-
then what your eyes can see, 
they don't really see it at all.
It's all in a dream,
this messed reality,
it's warped, when rainbows spit hail,
children don’t smile at clowns,
they laugh.
It’s cursed, this place called Earth
And it’s no longer a paradise,
What was is lost and there’s nothing left. Nothing.
I see the storm clouds, nothing blue.
No sun, but where has it all gone?
What happened to my pills, misplaced purposely.
It really doesn’t matter if you are alone
Cause no one else believes you.
You have no other home,
Just knives falling from the sky,
And once you look up, 
You’ll quit asking why.
And once you’re soul asks you to bargain,
The devil will speak once more,
The angels surrounded ignore
Cause you’ve lost who you were before.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Sounds Of My Father

There are those of us who were not blessed with wonderful, or even good 
memories of their father
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Exhausted by another night of sleeplessness
Alone in his home 
Not by choice but by fate
His mind raced ahead
Like a freight train on speed
Dashing franticly 
Down a steep hill

Looking at the clock 
He remembered his father
From long ago 
And the anger he held inside
Especially the morning sounds

Yes... the sounds
There were sounds his father made 
As he prepared to begin his day

Sounds that came
From the bathroom, and shower

Sounds his father made
As he prepared himself 
To begin his workday

Sounds
That as a child 
He learned to fear

For it meant 
His father was awake
And his father 
Was an angry man

Now 
As the fatigued child
Almost sixty 
Tired from lost sleep 
And lost dreams 
Prepared himself for the workday

In the bathroom 
Where he stood
Years after his father
Had passed away
From his own lips
Came the sounds 
Of his father


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Lost Confessions

Lost between Heaven and Hell, battlements of my spirit and mind, Raptures me into 
the new day, but delivers me in the darkness of night. I argue within my mind, that 
shall wither it blind, randomly I search for the meaning that enhances the light. I 
wander through the ailment that haunts me so. Small amounts of peace keep me 
driving onward, though I feel no glow. In-between both I am haunted with one 
sight, Glimpse of the dream I hold so dear, with massive amounts of fear, my 
menacing fantasy keeps me on my fight. Each week that passes seems as everyone 
that fell before.
My soul knows my end is of a different kind, knowing the sin that I carry each night 
and the penance that I must endure. My destiny is not what I see, But is what I 
deeply ignore. Lost between Heaven and Hell, My soul cannot sell, this torment, I 
speak is a different form I break, Not just any ordinary sin, I have no-where to begin.
No end to reach, my darkness seeks light, though there is no realization to teach. I 
am haunted by the past that lonely night that seizes, though it pleases me ,but no 
other can live in the desire that I speak here and now, Others have traveled this 
road without any dark temptation, though I would lose all interpretation, with great 
litigation. Lost now and forever my dream, forgotten almost it may seem. Distant 
calls engorge my thoughts, memories chase my spirit, and lust envelops my soul, 
into the realm betwixt Heaven and Hell. My dream I shall bury, my destiny, I shall 
marry within my mind and spirit. These darkened nights shall grab the bright days 
down into the mishap of grace. I will council each cheerful day and plant a smile on 
my face. However, the agony shall drive my heart to a stainless hollowness of 
discomfort my continued dream shall live on and inhabit this shell. This shell 
someday shall wither away; there will be nothing left to tell.


Written for

Sponsor Catie Lindsey 
Contest Name Dark Prose 


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
 

Suddenly...
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?
Together...
we could make things right 
But...
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 | |

Walking through a Victorian Cemetery

Passing a cemetery gate I walked in I could see all the epitaphs chronicling deaths,
The dates were all times and seasons and there were little graves for little babies,
Daisies mark children's resting places their small hands used to make them into chains,
Other huge graves showed people struck down in the prime and evening of their lives.

As time passed the sun's last setting beams a smile on the mounds and shadows stretch,
The evening wind began to sigh among the branches of the many Yew trees very near by,
Death awaits all so we should try to understand that and look death calmly in the face,
His bony knuckles will be heard very loudly as they rattle our doors and beacon us away.

The grim reaper will be the forerunner of the next searching ordeal that is the judgment,
We look into our souls watching the compass of our lives to which way the needle trembles,
As the evening wore on I could see a lonely figure limping along jingling keys to lock up,
A tired old man in the December of his life waiting for a bony finger to show him the way.

