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Prose Poetry Music Poems | Prose Poetry Poems About Music

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

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Bell's Blues

Staring, vapor locked, at my Hammond B-3 console organ, which dominates my 
kitchen.  Surely a symbol of my madness.  I can't help, but think, if the keys were 
the days of my life, and the black ones represented the bad days, are there 
enough black keys??  Fighting petulance, self-pity...losing...
     Wondering if I can stand another minute alone.  Atop my organ, music books, 
and the complete works of Edgar Allan Poe, another mad poet.
     Plagued by physical agonies that merely complete a perfect circle of anguish 
and distress.  Even to worrying of misspelling a word again.  Pure lunacy.
     Remembrance of my 1863 death at Missionary Ridge, something I became 
aware of as a young child before I'd ever heard of reincarnation.  Or just an early 
sign of the madness to come??
     I am lost in a befouling miasma of deep despair.  My life's hopes down to 2 
desires;  one last music band, and taking my son to Disneyworld.  Money is 
meaningless to me.
     I am well aware that death is as natural as life.  And I would venture to guess 
that the loss of my father, my young cousin Billy, my dear friend Mark Trotiner, and 
too many others, are "Business As Usual" in this universe.  But not for me.
     Being terminally ill myself is something I have long since come to terms with.  
And what a reunion it will be!!  But I must continue to go on surviving as though I 
cherish this long and barren life.
     My writing, especially my poetry, my poet friends, my music, my musician 
friends, and a few relatives and others; these are the meds that work for me; not 
the 30 or so pills I must deal with everyday.  So thank you all.
And now an addendum, one which brightened my day:
     Mark Trotiner long maintained that he gave Mark Knoffler (Dire Straights) the 
idea for his hit song "Money For Nothing", when Mark Knoffler came into the 
appliance chain store he worked in way back then, where he bought, and drove 
off with several T.V.s, singing the prototype words he'd gotten from Mark Trotiner.  
Over the years, I tested him repeatedly, looking for the tale-tell deviation in the 
story one finds in a false tale.  He never faltered, he never failed.

Copyright © tom bell

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Collecting the Cracks that Bleed Through My Voice.

We broke in two and it amused him that I was still counting...

I could hear the night whisper beyond his ears, the bed we lay ourselves down upon and
passion was considerate when his mind let go....

she was direct and unforgiving and I...

I could listen to the tumbling of my heart for ages and I collected music as my lips split
in half, it was only to kiss him, you see, only to allow him to know...

how I bled.

I tasted myself as the night wore on, exhausted yet hungry for his arms, I studied my own
in the afternoon, multiplied my freckles and wondered if my child would be ashamed of the
scars that decorated my skin, prayed she would never know how years could bite, so I
reached for him when the clouds became cold and I became...


as I frightened myself to death in the realization that we....

were still so alive.

The ground we walked on spoke of faults and mistakes, there were cracks in the earth yet
my hand still held his, he was clueless and I was silent but we slept well, he and I,
after passion erupted and the sky split...

when the clouds collected my music and rain sang, just to show him, how the days

Copyright © JeanMarie Marchese

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Bell's Blues (Conclusion)

     Today, I had a chance to ask his widow, Laurie, about this story.  She 
confirmed that it did happen, and he came home from work that day excited, and 
told her and their 3 daughters about the event.
     And sure enough, shortly thereafter, the song became a hit on the radio, and 
M.T.V., in those ancient days when they actually played music.
     This news brightened my day considerably, and I'm happy to share it with you; 
so when you next hear that song, remember my good buddy, Mark Trotiner, the 
uncredited genius behind it.
                                          tom bell

Copyright © tom bell

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When We Met

          ~When We Met.~
Battling everyday is so hard to maintain a healthy 
brain to keep up with our everyday work our 
thoughtful speculations of wanting the impossible 
to take place,has to change,by gaining self confidence
and become independent.

When we just met at the hotel lobby for recollection 
of work,accompanying us the sounds of 4 of July in LA. 
Our ceaseless conversations felt flawless immediately.
A faultless intimate sharing took over a mixture of
work and pleasure.

When we just met,our loving nature coincided with
authentic sounds of fireworks plus its music filling 
the sky with a huge combination of the most
beautiful Technicolor's of fireworks.

The sounds with musical lights combined together
allowed our eyes to sparkle more than ever,both 
of us became in a pensive dreamy mood for a rightful 
discussion about how love can start by romancing,
to evolve later into a durable long lived relationship.
He was so much my type of a man,an artist in his work,
very authentic,fancy,& has an unforgettable 
sense of humor.

