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Prose Poetry Mystery Poems | Prose Poetry Poems About Mystery

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Chopped III-Suicidal Dick's

  The Playbill for the 9/8/01 show at Godspeed Opera House falls from my  palm to the floor. Here I sit, with a drugged hangover but alive. The last thing I remember is a suicide note in the Underwood typewriter on my desk, beside an ashtray of Blanche's lipstick smeared butts. Putting back on, the bifocals that had been dangling from one ear; I frown. I can't remember arriving? A phone's ringing; I stumble toward the tone. Odd looking thing, I think, as I bend over. The note taped to it says; it's a cell phone? "What the hell?" As I flip it open, I'm tackled. My heel slips on a broken pencil; I'm down. "What did you do? You bastard," he bawls, waving an airline ticket in my face. Looking toward him, I notice the stage still lit. He grabs the cell phone, "What the hell is this? You a commie spy?"- The 'phone? screen?' says 'Fred go to the opera house by midnight or you're both dead.' The curtain parts revealing a pool of blood: a chord is struck.
  It's midnight accordin' to the ticker. I have a moment's relief before my arm's wrenched behind me. I'm cuffed. There's a shout from the lobby and the sound of sirens. Lifting me, he shoves me to the wall; locks me to the door pull. The theater hall appears empty except for us. Through a door, he charges. "Back here guys." The SWAT team arrives. "Smells like the dead in here Marco's, where's the body?"
  "Ask him. Take him out and open some damned windows will ya." Two of the gorillas toss me on the porch under the moth laden lights. Just when the cop was about to kick me in the head; a woman screams. The coppers run inside. I hear a crash and a half dozen clod hoppers trompin', then through the door rolls a single gold earring. I scream "Blanche!!!!!!" 
  The crew hollers CUT-PRINT-It's a WRAP. I smile as Blanche saunters out.
 


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An Open Communique to the Rogues

To the seedlings sprouting in the 8 corners of the world:



An open communique can lead towards a perilous precipice overlooking jagged rocks being pounded by the relentless waves of a cold, apathetic ocean -- in such a circumstance, it doesn't take much to slip, to be pushed, to be sent over the edge, shattering upon the rocks below, sucked down by an undertow erasing all evidence of your prior existence. We have come to an impasse, the windows of opportunity in the jet-streams of change, are passing by at astounding speeds. A true Anarchist is not a Terrorist; leave such decrepit despondency to ultra-fanatic zealots and the New Gestapo. A true Anarchist should not fight for lawlessness, should not wish for chaotic, wanton destruction - such myths are propagated by automatons and the controllers themselves. A true Anarchist should not raise placards in protest, should not spray-paint graffiti upon the walls of gaudy Bauhaus replications, nor lob Molotov cocktails at an establishment so entrenched, four heads grow back to replace every head, decapitated. A true Anarchist dons a masque of mirages, reflecting nationalism, consumerism and Swastikas back into the eyes of the pushers. A true Anarchist does so by donning the uniforms of business districts, of the worker, of the paint-splattered, ink-stained artisan. When a true Anarchist gains the confidence and trust of Drones left in charge of oiling the cogs, a true Anarchist enters the control-room not to smash instruments, but instead, turns dials, flicks switches, presses buttons, re-writes programs and codes, in order to help alter the directional course of the very Beast itself. 11.21.2012 .


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Babylon-Kids

When job positions within monopolies prevent us from working together
towards a goal far greater than lining the pockets of a few,
when schools stop us from educating ourselves,
and are instead, assembly lines churning-out tin soldiers,
when governments prevent humanity from achieving self-determination,
when media keeps us informed about current events,
rather than us becoming involved in the events,
then only in resistance will we find each other;
will we find ourselves in the purest sense. 

The masqued ones are erasing themselves
within a society in which everything is under surveillance,
measured, quantified and appraised,
where everything is determined by resumes,
credit history, internet profiles.
Background checks, gossip columns, intelligence agencies,
conspire to drag every last detail out into the open.

The masqued ones live in an in-between world
being squeezed by other worlds.
It is a world existing in the hope of understanding reality, 
by changing reality.
If the powers that be, can reveal the hidden world,
dragging it out under the searing spotlight of scrutiny,
under the spotlight of current mass-ideology,
then one more possible world reality becomes extinct
under the boots of Fascists using the freedom of speech
to silence the freedoms of everyone else;
eventually, even including themselves.

