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Prose Poetry Mother Poems | Prose Poetry Poems About Mother

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

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Details | Prose Poetry | |

Mother Teresa and I

Mother Teresa
She is the mother of every poor people, injured people, ordinary people...

Always we remember the great news
'Mother Teresa will get the Nobel Peace Prize.'
It was one of the best moment in our life...

She lived in our city Kolkata (Calcutta) .
She ate our Bengali foods.
She loved us so much...

One day, I was twelve years old
I met  her at Mother House along with my parents.
I looked at her heavenly eyes.
I touched her sacred feet and hands.
I heard her divine speeches.
I love her innocent smile.

I told her only the sentences, 
'You are the mother of the world, 
Mother of my parents.
So you are my grandmother.'

My father hesitated. My mother was silent.

Mother Teresa said to me with smile, 
'GOD BLESS YOU MY SON'

Today my eyes are full of tears
Mother, I miss you. 
I love you so much....


SANDIP GOSWAMI, INDIA



(Mother Teresa founded the Missionaries of Charity, a Roman Catholic religious congregation, which in 2012 consisted of over 4,500 sisters and is active in 133 countries. They run hospices and homes for people with HIV/AIDS, leprosy and tuberculosis; soup kitchens; dispensaries and mobile clinics; children's and family counselling programmes; orphanages; and schools. Members of the institute must adhere to the vows of chastity, poverty and obedience, and the fourth vow, to give "wholehearted free service to the poorest of the poor".

Mother Teresa was the recipient of numerous honours including the 1979 Nobel Peace Prize. In 2003, she was beatified as "Blessed Teresa of Calcutta". A second miracle credited to her intercession is required before she can be recognised as a saint by the Catholic Church.)


Details | Prose Poetry | |

I Sing Africa

All's not about Darfur I've seen it, eerie winds Moonlight through our thatch We kissed round, one *palmie gourd Kigali was but a miss Waist-beads - beats to love Have you heard the talk-drum, *Fela's horns of brass, Or the *Aladuras' joy of Alleluia? My grandmother still walks miles Just because her forbears did, And shame on malaria For the dearth of men Oh, on Mandela's earth Of Soyinka's nobel ideas Africa - a big breast, the good, the bad, the ugly. . . all, as sucklings! *palmie - palm wine *Fela - Celebrated afrobeat musician *Aladura - a popular african instituted christian sect noted for heavy prayers


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Urban Forest

  All I hear are sirens echoing off tall buildings; a drunk man ranting, a prostitute looking for her next trick, a drug addict looking for his next fix. Young teenage kids who seem to have just learned the art of curse. A young couple fist fighting in the streets---more sirens.  A homeless man pan-handling, picking up cigarette butts and smoking a hole into his neck, gum pushed deeper into concrete marked blacker with every step. All I hear are sirens and I say a little prayer for the person in the back. Trains and boats chiming in the distance, a stray cat limping into an unknown existence...must be nice to have nine lives! Yet, all I hear are sirens in this concrete urban forest, where trees are replaced with buildings and cars are the only waves I hear, street lights in place of the stars, sirens in place of the wind. 

   I close my paper eyelids tight, i can hear in this concrete urban forest of man-nature, for a glimpse, a stolen second in time, the sound of Mother Nature...she still sings and she's crying. She's crying for the people in the back of all those sirens. She cries for her bush the drunk man urinated on; the puddle of blood collecting on her blades of grass that a young man drew from his womans lips. She cries for her branch the teenage kids snapped for fun. She's crying - Mother Nature - is crying, because man - nature takes her place. In this concrete urban forest...all I hear are sirens and I close my paper eyes; i try to reach out and steal the tear off of - Mother Nature's - face. All I hear are sirens and im saddened, man-nature takes her place.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

My God on Earth: My Mother

A heart that cries more than me 
in my pain. 
Whose congenial and benign teachings 
make me sane. 
A warm touch that dispels from me 
the gales of worry. 
Whose proximity ensures me that I'm 
protected by her under furry. 
A helping hand that always hold me 
whenever I'm about to lose. 
& my first teacher who makes me to 
distinguish between donts' and dos'. 
A voice and nothing more, an Angel 
who is entirely mine just after my birth. 
And she is none other but 'My Mother', 
The God on Earth. 
  
Although to define her in words is 
beyond my skill. 
Nevertheless I can say that her pace in 
my life, none can fill. 
She is the one who needs not a single 
word of me to understand. 
In my devastation, she is always there 
to provide effusively her hand. 
In the weariness of my life, with her, 
I may lose to be in link. 
But she ever remembers me whenever I 
breathe or my eyes blink. 
I can say that in search of heaven, 
I needn't to go anywhere. 
I would like to put my head in my 
mother's lap, as its only there.. 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Your My Dear Friend

We have been together
treasured joy now for many years
we trust each other with our
emotions, with affection, tears,

Any day when you are sick or hurting
I feel your pain - significant other,
when eighter-one needs attention
we help one another...

These mutual friendly feelings
for assistance, approval, support
form our tight bonds,
usually never broken

Sharing visions, time together
we respect each other,
regardless of shortcomings
I know you, "I love you anyway"


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A PART OF SOMETHING

God created hands for building things. Sometimes before you build something, you must first destroy something else.

Wildfires are never supposed to be put out. Their sole purpose is to burn the entire forest to the ground, transform living things to fertilizer, making room and preparing the soil for new growth.
It is almost paradoxical, 
that there must be death before birth

My hands have stared the grim reaper’s reflection inside the pool of my best friends blood. An old student I used to tutor told me that I am the best brother she could have asked for
She said she will always love me
This was after I burned every bridge that traversed the gaps between us
Stared at her from across her desk
Told her that she will never be my sister. That our bloodlines will never match.
Our gene pools are just strangers that made the same wrong turn.
I spent so much time trying to find my way back that I never realized I was home in being lost I found something comfortable, without expectations. I only corrected myself after she spoke,
because I heard something familiar in her voice.
She sounded like family.

I have the scarred and wrinkled hands of a senior citizen
I’m only 22 years old
I once got my palm read
This gypsy woman told me that my lifeline should have been cut short when I hit 17.
That was a year ago.
What do gypsies know anyway
I have defied the odds my entire life.
Been broke down and built back up too many times to count
My fingernails chewed raw to the cuticle out of anxiety
I enjoy the taste of my own pain
Sometimes I use my own hands to destroy myself just to see who my real friends are who will build me back up when I can’t do it alone

My hands have a desire to learn how to cook, but I’m not that great.
So when I am alone,
I tend to be hungry, not just for food though.
I starve for someone to talk to
It never satiates, because it’s not you.
I know what it tastes like to completely give myself to someone.
My biggest fear is being abandoned.
When I look into your eyes, I am not afraid.
I need to cook you up a feast of myself, then feed it to you every day for the rest of our lives
Please tell me what I really taste like,
Be honest.

Years after my grandfather passed away, my grandmother moved into my aunt’s house.
Since I was 5, every time I speak to her she asks me:
“Spenser, did you thank God for waking you up today?”
I think to myself, I never did tell my eyes to open themselves. It just happened.
So I don’t know how to respond to her correctly.
I tell her that I love her, that I am writing a lot.
She tells me that she puts her hands together for me every night
Prays that I will get the job I want
I guess some prayers do get answered.
Sometimes two hands in the right position, matched with a conversation with God,
Can change things.
I even accidentally call that place home sometimes.

My dream is that my hands evolve into wolves, become part of a pack and work together with other hands to make a difference
Some days they will be the alpha male.
Full of confidence, at the head of the pack
Other days I need someone to show me the right way to go
Because if I’ve learned anything
It’s that I am not always right
I can not always be in control of everything
The only thing I have ever really wanted is to know
That my hands were truly
A part of something.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Seaside Memories

Modest swimsuits, bathing boxes
 White-blue flesh ice cold
Scratchy towels, sandy sandwiches
 Pots of tea being sold
Foxford blankets, picnic baskets – 
A donkey ride on the strand
Flowery summer frocks, mischief brimming 
 A practical joke being planned 

Hesitant breast strokes – high pitched laughter
 Terror, delight ‘the cold’! -
Sunburn, windburn, scalded skin – 
‘You’ll remember this when you are old’
 Your mother is calling ‘the picnic is ready’
 ‘I’ll be there in a minute’, you say.
As you dive down again under – 
The sea bed to plunder -
‘There is treasure down there, Mam’ you say!’

Landladies’ rules, pubs with high stools
‘– A large bottle, sir, if you please -
And may be a chaser?’ ‘You are a disgrace, sir -
The night will blow away with the breeze’.
A day at the races, smiles on mens’ faces,
Jingles in pockets, dinner in ‘Rocketts’ -
 A beer and a fag, a joke and a drag – 
‘This is grand, Sir!’
   
Which horse do you fancy – I think Mary Nancy
Called after his missus – and just as delicious
‘A winner for sure, sir
 And what are you bettin’?  Think of what you’ll be gettin’
When you win on the jackpot –
 It is certain, sir!’
 
Sea-side rock plastic,
 Coloured windmills fantastic
Naughty postcards to be hidden
 – Their content forbidden, 
By your mother – 

The day’s nearly over – 
You are tired – you’ll recover
For a night at the amusements – you have one and twopence
Clean clothes, polished shoes and a song.




Details | Prose Poetry | |

Mom

I love you with all my heart we will never be worlds apart

If by chance you went away

Please just trust in what i say

Your in my heart each and everyday

My love for you will always stay and it will never sway

Even if time stood still my love for you never will

You are my hero I must admit and that I will not forget

You held my hand when I was in pain and it was not in vein

I could not ask for more

Your the reason I was born...


Details | Prose Poetry | |

WORLD WITHOUT WOMEN www

Have you ever imagined the world we live without women?
It is like a lung without some oxygen, agonizing and inevitably dead,
A face never with a smile, boring and unfriendly.
A cup of tea without some grains of sugar, bitter and foul,
A pool without some water, dry and empty,
A good ride on a bad untilled road, rough and uninteresting,
The earth without some drops of rain, an inescapable famine,


But how come with the great number of women on planet earth?
We still live to cry as a reggae legend sang “no woman no cry”,
It is because they permit evil as much as they permit good,
Gullible and instrumental in the hand of the wicked ones,
Ugly and nice, beautiful and dangerous,
Cunning like serpents, deceitful like chameleon,
Holy but liars, having a form of godliness but highly ungodly,
Lovely like little puppies, sweet like bees honey,
Women, an invincible force in our our world today.