Smiling drinking and eating with our discussing, 
constantly allowed us to remain in high spirits, 
behind us the sky illuminated our joy of being 
together,that delightful lasting closeness felt 
like a challenge awaiting for the unpredictable 
to happen,the tremendous sounds of fireworks 
accompanied with a charming tempo ringing
in out thoughts.

Instantly our touching hands felt permissive,
stimulative,devoted,his voice transformed into 
an echo inviting me to later go up into his room 
to heat up the bed and enjoy cooling off our desires.
Having asked me before about what color of roses I love,

Later on hand by hand once inside the room it was filled 
with yellow roses everywhere,and layered on the 
beautiful bed.
Suddenly, he threw my hand bag and held me so tight 
to waltz to the sounds of music,a telepathy between us 
and the sounds rang in our ears as a sweet mixture of music.
Immediately took my hand kissed it with his warmest lips 
begging to love me tonight,what a gentleman our body 
connection was authentic,flirting as a start was conceived 
in an artistic way,kissing wise and making love was 
memorable, slowly the sounds ended while gradually 
our naked bodies parted in the morning when our 
routine for work had to take place. 

We parted with a long sexual kiss,emancipating
another brutal night with a candle light.

Therese Bacha

Copyright © Therese Bacha

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Love's Symphonic Passion

Love's Symphonic Passion
                                by Odin Roark

Shimmering whispers urge forth,
A beginning seeks release from darkness,
The voicing of struggle proclaims arrival,
Like miniature cymbals of resolute announcement,
The humble cries of emergence
Clash ever so quiet with air and space,
Once portending grace,
Now its melodic genesis.

The matrixes of parent/conductor
Anxiously hum nursery rhymes
Through white enameled side-rails,
Vertical portals to unfettered ears,
Absorbing even when sleeping,
Evolving passion's invitation.

The precious first movements
Grow from those one-finger dissonant phrases,
Sometimes pounded upon the black and white landscape
Where an merging piccolo's infant smile
Finds support by paternal contra bass and maternal cello echoes.

Remembrances of tinkling melodies
Soon enjoin its pure and simple
With conflicted movements of trial and error,
Evolving the inevitable adagio of growing up.

Hence forth
The scherzo's innocence of adolescence
Crescendos into threatening measures,
Where layered tones of choices
present challenge,
counterpoint to independence,
or sympatric harmony.

The family of voicing
Develop love's thematic material,
And more complex harmonies,
Creating the free fantasia,
A coalescing of passion's varied workouts.

Its strings worn thin,
Arriving at life's largo movement of peace,
That place of reflective consonance,
The weight of its chambered containment
Rests forth its closing bars,
Housing now but the waning echo of a baby's chorus.

Its shimmering whispers
Float upon one last wave of the baton,
Stirring life's ethereal essence
Into heroic chorus
A higher bonding…

Copyright © Odin Roark

Details | Prose Poetry | |


	It was kind of nice having money all the
	Looking back when I was seventeen,
		I looked forward to going to work.
	It is unlike what I feel about work now.
		I did a lot of reading as a child.
	I read all kinds of books.
		I would consider Oak Lawn a safe
	Community then. 
		I can’t remember any times when I got beat up.

	I did a lot of running home and telling.
		I avoided a lot of suffering by talking to
		My parents about the bullies.
			It wasn’t until junior high that I had to
		Take care of a fight that went way wrong.
			I was scared to death of a seventh grader.
		I fought him, and found out he wanted to 
		I wasn’t that good of a 
			Wrestler then.

		I got better
			In high school.
		It was kind of chaotic, and the wrestling matches
			Were more “fighting” than wrestling.
		I hung in school and made a name for myself
			At Oak Lawn Community High School.
		My sister gave me a collection of albums
			My junior year.
		I was introduced to all kinds of music by

		My first good introduction to music came
			My sophomore year.
		A friend introduced me to “The Police” with
			“Zenyatta Mondatta” and “Ghost in
		The Machine”.
			He told me what he did at his party
		In eighth grade.
		They sat around and played Gin.
			They drank soda.
		They went bowling.

		I got off to a late start with music,
			And I finally caught up with my tape-
		Radio I got for Christmas my junior year.
			I could have had a big party,
		But I decided to wait.
			I didn’t really have one except
	 	The one’s I had in grammar school.
			My friend thought he was going to
		Get married to this one girl at O.L.C.H.S.
			It fizzled out like my relationship did.

