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Prose Poetry Miracle Poems | Prose Poetry Poems About Miracle

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

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Details | Prose Poetry | |

peace

“Peace” whispered a child. It was an arbitrary gust that carried the word to a 
young man who repeated it out loud in a very positive tone. “Peace” he said and 
the message caught the ear of a sprite old man.

Loudly he spoke into a fast moving breeze “Peace’ he declared and the air 
carried the communication miles dropping it into thousands of ears.

“Peace” roared the crowd and the word grew wings and flew into a hurricane 
that echoed in the ears of the masses.

Millions uttered “Peace” and in an irony of nature the moving wings of a tiny 
hummingbird sent the expression on a trip that encompassed the whole planet. 
The declaration fell on every ear and every person was sure their God had 
spoken to them.

Maybe he had because from that day on every human had the spirit of peace in 
the blood that flowed through their hearts. Peace was now the liquid that 
sustained them and with it they could explore the beauty that existed both 
within and outside of them.

“Love” whispered a child. 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

DAMAGED MY TRUE LOVE

written 17th Sept 2013



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




Details | Prose Poetry | |

WOULDNT IT BE NICE

WOULDN’T   IT   BE   NICE
 
You’re walking near the run-down end of downtown
And you see an old woman selling flowers, hand-picked, maybe worthless weeds, 
Or rejects from an uptown florist’s, or stolen from a park someplace;  
And she offers some to you and you ignore her as if she didn’t exist - and keep walking.
Naturally enough.

Then ten  paces later you realise it was your own mother
Who you  haven’t seen for twenty years.
So you double back incredulously cos  last time you saw her  she and dad
Were living retired in a small apartment in a nice district and all was ok.
Without a word you put an arm around her and whisk her into the seat of your car
And drive her to your own home, sit her down  and give her some coffee,
And help her put her feet up on the sofa:
Arm around her grubby coat shoulder,  you listen as she tells you how dad died
And the pension fund collapsed and then she ended up on the street selling
Third rate flowers to pay the rent on some tiny damp squat in the projects.
You tell her her days in that squat are over, and her flower slave-business is finished, 
And that she will from now on live with you and you will look after her;
And how you are so horrified about what has happened to her since you last saw her.

She sleeps that night on clean sheets In a warm dry bedroom, 
After a late night supper with you.
And her  life begins again.

Wouldn’t   it be nice?  It’s the way it should be....absolutely.
Trouble is, that old flower seller isn’t your mother.
And you keep walking.  Naturally enough.
Her own son is drunk somewhere, or living it up in Vegas.
She’s his mother, but she isn’t going to be miraculously found. 

Wouldn’t  it be nice if you were her son?
Yes,  absolutely it would be  nice.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

We Expand

When I was a kid, i believed that I would never stop growing. I measured myself, and knew that everything taller was a glimpse of the future. 
We would all be giants eventually. The tallest man that ever lived was named Robert Wadlow. He couldn't stop growing. On his first day of school, 
he was taller than his father. They say, that when he tripped on the playground his knees made twin craters from falling so far. By the time he was 10, the dirt in his home town was pot-marked like a second moon. 
Size always seems to matter most when we are falling. An ant dropped from an airplane will survive with no injuries, if an elephant slips 3 feet, 
it's legs will snap beneath it, and or us, it is those dreams that we remember most. The ones where the harness breaks. 
Where you step from the roof of a building without knowing why. When a plane rushes back toward the earth like a lost lover. We always wait just before impact, unsure of shattering or survival, 
and unable to accept our own size. 
Maybe this is why we hunt the large animals to extinction; To make ourselves seem greater. In the end, the victory of the atom bomb was not in the arms raised, but it's ability to topple all of the smallest creatures. We dream of surviving as mountains; of never having to look up again. 
We long for longer conquests. 
The ship vaster than the ocean. 
The fire dwarfing the fuel. We expand. We expand,. 
Weapons add more than just inches to your arm span. When you fire a gun, you can touch someone a thousand of feet away just think of all the giants our wars have already created. Cemeteries are like an infinity of white cross hairs. Mass graves that are just twisting of what we have always wanted; A mountain built from our bodies. We expand, we expand,. 
Our empires, stretching like red lips opening into the widest sssmile, and then swallowing the face whole. We build our largest statues for our war heroes, greater your conquest, the taller we will make you. We are taller than our fathers now. We cannot stop growing. Robert Wadlow did not want to be a legend. He wanted to train as a lawyer, but his hands were to large to 
write and type with. He died at age 22, half an inch short of 9 feet from an infection he never felt, because his nerves could not transmit signals that far. So stop trying to be statues. 
Walk. 
Feel the signals your feet send back to you and say "It is good to feel this close". It is good to live in our own bodies. Our bodies are whispers. Are bodies are matchsticks in the dark that light the small parts of us; The parts of us that can accomplish impossible things.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Nucleus

Poet: Ken Jordan
Poem:  Nucleus 
Edited by: Sparkle Jordan
written: June/2014


                       Your

                     N       T                 
                 E       •      E              
                     C      R
                
                       center

                          Is
                    the nucleus 

                          to
                        your              
                        being -           
                      
                          It's
                       the way
                   
                           to 
                         peace,

                         within
                          you -                          


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Helen Keller

 Helen Keller 
Helen Keller 
 
 
88 
 
CharlaXFabels 
 

 This is what eye remember about the MOVIE of course eye never knoe her. She 
was moving constantly moving at least the actress who was portraying her but to 
a boy it WAS her it seemed so heart wrenching a thing to just be blind there is a 
SCHOOL for THEM they do not function in the real world and there she was big 
as life the boy in my had that CRUSH upon her from the instant eye saw her it 
was strang puppy love. Winner of the 1960 Tony Award for Best Play, “The Miracle 
Worker” tells the incredible story of Helen Keller, a young woman trapped in a 
world of silence and darkness. Deaf, blind, and mute, with no way to 
communicate, she fought anyone who tried to help her with an intense, furious 
desperation. Then Annie Sullivan came. A strong, determined, half-blind woman 
fueled by her troubled past, she began the daunting struggle to reach Helen and 
bring her into the world at last. She was so pretty in an odd sort of way swaying to 
the tune of musick only she could see and hear the idea that she tried to 
overcome her handicap and live was so nice to this little undergod. YThis semi-
sequel to William Gibson's The Miracle Worker recounts the early adult years of 
the profoundly handicapped but brilliant Helen Keller. Helen, played by Mare 
Winningham, enters college, with her friend and mentor Annie Sullivan Macy 
(Blythe Danner) by her side. As Helen's international fame grows, she must 
withstand the pressures of those who'd treat her as a freak rather than a human 
being as well as Annie's near-strident demands that she excel at everything. The 
multi-faceted Ms. Keller lived too much of a life to be squeezed into a mere two-
hour running time; the script betrays the strain of trying to show us more than it's 
able by wrapping up everything in a hurried, unsatisfying conclusion. see part two 
ED.NOTE