(c) 2010


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Waiting At Doctor's Office

Cody was questioning the lettering on the doctor's plaque on the wall..
He asked me to write letters in cursive which I did ...
He said that the plaque's lettering was not anything like cursive..
Then he wrote in cursive "Once upon a time"
I wrote: "there was"
He wrote: "a Granny"
I wrote: "Who had a Chihuahua named Princess"
He wrote: " They were so alike that they both even had the same spoiled look on their face.."
I wrote: " Princess wanted a new coat and a new harness so we went to PetSense to shop..Princess wanted a rhinestone studded harness and a sequined coat..Of course, she got what she wanted its no joke"..Ha!!!Ha!!!Ha!!

Cody came away empty handed..Ha!!!  

Just for fun...


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Circle

My father painted
western landscapes and bluebonnets
in a manner that can be described as “primitive.” 
He painted with his heart to stay sane 
in the never-sane world 
of the mens’ tubercular sanitarium.
From what little I actually know of him
he was a man of conscience 
and strength 
and love for his family.
He may have been other things too, 
but I can’t possibly know for certain 
except from the stories I’ve been told.
In these stories he was almost a saint.

When I was twelve he was sent home to die,
although no one told me. 
I remember him lying in bed in our front room. 
I touched his puffy leg, leaving a white dimple.
We laughed. 
He said we would make plans for time together,
just the family,
when he was better. 

One anonymous night 
I stayed with my grandmother 
for no reason I could figure out, 
although I really didn’t give it much thought. 
In the darkest part of that night 
my mother woke me 
to tell me he was dead. 
I don’t remember my reaction,
but I don’t think I cried. 
Men didn’t do that, you see. 
I do remember eating cake after his funeral 
at what I recently heard called 
a “funeral party.” 

I have a way of forgetting painful times.
For a long time after his death
my memory is a blank. 

Now, I am a painter. 
I don’t paint his landscapes or bluebonnets, 
but, like my father, 
it brings a breath of sanity to my world, 
completing the long-delayed circle of his life.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Beyond Horizon Reentry

Dropped out of whap five, hyperdrive is fried and so am I. Cruised through
a seven eleven, picked up some goodies for me mates. Bottle of Jack Daniels
Black for me British mate Paul Beadnall, lovely coconuts for me Aussie
mate Don Johnson nutter on planet forty two. Hit the atmoshpere of 
planet forty two, things gettin hot my fantasy ship is falling apart. I'm in trouble
need a rescue before my goose is cooked and I become cosmic dust.
Sent out an SOS ...---... on all frequencies to me mates. This is old Jack
cobber, I'm in trouble pick me up please on the double. All systems off line, I 
was about to panic, when they came into view. Don's trusty old Sunderland 
so thrilled to see. Beamed me on board, and I said thank ya me maties!
Handed Paul his bottle of black Jack, and Don his lovely coconuts. 
I said pour me a stiff one Paul to calm me nerves please. I said Don
if you don't mind, keep your Coconuts in your pants please. I was just relaxin
when a giant Mother ship from planet forty two popped into view
Don said that thar be a big mother nutter old cobber Jack, and me 
and Paul agreed. Don said bring er around Paul, We're gonna crack this
mother nutter. I looked at him with panic written on my face, he said no
worries mate. I've made some modifications you'll see they're great. He popped
up a puter screen, had a red and blue button. He pushed the the red one
and the puter said launching all torpedos brace yourselves please. Torpedos
lit up the inky dark space, Don chuckled and said take that you alien
buggers. His aim was true, huge flash mother ship cracked like a rotten nutter.
Paul laughed and said switch to auto pilot to his purter, let's drink a toast to
victory maties,we should be back to the Soup in a light year or two.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

To Mama

Dedicated to my mother who, in my youth, I did not fully understand.. 


I wish my callings be sweet to thee; 
Abate not Oh lady the tenderness I'd missed 
Prolong thy tenderness and never a dreary; 
Your genteel should I suck from thy breast. 
From being a toddler remember I; 
That not so often I heard thy lullaby. 
And thence I asked Oh whence I came? 
I sought for answer; I didn't think ‘twas fine. 
Then years rolled by I attended school; 
Why art thou the source of my ridicule? 
The boys would laugh by what thou hinted; 
That I didn't fit a sport; I couldn't hit a target. 
It confused me much – yeah it hurt me badly 
The way thou saw me was never comely. 
Mama! Oh mama! I beseech thee 
Tell me the truth in anyway thou tell me 
Thou needest not to be subtle in telling the truth 
Let it be that I can have peace in my youth. 
The future is waiting and thither I goest 
Wish me luck; I don't want to be the lowest. 
Oh Mama, Willful as thou art, bestow in me some courage 
That even in my lowliness, I can live my life the fullest… 


                                    Date & Time of Writing: 
                                    October 4, 1988 
                                    12:03am - 10:10am 



Details | Prose Poetry | |

About INDIA

Americans say that India is the largest democratic country .

Asians say that India is the country of spiritualism .

Australians say that India is the country of huge crowd . 

Africans say that India is the country of great M . K . Gandhi .

Europeans say that India is the country of philosophy . 

Politicians say that India is our strategic partner .

Economists say that India is one of the best place for investment .

Communists say that India is the perfect soil for communism . 

Capitalists say that India is the market of products .

Historians say that India is the center of history .

Poets say that India is the country of Rabindranath Tagore and lovers

Everybody says many many sentences about India !


Although soul of India says to her people
"You are citizens of India but residents in the world .
And the World is your original mother land ." 

SANDIP GOSWAMI, INDIA


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Wish

Wish

Seven years I’ve been waiting for
A Christmas with you I wish for
Just like the other years that passed by
My wish for Christmas never gone by

A thought bothered my mind
How do you feel fine?
How do I feel fine?
If it breaks your soul it breaks mine.

Everything you have to sacrifice
A tear drops in your eyes
I wish I could make it dry
But I too can’t stop myself to cry

I hope he will grant my wish
If not now, maybe next year
I would still be waiting here
The same wish that I wished.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

My,Grandmothers,doll,collection

Ever since I can remember we visit my grandmother´s house every Sunday.  In the dinning room were we usually spend the while there, she has always had this big glass carved showcase lying against the wall. This big showcase of hers has all types of dolls you can imagine. Is a collection a hobby of her that since I can remember it grows bigger every time. From Matryoshka dolls until Mariachi dolls we can see up there in her collection. Dolls from many places around de world: France, Russia, China and Germany are some examples. My father tells me she collects this dolls since he was a kid, from house to house they have lived on she has taken this big showcase of hers. My grandmother is a collector, and yes she has probably more than 20 different nationality dolls, but this doesn’t mean she has been all around the world. People that know her and care for her always bring her a doll as present when they come back from a vacation. Sometimes I ask her things about the dolls, and every single time no matter her age she always remember the dolls that are the most special to her. Some are presents from other people, and others were bought by herself, but from this special dolls she can give all the exact information. Off course the majority of the dolls she doesn’t even remember from which place they come from or who gave them to her, but I see the smile on her face every time we talk about this showcase, and I feel happy myself only by thinking how an object that she has save for so many years have a great value to her. But most of all I feel happy that one of this special dolls is a present from me and every once in a while when she remembers she thanks me for this doll and tells me that is one of her favorites. 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Sacred Mother Earth- Colors Of Nature

Oh Great Woman of all Nature
  Mother of our Divinely blessed, sacred Earth
Your beauty has kissed my lips
  with the splendor of your clear, sapphire skies
 

The golden, moon bathed Sands
  that are gently caressed
 by your crystal blue clear flowing rivers
Your gentle rain that ascends from the Heavens above
  to delicately soothe and blend
with tears that flow from the broken hearted
 

Your moist, emerald green hills 
 filled with enchanting, lovely flowers 
of every elegant shade and hue
I have beheld the splendid beauty…
 of your green weeping willow's gracious bows and limbs
of iridescent greens and golds
that whisper gently in your swaying, languid winds
 

I have witnessed golden eagles fly so gracious and free
  in your pictorial, periwinkle blue skies
I've feasted my eyes on the sublime splendor
  of your enchanting, golden harvest moon
as its elegant beauty paints a rose, gold, splendid image 
  so deep within my mind
 

All your violet-blue endless horizons
  Your smoky, gray mountains so grand
in the rose blue cool light of dawn
  Your chattering bird songs in skies of azure blue
The fragrant scent of amber gold pinecones
   in the sparkle of the crystal clear early morning dew
 

I pay Ode’ to you Great Mother Nature
  for every golden ray of sun that warmed my skin
that hangs brilliant and dazzling...
   in your glorious skies of cerulean blue


Details | Prose Poetry | |

RED ROSE

it be here soon
now  the flower bloom
get in the after noon
its mother love shower
it has the power
as the story goes
give her mother
a
RED ROSE


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Mary's Tribulation

Mary’s Tribulation

She wept from the depths of her bowels
For the child she brought into fruition.
Not knowing in her love,
She would witness the greatest of all sacrifices.
Tortured nerves washed with vinegar.
Nails driven through meridians to increase the pain.
PAIN, oh so great, oh so long,
That a Mother would die herself...
Beneath the cross

She wept and her heart broke in angst,
His purpose to teach mankind.
Her witness to His Love.
So great, the task, His life
His walk, so brief on earth.
Yet thousands of years, the story retold
Eternal salvation unfolds.
That a Mother would die herself...
Beneath the cross.



Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Hand Poem

Hands…
My father’s hands are very twisted
They’re strong and built with lots of muscles
They’ve helped me learn
So many things as I have grown

In my life
They have helped me learn
How to ride a bike
They’ve helped me defend myself when needed
And I have come to realize
That without his hands to guide me
Through this world
I would not make it

NOTE*** This is from my CD A Father’s Love Letters
To listen to the CD please visit
http://www.reverbnation.com/#/mikehamill
This was written by my daughter when she was nine.
One of the many reasons it’s great to be a parent :)


Details | Prose Poetry | |

In Ten Years

there are too many indiscriminate yesterdays
in my memory
too many I'll do it tomorrows in my
vocabulary
i could blame my daddy for his absence
or I could fault my mama for her negligence
i could put it on uncle incestuous
who caused me to become promiscuous
but I'm a grown woman with plans
to be confident and advance
to inspire people not to become
hopeless mothers
or irresponsible fathers
I'll start today
not in ten years or tomorrow
but today


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Angels

Does the angels exist only in the stories?
Their magical wand and that golden glow
is all that just  a piece of imagination?

i searched , searched and searched
till i had found them
they werent as i imagined
yet they were gentle .

i saw the angels,
in helping heart of person,
in parents’s eyes
after fulfilling kid’s wish,
in innocent kid’s smile
on sharing things,
in mom’s tears,
in dad’s care,
in friend’s support,
in sibling’s love,
in person’s  surprise gifts,
in carefree laugh,
in playful childhood,

Angels do exist but
in different human forms,
spreading invisible magical charm
making our life magical

come on , cross your fingers
make a wish
who knows may be there
will an angel waiting to fulfill that ;)


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Can't Let U Go

"You brought me into this world. You guided me the best you knew how to. You watched me 
grow before your very eyes and yet you still can't seem to let me go. Now the tables have 
turned, for I've watched you live your life with out me there. Watching you live your life 
alone and free. Now its my turn to lend you my hand. As I guide you on your way and watch 
you leave this world when the time comes even though I still can't let you go." 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The generous mother Earth

THE GENEROUS MOTHER EARTH
How generous you are the mother Earth
It is from thee that man was made
You have made man un-thirsty
And your benevolent in giving out of nothing is inexplicable
You feed the worthy and the unworthy
We are till forever indebted to you
To return what thy have taken from thee!
The heaven can never be ungrateful
For the inexplicable water supply
That has made the heaven glamour
That has made the birds of the air gorgeous and flamboyant
They can never fail to pay thee, the last tribute
As to return the expedients taken from thee!
You have continued to bring out valuables
That prompted the regalia of men
That necessitated the pride of plants and flamboyant flowers
That yielded the live of insects and man
 They wouldn’t hesitate to vomit explicitly what they have savored
To the generous mother Earth!
 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

I AM A WOMAN

I walk
I talk
I possess an image
That image
I am the woman

The woman who is 
In absolute possession
Of the courage
As brave as a warriors staff
The woman who knows her rights 
And fights for it
I am the woman
With the “man”

I feel 
I heal
I possess a heart
That heart
I am the woman

The woman with 
An inner child
With an overflowing joy
With no worries bigger
The woman whose gleeing spirit
Brings hope to all
I am the woman
With the “womb”

I make
I create
I possess an art
That art
I am the woman

The woman herself
Stringing together
All pieces of earth
And soothing the broken
The woman whose arms
Wraps those she loves
I am the woman
That woman…

©Naa Takia, All Rights Reserved 2012


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Late Comer

Spent and Battle Weary, the exhausted figure trudges the well worn path like the to-ings and fro-ings of some relentless seaside donkey. Utterly defeated,she resumes her rhythmic rocking, almost robotic in its ministry. No welcome here for this fretful form Out of time This usurper of liberty, predator of new found freedom, like the parasitic mistletoe as it clings to the enduring oak Consumes the spirit Outflanked by convention, choice simply a misconception, The woman capitulates before her adversary. The final shades of moonlight fade from the sky. The child, enveloped in the first vestiges of sleep, Surrenders its hold. The early morning sunlight precociously animates its shadowy dance; and Fairies cavort upon this tiny form, playground of elfins and pixies; the elixir, the effervescence in champagne. I brush the hair from the forehead of the sleeping child My heart is swollen No enigma here; only my daughter


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Black In Time

Let`s go black in time
Come with me black to history
Black to the mother land
Where we rightfully belong
Black in time before the Europeans
Tried to whitewash our
Skins and minds
Black to the kingdom and ancestry
Black, way black before slavery

Black am I 
Not just the color of my skin
The pupil of my eyes or the hair on my head
But black at heart, black in my thinking
And black in my thoughts

Black in time
Black my story, every sentence, every line
Black every rhythm and every rhyme
Black the days on their slave ships
Heading across the ocean lines
Black the shackles and the chains
Black the whips that cut our veins
Black the blood that stained the lands
Black the heart of every whiteman
Black the husbands and the wives
Black the circumstances which changed 
our lives
Black the mother and the father
Black the separation from each other

Black, black, black, black
Black the struggles and the fights
Black the system which took away 
our rights
Black the midnights we tried to make 
our run
Black the rope on the tree that hung the ones
Who wished to be free

Black, black, black, black
Let`s go black and turn the world around
Let`s take black our civilization
Every continent and every nation
Let`s take black the white man`s dominion
Let`s take black our rightful rulership
No more subjection under
The whiteman`s dictatorship
Let`s black out the pages 
of the white man`s days
And attribute the praises 
to the black liberal race

Black my eyes and the things they see
Black the visions of those who preceded me
Black Marcus, Selassie and Mandela
Black Obama and the Christ
Black the life I live because of their sacrifice


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Love Lost

Love Lost…

Morning star shines down on me
I seek the shade 
The shade of the great oak tree
It casts a giant shadow across both of your hearts
Across mine

The cool breeze blows through the field
Between the rows of etched marble stone
And beyond the blades of overgrown grass
Your resting places I see

In the peace and quiet of the morning
I sit, I stand, I talk to both of you
I breathe; deep
Exhale in a sigh
Unable to fight the tears
Not really wanting to try

I find myself needing to spend time with both of you
But have neither Mother, nor Father
I am no longer a child, but a man?
I am all that you both have made me
Your love and guidance cannot fail me now…


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Too Much There

My mother was a life-long keeper of photo albums. 
She had several of them saved from her youth 
filled with black and white faded to yellowy-grey 
family photos of long-dead relatives 
posed around a new grave or 
an infant in a tiny coffin,   
in horse-drawn buggies on the way to church, 
my grandmother in the chicken yard.
The albums had faded brown covers, 
crumbling black paper pages, 
photos held in place with paste-on corners. 
As a child I spent many hours looking at them, 
asking who the faces were. Some she could recall; 
many were lost to her.

There was one photo, taken in 1957, 
according to the date printed on the edge of the photo, 
which seemed odd to me, a puzzle.
In it I was a child of twelve, 
dressed in what must have been 
a borrowed boy’s suit and tie. 
I stood next to my mother 
on the front porch of our little house in Dallas. 
The image was taken looking slightly upwards towards us
(the photographer was on the bottom step), 
perspective exaggerating our facial features. 

It occurred to me when I was older 
that there was a paradox in the photo: 
I was smiling and squinting into the sun;
my mother’s shoulders were stooped, 
her face twisted in something internal
that I couldn’t see.

Perhaps it was the growing awareness 
of my own mortality 
that led me not long ago to look again,
to decode the message: 
the photo was taken the day of my father’s funeral. 
My mother was compressed by the agony of my father’s death, 
a weight and loss almost impossible for her to bear. 
But what was happening with the child me? 
I suppose it could be called denial, 
but I had moved into the now-familiar space of not-knowing. 
Perhaps this blankness contributed 
to my taking so many years to understand. 
Whatever the cause, I wasn’t there; 
my mother was too much there.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Education is Power

Who is in charge of our children's education?
What happens when parents don't do their job?
When children have no sense of reading, writing,
till they hit that school room head on?

Who is responsible to initiate, ingratiate, the word,
so language is understood from infancy and
not suddenly at five years old when
communication receives the attention it deserves?

Parents stand up and take notice
schools do not provide the only source
You are your child's first teacher
You are the one who gives him voice.

From you he will learn expression
From you he will learn who he is
From you he will learn his roots
Give him your love and attention.

Provide an environment filled with books
A place where reading takes precedence
Instill in him a joy for learning
With gentle hand and loving looks.

Model the love of learning
read on your own or with
till without even knowing
he'll develop a yearning
to know, to explore, to evaluate
all there is and more.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

My Lovely Mother

The one who loves you who is:

As sweet as honey dew,
As bright as sunshine,
And as pure as divine.

Is the lovely mother
who can do anything for you,
And always be with you.

She is the one 
who makes you confident,
In every difficult situation,
Or when you are in confusion
or in tension 
Let me again mention
It is the lovely mother

So friends,
I would like like to tell a
secret to you...

The most favorite
gift of your mother,
Is none other than you..........
Keep smiling & she will too.......

By,
Jeju...


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Poem For My Mother

The fire in Daytona                                                                                                                        Has changed everything now                                                                                                                           And pauline is finally gone                                                                                                             Farther away this time than than the lighthouse at Ponce Inlet                                                           Or the locked ward at County General                                                                                                And the only perspective that I can find                                                                                       Is that even in her own naivety she was determined                                                                                   To have things her own way in the end                                                                                                 And yet death is a way of gambling too                                                                                                      That doesn't always guarantee an integration of one's soul                                                     If there is a lesson in our mother's passing over like she did                                                                 It might be that love itself is inadequate at times                                                                          No matter how the loved ones  try                                                                                                   Or that self-fulfilling prophecies can be as dangerous                                                                 As they can be beautiful and grand                                                                                                                                                                                                                                            
                                     


Details | Prose Poetry | |

SENDAI PEOPLE

SENDAI     PEOPLE


Inside  the school  gym,  people huddled in blankets: 
In a corner were two women, three boys  - one wearing a green belt 
And judo pants  -  two old men,  and a dog.
All talking in low tones,  all dirty,  injured.
Outside the gym, waters were receding .    

Radiation didn’t scare Miki Otomoc : it was invisible. But in the quake
Her son’s arm snapped in three as shop shelves fell on him. 
Sendai hospital collapsed : bone was set and plastered in a field.  
Miki’s house was destroyed  as electric wires exploded   gas leaks  - 
Bussing to her mother’s house  the driver yelled  to get off the bus and run. 
“I and my  two sons  and their  judo team-mate hurled ourselves 
From  the deadly wall of water by scrambling  six floors up a  stairwell.  
Then I phoned the judo mother who was frantically waiting for her son.” 
Miki felt in her stomach waves of relief that all the boys had  survived;  
And was now becoming aware of  her cut foot, bruised from the bus-run.
Outside the gym, medics were working.