The controllers want to show there are no unchartered paths
leading away from the programmable masses of mundanity.
Therefore, the masque is seductive to those not fully conditioned
to become blind sheep led by shepherds, towards the slaughter.
The masque suggests mystery, unknowns,
alternative endings to a story covered in mildew.
The masque symbolizes a threat to an entrenched establishment.
The masque becomes the chrysalis in which a pupa
can evolve into something different; into something new.


....in warrens deep below,
Babylon-kids write love songs,

and above ground, people preach rights and freedoms, 
while enslaving the world in the chains of a democracy
that has never truly existed.

Democracy is a dream turned nightmare,
so the Babylon-kids are keeping the dream
of a choose-your-own-adventure, alive.




12.03.2012




.


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TIMES CATCHING

TIME CATCHING
©Alfreda Williamson, 6/29/12
Spring’s first day . . .
	blustery, blowing,
	as cold as
Winter’s first blast.

Until . . .
	as hot as, blazing,
	relentless,
Summer’s sun.

Then . . . 
	as I stood in,
	the midst of the seasons.
	I felt it,
	ever so softly, almost imperceptibly,
	a brushing against my cheek,
	a landing on my bare feet,
	that I almost could not feel.
Just,
	one, tiny,
	yellow leaf,
that I saw in my mind’s eye . . .
	frantically, decidedly,
	swirling speedily to the ground,
	as if heralding,
Autumn.
____________________
	
TIME, 	catching up to itself.
SEASONS, catching up to themselves,
All at once . . . 
	time’s flying,
	compressing,
Winding up.


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In The Woods

I set off along the faint trail
it was one I had not noticed before
plunging me deep into unknown territory
stomach clenched in excitement as I strode on

Tall old Oaks, Aspens, Chestnuts and Beeches
cloaked the way ahead, I was aware of silence
rather a nervous paused silent as if holding it's breath
everything seemed to be waiting for something to happen

Deeper into the woods I went, admiring the new slightly odd 
flora and fauna scattered about, beautiful flowers blooming
mushrooms two feet and more wide with red and yellow spots
sturdy enough to sit on while I took a rest

Slipping into sleep I traveled even deeper
until I came to the heart of these mysterious woods
a shout went up from elves, fairies and pixies
she is here at last, our soon to be crowned new queen

A magical glen with a throne in the middle
red carpet made from red flower petals strewn
jewels most wondrous glinting in the trees
birds so colorful that they dazzle as they fly

Clasping me by the hand the pixies lead to the throne
once I am seated, they serve me with golden nectar
tasty berries and cakes of flowers on leaves for plates
full of such excitement I gaze around the clearing

A place of tranquility and majestical splendor 
little houses in the trees and small fairy lights
standing sentinel was an ancient gnarled Oak
branches waving as it moved towards me

Shaking as it drew closer and stopped before me
an elf handed it a crown that glittered with gems
turning to me it said let the crowning commence
with great ceremony he uttered the words

"Has any here just cause as to why she shouldn't be crowned?"

A deathly silence prevailed not even a murmur
Then turning to me he placed it on my head
all around were now on bended knee, heads bowed
The oak said "Now you are our ordained queen"

As a great cheer went up I startled back awake
the clearing, throne and all the little people vanished
All that was left behind was a feather of wonderful hues
and the crashing of a startled stag fleeing into the trees


written 09/07/2013

contest  In The Woods


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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
Rise


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Out On The Porch Sunday April 10 2011

The cool dampness of the morn wraps its blanket around me inviting me come 
sit enjoy..The gap in the hedge row calls my name; come into the mist be 
shrouded and walk into the unknown as the rooster crows constantly stirring the 
air with their vocals..The sun with its yellow light of illumination ever getting 
brighter and warmer draws creatures of the sky to fly and sing praises..There is 
beauty all around on this spring morn. .Silly Mocking Bird said Whip-Poor-Will 
and for a second he had me totally confused was I getting up or going to 
sleep..


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23C


The digital face displays a naughty grin. 5:23am.
Sliding into seat 23C, I double-check my ticket just to make sure:

Seat 23C on Flight 753241698, with a designated lift-off time of 6:08am.


Beside me, chuckles Robert Anton Wilson's spirit:

"See, this is exactly why we appointed you as a Cardinal(the bird?) 
in The Church of The 23 Enigma. You are a perfect fit.
Son, this is a destiny you cannot change, 
so why not just make the best of it.

The plane might crash, be refurbished or decommissioned,
but the flight itself doesn't ever stop. Ever. 
Once you get on, get in, the flight stays on an infinite course.
Thank you for flying with: Synchronicity 23 Airways. Please, enjoy your flight."








