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Prose Poetry Metaphor Poems | Prose Poetry Poems About Metaphor

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

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Details | Prose Poetry | |

I Disappear

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

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

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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Blackbird

Trapped like a bird in this filthy cage 
Where I am starved of compassion and understanding 
Left to survive on meager crumbs 
Of affection and tolerance
Held captive and unable to fly and be free 
From the physical and emotional restrictions 
Placed upon me by my keeper
 
Who’s only reason for my presence it seems 
Is to stay its loneliness and insecurity 
To feed its selfish need for control 
Through its twisted concept 
Of love and adoration 
I am looked upon as a possession 
Other than the living, breathing individual 
That I long to be 

So now I sit upon my proverbial perch 
In my so called gilded cage
In the confines of my seemingly mundane existence 
And walk though my mind confused and alone
Aimlessly wandering through the now empty spaces 
That no longer hold the dreams or aspirations 
Which I once thought gave my life purpose 

Memories which were bright and alive 
Full of promise and hope but have faded away 
Into a past that is now grey and bleak 
Devoid of anything worth remembering 
My footfalls echo in the silence 
Giving testament that these memories 
Have been empty and forgotten long ago 

My only hopes now are that my keeper 
Will grow tired of my deliberate silence 
And obvious disdain and release me 
Whether through life or by death 
At this point either would be welcome 

How I long for the freedom 
And comfort of the clear blue sky 
The ability to soar like a bird 
High above the reaches 
Of those who only want to keep me 
And fly towards the bright and colorful horizon 
Where I know my future waits 
And new memories and dreams can be made.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Stiff Upper Lip

It was with immense fortitude that he endured the pain.
His back was arched and head rose as he strode down the thoroughfare.
No one need know what lurked behind his eyes. 
Although in all honesty he wanted someone to know what lay behind his eyes. 
He composed his mind determined to ride this one out,
“Ok…I’m fine…I’m fine…there’s nothing wrong” he kept saying as if it were a mantra.

A few minutes passed. Finally, the steely gaze was drawn across his face. 
His lip no longer quivered. 
His heart no longer tightened. 
For now, he was a detached dispassionate walking skeleton, nothing to call human here!
Even the sight of a mangled kitten wouldn’t render a response.

My manners are now controlling my passion; they are forever in my debt.
Like Wellington, I’m going to have to grin and bear it!   
Throw my deepest love into a raging, scorching inferno, as it will only get in the way of my duty!
I shall never succumb to societies miss giving’s. Never shall I spew forth my sensibilities to the stranger in the street. My convictions are too honest to cheapen that.

A friend, however, has the misfortune or privilege to walk among my thoughts. 
I know that we will walk hand in hand into Daedalus’ Labyrinth, a Minotaur at every corner. Never knowing if we shall return. Nonetheless we do it together.
Judgement is never passed. A grimace expression will never rise from your face.

Only in your presence can I remove the mask. 
Only in your presence can I let my lip tremble.
Only in your presence can I let my heart feel the despair. 
…

Be that as it may, once I leave the comforts of your abode I shall once again display the stiff upper lip. 


By Michael Mearns




Copyright ©Michael Mearns


Details | Prose Poetry | |

POETIC JUSTICE --VIRTUE OVER VICE

“POETIC JUSTICE” (VIRTUE OVER VICE)

Virtue over vice—who will pay the price
Ironic twists of fate are flawed if virtue does not equal reward
Logic needs to triumph—to beat and defeat
The tragedy of treachery that strives to cheat and repeat

Try to see outside myself and understand the eyes
To analyze, theorize, recognize and polarize
Excuse all the highs that terrorize
Unacknowledged trauma’s are like wounds that never heal
Never feel—on a constant wheel—a terrible price to pay for sin
Until at last the outside matches the justice
History written on the body—a canvas of poetry
In the end, reality, the price to pay would be too great
Too much at stake 
Comfort zones obliterated, confusion reiterated
What then… the end?

Life seems slow to reach conclusion
To wait, turn back, to stop or go
To fly or dive when there is no restraint or self control

 Deceit makes it hard to separate the self
Seeking truth above the easy way out
To shout, express doubt, to dropout--- burnout


Justice is tested through another’s eyes
Disguising their own lies as they spy and deny
The poetry of playing the same game
Camouflaged by another name—to shame blame and disclaim

Does virtue win the day?
Or vice have its say and inevitably stay
Does it triumph and receive reward?
Or is logic a masquerading fraud 

The poetry in justice must ultimately distrust and adjust this
Lift the darkness
Make it painless, nameless and stainless
The punishment… its sword






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 | |

A Super Man

The rise and fall of a broken soul; the pressure was too much to bear
The letter S was too brave to wear. He was a symbol, a pure form of admiration. Yet his life was 
not his own; full grown; denied the freedom of one’s true life journey
He could never fathom an opportunity of free will for he lived to will free others who hide in his 
silhouette
The darkest shadow brought an abundance of light to the needy. And greedy.
An unadorned model of self-less love dug him an early grave being a slave to aiding. Although 
help was never offered to a man that had a sense of direction. Every step forward followed 
echoing steps behind.
His feet became a carrier. The load was heavy
Regret was constant. Where was kryptonite when he needed it?


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The hand named Love

There is a hand out there
and it is named Love;
don't be alarmed,
for she is a lovely hand and she smiles at you,
yet I can't find her to save my life.
If you find that hand called love,
please could someone shake it for me,
yes- please shake it for me.

.2.10.2014.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A bed of Ashes

I found myself needing something more than a tender curve of dimly lit flesh.
I needed a woman's fire that could stoke my soul into a living rage.
I needed a courageous lioness to teethe my muse and let the pain
in my brain bleed unto the Earthy canvas before me.
The salt of my skin wept unto her, and she made it steam.
She was a cleansing fury that damned the man I once was.
She tore me apart so that I could become something new.
Sometimes there is beauty in destruction,
sometimes forgiveness is born out of pain.
She let it rain inside of me when she left,
and I found myself in a bed of ashes.
A new man.
 
-James Kelley 2013, All rights reserved.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Be a bird

Be a bird…
Keep flying!
Do not worry about losing your wings…
Before it could happen!
Keep in your mind,
If you loose your wings by accident,
You still have your legs to walk on the earth.
And remember, many birds which have wings,
Are unable to fly!
Wings do not determine your speed in life…
But your willpower does!
Always have the urge to fly high…
And enjoy the spirit of your freedom!
Be a Bird…
Keep flying!