Maki Kobari escaped death but many of her friends couldn't run fast enough,, 
Horrified she watched their  youth  obliterated by the vortex of mud and debris,
Their  lives violently swept away  by the black tide.
She tried to  yank one little girl from the torrent  -
The child was snatched back by the  water’s force.
“ I grabbed grandfather from his wheelchair, and our dog, and drove.
The sight of my friends trying  to outrun the killer wave  right behind me
Is  seared in my memory  but I choke trying to find the words.. . . and  
I couldn’t save the girl,”   she sobbed and cuddled the muddy  dog.
Maki clutched grandad’s arm and the tears washed little clean paths on her dirty face.
Outside the gym, deliveries of milk were arriving.

Old Yoichi Aizawa was afraid but unshaken. He had endured the B29 fire  bombing 
Of his childhood home when mother pushed him into a river to avoid burning alive,  
“When the earthquake shook, my house was  damaged ;
But when the waves came unexpectedly,  that was the most scary thing. 
I grabbed two of my books and was pushed into a potato truck with the neighbours
And we  fled up into the hills.”
Yoichi felt nauseated thinking of his brother long ago 
With a broken arm and skin dripping off it  in the firestorm.
He brushed the potato soil from his pants  and glanced repeatedly
At the old-fashioned photo with burnt edges in his hand.
Outside the gym, blossoms were opening



Details | Prose Poetry | |

kindle for the fire

 
This chair has chipped paint.     
Its shadow is long by its side.    
Due to the light pouring through the window    
Slanted only like the sun in the middle of August    
      
Fragments of dust float around the chair    
Like suspended stars, or the pixel points on an LCD screen    
Through the shaft of light streaming in    
Through the heat oozing, and seeping into the pores    
     
This chair envelopes like a warm embrace    
Soft ruby pink cushions impressed:     
Feathers where the cushion is ripped stick to your bottom     
To be annoyingly brushed off    
     
(Like brushing the curiosity of a stranger aside,   
Yet this chair is no stranger!)    
      
The chair’s white coating wilts within the dankest humid air, and you feel it:    
Like the skin you wanted to shed when you first entangled from sheets this morning
     
 This chair rocked my great grandmother and her children, and my mother    
Creaking like an anchored boat on a calm day at sea.     
       
Exposed grey brown wood now soft to the touch unless it is where it splinters   These jagged pieces are small and piercing at certain points    Like the penetrating eyes of a gaze that commanded long ago-   
To take her son.          

For this, the entire chair will be kindle for fire in autumn.    For this is where she sat and remembered.    
     
She remembers watching fire settle on the waters-     
Red and orange arms spreading- 
         
War in the distance is better.           

Her heart was slammed shut and darkly cloaked.    
The blaze after two black holes collide disappearing    
And she was not comforted by the arms of the chair, when war came too near    
This I remember, on this too hot day in the middle of August. 
 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Reawakening of Identity

I have seen the pretentious woman residing within my minds hologram….
She believes herself to be a wise messiah…
She teaches her apocryphal beliefs to other seekers…
She has deep roots of stubborn illusions planted within her intentions…
She teaches to be revered actually living with great fear…
She wants to be loved, her demise being forcing her will of fear…
She consumes shots of green gel calling it her breath of life…
The divine grandmother challenged the false inner profits message…
Enraging her with threats of revealing to me real truth…
She chanted, pounded her mislead fists together, manifesting a sword of crystal and light…
Piercing through her own throat refusing to evolve her beliefs…
Creating again all of her low vibration grief…
Why is she here covering her veil of confusion over my eyes?
Preventing me from believing the light of oneness god exists…
Why does she desire to create suffering within the temple?
What is her mission’s purpose?

Working for the Cabal; a mental program construct of peace destruction…
Consumed with greed and power wishing to feel divine…
Poisoning everyone from birth with this tainted sour wine…
I banish you…  
You scared old stubborn crow…
I swim within my god’s love light of truth…
So take your pathetic self and go…
Go to the white light, transforming your tyranny within my being into delight… 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Less 'Talk' More 'Milk'

 
 
  After the interview; 
Each rider and horse, 
move it off, all too quickly.
My head how it spins, around it.
As it works each day, with such beautiful hands.
None known here, can refuse it. 
Here in this factory, they own it.
It are they, as they hang down, each cloud 
and dawn like dew, each tip, now dripps with it.
What has it done.
What should it do.
Roles reversed, would you.
i look they say, like it.
I frown they laugh and i smile at it.
Upside down, they are all I see, and it's full with it.
They all watch it, as none can slip by it.
Explaining and swirling about, as it utters. 
Looking at it, most like they, start to work.
One says it's simple mechanical, it's poetry.
Fore their arms are off and their aft of it. 
All just because, they make cream from it.
Factory chatter is loud and the clamor it grows 
as each machine moves, 
up and down, outside all around it.
The bottles once clear, are warm when they're filled, 
and the milk comes out, quickly through it.
They try Calming it down, as too many hang 
down, 
and around it, are those hands that confess it.
Each cow, you now know, has it's very own name, 
and as Betsy stands there, don't confuse it 

Is It Poetry 
 
 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Though Long and dreadful, the darkness has now become Light

Her clothes soaks in a sea of sweat, her skin wet, brown and muddy, as though floating in a Lake with debris. Notorious in her screams and dangerous in her gaze Making her the worst villain of the neighborhood been greatly antagonistic to Manhood as agony and frustration befell her, comparative to experiencing a difficult means of Livelihood. Medication may be an immediate remedy but will not stop her hatred towards the brotherhood. In difficulty, she curses and swears, her sexuality, been the target and victim. Increase severity of her present situation, makes her casualty to moral decadence and deterring her ability to be sane. Her thinking faculty, substituted with rage, and naughty questions flooding her mind like the spring as she wondered why Humanity is propagated through such pain The Balloon of Life gone so flaccid, her pains, like the infiltrating effect of an Acid. Just one last push to proceed, knowing fully well, she will succeed and finally, the glorious result of a seed. She has been in a Barren Land so dry, the feeling of darkness, she is ready to fry the transition to light, she gives a try which becomes accomplished with a Newborn's cry.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

PORTAGE

PORTAGE
I know it is not ‘nothing’ but white men in Ireland and the few niggers (on the up and up) that come from Scotland to party in those Pubs. My ancestors on my great great great grandmother side were from the immigrant Irish clan; therefore, Haley, Creek Indian, married a white man. She had Cherokee and Blackhawk blood to. Her family flourished in lineage and the skin comes in all colors. Note this! We are called the colored Sexton’s because Haley’s great granddaughter married a Guinea. The story became we are the colors of the United States of America. O’ jealousy manifested and now, I am the structure of the colored Sextons! Our story will be told. Therefore, our belief and faith is transcendent via the Holy Scripture, In God We Trust! _________________________| PENNED ON AUGUST 31, 2014!


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Brave Soldier

Eleven years ago, my father died.
Divorced from my mother when I was two, 
he was a stranger to me most of my life.
I had no tears as the Marine handed me the flag.
He said, "This is a gift from the President of the
United States in honor of the service that your father
gave to his country". 

Five years ago, as my mother died,
I touched her face and held her hand -
something she never allowed when we were children.
I told her everything was all right
and she could let go.
My eyes were dry, she had no funeral.

Later that year,
my husband packed his suitcase.
He told me of his plans
to find his "spiritual path", and left.
I said nothing and went inside.

But last night, my sweet little Aussie
stumbled and fell, unable to move.
With wide eyes slightly opaque,
her dear face grey around the muzzle,
she told me, its time.

This sweet companion,
faithful and brave, has only asked
for my presence in her life.

This morning, I awoke,
and I cried a  child,
with my mouth open,
eyes streaming,
nose running.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Ghost of Bayou Cannot

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

Written by my grandmother Sandra Burch


Details | Prose Poetry | |

DEATH OF A MOTHER

Mom
When you left us
The window was open
There was a single star in the sky
Wind was breathless
A sudden cry ripped the darkness

That night was a book’s last page
Frayed by time and solitude
A lamp was burning in the corner
To thicken the whispers of coming souls
We were speechless 
Touching my mother’s feet
Lean and wilted 
By thousand years ‘march.

September, the cruelest
You did not know the weight of pain
One’s heart endeared 
And cried in a land
Islanded by silence.


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 | |

Tater Sack Annie

On a raft in the river tied to a tree, lived in an old woman of whom most folks made fun. She didn't talk much, most thought she was dumb. Kids being curious, and the summer being hot, the cool of the river drew our disobedient lot. We kids soon discovered the crude raft and the tent. We oddly made friends with its strange occupant. Tried as we might to find out her name. All we got was a smile from the toothless old dame. One thing for certain we kids soon found out. Social graces she lacked, but her kindness made up for that fact. Times being tough and money being tight, often we kids confided our plight. She didn't care if we were dirty or poor. She loved her little friends all the more. We didn't mind her fashion was lack. She wore a dress made from and old "tater sack." What troubled us was she didn't have a name. We didn't care from where she came. One day as we sat on the bank, a thought came to mind. We were disgusted with folks being unkind. "Everybody's got a name," said one. "Let's call her 'Tater Sack Annie'", said another, so it was done. Annie smiled at us. She liked her new name. She didn't say much, just smiled again. She motioned for us kids to her camp for lunch. She always fed our whole bunch. Fried taters, catfish and greens. All of us believed she was a woman of means. Several summers went by. One year the fall came. A saturday night, folks out for a lark. Didn't see Annie walking home in the dark. Somebody sent, and a somber Sherriff came, "Anybody her know her name?" He spoke to the group. Two boys stepped forward, both knelt to a stoop. "That's our 'Tater Sack Annie'", they spoke in a low tone. Both their faces ashen and as white as bone. Today in a churchyard no monument gleams. Only a simple stone reads, "Annie a lady of means."

Written by my grandmother Sandra Burch


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Billie


	Billie died today. 
	Respiratory failure, 
	quiet and painless.
	She just went away.
	
	I sat beside her bed, 
	watching her breath, 	
	the blue pulse in her neck. 
	She lay on her right side, 
	pale, fetal-curled, 
	facing the wall,
	worn out, used up.
	