			That girl liked someone else though.
		I should have given up calling her,
			It was no fun talking to her.
		She didn’t talk to me at all in school.
			I’m not sure she even knew who I was
		In lunch.
			I didn’t have anymore classes with her.
			Her boyfriend went out for basketball
		Like I should have done.  I was pretty good.  Maybe just
		Doing my chess and studying was the best thing for me to do.


Copyright © Hannibal Lecter

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The Space that's within -

The atmosphere is electric with joyous anticipation
The musicians are readying themselves to perform
 You know some of the pieces that are on the programme
You settle yourself down and switch off your phone.

The concert is starting - the atmosphere changes
An energy filters to all in the room. 
A tuning of instruments, the looking at scores
Some rustling of programmes, a settling of bones -
The conductor emerges to a rapturous applause.

The greeting of musicians, old protocols fulfilling
This fuss gives importance to composers long dead
The excitement is rising – the audience is waiting - then
A gentle quiet plucking - a crash of brass cymbals -
Violinists  synergistically wielding their bows. 

Wind takes up some threads of the melody
Soprano in blue sings out from her soul
Her face is mirroring a wealth of emotion
Slow melody – a gradual build up - a crescendo sublime.

A solo on viola – entwined with some oboe -
Conductor is dancing – the harpist entrancing
Percussion joy-riding 
- an excitement of sound
Invades your serenity –

You sit up straight – alert to the music – 
Absorbing it all with each cell of your being
A smile on his face, your companion leans over –
“Keep this in your mind for when you grow older,
It will delight you!”

Copyright © Liz Walsh

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Be Still

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

Copyright © Jennifer Cahill

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The Enigmatic Middle C

The Enigmatic Middle C
                                          by Odin Roark

How lonely
Might that in between place be,
Where water from trickle beginnings
Modulates into wakes,
The upward span,
Then downward stretch,
Forging through minor and major choices,
Embracing half tones of engagement,
Carrying a merging forth of discovery,
Becoming a torrent
Containing both high
And low resonance,
Searching connective tremolos for oneness,
Finding innocence too must give way
As sensory reaches beyond comprehension,
Where the journey to ascending chance,
Converges proudly with the crescendo of eternity’s unsolved mystery.

And then there comes the uncovering…

This state of mind where new lessons to be learned
Conjoin this forever gathering of cosmic virility,
Where energy’s often dissonant questions
Start from ancestral middle fulcrums,
Branching its reach beyond scale,
Dancing with lightness of weight,
Tip-toeing upon the notes of power
Into cautious voices forging ahead,
Always remaining of purpose,
Yet often clashing as contrapuntal mistakes.

A child might hear the echo,
As octaves of like innocence reaching skyward
Enjoin rising fathoms from below,
Becoming one in harmony.

Such is the improvisation of life’s exploration,
Searching for tomorrow’s final chorus,
Where one’s once center being,
Youth’s springboard arch,
Finally becomes the never ending center
Of perpetuity’s orchestral gift,
That striving to live what life can be,
And then what it might become,
That spanning far beyond yesteryear’s Middle C,
Where the measured spans of equidistance
Ascend the borderless boundaries of one’s inner-self.

Copyright © Odin Roark

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The Flautist

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ THE FLAUTIST  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 THE FLAUTIST fluently flaunted her flute- Music flew faultlessly through the airwaves, flying fluidly above the noise of the blustering city                                                    
THE flautist created a calm fragrance, who's flavor of creativity fell-well onto your soul creating a soul stirring calmness across the city. 
She played her flute clean into the night vehemently, over the feverish chaos – 
And the people in the park and in the city could hear clearly as they walked in rhythmic tunes/ She flaunted her music like sweet low hanging fruit, Her music dangled beautiful and singly. She alone, Solo-ed notes of delightful serenity-  
  The flautist moved the masses to a state of bliss; Like free kisses flying in the wind landing on ears conquering and engaging spirits, conquering pandemonium with her flute, she blew her flute... SHE BLEW HER FLUTE, and we marched and listened obediently. She blew her flute and we marched magnificently to her concert.

Copyright © Vicki Acquah

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A Meditation on Music

The Evolution of a Note 

The song continues and the listeners remain happy.  The one note which is floating in the air will be heard!  The change in the sound will  be heard .  The change in the sound will not be too drastic .  The truth is something that that there are some things which time cannot destroy.  The air is cold but the sun is shining.  The one note  floats in the air and takes shelter in the heart of a large tree.  Feel this note in your heart .  It has incredible power

Copyright © Matthew Anish

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Hypnotic Beyonce

A love that is stronger than my pride,
trying to keep feelings my heart can no longer hide
Emotional honesty is trapped within me,
relieve me, and oh please set me free.