Roja Meeran.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Blood on the Mirror

You prod at the sores of your heart
with a hemorrhaging pen, wishing it was 
a scalpel; so you could carve 
out the disease that keeps 
your rage alive. 
Basic instinct, I suppose.
To slay the demons,
that made you who you are. 
You thank them for your posture,
but scold the obsidian eyes in the 
mirror. What you have become:
Callous, and engulfed in the 
rotting theater you thought 
you controlled. The reigns 
have broken loose, your 
skull whips in the wind of 
chaos. It’s not really your 
sort of dance, you know…
                                      You don’t know the steps
              …you don’t even know the song. 
It drums against your flesh
as if you were already stripped 
and tanned, spread across 
the hallowed instruments 
                             of reckoning.
But you can’t hear the chant,
only the distant hum of the
butcher who said you could
call him “friend”.
That you were safe,
if only you would show him
what you promised you would
never show anyone.
It drips,
            thick,
                      coagulated,
                                           dirty.
Just like every part of you,
you wish you could burn;
As you dig the covenant,
into the flesh of your enemy;
                                          Your only true, enemy. 
The mirror cracks…
-James Kelley 2014, All rights reserved.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Forgotten Clothes and Stolen Whiskey

She left me cold, like a forgotten sweater.

Walked right out the door, without even checking the weather.

Now I’m crumpled up by the fireplace, frayed by the rough

edges of ashen bricks that smell of burnt flowers and sun tan lotion:

That stuff she always seemed to smell like, even in the harsh depths of winter. 

But coconut oil and rose petals aren’t enough to regulate body temperature;

So, I guess it was the whiskey that kept her flush that night,

because in the heart pocket of my jacket that she stole  

was a flask of absolution.

Each block she rounded, she doused her frigid organs with

another shot to warm the notion of shattering the path we built.

Fueling a new engine, to carry her blur past the life we once thought

was forged by two souls meant to keep each other warm.

But now this existence is kindled by abandoned perrineals 

and bloodshot revelation. 

I watch fire kissed petals curl up into themselves and gasp

for love’s last embrace until there’s nothing left for the 

fire to feed upon. 

It’s 3 A.M. 

The smoke is beginning to dissipate;

her throat is dry, her legs are tired. 

…We’re both so tired. 

I pull her sweater from the bricks,

feel the wool tear and clench my ribs. 

Gasp. 

I fold her warmth gently as if tending

to a wounded animal and tuck it

beneath my skull; hoping for dreams 

of summer nights, but sleep won’t come.

It left with her. 

She has reached her apartment.

Staggering toward the door, 

she thrusts shaking hands into

my jacket in search of keys.

The flask falls onto the concrete,

the last drops spill out. 

There is nothing left.

The door opens, and she falls to the bed,

cold in the leather too uncomfortable to return. 

-James Kelley 2014, All rights reserved


Details | Prose Poetry | |

dry your tears

dry your tears
death has gone
and I am here,
no fear my love
no fear my dear

no fear for love is a monster
with flowers for hair
and a warm heart with a sore thumb,
no fear my dear, for love will not eat you-
but in turn will make you smile and laugh
-with a joke or two-
(about a fool in love)
and love shall sing you a song
and lead you to me
so my love don't cry
dry your tears
for I am here now,
no fear my love...
...no fear my dear...

.1.6.2014.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Lizard

	Years ago 
	I met an 
	assured, 
	self-sufficient, 
	powerful, 
	oddly friendly man 
	that frightened me. 
	I put away my ill-gut-feelings 
	and believed he was
 	what he said he was. 
	We did an odd dance around, 
	we did, 
	a come-here/go-away sashay. 
	As time passed 
	as often happens 
	I learned that he 
	was not what he seemed, 
	for in his belligerent-breath’d mouth 
	hid a tongue riddled 
	with deceit and conceit. 
	Ultimately his boomer voice 
	revealed a blue and orange lizard 
	sunning on sandstone rocks, 
	a bow tie at its scaly neck, 
	expensive shoes on its four feet, 
	dis-ease in its bite, 
	fame and ego driving the discourse, 
	leaving bloody disasters in its wake, 
	adding pleasure to the feeding 
	before passing on to other victims 
	- including me. 
	I survived by hiding among the dead, 
	pulling myself through the slippery 
	in the moon night, 
	hiding in obscure places 
	until I escaped.

	What did I learn? 
	Never trust lizards that wear bowties. 



        © Jack Jordan, 2013


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Living in Bubble Houses

Living in bubble houses
as opposed to glass ones?
Which one is worse?

Perhaps it is the concept 
prior to the latter that would 
expose your dignity, self-esteem,
and self-respect.

So what could happen
by the bubble house affect?
All it takes is a thumb-nail
to pop the bubble and then
you are fully exposed!

In a glass house, people
can still throw stones to expose
you but they are required
to work much harder!

So, one more question,
glass or bubbles?
I choose prior to the latter!

c2013 Julie Rasley


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Rising Son

                                      Son of the Sea Trilogy Part 2 (copyright 1989)
                                      by:Allen Hacket
                            

                                      The Rising Son 
                                      Dedicated to: The Slauson Village


On a hot summers night lovers lay along the beachfront
Caressing each other so gently as the amber coals in the sandpits slowly melt away
The waves rise and tumult with such majestic force and beauty splashing against the shoreline relentlessly
Infinite as time itself and ever constant.
The pulsation of the conga drum permeates every pebble and grain of sand on the beach
The tinkle and the rat-a-tat-tat of empty bottles and discarded tin cans are transformed into precise percussion instruments
The melodic shrills of the magic flute weave it's translucent web encompassing the gritty growls and riffs that emanate from the golden mouth of the improvisational sounding sax

The dance has begun...slender black bodies glisten in the soft moonlight...jerking and gyrating in perfect rhythm to the beat of the drum
The sweet aroma of herbs fills the night air and wine flows freely
Emotions are high and love abounds
The music reaches a crescendo and comes to a gradual halt
A long awaited sigh of relief can be heard then solitude follows...
Dawn ushers in the distant light 
Destined to radiate its warmth and shine in the new day of the rising son.


Check out our library of e-books @ amazon.com in the kindle store, or visit:www.booktango.com
authors website:apluszips.com
 
Thanks


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 | |

Everything Has Weight

A feather may not break any bones while on it's downward spiral,
but it will nonetheless find a resting place
Though you may think Styrofoam isn't much of anything
if a whole house made out of it you still couldn't lift it
You may easily slice through the air thinking it's just the absence of everything else
and yet there's several megatons of the stuff in our atmosphere alone
Everything has weight
Even light will bend it's straight and narrow path
when unfortunate enough to come across a black hole

So how in the world can you still believe
that you are weightless?


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Paint the Permanent

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

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

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

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

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

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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Hopeless

Every night she paints the sky a little darker,
blotting out stars that she’s given up on.
Burning balls of dust that her imagination can
no longer shoulder. Someone else can have
their light; Someone with a little hope left.
She’d rather draw in grey scale memories,
outline them in crimson. It’s a little more 
realistic that way; contemporary at least.
The few last glowing bits in the horizon
give all that is needed for the final strokes
of her legacy. 
A promise to herself,
                               A tribute to the fallen,
                                   A gift for those who are sure wander onto the    
                                    path that she found, so long ago.
 