	Hospice told me 
	that the only thing 
	keeping her alive 
	was the oxygen being given 
	though the clear plastic mask 
	covering her nose and mouth. 
	There were drops of condensation 
	inside the mask, 
	making most of her small face indistinct. 
	The parts I could see clearly – 
	forehead, 
	cheek and chin, 
	one ear,
	were perfectly calm. 
	
	I was told that I could
	remove the mask. 
	I did. 
	
	She took a single breath, 
	later, another; 
	she was gone.
	
	She would have done the same for me.

         © Jack Jordan 2013


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Untitled 30

I portray the mother of dust:
the rattle in our empty nest,
echoing, echoing like the bray
that escapes the moon at noon,
the shrieks from soft white rooms.
These unhatched eggs cry,
crawling to my windows,
peeping in, trying to frost
each dirty sheet of glass
with their shallow dirty breaths.
Is there humanity in this reflection?
I am a factory assembling
cadavers: cold glassy eyed dolls
all wearing the same vacant faces:
blurred, blurred, and terrible.
Their little fingers stain the walls
like the pages of blank novels.
I try to hold them. They go.
They let me go, for now.
I don't fear the darkness anymore,
but it is their tongues of silence
that leave me unhinged.
Remembering is to ache
like a shadow. Mother
mothering dirt, a stranger to health.
My cramping hands pray and
hope my past can eat itself.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Where I'm From

I am from my daddy's drunken heart, beating so fast as though flung from a 
furious circle of women who are welcoming the men back from the hunt.

I am from my mother's matted eyes.  My mother, a lil' orphan girl who often was 
told, "Step back, black! You too po."  My mother, who cried out, " I have my sisters 
to love."  My mother, who beat up the world to protect me.

I am from my cousin Cora's womb, which wasted away, but only after seven 
babies grew into children who lived in a ditch to escape the streets and ate out of 
garbage cans.

I am from the son of God, the Mother Hen of the world.  Careening down a dark 
alley, I run into myself, leopard legs, little streaks.

I am from the Yoakum Chaparral Chalet, covered in chicken grease and bathing 
in a washtub.

I am from Jasper, Texas, grasping my knuckles into the cement as I am dragged 
to death.

I am from music, Stravinsky's "Rite of Spring" and Ellington's "Catch the A Train."

I am from gardens, honeysuckled and herbed, growing health and healing.

I am from nerves, stressed, tired and tangled.

I am from the hospital today where I watch my dad's eyes grow big and his body 
shrink.  I watch my mother skate into the room nodding and dreaming.

I am from the bottom of the Atlantic, screaming Holocaust, millions of dead 
bones chilled and cried out, "Murderer, thief, betrayer."

I am from the eighteen hundred block of Isabella in Houston's Third Ward where 
Mr. Evans used to sit on his porch and nod and Mrs. Turner used to sit on her 
porch and talk, and everybody said, "Hey Baby, how ya been doin'?"


Details | Prose Poetry | |

When All

When all is said and done
At the end of the day
Week, month and year
At the end
When the finish is near
Nay, at hand
One thing will hold true
When the last grain of sand
Has left the hour
And the seconds have ticked away
When the last word
Has been spoken
And there’s nothing left to say
One thing will hold true
Through whatever time
Life has left
Till heaven and earth pass away
And eternity rules
Bringing life a brand new day
One thing will hold true
It doesn’t matter where roads lead
Nor how paths may cross
Doesn’t matter if directions are found
Or ways are lost
Doesn’t matter if freedom comes
Or at what cost
One thing will hold true
For when all have fled
And there’s no more to be bled
All battles have been fought
All conquests sought
When all that’s left to do
Is look around to see
Who’s left standing with you
One thing will hold true
Standing there 
I will be 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

In the full view of things

In the full view of things 
people will always be harsh 
People will always be stuck up 
Nobody will ever try to help 
Whenever I cry for someone to help 


Nobody comes....


Sometimes I think I am not crying loud enough to hear 
But then I relize,
They only pretend not to hear 
He tells me he cares 
But I know he lies 


He ALWAYS lies....


No matter how hard I try 
No matter what I do 
He still is not satisfied 
He and his frankinstine bride 
Be forwarned... the tale about step mothers.... is true.


They always lie....


They think I am insane 
So they send me to this person
She calls herself a consoler... haha.....
She doesn't have a clue 
She lies, she knows nothing of privet thoughts, and should not be called a counsoler.


What do they know any way....


My mind is my mind 
No one elses to invade 
But if you're brave enough to try 
Good luck getting out... well ...you could say the same 
My mind is always busy 
I can't remember a time when I wasn't thinking 
About the past 
About things I could have said or done 
Or about the future I wish could be true 


I don't know who to trust..... except for one........


My mom 
My sweet and loveing mother 
She is my everything
I love and trust her  
More than I can say


I trust her I love her....


My mom knows me better than anyone I know
She knows my fears, dreams, and hopes
She loves me 
She trust me 
She is the one who helped me when no one would 


I hate him......


The man poseing as a father 
The man who was never there for me
The person I want to be the farthest away from 
I am forced to live with 
By a boges court 
Full of hypocrits and morons 


Why should they get to pick.......


They tell me where I get to go 
They tell me I don't know
OH but I do 
I know more than they could possibly dream of knowing 
Seven years I had been hideing 
Seven years I have known 
He is a heartless monster 


I was there.....


All they had was papers 
I wasn't even aloud in the room 
I had all the proff they needed 
Seven years of experence
But it didn't matter 

One day we will be home with our mother where we belong.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

water is life

 WATER IS LIFE
People ignore me because of my simple nature
If you ask me, I would not hesitate to say;
When the creator takes, I take, however, every other thing comes after me.
As a liquid, so colorless I am, I don’t deny the fact anyway
But, tell you solemnly I am valuable more than any conceivable liquid that men embrace.
Plant feel prideful enough, men thought they are the greatest
Birds of the air with their glittering nature, this is because;
I get enormous kiss from them every time!
When I become angry for anything, 
I will put shame, disgrace to it
It cease from its normal functioning.
If men boast that they can do without me, notwithstanding the status
Can they withstand my wrath when I cease for three weeks?
Oh no! Even if they can, they will stink, struck them with disease-
Disfigure their physic and they will kiss the mother Earth!
Why should the birds be arrogant?
Is it for; their unique feathers, attractive beaks, and their consequential legs?
Do they not feed in fruits of trees?
Which I nurture tenaciously from incarnation
If I should give them my back side, they will simply add nothing but
 Manure to the mother Earth.
What of the beautiful flamboyant flowers
That produces sweet nectar for insect to live?
What of The plant of the earth that every animal derives its life?
Am I not the one that makes them paramount?
If they decide not to be in speaking terms with me
Oh no! I will make them as thin as an AIDS patient
I will disfigure their out look to resemble such suffering from-
Sickle-cell anemia or perhaps, kwashiorkor
But, am so glad that, inter-alia, they concede that
I should as well be attributed as life!  















Details | Prose Poetry | |

WHAT WOUND DID EVER HEAL

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

Count me among men
Who can read and write
Count me among them
Who finds book a delight
No!
Not about intelligence
Mother taught me diligence
Scrapped for a living
So I could get learning
I am a dead woman’s sweat
My worries cracked her chest
My mother was my literacy
My literacy is my treasure
My treasure…is you
I wrote what you can read
She was its measure.
I never paid back 
Never gave thanks.
Prodigal son playing pranks

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

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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Damage Will Always Be There

The Damage Will Always Be There


I cried,I bleed,And now my heart longer beats the same way it did before I meet you.My heart feel broken,i feel like a rag doll played with over and over again only to be thrown away.I miss your love but now your gone and my hearts ache the most it has ever.There are time's I wonder if  I have been lying to myself,I must be because my heart should fee lighter it should feel like a free winged bird but it not.The damage the cuts the sores they shall be with my from happy time to sad time because you put them there.You who I looked up to you never promised I know but it aches from every thought of you.How come how come I must be alone in this world? It sound selfish but I only want you back to be here beside me and tell me you love me and I'm doing a great job with everything.Why does it hurt to think of you?why does it pain me to want to be lose to anyone?why does everyone leave me behind when I need them the most?why am I so closed up with a stone wall full of hate surrounding my heart?I know it shouldn't be there but do you? In time the cut will heal and the sores shall vanish.But what about the feelings and the damage inflicted upon them will never leave.Yes it sounds so cliche yes you've heard it all before.But really and this is know this is said this is everything I know.The damage is there no matter how much it seems to have healed.

For my grandmother who i lost now 5 years ago Granny i miss you i wish you would have fought for us a little longer then you did.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Untitled 13

There's no through road so
with iced courage and steeled breath
She opens each scarlet line,
watching each blank page wave in the wind.
She renounces, orphaning it through self sacrifice and,
through Her crimson puddles,
She sees the barren paths- untrodden-
retreat as the oven scolds the cake inside.
It leeches, and Her skin, the colour of sour milk,
is creaming, each foam washing away the marked gold sand.
It's too late, the clock's already struck and chimed
for the still unborn - stillborn unborn.
Enclosing, the bud swallows the bee,
it's shallow heart fading,
like the bleaching sun drying the caterpillar.
She collapses, clasping, dragging Her burden with Her


Details | Prose Poetry | |

freedom begets sacrifice

FREEDOM BEGETS SACRIFICE
	The pelican bird says; “even as I wound my peek’
To break the hardest wood’
To continue the lineage,
I won’t get benefit here, but, lives good legacy,
As I passed the agony as they suck me! So they can live.”

The mother snake says; “even as the world detest me, 
I wouldn’t end my being anyway!
But they tear me apart, as they visit the world, 
I know I would kiss the mother earth, 
But, all for the sake of love!”
The mother human; the burdensome load,
That she carries for months,
Not minding the agony of birth,
Or the pain the offspring cause thereafter,
But she has to bear the pain, and free them, for the sake of love.
But, for man to get indefinite freedom,
Since there isn’t rest in life,
She has to sacrifice the body,
To free the soul,
This is because, freedom, begets sacrifice.