2.24.2013: 23:57


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ANGEL WITH AN UMBRELLA

Encumbered with the walker
blankets for the wet bench,
sheets of water splashing the cement.
I ventured to my smoking spot
face hidden inside my hooded coat.

I light my fire stick,

letting drops of water 
reverberate on my hood.

My angel came walking by
called my name;

gave me her umbrella and kept on walking.


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Sacrificial Rite

Her Fate lies on a
Predestined canvas
Of muted red

Darkness speaks truth
Though gifts are silent 

Blindly, she feels for
The magical key
That will finally unlock
His lonely chamber

Her spirit is gentle
Ready to disclose the one
She has loved 
Forever…

’Drink the blood that patiently
dripped from my heart into
this Sacred Cask, and as you
feel me rushing through
your veins know…I love you’

Can he see beyond
Time’s Regal cloak?
Lift the veil of which separates
logic and emotion?
Sight and touch?

She’s coming for him soon
With the key to his 
Rebirth

‘Meet me at the
Bottom of the Spiral Staircase’

The tears she sheds
Belong to him…
For him…

Reaching
Within the nucleus of an
Isolated cell

Love hurts that much
A seemingly black abyss
She descends
Answering to the Dark
Moon's Call

Discovering
The deepest place
That eats away at her flesh...
She’ll sacrifice her life
For Him…

If one moment
His eyes see…


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Familiarity

What is it to me
that I cannot place you
in the picture painted by the years
the life has already spent?
Do you merely lurk,
and leave at a much later time?
Or, 
maybe
you are staying
because 
    you 
        are 
           meant
                to 
                   stay.

Then,
stay.
If you may.
I pray.
While I find a place (for us)
in the picture of eternities,
the gods must be 
hiding, 
conspiring;
themselves amusing.


Ah, the grand scheme of things -
                            a forgetting.
A familiar spirit we feel -
                            a remembering.     


(Note) This piece was inspiredly written for the beautiful souls - even the 
strangers - I have met along the way and will still come upon in my lifetime. To 
each special one, you have stirred quite a familiar spirit within. A remembrance 
of forgotten past, I suppose. Thank you for letting me peak through your 
soul's window. The veil of forgetfulness has never been thin as now to me. You 
have so given me a gift I shall treasure in the moments I may tend to forget 
who I truly am - a being with a soul.



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Frankenstorm 2012: A Haunting of Shelleys

A Cardinal darts past, and I cannot quite discern if it chirps out of nervousness
towards the impending storm.
If so, the twittering of cell phones sound far more nerve-wracking -- 
portable typewriters encased in the soul-less facade of laissez faire; 
of keeping track, of minding the flocks. 

Yes, everyone is a poet these days, tapping away on miniature, plastic typewriters,
typing away the next narrative filled with prose pretending to be free verse.

Whether the majority is truly poetic or not, Frankenstorm surely is poetic;
named after Mary Shelley's, Frankenstein. 
The poetic justice of it all amongst a tragedy of broken necks and drownings, 
for the Shelleys were the epitome of Romanticism -- 
not of ritualistic bouquets bought from the florist who sells porn on the sly, 
or of waxy chocolate made by children in clandestine factories built from the bricks 
of Mao's dreams of anthills and selling short the power stemming from another poet 
turned arms dealer.

No, the romance for life itself; to become poetry as poetry turns into us. 
To find mystery in everyday moments; to distil this mystery, offer it to the reader, 
so that the reader becomes drunken, swooning in a stupor towards worlds 
that are 1,000,000 light years away.

Frankenstorm, the Haunting of Shelleys, lashes out at the dead poetry of today; 
at the empty, listlessly inane, lazy poetry of today. 
The brightest stars are falling into a void, turning away from the very essence 
they so wish to express....only because they want to be unique, to be original, 
to carve their own niche into the Jack O' Lanterns of a Hallowe'en quickly turning into cheap, dollar store decorations. 
They still have hope. They still have hope, even if many further detach themselves 
from their emotions with another dose of prescription pills meant to pacify; 
meant to reign in the emotional beasts of imagination, until only zombies preserved in formaldehyde, remain.

I can literally feel the Haunting of Shelleys ask wot has become of us.
It used to be about work ethic and soul - one had to kick, tear, bite, simply to publish 
a pamphlet that might be read by 10 people. 
Nowadays, everyone is a supposed poet. A few clicks, 'submit', and people from all 
over the world can read cotton-candy couplets, or a free verse rendition of another grocery list.
But we must embolster this with: 
"They are only beginning; they need to express themselves; 
they just don't care."