"Maybe it will save them.
                                     Give them what they need to find their way.”
 
She lay her brush unto the stone before her,
and let the grass take the blood from her hands
before she reaches out.
One final star shines in her eyes,
the only one left to guide them home.
-James Kelley 2013, All rights reserved


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Nightlight

I just want to dream a little more,

before the sun dries up this stream of thought;

before my tongue begins to search for words

faded by the choke of night.

The sky screams in the hands of a harsh turn,

neither of us wants our darkness unveiled.

Yet,

I wish the light would swallow me up as well.

Instead,

the broken slumber of day creeps into my bed,

and shakes my tomb.

I watch it stumble through the blinds,

sloshing, lazily polished, and promising.

Like it always does. 

And I try my damnedest to pull my eyes away

from the hope that is stitched to my shadow,

but no matter how hard I writhe in this place,

I cannot escape the artificiality of this world

 that I can’t seem to wake up from. 

-James Kelley 2014, All rights reserved.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Love Has No Reply

Love has no reply-it just waits- 
love has no reply - it just prays- 
Love understands- as it hopes 
that rage will be quelled- 
  
That the core of your heart will 
be overwhelmed- 
and overruled-Disenchantments 
of the venial mind-are allowable 
If you never intend to exhale- 
then inhalation is inevitable. 
  
Demons seek company - 
Presenting illusions to keep misery 
side tract' in sorrowful elegies 
  
The cardinal mentation-will automatically 
tick when you tock -- 
Tock when you tick- 
You came here with no instructions-- 
Love requires no action 
Does not have to reply 
  
No matter the jargon 
the meaning of "no"is the same. 
Whether you wax or wane
with wagers parlayed 
invest in the" WAIT" like the yellow light 
"Spread your bet-green light- keep moving 
Not always smart- to bet on a sure thing- 
red light stop wait -think about 
what you're thinking of doing- 
win win situation 
. 
Prior truth is not necessary for 
what is "yet to be believed" 
Permanent solutions 
should never be applied to A   
temporary condition. 
  
The efficacious-ness of the syringe as a method in 
seeking answers to concepts --is horribly ineffective.   
Love has no reply--- No outside stimuli - 
No dos or don't s ... from the I ... 
Strictly and inside Job


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Her Window

I’m the shadow behind your imperious stance,
Lurking in the qualms of your history.
I am the murky gleam in your squinting
                                                       …mascara caked eyes.
I am misfortune lain artfully at the floor of your 
800 thread count nest of regret.
Can you feel me?
Do your feet shudder at the touch of the cold in the morning?
That hardwood was a bad choice
                                                              ….wasn’t it?
Yet, as the dew of the dawn melds with the sweaty condensation
Of the night before and turns your window into an opaque sheen of
Comfortable security; you feel entitled enough to call me again.
            …..And your conscience throbs in unison with my ringtone.
Your stammering excuses plummet and miss their mark
Before a well-rehearsed alibi can be properly injected
Into my all too vulnerable system.
A taste like bitter wine prowls unto my heart’s palate;
And my surrogate body wakes to taste the salt of your embrace.
Your voice creaks.
My hand wraps tight around the sound of your
Insidious modulation;
While cell phone towers crackle in apparent empathy
To the strained atmosphere.
 I am left wielding a torpid tongue.
Inferences and implications are scattered and entwined;
My body tries to correlate an action
                                                                ….but I’m stoned.
Too confused to be logical.
                                                     …Too overwhelmed to even move.
Drowning in bloody promises,
with a noose of heartbreak around my neck.
 And as he reaches for what once was my heaven;
I hear a yawn of contentment that almost echoes
.
You lean to your window,
And wipe away droplets of our past;
And I force myself to inhale clarity.
"Goodbye."
-James Kelley 2011 ©


Details | Prose Poetry | |

the hearts are played

The hearts are played,
and the cards have been dealt;
the pot has risen to gambler's recognition,
and then when nothing is left to put in the pot
the gamblers throw in their hearts.

Yes the Queen of Hearts knows how to dance,
and sing songs to those lonely men with nothing to lose
but their lives that are already wasted away by
the carnal passions of life and sin.
She takes them by the hand and comforts them;
now she has her way with them.

The hearts are played
and the games are gained
the stakes run high,
till we break and fold,
yes we gamble away our love
to the Queen of Hearts
and not only do we lose our hand,
but our hearts we lose as well-

The hearts are played,
and the games are gained,
she comes to me and says, "Oh love me once again,"
and I turn and walk away,
for she had gambled away our love for too long,
and the players have their way with her.

.1.13.2014.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

I used to know her

I used to know her,
but now not any more,
for she had left me for the gold and jewels.
I stay alone,
and she with everyone else,
People you may know,
I don't know her.

She used to be a friend,
but now not even a foe.
She was the queen of my heart,
but now not anymore.
Love was with her,
my heart devoted to her,
Beauty and all was with her;
now no more,
people you may know,
now not anymore.

You see,
that girl was my friend,
till one night that all changed.
She a good friend,
a date to the ball,
she sat on my lap,
and never did I steel a kiss from her-
for I was a gentleman,
now not anymore.

She went here,
I went there,
now we separated,
under one moon,
and one sun,
it used to be fun,
to see her smile,
to hear her laugh,
now not anymore.

For my heart cries,
and my soul shivers,
time shall surpass,
now not anymore.
I hold to the past too tight,
she walks too light,
stumps on hearts,
and cares not who she hurts,
I gaze at the photos
and I cry,
now not anymore.

I used to know her,
that sweet girl,
with that sweet voice;
her long black hair,
those wide brown eyes,
now not anymore.

She walks with friends,
both left and right,
she is center of attention,
boys gauche and drool
and I stay away,
now not anymore.

I used to know her,
tall and proud she was,
never to be like "one of them"
now not anymore.

At a party she smiles,
then she stops and her mind goes back to the ball room,
dancing in a pink dress,
on marble floor,
for one night treated like royalty,
and for one night she truly smiled,
now not anymore.

For the feelings for her were there,
but feelings for him were not,
as she young and naïve,
and I older and mature,
victimized I fell, heartbroken,
for I thought for a moment I knew her,
now not anymore.