How to give my heart if am afraid to be hurt
Turning my back on love ignoring what its worth.
Refused to reach out for his love, I ‘m all left alone, now
loneliness thrilled me to my very bone.
Playing the ‘hard to get game’, now I’m left like a clown.
Trying to escape from such a feeling; truth that my heart is revealing.
Silence screams music in my head, pushing me to switch on the TV
There came Beyoncé doing her show, singing her new song ‘Halo’
Amazed, her voice melted my frozen stare, so I sat down on the coach to listen.
Her music turns hypnotic and pulled me in, sending thrills all over my skin.
Her voice were clear as the Caribbean sky on a cloudless spring day,
and every word she says just melts my heart away, giving deep feelings that
Consume my tender heart, leaving only mystery with no ultimate attempt to define it.
Her word touches my emotion from the core of my soul, and it seems like 
everywhere, only my lover’s face that I behold. 

Then a happy time filled my mind, giving sensation of a summer breeze tickling my 
skin and amplifies the deepest desire I felt within. This perpetual bliss, abruptly I 
found myself in the arms of my love wth Enthralled Melodies making Passion 
explodes into flames and from this very moment, I know my life will never be the 

 By  kelleyana Junique.

Copyright © kelleyana junique

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(Winter Song)

This cold is touching me and I'm liking it 

It hugs me real tight and I'm loving it 

Now it's biting me real hard 

From my foot up to my face 

I wanted to let go but it won't 

Though it realy hurts, I won't mind 

Cry? Never! 

(c) 2012

Copyright © Joshua Akinwande

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Nineteen fable

 Nineteen fable 
Nineteen fable 
MUSICK NONnude Review 
Grand Funk Railroad was a fave group of mine the best time eye ever had was in 
a house on a rug listening to this song of hard rock and rhinocerous thumps. 
Wait. FOGHAT was the best for sex but lucky mee was never a Catholic. The 
Horns blew for Chicago and there was lots of other groups to make this fable 
bleed there was the Creedence Clearwater Revival so cool so wonderful a thing. 
John Fogarty sure must have been a saint. Eye wish he had not got so mad and 
left the other members of his group. But Creedence Song became a new fave 
Daddy had a band 
Played him a little guitar 
Traveled in a van 
Livin' that rock and roll 
Night after night 
People comin' up to the bandstand 
Say you can't go wrong 
If you play a little bit of that 
Creedence song 

It was late one night 
Cruisin' on down the interstate 
Stopped into a diner 
To get him some chili and fries 
Heard the waitress tell a guy 
Standin' over by the jukebox 
Hey you can't go wrong 
If you play a little bit of that 
Creedence song 

Well daddy took a shine 
To the lil' girl behind the counter 
She movin' her hips to the swamp beat 
Right on time 
Said could he play her somethin' 
Over there on the jukebox 
She said you can't wrong 
If you play a little bit of that 
Creedence song 

Daddy had a plan 
He asked that girl to marry 
With a brand new wife 
They're livin' on rock and roll 
Night after night 
She whispers oh so sweetly 
Hey you can't go wrong 
If you play a little bit of that 
Creedence song 

Copyright © charles hice

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The Golden Fertility of the Harvest

He is the sinking of the final red orange sun of the glowing summer 
Warmth no longer oozing and seeping into the pores as I lie bare under the skies 
Jeweled dewdrops on the morning grass to dampen bare feet all softness under  
And the shimmer on the surface of the lakes like the diamonds in your eyes 

He is the golden cusp pf Autumn's Fertility 
The ritual dance of the scarecrow in the breezes 
(Straw coming loose and flying towards you, most certainly 
will brush up against you and tickle before he ceases)  
And this thinner less lumpy all seeing scarecrow  
Seems to be in no remorse: his knowing face will always grin  
And his arms will always be raised in a wave to show 
He will protect the yellow brown stalks that bend before him 
He is the crisp wind that caresses the crinkled foliage 
Their rustling like long flowing skirts on a 1940s ballroom floor 
These winds chill the fingers and toes and your face with the stinging red roses  
Yet when winter beckons the retreating light, we will be frozen at its core 

He is silent snowfalls and many winter moons  
And the brown earth beginning to expose itself  
The uncoiling of green and mud beginning to ooze  
And all new life breaking free from its fragile shell