Making my way to an inn I ordered a glass of port the gas mantles, dimmed into half light,
Thinking about my day an image of my lost brother came to mind and the pain still dug deep,
I could see him playing with toys in his room, dark shadows under his eyes still haunt me,
Maybe one day I will see the boney finger of my lost brother beaconing me to join him.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Tragedy---for Jon

Lost? 
Found. 
Never has life's cruel temper dealt its deceiving hand as this day 
Lost-found in a place, living know not. 
Kinship friendship - words, verbiage to describe mortal bonds 
While those of the soul grasp bonds endless and dimensionless 
Youth is but a stage of dying 
Time cruel to its very essence. Time blows through us all as our sight through glass 
Its dark fingers paint our walls and carry us to our HOLMES 
Its cruelty is its existence. Defining agony, depriving experience 
Youth felt emotion lost through existence 
Found youth soul existence beyond comprehension 
Youth to us all? Youth has been lost but found where else 
But where time confronts us all. 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Shadow Of Shadow

Like the willow leaves
Merely! runs forward. 
Then soothingly or almost 
the shadow of shadow
A distance in the dark
towards the road, 
went to evanescence

Has been under
The sword's coughed,  
Jumpy to:(the sudden violent death)

Right now!
Gently of life - shackled.
In smoothness,blessedness
and in the fragileness' sleeps!

Wearisome at his land!
Wanderer in his sea!
Exiled near the top of death!
And near his green hamlet - 
lost his glory which --
(aged and perished).


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A New Found Old Friend

Don't have as much the time now days
Wondered how you were going
Just a glimpse of your somewhat familiar face
Upon my computer makes me smile.

Thanks to those who invented facebook
To ease our weary wondering souls
Our childhood friendships renewed once again
We finally found that so long lost friend.

As I run the mouse over many friends of friends
I spot a new---old one every now and then
I send that old friend a friend request to find
As precious memories of them flood my mind.

Oh it isn't so much fun to know
I didn't after all
in my past leave you way behind.
My new found old long lost friend.

Linda Terrell
December 

Older people looking for old school friends
on facebook get reunited everyday!
This one is for all of those I have again 
made contacted with that am so glad you 
did not remain in my past!


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Shutting Down Arby's

Tonight, oh what a night it was
Nearly five hours spent
At a fast food restaurant 
Laughing and talking our way through life
Who else but you and I
Could get kicked out
For shutting down Arby’s
So folks could go home
We spoke of life
Of love lost and found
Of sex and dreams
The devil and Holy Ghost
We talked of beliefs
Work and foolish friends
Of places to travel
And goofy things we’ve done
We spoke of fantasies 
And how people are
Of puppies, kittens and relatives
Of future goals and lost hopes
Integrity and the things people think about
We asked why people
Are the way they are
Remembered childhood moments and scary movies
Came to know each other
Just a little bit better
Laughed at our life
While we joked about
Shutting down Arby’s
Such a unique distinction
To have done such a thing
But then again 
It was time well spent
Between a father and daughter
And all I can say
For letting it be so
Is thank you God

NOTE*** May all father’s have such a day. Happy Father’s Day


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Snowfall

In a small hamlet people were outside their dwellings staring up at a heavy black sky,
Wind lashed the trees and front doors a big storm was about to happen and very soon,
Small ice flakes whipped up in the wind stinging eyes I had a big dewdrop on my nose,
After some time the blackened sky opened the winds raged and the snow began falling.

Like a roaring bear gusts of winds blew the nearby sea sending salty spray to join snow,
The wind sweeping across the land fiercely blowing gales loosening objects in its path,
An old man curled up against his fire heavy snow swept under his door and over his eaves,
As snow started to fall harder the flakes were huge swirling in blustery bitter cold winds.

That night was so cold every one went to collect logs for a fire smoke rose from chimneys,
Figures seen in silhouette behind lighted icy windows, doors were bolted the eaves blocked,
Friends gathered in each others houses sipping wine their singing muffled by high winds,
The worst storm that many could recall elders told stories of bigger storms tongue in cheek.

All night long snow fell in the morning villagers went outside to see the damage caused,
The sun shone with such brightness the blue sky and the carpets of snow hurt their eyes,
Icy snow was very deep and big white chunks of frozen snow stuck to bottoms of shoes,
A tall tree stood in the middle of the hamlet heavy lines of snow bent its tough boughs.