 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Almost Time

It’s been a while since you were announced
It’s nearly time for you to arrive
I’m about to see you enter into life
A life I helped to create
The time I’ve known about you
Seems to have passed too quickly
And now before I’ve realized it
You’re about to be born
For it’s almost time
It’s almost time to meet you
To teach you what little I know
And to learn far more from you 
Than you’ll ever know
Where have these last months gone
I haven’t had time to learn
The many things I should
I haven’t had time to forget about myself
For the sake of someone else
My God, it’s almost time
To let go of these feelings
I haven’t yet understood
To be flooded with new ones
When I first see your face
It’s so strange and new
To love someone so much
That I haven’t even met
I can’t say how your touch is going to feel
Or how you will change my life
I only know it’s almost time
It’s almost time to try

NOTE*** This is from my CD A Father’s Love Letters
To listen to the CD please visit
http://www.reverbnation.com/#/mikehamill


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Already Nine

My oh my
Where has the time gone
It seems like only yesterday
I was told you were mine
And now here you are
Already nine
This birthday I have to miss
But it makes me remember
And say thank you God
For having this little girl to kiss
To hug and snuggle
And watch as she grows
From the little babe
I once held in my hands
To the girl
I now hold in my arms
One day soon
You’ll become a woman
Leaving me with all these memories
Of how special it is, and how lucky I am
To be able
To watch you grow

NOTE*** This is from my CD A Father’s Love Letters
To listen to the CD please visit
http://www.reverbnation.com/#/mikehamill


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Across Fair Fields

Run across the fair fields, as fast as you can run, the fields your grandmother ran as a young girl,
Over long lush dark green grasses, whipping your knees, soft spongy turf springs each new step,
To stop where fast flowing streams rush and dance to the wind, a sweat breaking out on your face,
All out of breath kneeling by the bank of a brook, a stitch in your side, corn waves like a gentle sea.

By the brook with childhood friends enjoying sweet company watching spring as her beauty unfolds,
To walk across wet water mead’s, seeing glades in their finest clothes, to a meadow, in full flower,
Rolling in grass making camps sitting legs crossed as warm summer breezes temper-sweating brows,
Making sure you sit next to the one you care for most, nothing will be as good as this day ever again.

Playing in the meadows where your grandmother played, picking daisies, making very long chains,
Holding buttercups up to chins to see if they shine, then laughing, shouting out loud when they do.
Playing kiss chase, slightly slowing down, when the one you want to be kissed by is chasing you,
Under old pear blossom trees, flushed rosy red cheeks sitting next the one who is your first love.

Laying in high grass chin in cupped hands, it is so special this lovely day will be yours for all time,
Just staring at friends, full of innocence and so happy, this romantic time can never be repeated,
Unplanned moments where beautiful things just happen it’s your youth just enjoy the here and now,
Where everything is brighter has more colour, smells from the meadows become a memory for life.

Laying on your back staring at turquoise watery skies, listening to the silence, a perfect sunny day,
Heaths meeting small woods surrounded by greenest carpets only seen by a child’s pure innocence,
Give your heart and soul to this day enjoy natures gifts, your end of days will recall these moments,
Falling asleep in the December of your life, this last dream your friends will be there waiting for you.

So gather these thoughts, tie them up in a bow, put them safely in a corner of yesterday’s thoughts,
And walk again with your dear young friends in those happy times golden hair fluttering in the breeze,
Back to days of cotton dresses and turned-up jeans with baggy shirts, nobody noticed or even cared,
Hold your sweethearts hand once again and run across the fair fields where your grandmother ran.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Things To Be Learned

They say that in life
Each day brings things to be newly learned
Today at age thirty, I found that to be true
From none other than you
Though you’re just past four
I’d just finished yelling
Over some silly wrong 
I perceived you had done
And like adults so many times do
I only saw it from my point of view
After I left the room
I heard you crying
When I returned, I found you in the corner
On the floor sobbing
When I asked what was wrong
You said I really didn’t want to know
When I convinced you I did
Boy, you really let me have it
You said I didn’t need to yell
That you could understand
I didn’t have to scare you
That you had feelings too
That there are some things you didn’t know
Cause after all you were only four
It was then I realized, that yes
You are a person too
And things don’t always look the same
From your point of view
And that as we go through life, you just like I
Have feelings, thoughts, things you don’t understand
And so much each day to be newly learned

NOTE*** This is from my CD A Father’s Love Letters
To listen to the CD please visit
http://www.reverbnation.com/#/mikehamill


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Last Night

Last night we went to see a friend
Who has a little baby girl
And it makes me love you even more
The warmth, the smile in your eyes
The love dancing across your face
Makes me dream of the day
When that friend will come to see
You and me
And the little baby girl
We will make together

NOTE*** This is from my CD A Father's Love Letters
To listen to the CD please visit
http://www.reverbnation.com/#/mikehamill


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Hunger Knows Caution

The forest was so still and my heart calm.
The frogs in the pond croak welcoming in the morning air.
A fog sweet, wet, hazy-grey blankets us cloaking my spotted hide,
muting the mornings’ echo.

Though mother has left, she, dearest Hunger has not.
Deep in my entrails, the two-legged hunters so desire;
she, Hunger stirs, twisting a preemptive knife of warning.

Only small buds rise on my head where antlers will be by fall.
Death waits breathless on the breeze.
Hunger, dearest Hunger
knows Death.

Father was lost to Death on a bright fall morn.
My ears turn, a branch crumbles beneath the weight of ...
Hunger knows Caution and tosses her head within my tender hide.
My fur rises at her discomfort. She is not satisfied.
Yet, I would flee, holding her close to my heart.
I leap away from the clearing over a fallen log
shaped like a bobcats tail curling.

The forest of conifers is dense and deep.
The weak morning sun does not enter and Hunger approves of the privacy.
Sometimes, I wonder, as I eat the sweet stalks of wild onions
without mother or father; would I be here in this majesty, 
without my dearest, without Hunger.
Would the hunter hunt me without his Hunger?


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 | |

First Told

I didn’t seem quite old enough
Barely more than a child myself
When I was first told
I didn’t know quite what to say
Hell, it didn’t seem that long ago
I used the words myself
It didn’t seem that long ago
I called him daddy
And there was a special lady
I called my mom
Now here I am
Not yet sure of who I am
About to be called the same myself
Not knowing how to handle the feelings
The joy, the amazement, the wonder of it all
I never felt such a thing
Never felt so, so unworthy
Or had such a sweet song to sing
As when I was first told
How can one such as me
Be blessed with someone like you
It’s something I’ll wonder all my life
It’s a day I’ll never forget
When your mother
First told me about you

NOTE*** This is from my CD A Father’s Love Letters
To listen to the CD please visit
http://www.reverbnation.com/#/mikehamill


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Mother

Mother shot father and I don’t see
How this came to be
Mother shot father and I can't hear
The sound of gunfire ringing in my ear

In my room I sit 
A cigarette in my hand, asking to be lit
Mother shot father and I don’t know why
I can't seem to find the tears to cry

Mother shot father
Bam bam bam
Mother shot father
Bam bam bam

A bullet straight to the head
And now daddy is dead
Two more shots, just to be sure
Its all a blur

Mother shot father 
And then mother shot mother 
Here I sit, in my room alone
The words in my head an endless drone

Mother shot father
Mother shot mother
If I shoot myself 
Will all the blame lie with mother?


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Mom

I saw you Mom! 

I have passed through the thin silvery mist.
scattering the letters like feathers.

Watched it fly over hills then disappear. 

Ah _ how silly I was in the dream! 

Too silly to know how death would take your smile like wings, 

make of it strange heavenly birds, 
In strange unearthly place, where nothing withholds the sun but fog.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

English Garden

I have found the treasure
that lies at the Rainbow's end;
surrounded by Sweet William, for-get-me knots,
and crimson shades of velvet rose.

Near the cottage of old where I was young,
the quaint charm of the English garden.
Where time has not weathered with due harm,
swirls of hued asters still in the brisk fresh air.

Moments spent dancing with cupid in midst
of a sunny afternoon.
Seconds where dreams danced on the moon,
sweet perfume floats by to wisp away my breath.
Up ahead mine eyes view the grassy slopes
where a thousand of narcissus bloom.

I watch them sway the day away tossing 
their sweet perfume to the winds.
Wicker seats and ivory benches upon I sit and muse.
The soul cannot thrive in the absence of a garden,
a rose plot, fringed pool and serenity.

Burn the sage, the leaves of rose and wintergreen
Light the candles in the middle of the afternoon.
From within my center core I breathe for more of this
paradise near heavens view.

Sweet surrender to growing things, cupids chimes in
melody rings, for here is a heavenly peace that mirrors
my thirsty soul.


My x4 Great Grandmother was from England a Duchess but she chose to marry my X4 Great
Grandfather and lost her inheritance and rights for neglecting the wishes of the family in
England. He was a Captain of the sea and brought many to the American shores of Mass. In
reading and studying, I found she loved to write of the sea and those things she cherished
from England and growing up, from memoires, she has touched my muse and from time to time,
I let her speak of such cherished beautiful things.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Stay

Stay

Stay a little while because I don’t want you to go.
Will you stay a little while.  please don’t tell me no.

Stay a little while because your strength makes me calm
Please protect me from the world.  Protect me from the harm.

When your gone im always scared
I want to see your face

When your gone im all alone
I want your warm embrace.

Ive cried a million tears 
Ive died a million deaths

And now your gone, im here again
Lonely on my own.