Copyright © Jennifer Cahill

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Like a raindrops, 
When racing October, smoothly, 
Shaking upon ember pulse 
Ah _ I adore its talk, 
When fear roars into myself and calms

And when the minaret of the village, 
Exclaims my name, 
Like a successive waves, 
On the banks of sorrow

And when my old friends,
Taking a farewell look,
It’s lying down next to me
As a white star, 

Dancing between five sleepless angels 
Upon endless greenery land,
Playing grief tunes; the tunes of the end

Copyright © Fatima Nusairat

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Waking to murmurs	
Hum of smooth white noise 
Or waves slapping rocks

Through mirror-like glass
I see russet wings
Dampened by dewdrops	
Walk to the kitchen, 
my feet soft and bare 
on tiles cracked, and 

wish the sea
so sinking


Copyright © Jennifer Cahill

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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 
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 

Copyright © Poetry Is It

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The Day The Music Stopped

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

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

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

Copyright©2001 Beatrice Boyle
(All rights reserved)

Copyright © Beatrice Boyle

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Late Night Music

And far into the night I crooned that tune. The stars went out and so did the moon. I stopped playing and went to bed While the tunes through his head.....!

Copyright © sakshi sitoot

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Encompassed in Memory

Cool mountain streams reflect the cobalt blues and greys of sky 		   
Restful twilight with stars scattered as if on a canvas 		   
Fire cloaks the curve of the earth and golden fish swim nearby 		   
Weeping willows in the field sway to an urgent sadness 		   
The gushing wind that stirs etches the land, channels through boundless time 		   
The carved thrust of a mountain range, maybe the Andes 		   
Will challenge the forever yielding sky, vast as the horizon 		   
Where rain batters the window and mists as far as we can see 		   
It is a warm evening in a pub in Ireland 		   
As the songs hover around us, I know this is what it is like to be free

Copyright © Jennifer Cahill

Details | Prose Poetry | |


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

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

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

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

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

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

Copyright © Te'Arra Callandret

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Poised chin, resting warmly in the tailored cup,
     Seals the union.
The smooth bow tenderly caresses each tuned string;
    Fingers gentle as milk
Roam the slender mahogany neck: sweetly
     Stealing silence.

The ebony hued harmonic vault echoes released passions
     Of an innocent heart
Bleeding a mosaic canvas: coloring metered air
     With cosmic rhythms.

Cosmic rhythms: teasing tympanic membranes
     With melodic ecstasy.

Copyright © millard lowe

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 if the music on
they belong
no matter if its bop
or hip hop or pop
its the music shop
non stop
has no corlor for all other

Copyright © kurtis scott aka curtis futch jr

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Fourth Fable

 The Fourth Fable 
The Fourth Fable 
A Jesus Cowboy Song 
Eye am a strong man iff strength is not physical alone, 
but charachter and hope, love become my armour 
 my arm as gates once opened close now new ones open at a glance in poverty 
of riches poor people there in Heaven sing to Jesus as they wave branches from 
the richness of the trees beside the waters running in the trenches freely given 
overflowing when a little lamb just wants a drink of water another drink the water 
bubbles up so no one has to lift her she can reach the water carefully she drinks 
and then she sings…' 
'my holster is empty my life is complete my love is in Heaven 
eye have plenty to eat and to drink ' 
life is not meant to be a shoot em up rodeo 
life is not meant to be a shoot um up movie 
my life is in Heaven my holster is empty 
eye have LOVE' 

Copyright © charles hice

Details | Prose Poetry | |



Once upon a time - not so long ago - encountered, was this exotic GU ZHENG. Fate, placed this lovely Instrument, into the hands of an old player, a musician who had been laid to rest, who had lain dormant, frozen in time, among the ashes of reflections of the music he once played, music that created the sights and sounds that made up the visions he now looks into, of his past. 

This old man's abilities - decaying, flaccid from so many years of neglect and impotency - came to life, to life with such desire, that it made possible, movements from his tired old mind, mouth, hands and fingers that would play sounds, vibrations of heavenly music, that would sing to the ears of his lost old soul, lifting his spirit to heights once only known to his youth now to extro into the world of the living, once again, fingers - like that of the gods - gliding over this elegant, sweet Instrument, caressing her with whispered strokes, much like those of silent breezes on a clear, worm summer's day as they slide across the quivering strings of this beautiful GU ZHENG, that now - after so brief a moment, making such heavenly articulations -has given up the music, ending the dance, turning down low, the lights that once, where as brilliant as a million suns, and taking the music - silently drifting across the players recollections of tunes they once danced to -and slipping it into the hands of another .