Stories circulating round firesides of travelers lost in great drifts on wild moorlands,
Wanderers that had perished, frozen in the deep snow all lost in the snow laden woods,
In the morning the snows stopped bringing sunny clear skies that shone like lapis lazuli,
The wind whistled blowing top snow into a fine spray leaving a surface frosty and hard.

There was a wonderful feeling walking along hedge-tops and across deep white valleys,
All now filled and level, the frozen mass crunching under heavy steps in snow boots,
Finding only the rivers showing themselves by their wintry hues amid trees and rocks,
Visitors from the north the red wings, thrushes and field-fares flew back to their homes.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Stranger 'in some' Strange Land

  I Wonder lost, 
tired and afraid; 
an epidemic
in reverse
unto it's self repeats again.

How was I raped? 
Was it from the act? 
Did I do it to myself? 

Did some one tell you to.
To keep the home.
To keep the land.
To keep the child.

Without blame to roam 
the land
consumed in flame 
your brain.

Before her birth, I thought
you had disposed of 
like the first.

I never saw.

I know 'I' Raised my voice.
I never struck out at you.
Pink pigs that fly 
off all alone.

Dipsomaniacs full cup
of sweet white pearls.

How were you to live 
the way you did.
With all your wine.


Here I sleep, 
while standing up
alone
alone and all afraid; 
I whom swam with sharks.
I whom fought off death
so many times before.

I have now lost all count.
Gone not any more.
No not now.

Does my,
little healthy daughter.
When you are drunk each night
again,
must she fear what you might
say to her each night.

I lay awake for her.

Did you not think out if any
or at all,
about her life you took.
When you took
my soul from her; 
Her virginity before
it had evolved.


Her life, 
My hopes
Her dreams
one day because of that.

I wonder lost untill that day, 
like spring, 
that never comes around.

a 'MOTHERS' day with out
May flowers.

Like a
Stranger 'in some' Strange Land, 
walking on crushed skulls
of they whom came before.

What should 'WE' do with those like you.
Whom waste the men and little girls.
On 'Evil' such as you. 

Is It Poetry 
 
 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

One For Love

Your sweet breath escapes you and engulfs my soul 
Through words spoken as though from some celestial being 
Warm emotion floods me, floods my very fibrous core 
Love I feel is not a mere four letter 

Word that reluctantly man takes for granted, but more a 
Monument to the jubilous fire you set my soul alight with 
Speak, I cannot, the true magnitude of shear bliss 
Endured by my mortal flesh. With the slightest brush 
Of your angelic fingers. None can know or fathom 
what true insurmountable beauty lies within 
green fields of yet discovered highland plains laden with 
flowers and sweet honey aroma blows within. Feeble 
in my attempts to profess my own meek emotions 
turmoil of my own past colliding with the yet to be. I destroy 
myself knowing such turmoil I cause in an entity 
none like yourself. Meager apology and material possessions 
offer no hint of emotion of love and remorse contained 
My, love, our love, will endure of that much I am sure. Open my mind 
My only wish, to show you things I need you to see. I have known 
No strength such as yours you take for granted. Times as this 
I've never known but with you only would I have it to spend. Forget 
Not the who I was, the who I am, and the who I will be. 
My love, our love will endure of that much I am sure 
 
Monotony & Mundane remain the same 
caught in this slippery pretty net 
we're all falling in and around our own whirlpools 
our upward spiral climbs too high - the higher up the further down 
Fly the same play the same one with the other 
floating always floating 
This sea we've created weaved in the merciless 
fabric of the time we all flock to certain death 
holding the hands of our clocks & wondering why 
our own bleed. double edged is the face of 
a sundial. With each shadow flicker anguish & 
joy death & life exist permanently & are lost forgotten 
by time held by life lost by eternity. 
Let's all rally hand in hand while the band 
plays on 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Fasana-e ishq

Wo byan kar gaya ek manzar aligar se
Har pal ko trasha or arz kiya apne yar se

Kya pata ye sila milta hai dil lagane ka
Pyar ki kashti ko utara tha bade pyar se

Jakaham jo banta hai wo dikhta nahi jism pe
Or abae chashme bhi rukta nahi abesaar se 
 