Details | Prose Poetry | |

~ (~) ~ The Things of These ~ (~) ~(Part #2 of 6) ~ (~) ~

And I can just see him there by the wind chimes chiming their morning song smiling at us outside along with the orange juice and apple, and apple butter set up beside the grits and raisin toast in the toaster. Maple syrup ready for heating in the microwave with many funny, grand events circumstances questions of the day already being proposed to you in all seriousness. Running up and down the spine and belly really wrestling with your patience. Answered swiftly with light chuckling laughter. As I think wisely and answer saying "as you and I are set to bed at night, we all too need God's peace in the morning". Stomping on the floor with a rugged click clack clack... saying "overt, wisdom is not patient to fond reflection of itself alone. So is the way of the chopstick. Lying there so defined ... . Hands sick. Hear their plea. They cry mercy, use me ... !" Remembering when she was younger their Mothers' Mother our other kitten Precious of memory's past yes her kittens many antics with my Wife and children and me. As one of Blue Jeans our oldest Daughters' new Mother Kitten, or I should say Cat now, with her first little litter of kitten, as we found her pregnant now some time ago and now her three, no two kittens -- the one little fuzzball I forget her name. They both jumped me this morning. One climbing up "my spine right now" one my shoulder scooting down my belly on to my knee as I stick it out so it can jump onto my broken down dark brown leather Lazy Boy flip back Daddy chair as I'm leaning myself back, with one hand for the other. As I change their bowls so they may have food and water. As they play with one another over who in the process gets my big toe. They haven't figured quite yet it being quite stinky. There being two, connected to me there is another protruding shell toy of a fleshy distraction for both of them. Like the simple spontaneity of my little one, jawing away on a pickle slurping it down wiping his mouth on my coat shirt pocket, as with a big grunt the youngster looks at me, then cuts a wet one in its diaper, just as I'm wanting to go to the restroom myself, and reaching, needing, a paper towel. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JBfjU3_XOaA


Details | Prose Poetry | |

~ (~) ~ She Knew ~ (~) ~

Gone her way home; cast overcast; time waylays prompts me, child; do never; no-never forsake, ever. ""She... Momma wept, Sissy's, tears worn, she- went I died with her, never more, always will-be, we, one-soul, us; "So defined - friends-you better bet... yes... !"" Day she died, told mama, hers-then, readily mine all-others still then-though ours - better put that dress you made; on me," "four-percent lounge capacity;" she had not told her, her mother then no-no-one but, yes; she knew... my-Sissy. Gone... Mama, ours... heroin took her, forgot to open the garage door, was her last hit of the night I'm sure - safety, was mine, my Sissy's wealth - in the Lord, ours. Her faith one lounge-was her strength, her wheel chair, nothing to her but, her-rocker; simple chariot, Mama both of them ours-yes, all who came before, them. Love them, God having made them, heart golden, one breath - my Sissy's heaven, for mother too I believe - yes... stile... it's His-I-believe, it-is His, God blessedness, all-His children His-with-this Divinity, yes, so I treasure this innocence... . Oh-the Glory-the Glory... yes... ! God; His mercy... it knows' itself - every breath you take-take-care, cherish, the kisses .. ... .. ! - Just-fishing-you know ... .. ... ~ Heaven-thoughts of-hot Summer days - and I believe He-cries-yes. Welcome Home... .. babies; tears-His filling-the river - contented lone; in-His - in-His-love...; love.. ... ..; carrying one of though 'ole Sony-jute-boxes-yea - "hey man, looks like you knead a bight - .. ... .. and-we-all say, Lord-hunger strikes them not... the-fish... - thank-You .. ... .. . ~ Blessed-be-the-Father.... .. ... - all-eternity-in me the-word-has remained; has been-so made; proven; worthy http://www.youtube.com/watch? v=_JQiEs32SqQ&feature=artistob&playnext=1&list=TLBCRinqtYRSM


Details | Prose Poetry | |

I Want You To Know

If I should die tomorrow, I just want you to know
Just how deeply you have touched my life
And how much you mean to me
To have been able to hold you during your first breaths
To have been able to watch you
As you’ve grown for these nine years
Is the greatest thing I’ve ever done
I was fortunate in my life
For I got to see you learn to crawl, to walk, to talk
To brush your teeth, even your hair
I was there when you first two wheeled
I was alive to hear you laugh so many times
I was able to hold you when you cried
I heard you read and learn to spell
As I’d watch you sleep at night
I knew I didn’t always do things right
There’s so many things I could’ve done better
I should’ve thanked God so many more times
For blessing me with you
I just want you to know I’m proud to be your dad
And should a time come that I’m no longer here
And you feel like you’re alone and need a friend
I want you to remember
There’s no space, time, life or death that can separate us
I will always be your dad no matter where I am
I will always do my best to help
And you must always try to do your best
To treat others like you and to be yourself
Cause you, just being you
Made my life so worth living

NOTE*** This is from my CD A Father’s Love Letters
To listen to the CD please visit
http://www.reverbnation.com/#/mikehamill


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Day After I Was Born

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

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

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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

August Eighth

Chapter One 
Boy into the West 

Dawn upon my cloak 
Urged and so converged were the guns 
Seeding myself with the rest 

I broke in the eye of the Sun 
Settling my mind on the heartless rapist. Time 
Rasterize the faces 

So thumb through the annals 
Purged and so emerged fleshy etchings of this child
Breast wheels churn uncertainly 

Moistened embers dance to the deafening drum 
Tidal ducts offer piquant waters of the Pacific coffer 
I arrive on the sands 

Chapter Two 
Hole in the Wall 

Deserted in this mind 
Hover in and now behind 
Stare blank up through the ceiling stucco 

Gathering in the stench of ghastly breath of wine 
The New Year clothes itself topside 
Unfashionable walls crush youthful spirit I drink alone, until morning 

Demons of mine in lethargy 
Gnawed and sluggish slivers bond my illness
Horizons of hues of shapes the girl knowing 

Waking sweat cools slyly treats itself to my tongue 
Warmth of girl takes my breath save the end of I prepare 
God, are you there? 

Chapter Three
Erosion 

All in the deflection 
Though his reflection isn't mine 
Blood in kind of brotherly loving spiteful me 
We close our doors of aid restraining love I have

For angry boys reject the angry drudge 
Slave to a toilsome loving grudge 
It is raining erosion 

Blinding contortion 
Why in my hands I can't see you yet 
My rock there I can’t see her stand 

These matters wash away too comfortably 
I the destined rock 
To erode on as grain of sand 

Chapter Four 
Facing the Crow 

Give to the death 
Long confronting his road 
Gurge open those words she once clung on 

Hung from the rope he dove to the end 
I die decay per diem death 
Metaling her heart on his mindless last breath 

I survive only by his hand... 

T.R.Sevrens


Details | Prose Poetry | |

And You

The first time I looked into your eyes
I knew my heart was gone
The first time I held you in my hands
I found new meaning to my life
I’ve known you for three years 
I’ve watched you crawl
And learn to walk
Giggled as you learned to talk
And you, you are my life
And you, you are all life means to me
When I’m, when I’m with you
There’s no place I’d rather be
There’s good times yet to come
Sure to be a few bad ones in between
Only sure thing is
I’ll be there for you
As long as I’m alive
No matter what you’ve said or done
You’ll have one sure place you can come
You’ll always have a place
That you can call your home
And you, you are my life
And you, you are all life means to me
When I’m, when I’m with you
There’s no place I’d rather be
And you, you are my life
And you, you are all life means to me
You’ll always have a place
You can call your home

NOTE*** This is from my CD A Father’s Love Letters
To listen to the CD please visit
http://www.reverbnation.com/#/mikehamill


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Discovery

Well, you finally did it
Though you fussed and fought
Kicking nearly every step of the way
Once I turned you loose 
There was no holding you back
Watching as you tore through the grass
I saw you discover a new found freedom
And declare a form of independence
I knew right then and there
That what had fell into your tiny little grasp
Would never be let go
I could see in those little eyes
Just barely five years old
A stronger burning fire
Than I’ve seen in eyes ten times as old
It was the first time I knew for sure
My little girl would be all right
No matter where life’s path might lead
For in that instant of discovery
You did so much more
Than learn to ride a bike
You tasted what having freedom
And independence brings to life

NOTE*** This is from my CD A Father’s Love Letters
To listen to the CD please visit
http://www.reverbnation.com/#/mikehamill


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Year Gone By

Has it really been a year gone by
Watching the flame of
The single candle on your cake you try
I think back on the year gone by
From hearing it’s a girl
To holding you in my arms
I don’t know who’s grown more
You or I
I remember when your eyes first opened
Wondering what it was you saw
The first time you smiled
I was wrapped around your finger
A year gone by of late night feedings
When I laid you to your mother’s breast
The times you needed changed
The times you needed held
The times you simply slept
I remember them all through the blur
Of the year gone by
I remember when you first left your mother’s breast
When you first tried to touch you knew not what
The first time you giggled
Your shock when you first rolled over
How quickly you learned to crawl and explore
So many things you did I remember
But my fondest memory of the year gone by
Is how I’ve learned to give love
And set aside myself
For someone much more special than I
Has it really been a year gone by

NOTE*** This is from my CD A Father’s Love Letters
To listen to the CD please visit
http://www.reverbnation.com/#/mikehamill
As the lead single it comes with a music video viewable at
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TlWpKk_J2bA


Details | Prose Poetry | |

likes a girl in trinidad

He likes a girl in Trinidad


He likes a girl in Trinidad
Meet her on maracas beach
Before he came back to New York
Take her number so  she can be reach

He wish if he could skype her
 She won’t let him buy her a computer
He wants to take the relationship
To the next step he’s fallen for her

She won’t accept gift from him
She’s such a decent girl
She said if they married 
Then he can offer her the world

And he wonders what she’s doing
Right now at home
Is she thinking of him
And feeling all alone

 He wonders what she’s wearing
A dress or a skirt
And if she knows he miss her 
So much it hurts

 If He didn’t need his job
 He will be in Trinidad right now
But soon as he get vacation
He coming to Trinidad he vow

She tells her mother in her gallery
Bout a boy in New York
Her mothers said get   your food
And eat while we talk

She said she loves him
And he ask to marry her 
And next time he calls 
She will give an answer

Her mother said 
You have to follows your heart
If two people love each other 
Then nothing should keep them apart

He come form America
The whole street attend
It’s about a hundred 
Invitation was send

Amanda eating an ice cream
Watching from the street
The mother tells her when you finish
Come and sit down and eat

I could not go to the wedding
To busy over here 
But when the couple comes up
Will carry my gift, sit down and have a beer


 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

and 'Ladies'

 
  and 'Ladies' young and old
do you even know
when i go into the grocery store
and how they come all around me
and i
not even paying attention
as they watch me squeeze this and
squeeze that
and they being all that you are
some what more and some few less
and they
take my hand and place it there
and in my hand they squeeze it
they squeeze it harder than they should
but i'm not paying attention 
and as i'm thinking about squeezing
that which needs to be squeezed
in my mind i am squeezing it more
and watching some become flushed
there faces grow dark and pink
so many
and so many my head spins around 
looking down as i feel
all of that juice run free
through my hands
and all of my critical thinking
has left me it's gone. 