I used to know her,
but now she is just a picture,
laying in the back of my mind,
she collects dust-
and sometimes she sits there...
(and she cries)

.2.18.2014.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Ode to the Writer

Play you noted Lyricists! Let not your lyrics be missed! Your silence is the frequency, Enticed by a laced melody Condemned in a rhythmic spell Only time will really tell Your lyrical harmony Etched in life's symphony Oh Hail! Or Hale! Kings of speech! May your words reign or rain on minds in preach Let knowledge rule as you teach You are to blame for the popular fiction And the lost hip hop depiction Your vowel movement is the mission As they are tuning to wrong station So arise oh sons of scribes! Let not fame be your weakening bribes The mystery is your story is still empty but the words to be written are plenty I plant thy in the soil of possibility, growing history in eternity Let the acclaimed awaiting your spark, put page to flame, Illuminating the shame where fiction is no longer fame Arise masters of word! The creators of a new world. Your potency is cryptic avalanche in dormant To awaken minds with your content With an earth shattering rumble you move earth with your stumble Tripping all over your-self to cause a rampage and turn a page marked in history That leads to the bread crumbs of destiny, displaying your self-mastery Oh again rise blood line of prophets! Be not sold out by profits. Your words intertwine the future with the past As ignorance over knowledge shall never be surpassed So your prophecies can be for the youth’s benefits And lost in the realm of the elder’s forfeit While bleeding your ink work, flooding the stage Flowing ears steadily from age to age I say rage warrior of the Pens! This is the age of ignorance ends. As wielders of the pen die by the pen are heard Gutting and stabbing the paper in furry blurred Let those pens bleed till society flood Cleansing it with its righteous blood To awakened other giants from their slumber Killing silence's winter into summer Where ignorance is not left to its own devise Only your golden silence should be an adequate price


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Fire and Merlot

I remember the honeyed words,
and the
               ...anticipation
 of the touch that rendered time irrelevant.
I hear laughter in the next room;
astounded at the drunk and the blind.
it’s all so fleeting; we turn to dust in a heartbeat
                                                    ...fading
I speak in logic and move inside of thunder.
 as my skin is peeled away,
as shadowed eyes follow me,
and I feel fingers reaching from the grave,
 the familiarity of your nails scratching
down my back and ancient melodies we shared
that reflect our persistent missteps;
 the ones that buried me alive.
 
I remember the creaky floors that
carried you to our bed,
The crimson sheets where we danced;
We found harmony in this place
As the world stoked it’s flame around us.
 
I can still hear the echoes,
Distant and smoldering.
 
“My love was born in your eyes,
                   Don’t you ever look away.”
 
Your face hides in the mirror,
Lost inside my own empty stare.
 
You promised me forever.
But beneath this broken glass,
I can hear it all shatter.
 
 
Can you remember how you asked me
 if we could turn back time?
The ash that we laid to waste
 between your chains
and my misgivings set ablaze
in our lovemaking
Now time is timeless for you
 and I feel you, erotic in your ghosting touches
I still claw to hold on to this life
You're essence caresses and taunts me
your touch is warm, from the other side
 ...of this veil
Our hands release from their dance,
as your dead, coarse skin withers and dries
...no hope for a final embrace
 
But I can still taste your merlot stained lips;
The way they brushed against mine.
I can still feel your pulse rushing to meet
My own.
 
Your voice, and it’s promises.
 
“This world can burn us down,
                          But our ashes will be spread together.”
 
 
 
-Katherine Wyatt and James Kelley 2013, All rights reserved.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Transformation

Life escapes me; 
Moving beyond my control;
My heart broken
     in a million tiny pieces;
The wounds are deep;
Evading every part of me …

But, Love begins a healing process
Deep within my cocoon
Gently soothing, healing deeply
     in the painful places …
Will I trust?


Details | Prose Poetry | |

When Love comes smiling

When Love comes smiling,
with orange wing-tip butterflies
and red red roses for curls,
she will come and lay her sweet hand
gently on my face, as my heart warms
the glaciers of my soul,
as my feet turn to angel's wings 
and I fly with Love.

Oh Love is grand,
and oh Love is kind;
she smiles at me,
with orange wing-tip butterflies
and red red roses for curls,
oh her beauty it restrains me from reality;
oh my dear Love come to me,
show me,
love me,
oh my Love comes smiling,
with the sun on her side
and the moon at her feet,
with orange wing-tip butterflies fluttering away;
she will smile and lay her gentle hand on me
and sing me a song,
oh yes my dear Love;
I shall sing to you as well a song of good hope
and charm.

.2.18.2014.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Love see me

Love I know you can see me,
you can see the heart I have
and how big it is;

Love I know you can see me,
you can hear me,
and you can find the sorrow,
which is deep in my heart;
so why can't you find me?
Why can't you fly your way
through the twilight skies
and warm me up on a cold winter night
with a loving kiss and a warm embrace?
Why can't you find me?
But at least I know you see me,
and I'd like to think that one day,
on a spring day in May
you shall find your way and tell me
what was meant to be heard.

.2.10.2014.


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 | |

there is a place,

there is a place,
where no fool is allowed
(-is it heaven or is it hell-)
no one knows and no one cares
for they all treat each other like fools
and pay no mind to such insolence as them
for they sing songs of fools
and they don't care where they go in the end.

.12.28.2013.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Backwash

I closed my mouth around the words,

felt my skeletons wash up against

the shore of a silver tongue;

Driftwood,

laying still on the bank,

charred and cracking open

inside the swallow of shameful 

Determination.

“I never wanted it to be like this,

             never thought it would go

                                         …this far" 

I watched your finger list its way 

around an empty highball glass,

its fragility reminding us both of 

the damage of throwing stones

in a house ready to shatter. 

I couldn’t look you in the eyes. 

              Couldn’t let you see

the poison forcing its way out. 

No matter, how badly I needed 

to feel anchored.

I was better off;

left to drown,

than to pull you under

the waves birthed by 

my lack of transparency. 

"I never wanted it to be like this, 

            never wanted to bring you down.” 

I couldn’t look you in the eyes;

 as the light shined through

the gleaming vessel wrenched

in your palms,

I ordered another round,

Unable to stand the spectrum 

cast, the colors of truth,

with nothing to hide.

So, I finished my beer.

Tasted the backwash cast back,

from every selfish, thoughtless

draft, and forced it down. 

The amber tint of the bottle 

reflected nothing;

As volatile and opaque as

the soul clinging to it. 

"I have to go, 

                      I’m sorry.” 

I left the money on the bar,

hoping it was enough to sate 

our demons for the night. 

-James Kelley 2014, All rights reserved


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Streetlight

You were a child,
without the hindrance
of responsibility
or doubt of what tomorrow
would bring.
A beast on the kickball
field, and yet a whining
baby when the streetlights
went off. Always fighting
sleep like it was the
neighborhood bully. 
You were a clown,
dressed like your 
daddy. Trying to
make your mother 
laugh like he did.
You got better at 
it every day.
You were a gift,
at least that’s what
your mother said.
And now she sits 
outside, on the porch
looking out toward the
streetlight. Waiting for
it to go dark, knowing
you won’t be coming 
home.
But,
You’re already there,
shining down from
a streetlight in the 
sky. Waiting for when
it’s her turn to come 
home.
-James Kelley, All rights reserved.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Fire and the Warrior

Out of the fire,
Life grows.
The flames burn strong, 
Bold,
And sear my soul.
My heart grows faint,
Weary.
The pain,
The intolerable pain,
Burning.