Aksar roshni se ek aas dikhti hai zindagi ki
Chiragein jalaei baitha hai us intezar se

Arzemand hai wo sabar rakhte hai nasaaz ke baad
Jeete hai wo hamesha akubat ke ashrar se

Qamar ki chandani rato me wo pal yaad aye to 
Dua karna ki shifa mile parwar digar se


Details | Prose Poetry | |

For Them

The beams of light shimmer as they fall onto the rocks
The grass bends to touch the memory of one long forgotten
Trees in the distance sing with the breeze as angels fly by
Whispering leaves pass over the field to make sure everything is all right
The silent moan of the lost voices is deafening to open ears
Decaying tears fall for the ache of longing for life only six feet away
Wives of servants and servants of men…Paid in full
In hollow darkness they lie with eternal smiles, though they will never feel the sun again
Blood spilt, bodies broken, sons lost, women widowed, they have achieved their goal
They sacrificed everything and lost it, only for the gain of the future, with no care of
compensation
They lie in sleep, void now of all pain. They rest in the endless ocean of white
Passing in their cars with thoughtless of whom they disrespect
A family comes to a stop and watches an elderly man stand with his hand to his brow
With no tears left to give, he grieves with a sigh that only his fallen men can hear.
The little girl of the man watching asks, "Daddy, why is he doing that?"
The man says with tears gently streaming down his face
"Sweetie, he's showing all the soldiers who are buried here respect."
"One way or another, you're a martyr…
In Arlington…”


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Fields Forever

Until the end, I fight 
I fight until the light is no more 
and the perilous night does begin 
& when my day is gone & future masked 
I climb my mountain with head hanging low 
Low for now, I killed and desecrated all held sacred 
Slain the last foe & as the day breaks again 
I gaze at fields of red fury 
Fury misunderstood all dead to understand 
Mountains ahead and behind, in this valley of 
Presence. Engulfed by injustice and punished 
In personal strife, I cry, 
not out but in I cry to hear 
inside, inside where I've tried to hide 
and defend on this field of red 
with no more to hide & more to 
hide from. I perch on this mountain I've made 
& expose myself to all, with none to tell 
I'm free, lost to live, lost to die 
Never to love, never to fly. Only wallow for 
It turns to night and shadows comfort me my friends 
Till the end 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Immortal Love

Time was not in my favour,
Things were already beyond control,
So much lost was I in dilemma,
I lost the feel of my existence.

Twist of fate brought us close,
Neither of our souls, realized coming close.

I had always heard that distance leads relationships to worse,
Not in my case cause, it brought us close.

Now I feel you are a part of my quintessence,
My love who makes me dream,
My soul who makes my life a wonderfully peaceful,
My core that makes me contented.

Never will I cease to adore you,
Never will I cease to kiss you,
You are I love I longed for,
You’ll all be my baby I could die for.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Love, Sea, and You

Love, sea, and you

Rescue me Rescue me 
Don’t let me seat here in despair
A lost fish in search of a sea
This pond is keeping me a prisoner
Each drop is a reason to leave 
There is a talk of leaving in my veins
I can’t stay here 
I am in love, in love like a passenger getting to her destination
I am filled with temptations of leaving, arriving, and seeing you
Rescue me, Rescue me 
Don’t let me be the lost fish 
Rescue me, Rescue me 
You and I must see tomorrow
This pond is too small for us
Our story is lost in the far away sea
Don’t forget this lonely fish is waiting for you
What happened to our love cottage in the sea?
It’s their turn to live in our love cottage
Don’t forget me, a lonely fish waiting
A lost fish in the sea
I want to belong to your stories 

Written by Fedra Yazdi
Copyright 2009
fybrune@gmail.com


Details | Prose Poetry | |

moments for blooming 6 - 10

6.	
I pierced the clouds with my fore-finger
And the blood-stain touches my body 
the wind which makes the doors and windows 
open to public view I can’t stare at its eyes
I push the storm towards the yellow-leaves

7. 
sometimes the river calls 
as if she will fly like the winged horse 
if she be let loosed 
where  does she keep the sadness of her placenta
there is no flower-vase 
the glass is good enough 	
though the lover glass has broken with the first kiss 
the grass with aromatic roots trembles in the breeze from the candid wings  
the orna flies tearing the caterpillar 
would you let your  salted water be wasted 