The old musician slips into a cloak of sadness, of dark dirges he puts into his own words, plays from his instrument, - the broken heart - plucking at it's dead strings, bringing to life the blues, the song of his awakening .

B. J."A" 2
February 16th 2011

Copyright © William J. Jr. Atfield

Details | Prose Poetry | |

La Mujer Del Barrio Vega

Some Paris Hilton wannabe laughed
At my cell phone
(which was missing the battery cover)
As if to say
"How pathetic!"
As if to suggest
"He'll never get laid!"

The day was too gloriously
For me to care
About the trivialities of some
Electronic set of shackles
And the status of their condition


I was tempted to throw out some quips
Toss some facetiousness around
Like feces
Just a little something to mentally gnaw on
While  mockingly handing her the phone
"Oh, your girlfriend has something to admit to you."
While overanalysing her face
"Oh, nice 1986 pink skiing googles that you call sunglasses."
Why feed the absurdity with more
Of the same

The leaves were showing signs of new color
The air was crisp
The hummingbirds were in Mexico
The music in my head was excellent as
The breeze blew over my neurons

La muchacha con no alma

Buenos dias 
Para la Tierra

Copyright © dennis sheffer

Details | Prose Poetry | |


I’m dancing to my feeling, with a rhythm
Of music unsung
Listening to distant voices
Unsure of the message
Of love that ain’t mine, in the voice I hear

‘Here I am’, could that be the voice
That drives me to the unknown
To lands I fear to trend, in light and dark,
To catch the voices, and kiss the light
That sparkles, in darkness of love

I’m all but, biting the desires
And hidden feelings in my heart
Unsure of her feelings
And music in her eyes
That leaves me faint, and crippled with desires!

Copyright © Charles Mwalimu

Details | Prose Poetry | |

come listen to the music

I hear the music of the heavenly angels 
Coming softly through the blue sky from above 
Blending with the music from on the mountain tops 
Bringing to all earth's people messages of love. 

The song birds are singing to the angels' music 
Telling us to hear the words of truth very clear, 
"All of earth's people are more alike than different 
And to help each other will leave no room for fear". 

Come listen to the music of quiet gentle breezes 
And music from wild flowers growing on the hill 
Whispering softly to awaken our spirits 
Saying, "Only listen and let your hearts be still

Copyright © chhavi gandhi

Details | Prose Poetry | |



I put the following piece of prose together as a single literary package after watching Hitchcock, a 2012 American biographical dramafilm based on Stephen Rebello's non-fiction book Alfred Hitchcock and the Making of Psycho. The film was released on 23 November 2012; I saw this dramafilm two years and two months later, yesterday evening 17/1/'151 on TV, in Tasmania Australia. In 2015 was entering the last decade of late adulthood, the years from 60 to 80 according to one model of human development used by psychologists. I wrote much more than what appears here, but space does not permit me to enter any more of what I've written.

Psycho was a 1960 American psychological thriller-horror film directed by Alfred Hitchcock starring Anthony Perkins, Vera Miles, John Gavin, and Janet Leigh. The film was released in the same week I began grade 11 at high school in the then small town of Burlington in Ontario's golden horseshoe.  I had just finished one of my most successful summer seasons on the mound and at bat in Burlington's midget league, as well as in the Halton County baseball association. Readers with the interest can access all the details they require about the film at several websites.

Psycho's screenplay was by Joseph Stefano, and it was based on the 1959 novel by the same name.  In 1959 I joined the Baha'i Faith and knew nothing of the novel, although I had heard of Alfred Hitchcock on TV several years before; I also saw the film several years later at some time from 1961 to 1963, my last years of high school.
Sir Alfred Joseph Hitchcock(1899-1980) was an English film director and producer.  Often nicknamed "The Master of Suspense", he pioneered many techniques in the suspense and  psychological thriller genres. After a successful career in British cinema in both silent films & early talkies, renowned as England's best director, Hitchcock moved to Hollywood in 1939; he became a US citizen in 1955. Wikipedia has an excellent overview of his life and I commend it to readers with the interest. The magazine   MovieMaker has described him as the most influential filmmaker of all time, and he is widely regarded as one of cinema's most significant artists.2-Ron Price with thanks to 1ONE TV, 17/1/'15, 8:30-10:30, and 2Wikipedia.
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Copyright © Ron Price