Yea, though I walk through the valley
Of the shadow of death,
I will fear no evil;
I will fear no evil in the flames,
Searing,
Searching,
To cleanse my soul;
To release the Light
In the dark night
of my soul.

In the fire,
Love brings forth life
Out of pain;
Darkness exposed;
Evil released;
My heart cleansed
Set free;
Life grows.

Shall I endure
For lessons to be learned
And freedom to obtain?
Shall I wait upon the Lord
To be set free?
Will I persevere?

The Warrior rises up;
To fight;
To endure;
For victory is sought.
Out of fire
New life grows.

The journey long
And narrow is the way.
The day becomes night
My heart weary
Loses might;
Becoming faint;
Despair.

The Warrior,
Champion of my soul
Rises up,
To fight,
To endure;
To persevere;
For victory to claim.
Out of the fire
New life grows
Giving rise to hope.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Souvenir

Every night, we take the moon home. 
Split it in half,
and tuck it away beneath our ribs
for safe keeping. I always wince,
because of bruises that never 
heal but her smile kills that pain,
and when we get home
we get to dance under the same
light that led us to each other,
fashioning our love to the 
ceiling above, so it’s shine
can light the only world that
matters to us anymore. 
When we get home,
the rest goes dark,
and Earth’s rotation
adapts, forced to synchronize
with the steps of our feet
across the only real living room.
She says she’ll give it back 
when I decide the pain is
no longer worth walks in the
shade of rain.
t  e a s 
             ing   me with 
the zap of lightning’s charm.
But you see, 
this burdened cage of love’s misery
is a metronome’s swing to the 
beat of infinity. 
And so I press play on the 
heart of this, my favorite song
and once again, hold out my 
hand..and wait for her to
take my pain away.
-James Kelley 2014, All rights reserved.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

CONSTANT THOUGHTS


Constant thoughts:
The meditation, devising silent destruction
Delusions, anxiety highly distortion
Fundamental thoughts, 
Confusion of sorts out of proportion
The consequence of the after math 
This black messiah without emotion

Constant thoughts rumbling 
In my head like a wasp’s nest in chaos 
While external still internal mental mayhem in turmoil
Cracking thunders beyond human imagination 
Because the power of my concentration
Leaps threw boundaries of unheard discoveries
At a depth of no recovery 

This is a mental process 
As put hand on my chest and mind 
Teaching the mentally blind 
As they stay behind 
The constant thoughts


Details | Prose Poetry | |

For this instant of time

For this very instant of time
I held reality within my hand
I read the meaning beneath the eyes
And just began to understand

So many feelings are still mysterious
For this very instant of time
Yet motionless I know. I'm not alone
The boundary is crusty, still not define

In this humanity just passing through
Another branch in the tree line
For this very instant of time
I hope my clouds will live as blue

And when the heart of life will forever pause
I'll still remember love so kind
In position of prayer on knees I crash
For this very instant of time
From this very instant of time!


Details | Prose Poetry | |

be so kind to me

be so kind to me
for i was so kind to you
love me
as i loved you,
(...but you never loved me...
you never saw my love for you-

-for you were blind and still are-

my heart trembles and takes me out of this place-
yet nothing seems real without you...
never did i think i went on without you
(see me now with gold
  hear me roar like a lion- but surely pride shall die out...
and i shall walk along the gutter
with a weak mind set back on you and only you

only wish that you'd be so kind to me
for i was so kind to you
and love me
as i loved you

(but it is hard to love a rock
and its hard to water stone- and watch it bloom into a rose-
just be kind
and i shall smile another day
and keep away from the garden of the dead

.12.28.2013.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Immortal Snare

The clock stopped ticking,
my ears are ringing 
Tale, tale signs that something is wrong here 
Everything looks normal,  
nothing out of place 
Then I looked in the mantel mirror 
And seen that horrid face. 
Not the reflection of a man, 
or anything I've ever seen 
His eyes were so hypnotic 
They seemed to lock onto me. 
He only spoke two words 
but they were loud and clear 
They will haunt my soul all my days 
He looked at me and said “Just You”
with a blackened tooth grin               
He wants me as his princes 
His spoils of war so to speak 
To make me his blushing human bride 
And the queen of all lost souls 
This was way more than I could bear 
I tried to say no 
Each one bringing a crushing blow 
Rebuffing his every attempt 
each time his anger grew 
And my will was becoming spent. 
With my final exhausted breaths 
I begged NO let me go 
And he laughs and swore to kill all I love unless I stayed 
I gave myself over 
so that no one feels the pain of this immortal snare 
So to save all else I gave in 
I miss who I use to be 
once so happy and care free 
Now on fear and hatred is how I feed 
  
I gave myself over so that no one feels the pain of this immortal snare


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Quantum Traveler

I rode a cloud to kiss a star
and it embraced me with its love light.
The universal eye…smiled.

Echoing energy sang of brotherhood;
angels don’t have any restricted clubs.
One is all and all is one.

The atomic transporter
never charges for a ride.
Currency is a mortal failing.

Dancing across invisible strings; 
I hear the harmony of celestial song, 
as it, eternally resounds.

Quantum leaping through timeless black holes;
I met myself and sang a reunion duet.

Elemental celebrations, lend a soul wisdom;
timeless secrets reveal themselves,
to souls on quantum journeys.

Inside, eternity’s map,
read only by belief; 
shows the quantum interstates, leading home.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Crowded Buildings

I look across the tables filled with crowds of people and I see cliques, families, and couples. These are structures to me, under constant construction yet fully complete at the same time. There, stands pillars of popularity, supported by many butresses that cling on their every word. They are fastened together with nails of piercing laughter that could as easily be used to harm, but now are used to build up. These towers lack space for the smallest brick to be added, but are open enough to embrace another pillar of popularity equally as grand. I wouldn't fit in there. Near the monuments to 'fitting in', is a family. Facing each other, their backs create a wall that defend the home inside from outside intrusions. The eldest acts as a porticulus welcoming any brick of the same size and shape as the others but still screening out any foreign material from their inclusion. As they look toward each other, they believe that their bricks are all uniform and belong, but their wall is in fact spotted with misfit bricks and splatters of clashing paint. I wouldn't fit in there. By the window is a young couple, a pair of awkward and new pieces of lumber that don't match each other at all, yet they are cut to the same length. They are trying to glue themselves together and are under the false impression that the only way to do this is to leave absolutely no space between each other. The glue is fresh and the piece of lumber are not used to being adheased, but they are still fresh and plyable and they are intent on building their relationship. Given time, they too will become walls encircling homes with a heavy gate of their own. I wouldn't fit in there.