8. 
beside the comb there is hair
Is it soft green or the alkaline
How much relevant is that information
Rowing through which water the endemic comes
The afternoon-cloud giggled took permission and went home 
bringing an end to today’s play 
the unwashed plates after eating are placed on the basin 
the night-cigarette goes burning in the mouth of air
on the coughs and expectoration floats the lost mast  

9. 
the sands are shy to the extreme
They don’t loot anything 
The bricks have much intimacy with the wild creepers
All the komonduls and lances  turned backward
Now you may easily spread your wet cloth in the air
One roof would have dialogues with another in the lost afternoon
One window have eye-sharing with the another

10. 
there is the laugh 
100% natural
Beauty is written on the eyebrows 
that is also a game 
new cloths at the time of puja 
that is also an addiction 
a hidden bunglow 
under the tongue 
no information of death


Details | Prose Poetry | |

How Novel

"I don't think you're going to make it schweets."


He spoke simple words with profound declaration.

As if he could really see the heaviness of my loneliness and the way the weight of it

Was making fractures. Hair line to the naked eye, but when magnified

They were canyons. And another man's name still reverberates splashed Indian paint

Off the walls. Occasionally causing mudslides, but today, words were an earthquake.

And the avalanche they effected almost crushed me. Almost.

"Almost" is the one word story of my life with no pictures.

I'm an unpublished work of fiction with too many empty pages and a ripped spine.

Because my author never really wanted me. So I'll sit here eternally.

Gathering dust because eventually he might just touch me again.

Mayhaps he'll fill me with his words. Scratching the ivory pages of my skin

With his sharpened pen and I'll grin. Stupidly.

While I bleed out sentences of him forever.



"I don't think you're going to make it schweets."


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Sounds Of My Father

There are those of us who were not blessed with wonderful, or even good 
memories of their father
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Exhausted by another night of sleeplessness
Alone in his home 
Not by choice but by fate
His mind raced ahead
Like a freight train on speed
Dashing franticly 
Down a steep hill

Looking at the clock 
He remembered his father
From long ago 
And the anger he held inside
Especially the morning sounds

Yes... the sounds
There were sounds his father made 
As he prepared to begin his day

Sounds that came
From the bathroom, and shower

Sounds his father made
As he prepared himself 
To begin his workday

Sounds
That as a child 
He learned to fear

For it meant 
His father was awake
And his father 
Was an angry man

Now 
As the fatigued child
Almost sixty 
Tired from lost sleep 
And lost dreams 
Prepared himself for the workday

In the bathroom 
Where he stood
Years after his father
Had passed away
From his own lips
Came the sounds 
Of his father


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Mother Of Waters

Mother of Waters
you're peace and tranquility;
how I long to be as free.

Oh Mother of Waters,
mighty! untroubled, and true!
change me to be just like you.

You have given us life
then have taken it away...
seen battles lost and won
through the nights until the day.

But who can say
what controls your silence?
And who can say 
what commands your violence?

Sweet Mother of Waters
graceful, mystic, serene...
who can know what you have seen?

You have given us life
then have taken it away...
seen battles lost and won
through the nights until the day.

but who can say
what controls your silence?
And who can say
what commands your violence?

Dear Mother of Waters,
great mirror of the dusk and the dawning...
calming, soothing, everlasting...
how I long to be as free!

Change me to be just as thee.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