Is It Poetry 
 
 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Much Too Fast

Did I fall asleep and miss a part of your life
You’ve grown so much, much too fast
Was I so involved in day to day life
That I simply didn’t see you grow
Wasn’t it yesterday you took your first breaths
And I heard the cries of your arrival
Wasn’t it yesterday you took your first steps
And now, now listen to you talk
Where have I been, what have I done
How could I have missed
Seeing how much you’ve grown
Both the year just gone past
And your growth, has happened much too fast
Listening to you tell of your day gone by
Of all your new found friends
And all the things you did together
And what you plan for tomorrow
It’s hard to believe you’re just past four
Seeing the person you’ve become
How well you comprehend the things about you
It makes me wonder
How much you think I care
And if you truly, truly know
How much I’ve missed seeing you grow
Seeing you today has made me realize
That my struggles against everyday life
Hold very little meaning
If I don’t take the time to look into your eyes
For my life, like your growth
Goes by, much too fast

NOTE*** This is from my CD A Father’s Love Letters
To listen to the CD please visit

http://www.reverbnation.com/#/mikehamill


Details | Prose Poetry | |

NUMBERED SCENT (Ohduhkellee)

A mothers gift ,

Generally at Christmas .

Easiest option which I hope she will like .




( Eau De Kelly)  Fragrance for older ladies , who do remember ...


I have just "invented "this new form of poetry . 

As you can see it is the 4~7~11 .

First line has 4 syllables , next 7 and the last has 11 .

And , if you think it stinks......... yes it probably does......


All rights are reserved ( and a few lefts).


Details | Prose Poetry | |

for the childrens sake

Sep 4 2007 
  
Deep pain and misery
 Shuts among the little ones
 They cry for help
 No one to understand
 Mother is always out drinking 
Father is abusing them 
Big sister and brother are at school 
Just only wanting to be loved 
But the family does not want to
 As the children grew older 
The hate sunk in 
Their mother was dying
 Father was in jail 
Big sister lived on the streets
 Brother was following his father's steps 
The children did not care
 They grew up not knowing what a family was like 
When they finally became parents 
The cycle began


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Help Me To Be

Looking down on the new born child
Our Father gave to us
I quickly looked to the years we have ahead
And asked Him, help me to be
The kind of father I should be
Lead me through the restless night
When our child lies awake
And the times she’ll need a change
Be with me through her younger years
And help me to calm her fears
Give me the words to say
When she comes for advice
That I might lead her
The straight and narrow way
When I’m about to show my anger
Over something she’s said or done
Please remind me
Of all I’ve said and done against Your will
And the love You show me still
But most of all enable me
To be a bright and shining light
So when it comes time to choose
Between what’s wrong or right
Our child will know
And want to share
In Your never ending love
God, help me to be
The kind of father I should be

NOTE*** This is from my CD A Father’s Love Letters
To listen to the CD please visit
http://www.reverbnation.com/#/mikehamill


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Little Girl 'You' Ran Away

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

Is It Poetry



s.t.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Day After Your Brithday

THE DAY AFTER YOUR BIRTHDAY,
YOU LOOK IN THE MIRROR TO SEE:
A) YOU'VE GOT A ZIT FROM EATING ALL THAT CAKE;
B) YOUR LOVE HANDLES HAVE EXPANDED A HALF INCH;
C) YOU SINGED YOUR EYEBROWS BLOWING OUT THE CANDLES.
THE DAY AFTER YOUR BIRTHDAY,
A) YOU REQUIRE SIX EXTRA HOURS OF SLEEP;
B) YOU CAN'T FIND YOUR LIVING ROOM UNDER THE BIRTHDAY DEBRIS;
C) YOU WONDER HOW YOU COULD POSSIBLY HAVE DONE THAT.
THE DAY AFTER YOUR BIRTHDAY, IT'S TIME TO:
A) RETURN SOME GIFTS (WHAT IS THAT, ANYWAY?);
B) CALL YOUR FRIENDS AND APOLOGIZE FOR YESTERDAY;
C) GET OUT OF THE COUNTRY, FAST.
THE DAY AFTER YOUR BIRTHDAY...
WE SHOULD ALL LOOK SO GREAT
AND HAVE IT SO GOOD!
HAPPY BIRTHDAY!
APPRECIATE YOURSELF AND YOUR LIFE!



Details | Prose Poetry | |

Affectionate Mothers

O thou affectionate mothers..
Where slumbering tired in the mud houses
Shining up the darkness nights
by your perfume breath.
Defeating the fear by conjurations and
soothing the pain by chanting.
The nightingales hearken to you
while Jasmine fall asleep in our dreams

Ah _ thou affectionate mothers
As if the death straighten up a stone above us!
so come drive the shattered clouds
Where we sleep.
Maybe if they pouring continuously
a sweet rain from their breath,
our dreams will grown greener
in the freshness hills


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Devine Rose

Red Rose time beauty most Devine leave your children the vine. 
Mother of the Life most clear expresses her joy's most Devine. 
Let us cleave to many dark brought back from the Abyss May. 
Purple Hail the Mother children--take back those who seek it. 
Leave the abyss to it and awake it not for the children Devine. 
Medals of time sway you not from your Blue Devine's purposes. 
Let the children to the Devine be swayed not. 
Mary Mother world to you I commit Lover's Dew. 
Your Son is most Royal Devine, love, sweetness and hope.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

LET ME LIVE!

An unborn child comes to the realization that his Mother is contemplating having an abortion. 
Using Biblical Reason, he speaks to her through The Spirit, pleading that she change her mind
and allow him to be born.


"IS THIS WHAT GOD WOULD HAVE YOU DO:
TAKE AWAY A LIFE ITS RIGHT TO LIVE...
PREVENT A BIRTH INTO A WORLD,
WHEN HE HAS SO MUCH TO LOVE AND GIVE?

I KNOW THE SORROW YOU WILL FEEL.
OH CHOOSE THE GIFT OF LIFE NOT TO DESTROY!
HOLD ME IN YOUR ARMS FOR JUST A WHILE
AND SOON YOUR PAIN WILL TURN TO JOY!

DID YOU NOT KNOW THAT ALL MY DAYS
WERE WRITTEN IN GOD'S GREAT MASTER PLAN?
I WAS WOVEN TOGETHER FROM THE DEPTHS OF EARTH
LONG BEFORE THE WORLD EVER BEGAN.

AS A CHILD YOU MUST ENTER THE KINGDOM OF GOD.
AS A CHILD HE WAS WORSHIPPED AND ADORED.
TO THE WISE THE WONDERS OF HEAVEN ARE CONCEALED,
BUT TO ITS CHILDREN THE GLORY REVEALED.

YES TO THE CHILDREN THE GLORY IS REVEALED





By Milton L. Delgado
Inspired by Proverbs 8:23
Psalm 139: 13-16
March 14, 1997


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Divine Intervention

Beautiful little girl
Devastatingly beautiful
The birds would start chirping when she walked past
Her mother’s daughter they all said
A mirror image
 
And suddenly she was shocked by love
5 years old being undressed like a doll
Caressed and bathed so lovingly
Such gentle touches
That no one suspected
 
Mother found a new piece to her heart
Wedding bells chimed
And a new father was born
5 years old she was…just 5
 
This beautiful little girl found love in her “new” father’s arms
He held her close, sometimes too close
But no one suspected
She didn’t know this love was pain wearing a mask
She learned that love was…
Shielded from the eyes of her mother
Night visits to her room from her father
Year after year
For 15 years this was the love she knew
 
She felt invaded, alone and abused
She told her mother
About her new father…the man her mother loved
She didn’t acknowledge, wouldn’t bring herself to see
What the water so clearly replayed in her view
The mother knew, just knew
That her husband would, couldn’t ever
Never…bring pain to his daughter, never
 
Little girl, what does it feel like to be loved?
It feels warm, and wrong but gentle
Strong hands unclothing you
Caressing your body as if you are a grown woman
With a glorified body to worshipped and pillaged over
Little girl, what does pain feel like?
Closed doors…darkness…my father…naked
Hopeless
 
Beautiful little girl
Devastatingly beautiful
Pain paraded as love
Molestation masked for discipline
When your daughter cries out
When she cowers in corners
And doesn’t trust the dark
When she says love is just another word
Just another synonym to let him abuse her
Trust what she has to say…
 
I was that beautiful little girl and now I am a woman plagued with fears
Some nightmares you cannot outrun
And some memories only God can wipe away
The blood of all my pain is on my mother’s hands
"I forgive you"
Beautiful they say…
It’s a mask for something more


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Evidenced

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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

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 | |

Good -Bye Sonny

Good -Bye Sonny



Sonny was the talk of the town 
and when the neighbors passed by
they  would so often frown
for Sonny was an outcast
one who would take, but never ask
He drank his Spirits from a flask
and couldnt deal with much of a task
Sonny's mom had to go out with a mask
because of all the questions 
that the neighbors would ask
he wouldnt care if she shed a tear
or if her dress flew in the air
and he wouldnt care when the neighbors
passed by in order to stare

Now his mom's emotions were all spent
and to her name she had barely a cent
and she wondered of the length of her torment.

"How long will my torment last?", 
"How much longer?"she' would ask
Then one day, she took that flight
and went toward that white light
that was so bright in her sight
just to end her day and finish off her night.
Good-bye Sonny


McCuen Copyright October 2008


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Mom

im sorry that i hurt you
im sorry that you cried 
im sorry that i'll never be 
what you want to have 
im sorry tha you cant forgive me
im sorry that your mad
im sorry i ruined your perfect life 
im sorry that your not
im sorry i could not be an angel
im sorry that i didnt try
im sorry that im so jacked up
im sorry i got on drugs
im sorry i started to drink
but im not sorry that i did it 
cause that was a blast!


Details | Prose Poetry | |

MORNING DRINK

since am   small
now am tall
but i do recall
from my rout
the south
you get up  and make
this is  not fake
it was cofee
i can still see
how the family would think
and blink and wink
over  this
MORNNING DRINK