No one sits by me
I am better off alone
Here, by empty seats

It's okay. I'm alright, because from this vantage point I can observe. I see the groups and hear their conversations. I don't need to be a butress for one of the pilars of popularity. I don't need to be carved into the right shape for another wall. I don't need to impede the construction of a new building. I am content here, out of the way, surrounded by empty seats.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

After Valentines' Day

After the roses and heart-shaped boxes of candy chocolates
and glasses with broken promises litter the floor;
bottles of crisp champagne dripping in a corner,
as I lay on the hard wood floor, beneath a rug stained with lipstick
and rose peddles,
I laugh at the scene around me,
when I turn over no one next to me and the front door wide open,
what a waste of a day.

.2.15.2014.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

An angel cries for me

An angel cries for me (a broken heart-)
me a nobody,
who cries black ink
and uses lined paper for tissues
to wipe away my tears,

(a sweet angel- from above
cries for me (a broken heart-)
See now the tears drip from her blushing, red cheek
down and drowns me in a tidal wave of mixed emotions;
I feel that angel somewhere (not in heaven)
sharing my grief and dancing my sorrowful dance,
and she is crying for me (a broken heart-)

.2.17.2014.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Love's Call to Surrender

Love’s call to surrender within;
Heed Love’s voice to win
     healing in the end
     will not offend.
My blind eyes caution,
Sensing danger often;
Alerting vigilance to what lurks behind in darkness.
But Love’s call offers hardened hearts to soften 
     and set the captives free
     from what my blind eyes see.

My heart cries out
     with fear and doubt,
“Will Love save from poison darts
     aimed at this heart?”
“Will Love save? 
Remove barriers within
     to let Love in?”
The journey begins,
With faith as mustard seed,
When Love’s call I heed.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

She has no idea

She wrote it on his skin, 
and he hoped that
it would sink in.
It was just a phone number,
but he thought of it as coordinates,
that once he left the bar,
the darkness,
he would find something,
something worth leaving for.
He remembered the way she 
smiled as she wrote,
the way her nails carved into
his hate of that place;
That the fact that she was there,
made up for the dirty glasses
and watered down drinks,
the stale smoke,
and the crooked toothed lounge singer.
He got to his car,
and warmed up 
the heart of a new journey.
Lit a cigarette with the lighter
she left, before kissing the 
neck of his shadow,
whispering to the wounds
he was so used to drowning in.
As he exhaled the first puff,
he watched his tachometer 
steadily rise, red, angry 
revolutions, memories, 
nightmares...regret
swelled against the 
windshield, blurry. 
"She has no idea
                            what she is in for.." 
-James Kelley 2014, All rights reserved.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Leaking Peak and Self Reliance

Got to climb that solitude mountain where you can observe all things from the peak and can sleep while the hog brains speak & weep from the base of yr hill. sleet streets with grime and clementines rewind while the gears of time grind. The white peel reveals what you've been able to steal, just be careful to conceal your findings. Time can lock and unlock yr binds but remember it does both. Crypts will try and sell you flowers for Sabbath but cultivate yr own. Lick routine one good if he dares show his face around here, just to prove to yrself that yr fears aren't valid and yr eyes aren't pallid. Rabid are yr electrified eyes that align when they find that troublesome phantom you've been smelling in gray nights in bed. He's prettier than he smells at a distance in this instance.

                           Can smell him from the top of that mountain.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Tapestry of your Mind

I stitch seams of stories sewn in stains
tracing their timeline in turbulent tones
navigating the news now naked & exposed
on the doorstep of your mysterious mind

entranced engaged and entering earnestly
lead on lacy labyrinth’s of leading lines
absent and abstract artfully you engage
the collective webs of words we weave

the pattern of pictures performs patiently
retrieved restored read out unrestricted
excerpts and examples of everyone but you
cleverly casting cloaks keeping you uncaptured

soldiers of twine solidarity storylines
fashioned by fabrics of fictional fables
the mystery moments your mind mentors
clothed carpeted capturing clever closure


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Untitled 3

Murderer of my dreams,
how you suffocate them
like newborn babies,
claiming they were born wrong:
an inbuilt cancer,
an innate illness.

I can't help but sit beside
their little graves
and peek into
their open coffins,
entranced by their empty insides;
Marry me or bury me with them.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Two mandarin oranges were both very much in love,

Two mandarin oranges
were both very much in love,
and the rolled together down a hill,
to the ocean,
and the sun was swallowed by great waves,
and these little oranges( who came from a tree-)
Danced together on a sandy beach,
(somewhere-)
and they were in love,
till a little girl, named "Death"
came along and took one of the mandarin oranges,
and Death stole away with someone else's love
and piled her away and eat that orange up in one bite,
and the other orange lay there
Summer, fall, winter and spring came over and over,
till the one orange rotted away in a distant land (somewhere-)

.2.15.2014.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Oh my spring girl

Oh my spring girl, who walks in boots
made for the intended winter;
you who picks the first rose, which
bloom with the first month of spring.

Oh my darling spring girl, come in my
deep dreams and come into my weak arms,
as I see you in the flesh come to me in my heart,
with your brow painted with lilacs and roses
in my dreamland where we can be-
safe and sound;
come now my spring girl,
leave your winter boots at my door,
and come with me,
come now my spring girl-

.2.10.2014.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Dinosaur

Hide,
Scorched like gauze
Moving slowely and surefooted

A path no longer blazed yet
Bridges behind still burn

An opening,
A thousand eyes turn to stare
Fruitless in its search,
Faces no longer there

Disgruntled and aged
Grown shorter in its decline

The Dinosaur walks out of the 
forest,
Onto the edge of time.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Anthem of Resurrection

Her anthem was silently set on fire,
 the wounds on her back ,
where wings had once carried
the burden of hope aphotic,
as the bleeding had ceased to flow.
 
                 Time has a way of turning fresh
                               lacerations to scar tissue.
 
She carried the weight with the
Grace she was promised;
Sewing  agony into
Bitter flesh.
Dulling  the ache with prayers
To her father,
Hoping a fallen tongue could
Reach the heavens.
 
He had promised her a sacred quest
..yet found her flawed
 
His eyes blackened with his own
shadows , his own burdens,
 impressed themselves on her a stain
...that tore the downy softness from
her.  She walked alone,
and in solitude found rings of fire
wherever her feet touched down
         ... and the charred smell of
                       something once hallowed
her own delicate feathers, scattered ..
those torn from the soft skin of her back
               corrupt with his sins...were set ablaze
 
And as the fire sought cleansing,
             She sought the remedy of a martyr.
Accepting the pyre lain upon her back as a gift,
          She found the resolution to become the
             renewal of the world that she was sent
                           To protect.
                              In the ashes of her span,
                                   Lies the fertile seed of a resurrection.
 