SixtySeven

SixtySeven



CharlaXFabels



The Mind Of GOD



LOVE
 He became angry, and when he refused to enter the house, his father came out 
and pleaded with him. 
He said to his father in reply, 'Look, all these years I served you and not once did I 
disobey your orders; yet you never gave me even a young goat to feast on with my 
friends. 
But when your son returns who swallowed up your property with prostitutes, for 
him you slaughter the fattened calf.' 
He said to him, 'My son, you are here with me always; everything I have is yours. 
But now we must celebrate and rejoice, because your brother was dead and has 
come to life again; he was lost and has been found.'" the certainty of days is lost 
in aggravations and in misdirected thinking abilities are missed in dreaming and 
wishing colors were not true the sky is always blue in some peoples world the 
clouds don't move in true reality the clouds fly screaming across the sky to take 
kisses from mye eye to deliver them all to ewe from the kissing place its true oh 
ewe there is many of them there still hanging from my lipps to kiss the lipps of 
ewe. The moral of the story don't get thy dandruff up until the wind blows. WAIT. 
Bulliten: This is just inn hot off the iron. Love lasts forever and yes it forgives so iff 
ewe aer just lately starting to hate me lets nip it now in the bud and snip all the 
hate away and please keep the love thorns are okay when the rose is on vine but 
when picked all the thorns do is cry. Add mee quickly back unto thy eye am 
pleading for mye heart seems to be gone when ewe linger in the ether and do 
not even come just try to find forgiveness in your heart for me today. The concrete 
where eye tried to spend the nite was stiff to muscles used to better beds the dirt 
eye finally found in a corner of the church was fine and warmer out of wind the 
sadness that eye feel is never hate but only love not found and wasted time. The 
anger comes from being left alone.
Eye would not change the way eye am eye would not want it any other way to love 
someone is to miss them when away. My time is spent in vain pursuits of 
happiness continuous searching for food and circuses the hour is almost upon 
the masses no more time to love. Please add me to your list of love as number 
one again mye friend and love the man that eye become is jealous of your love 
and time still searching for your heart and certain ewe aer there in mine and we 
aer both there inside the mind of god. LOVE.

 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Do You Ever Cry?

Do you ever cry? 
Are you ever afraid 
of feelings you've felt 
and decisions you've made? 

Do you feel alone 
and away from your soul? 
Do you fear love 
or is it your goal? 

Are you a man 
or a woman who hates? 
Do you wish for your death 
or rather your fate? 

Are you lost in yourself 
or lost in a crowd? 
Do you hang on each word 
that is spoken aloud? 

Are you young, are you old? 
Are you pleased with your life? 
Are you somebody's husband 
or somebody's wife? 

Are you happy or sad? 
Do you wish you could fly? 
Just one more question: 
DO YOU EVER CRY? 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Look To The Rock of Ages (Partial Version Part Two)

It is written,perversion can breed more perversion
nevertheless,lead the way, ya'll of the correct Conversion.
Watch, lest we become satan's catch of the day,
all because we followed the rest on their dark way
Light the path for a lost and wandering pilgrim, 
and ,could be, their misery, you may just dim
beaming as a strong pillar or as a tree planted by the sea
because of Jesus and because of thee
or as a  bridge over many troubled waters for those 
to pass to the good side because of your generosity
Saving them out of the fire,although being quite leary
 to even touch their tainted garments
because of Ya'lls Faith...
and beyond what ya'll see, hear, feel, or think
our journey's into Christ's realm ,where He is the link,
and that is why Serpent Venom , we ought not to drink
lest we become like them and we lose our power to think
then become spiritually dead, and produce a powerful stink
Let us not aim to build our houses upon the sand, but rather...
look to the Rock of Ages who came before us in this Land

In this topsey turvey world,
there can be many harms,
but why not use your Godly gifts,
to cure with some of your charms.
Satan is a sheep stealer,a con-wheeler and dealer
he wants you down, he wants your crown!
follow him and you will frown,follow him and you will drown.
23,000 souls were swallowed up by the earth,
when the Lord split it open,
for they had lost their faith 
and they needed some serious soapin'
Let us not aim to build our houses upon the sand, but rather...
look to the Rock of Ages who came before us in this Land

Copyright McCuen 2009


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Victorian Cemetary

Passing a cemetery gate I walked in I could see all the epitaphs chronicling deaths,
The dates were all times and seasons and there were little graves for little babies,
Daisies mark children's resting places their small hands used to make them into chains,
Other huge graves showed people struck down in the prime and evening of their lives.

As time passed the sun's last setting beams a smile on the mounds and shadows stretch,
The evening wind began to sigh among the branches of the many Yew trees very near by,
Death awaits all so we should try to understand that and look death calmly in the face,
His bony knuckles will be heard very loudly as they rattle our doors and beacon us away.

The grim reaper will be the forerunner of the next searching ordeal that is the judgment,
We look into our souls watching the compass of our lives to which way the needle trembles,
As the evening wore on I could see a lonely figure limping along jingling keys to lock up,
A tired old man in the December of his life waiting for a bony finger to show him the way.