-Katherine Wyatt and James Kelley 2013, All rights reserved.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Trapped in the maze of love

The young girls tour the countryside
with bosoms large and egos full of pride,
with noses stuck up in the thin air;
I see them all strutting down a dirt road
leading to a dead end;
as I stand lonely, trapped in the maze of love.
Lost I cannot find my way;
till I sit and listen to the songs of loving angels
they shine me a path of flowers and beauty,
as I follow, I'll soon be trapped no longer-
in that forbidden maze of love.

.2.14.2014.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Bar Scene

Cold hearts sway to timid tones.
We hum hard; hoping to rattle the 
grit out of our mouths.
Sand blasted teeth resonate youthful
denial, torturing revelation’s bargain.
No cheap tricks. No sunshine,
we’re all gone.
Too drunk on pain,
to find hope in the rainfall of liquor 
in this dusty scene.
Too many empty bottles chugging
on air; the last breaths of my generation.
A swirling vortex of broken condoms
and vomited promises dance in neon 
light behind the bar, threatening to dive
into the mouth of the next patron that 
calls to the bartender.
A violent eyed harlot with dollars
bursting out of her bra.
She serves death with a smile,
gyrating her hips to a beat
…that never dances.
She just throws ice into
our blood and glances at 
the tip jar..
Knowing we’ll pay our own
way to hell.
-James Kelley 2013, All rights reserved.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

NOMAD OF LOVE

I am a nomad of love…
Wandering through deserts of despair
Camping in oasis that fade away 
Hunting on land full of swift souls
And still I forge on.
I am a warrior of love…
Planning the best defense to protect 
My heart standing knee deep in false hope
Fighting for a prize I have yet to find
And still I solider on.
I am an artist of love…
Molding my burning desires into shapes
Writing a song that dares to be sung
Painting a picture only I can see
And still I dream on.
I am a believer of love…
Preaching on theories that have no validity
Teaching a vision of both folk and faith
Praying for something I know must be
And always I move on. 
Onward to the final destination.
That I know, that I feel, that I need
called love. 




Details | Prose Poetry | |

Axis Mundi

This axis mundi,  rotates,    
   within and outside the veils
I remember walking with you  
 and how we manifested anything we agreed upon
leaving us both slackjawed and yet     
                            not completely surprised...
you called me “My Heart”...because yours,
you said...  could no longer feel...
So I felt for both of us   
 
I met you on the other side of the veils    
 where we were once enjoined....  that is a crisp trip      
    to release..  ... a burning ache
You were thunder and I, feral...
but we are imprisoned   
 in time.......  and this is not our time
...yet I feel you always      
within the veil....
because there
  we are two hearts sharing one soul...
 
I remember speaking with your tongue,
Hearing your whisper within an echo
Of a voice that could shatter the sky
Of any other world;
The beauty of our resonance
Created stars as the ancients
Broke apart.
And their light swam into eyes
That told our story.
Over, and over again;
They channeled the percussion
Of a singular, and yet harmonic
Carapace.
While we danced behind the veil.
 
It was lifetimes,
one incarnation after another
before I found you..
the other half of Us... entwined   
 inextricably as One...
We are  heart cells in the depth of the Creator..
 
In the corridors of time
flesh is the individuation   
that has separated us.
 
Hard to believe
     we chose this...  
   and all we have forgotten..
yet I remember always..
that I am the design  upon the fingerprint
   that is our essence
and you are the flesh and bone of Us
 
 This separateness is the ache,
I can only find solace within you
 
  and so I accept the emptiness of your absence  
  only assuaged in the knowing
that this hunger will be quenched
on the other side of the veils...    
where there is no division
 
  On this side, within time and space...we walk alone..,
 
“But with the power of epoch’s eclipse,
This flesh will rot, and the boundaries
Between us will break apart;
      The stars in our eyes will meet again.”
 
       “Our song, will be forever sung.”
 
-Katherine Wyatt and James Kelley 2013, All rights reserved.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Mind Mapping

My heartbeat echoes a motionless metronome
With only an offshore wind to bring it back home
Inside my mind the weight of my thoughts drone
At once setting the mood the moment the tone

Tracing every wall branding every surface with marks
This is no longer the sheltered haven where my mind parks
I try recall what sent us out of orbit & led us astray
Dunno however this is no longer a place of innocent play

I search for tracks paths previous passages routes to take
The intricate webs stilts steps the uphill journey I make
All the while the library vault is empty overdue & archived
This all had happened long before by the time I had arrived

And all in the silence standing dizzy & still steadily spinning
I asked implored and prayed fervently to karma destiny & fate
To stop the cycle the story & take me right back to the beginning
At once right now hurry hasten & do this before it is to late


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Monster and Marlboros in the Rain

I awake beneath the sink of sky,
the patter of raindrops collapsing 
against the breezeway of acrid dreams.
The light of the refrigerator blinks
against torrid eyes, shining impetuously
on the last can of Taurine's gestation.
I grab hold of clarity's false promises,
and crack open a ripened sip of morning,
walk outside to light its poison. 
Cold and fluid; the taste of inclement 
happiness seeks the buds of my repose. 
Tempting my lips to kiss the heart of 
fearless and youthful posture, as I 
pop the cherry of relevance with
the ever throbbing hands of mortality. 
Bones shiver beneath tepid flesh,
as the Earth soaks its tears into
its own bosom,
waiting for my blood to finally 
follow suit and go home. 
Not today; Today I ponder
with nature. Today we spin 
the yarn of metaphysical 
riddles in valid unison
because I seek,
and it begs to be found. 
For now, we have an understanding.
I am the fragile burden of this world;
stardust molded into a wicked grin,
born not to become a supernova,
but to bleed slowly and suffer
so that....
Well, I haven't figured that 
part out yet...
For now, I'll just inhale this 
existence, one sun fall and rise at a time,
and hope I can remember 
what it means to live,
when I do finally,
go home. 
-James Kelley 2014, All rights reserved.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

~ (~) ~ If You Will ~ (~) ~ (Part #1 of 2) ~ (~) ~

~ (~) There was this poll, it stated would you rather be informed of your punctuation mistakes publicly or through private message with the helper of your punctuation mistakes or yes maybe even not... . (~) ~ ~ (~) My answer: (~) ~ ~ (~) Out of the choices I voted openly yes... . Here's why... ! (~) ~ ~ (~) How can I grow individually if I deny the help in doing so whether it offered openly or as I have found from time to time, a bit covertly, even furthermore or entirely IF YOU WILL... . (~) ~ ~ (~) Gives me as well if not just for the punctuation, or grammar, use of metaphor, any thing in regards to such. Such it is for me when I write, wish to learn and grow into being a being, writer EQUAL human child of God, that strives to be (H)onest, ((O))pen heart mind body, soul, to be growing ever more (((W)))illing-in these-strivings... . (~) ~ ~ (~) Great poll friend... . (~) ~ ~ (~) It Also helps me to offer the reasoning as to why the punctuation's or metaphor or grammar from time to time was so presented as it was in what the person commenting has offered with the said suggestions for me one themselves as they were presented... . (~) ~ ~ (~) Helping the reader FOR the next time to read if they so choose or if you will or might just stumble upon, through looking at the comments themselves. So they know as well the reasoning, denial, of the suggestion by the write and why, or the acceptance of it, or if you would consider even furthermore, both parties coming to an equal compromise PEACEFULLY BOTH GROWING TOGETHER... . (~) (~) ~Thereby it being open or not open as a suggestion, the way that it is handled by both parties can be viewed and everybody as well has the opportunity to grow furthermore if they so choose... . (~) ~ ~ (~) As I stated above I have no problem with receiving an offering, denial, no matter what it may be, it all teaches, in many ways myself, them or another if open to it... . (~) ~ ' ~ (~) Thank you for the poll friend... . (~) ~ ~ (~) http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T2NEU6Xf7lM (~) ~


Details | Prose Poetry | |

YOUR Signature Part 1 of 2


" YOUR  Signature  ... "

( Genesis 1: 1  /  Rev. 4: 11 )


YOUR  Signature ...
Scrolls On Each Wave of The Sea
As It Starts To Signal
With The Smallest, Written-Water-Ripple
YOUR Beautifully, Bold-Signed Name ...
Is In Each Crystal, Droplet Initial ...

YOUR  Signature ...
Reflects, Embossed Upon All Skies
Floating In Bright Cloud-Notes
and Brilliantly Arc'd Written-Rainbows
And In The Sun's Flourish-Omega-Flares
... YOUR  Radiant Calligraphy - - Glows ...

And YOUR  Signature ...
Has Atop Each Imprinted 'I' Or 'J' As Symbols
... A Capital, Comet-Dashed-Star
In The Consonant-Cosmos - - Rows & Rows
and In Each 'O' In Orbits & Global-Rings
...  YOUR  Silver-Lined, Signature Shows ...

YOUR  Signature ...
Is Written In Autumn Leaves and Winds
and Cyclone Summer Seasons
and The Softest, Articulate, Evening Breeze
and Inscribed In A Snowflake's Misty-Breath
& Each Author-Rised, Airful - -  We Breathe ...

YOUR  Signature ...
Is Written With Moonbeam-Pens
... Upon A Book of Life, It Is Plume-Penned ...
& YOUR  Pencil - Draws Golden, Treasure Maps
Upon All of Earth & World of Men
As Signed Images of  YOUR  Autographs ...

YOUR  Signature ...
Sometimes As A Title of Position & Authority
... Powerfully Appears ...
And YOUR  Signature Bears YOUR Glory-Fame
of GOD, LORD, Almighty, King, Father and  Love
All As: Character & Crests of  JEHOVAH's  Name ...

YOUR  Signature ...
Is On The Edges of Eons and Eternity
... It Cannot Be Erased
... Will Never Fade -- Nor Ever Brushed Over
When It Is Written - - It Is Written ...
and Authenticated - - As Owner ...

YOUR  Signature ...
Carved The Majestic Grand Canyon Gorge
... It Cannot Be Matched Nor Forged
YOUR  Signature Covers Now & What The Future Expects
It Is:  Its Own Distinct Style and Collateral Dialect
YOUR  Signature Signs All Wealth & Royalty's Checks ...

YOUR  Signature ...
... On Covenants; Contracts - - In or Outside Our Margins
... Is Written, Stamped and Sealed ...
Waxed In Vowels, In Cursive-Cure-Ink, That Bled
Signed On Dotted Lines of Horizons & Our Hopes ...
YOUR  Signature - - Is What We've Read ...

( Part One of Two)


       Written & Copyrighted © :  5/8/2014 
                    by:  MoonBee Canady



Details | Prose Poetry | |

Though love be a day

Though love be a day
and death be a flower,
we shall grow a garden so full of beautiful violets,
the only flower that stands,
when love is laid to rest for eternity;

Though love be a day
and death be a flower,
we shall continue to kiss,
till the gardens grow flowers blooming left and right
and a kiss shall be the only sweet thing for you;
though love be a day,
and death be an hour
not a minute goes by,
every second I never turn away from you
and kiss another.

Though love be a day
and death be a flower,
I shall pick those flowers for you,
when that day comes
when you are not with me anymore.

Shall I kiss your brow,
as you lay in peace and undisturbed beauty glories you?
There I shall pick a rose and place it on your bosom,
where I lay my weak head to rest every night
I spent with you,
and I kiss you- one last kiss-
and I whisper to you,
(though love be a day
     -and death be a flower,
       I shall grow a garden for you,
        and we shall kiss no longer)

.2.16.2014.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Queens with long velvet hair

Queens with long velvet hair
hear them scream in a twilight
as their hearts torn from their chests,
left to rot in a place that the Devil would never go near
and God looks down and nothing happens,
those once beautiful Queens with long velvet hair
lay prone in filth and dirtiness
of what love left for them.

.2.15.2014.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

YOUR Signature Part 2 of 2

" YOUR  Signature  ... "

( Genesis 1: 1  /  Rev. 4: 11 )


(Part 2 of 2)

YOUR  Signature ...
Signs On All Existence's Account Ledgers
... Is A Literary, Moniker-Masterpiece
A Singularly, Most Stentorious-Stenography
As A Monogram-Monument That Documents
& Slants To Grammar-Mercy's Typed Guarrantee
(Yet Stands Upright In Justice & Audit-Identity)

YOUR  Signature ...
Each Letter Is Love and Luminosity ...
A Stencil & Substance-Mark of Perfect Symmetry
and Punctuality With A Written-Resource-Resonance
A Sacred-Sequence of Letters Wrote In Such Serenity
Signed In Stone and On Souls and Of Sovereignty
YOUR  Signature - - Reigns So Superlatively

YOUR  Signature ...
Signs & Emblazons The Promises & Prophecy-Fixtures
and Heavenly Holy Scriptures
and Is The Greatest Designation In All of Literature
Throughout Space & Spirits & Strenuous Storms & Seas Divesture
Yes - - We See YOUR Masterstroke-Signature ...

We See YOUR  Signature ...
( Rom. 1: 20 )

       Written & Copyrighted © :  5/8/2014 
                    by:  MoonBee Canady


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Outcast

Outcast
~~~~~~~
I've finally figured out what I am and why I'm here
To use a metaphor I'm a punching bag
And everyone wants a shot
I know a thousand ways to kill
But I won't, it's wrong, just as it's wrong 
To take shots at others in any or all aspects
Were not god so follow the rules, or maybe not
But all in all one word describes me
Outcast