Making my way to an inn I ordered a glass of port the gas mantles, dimmed into half light,
Thinking about my day an image of my lost brother came to mind and the pain still dug deep,
I could see him playing with toys in his room, dark shadows under his eyes still haunt me,
Maybe one day I will see the boney finger of my lost brother beaconing me to join him.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Yesterday And Today

Oh yesterday! I lost your innocence.
I used to sing and hold my head up high.
Today I am a prisoner of greed.
My wealth is restlessness and misery.
O yesterday! I was a singing bird
happily soaring free among the fields.
Today I am a slave to fickle wealth.
Conforming to mans’ strange and narrow laws.
The fields! The songs! My freedom! -Where are they?
The yesterdays are lost and gold can’t find.
Today my fields are bare; my songs are dumb
Enslaved within my palace walls-entombed!
Yesterday I was rich in happiness; 
Today I am poor in gold and alone.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Seventh day

The Seventh day
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The dark malevolence of my mistress on the first day
A place I left long ago is revisited upon me
In the eyes of flesh I accepted her sweetened kiss
With a longing hungry open mouth
From dusk till dawn a lover of no less than epic proportions
She’s good, yes oh so very good, in bed and beyond
Doing things to me men can only dream of
The wrongness feels right for nights and days
They soon became lost in each other
Taught the arts of pleasure by the carnal queen herself
No control for me I lost track of time
I need to rest lest I am lost, release was not granted
But finally taken from deep inside her on the seventh day
                


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Intangible Asset


INTANGIBLE ASSET – The Transcript

He learned very young rather vaguely very untidily and blissfully unaware. He thought the only reason to do something was to do it differently to establish its difference by his own existence. It sheltered him from the world, kept a certain distance from reality, a very private person, a mythical figure conducting the water, shaping its sound until it was a bit wet, the humidity absolutely a revelation, the sudden clarity and unaffected structure sounding like a machine, not human in this phenomenal performance.

Composing, he forgot where he was he was in a trance. He would go back into his trance easily, there to attain that distance from the world that requires a lot of work, a lot of work, and he would go back into his trance quiet secluded preparing new things reworking old ones. He had enormous control over himself, transcendent ecstatic power with immense enthusiasm, a fragile person himself, throw stones at him and he will break.

And did you love him? Yes. Too. 

The more he was used the more he was consigned to the netherworld, a particular kind of genius, a total identity in himself, a moonlight sonata. There was nothing to show changes, all the juice out of him, a peculiar thing to do if you want one word. Yes, the northern part of his being. The only alternative to peace was a mind crack-up, some room to think, a space to be in by himself. That other part that wasn’t evident was hidden. Anything pretentious made him ill, but the children loved it. 

He had scattered memories for a while; that was a bit of an issue. He was actually extremely cautious and careful in a very real way, so at peace, a weekend thing, a very straightforward triangle, dead, a force of evil, sort of a variable perspective, the unexpected fruit of that rather more democratic assemblage, and he woke in the morning to find that everything had changed.

A larger theme drew him to the project, a post-Freudian glance, buying the best, and he loved the sound in there. He was mesmerized and could not believe the technique was absolute perfection from beginning to end, a little bit strange, he thought of the kind he had never had before, a world he could control, an odd instrument. 

He could not operate as time went on. He did not function. The eccentricities became more important very intense and engaged for his sake as his paranoia became more evident a limitation he couldn’t accept. His personality began to change radically. Someone else began to emerge, but getting there was something else, gaining something and losing something at the same time, farewell a goodbye. It records his frustration.

What are the reasons for maintaining, for ending he could not easily surrender? It turned out that was the reason and he was very distraught. It was a very sad moment in his life eccentric life doesn’t have to make sense. The more he stared at his own body the more helpless he seemed to dismiss it as nature-boy stuff.

He didn’t actually go to the hospital, and felt very uncomfortable about that, but at least they weren’t all aimed at him, he was his own man. Sometimes they resolved themselves sometimes they didn’t emerge with the raccoons at twilight, take a little time and pull on this section, the most glamorous person he knew: joyful exuberance.

He messed up the words he’d gone too far this different man. There are certain things that become more beautiful. He saved for life a certain fulfillment from life. He was making it worse and he was calling after a big hole that suddenly opened in his chest. Definitely shocked he was not going to make it something was wrong. The king is dying and when it finished that was the end.

	goodbye	
	godbye