I don't want to be told about the pain, the tragedy, the beauty, the love. 
I want to be shown.
I want to feel it.
I want to feel it squeeze my gray matter into a bitter-sweet drink; 
I want to feel it go down.
I want to feel it warm up my heart, grip my stomach until the bottom falls out 
and I am left careening down a shaft in an elevator with a broken pulley and rusted-through brakes, and just when I think the end has come, the elevator bursts through 
a bottom which is actually the ceiling of a world now turned upside-down -- 
and by the time I right myself, have read the last line, there is still a remaining mysterious periphery of the cats that reside in the corner of my eyes; 
purring, waiting until I come back to re-read that particular poem, 
for it is so tantalizing, I want to come back to it over and over again 
for the remainder of my years.

Storms will always come and go, 
but I sensed the metaphorical message of the Frankenstorm very strongly. 
Yet this doesn't mean that I will turn the message into fruition. 
But I will certainly attempt to do so.
Within my delirium, I will continue to try distilling the intangible 
into a drunken tangibility; even for the sake of simply trying.

And as I ponder, as I witness the present decay of humanity, 
witness the state of today's poetry, I can only wonder how many more 
Hauntings of Shelleys are possibly already brewing.


                                                                                        October 31st, 2012
___________________________________________________________________




My thoughts go out to those caught in the path of Frankenstorm 2012.
Such events move me very deeply.

*I have already posted this prose in a blog, because at the time,
the character-count exceeded the limit of poem posts.











.


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The Main Matrix

So, if a matrix is a body substance, in which all cells are embedded?
Then can I not spiritually say that the body of Christ is also a matrix?
Well, is it safe to assume or safer to not assume the differences in such?

If I have a World Wide Web with many matrixes, there must be a main.
How does one achieve the main matrix without a conversion of all matrixes?
Each living breathing organism has a matrix, but what supplies this?
 
Seems how all bodies have cells embedded in a matrix,
Is it not safe to assume that the universe has a matrix?
If so, where is the main universal matrix?
There must be a connection of some sorts,
Nevertheless, what is it and where is it?
Moreover, why has this not been thought of?
 
If the body is the temple of the Lord,
Then He must have a main matrix.
Matrix is Latin for womb.
So in which womb is this matrix?
Only a female has a womb.
There must be one that is required by none.
 
Now let us get even more difficult here.
We have a World Wide Web with many matrixes.
What if the World Wide Web is an individual womb?
It obviously has good and evil in its growth.
Could there have been two that fused by one?
Could there have been a conversion of all matrixes.
Or is there only one main matrix being a female?
 
Let us get back to the body of Christ and His matrix.
Let us even go to your own bodies matrixes.
An enclosure within in which something originates or develops,
This is what lives and breathes inside of you every day, a matrix.
Do we not develop Christ within ourselves, and He our originator?
Is it not safe to assume that we are the body of Christ?
Moreover, that we are of a matrix that has a universal main matrix?
 
 
®Registered: Ann Rich   2006


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The Gospel of Lucifer - Chapter 11: 1 - 8


There was so much time to ponder
in the celery jungles of Canuckistan.

1  Creation is without beginning and without end.
There are intervals and cycles;
the Great Cycles follow each other,
while smaller ones spin within the greater.
These intervals and cycles exist within periods.

2  At the end of a period, 
the universe is destroyed and re-created --
creation, construction, chaos and destruction
existing in a seamless infinity.
Many universes breathe beside each other,
each with its own Brahma;
this is the wheel -- immense,
beyond the grasp of mortal conception.

3  And along the spokes of this wheel,
exist even smaller wheels within wheels;
pockets of mortal consciousness.
In this consciousness, is a perception of order:
I and you, us and them, I am this and not that,
true and untrue, good and evil, white and black.
It took eons for this perception
to begin dabbling in shades of gray.

4  This new perception was born
in lonely forest meditations
and the heightened awareness of the hunt:
The universe is one,
there is a unity of this and not of this --
this great harmony, this oneness, this Brahma,
bursts into being as differentiation.

5  IT is visible only by an invisible non-unity.
Unity is diversity, diversity is unity.
And this diversity, every single particle of it,
is absolutely sacred,
because in the end, it is all One.
Matter and anti-matter.
Nothing from something,
something from nothing.
Life feeding on life -
everything is both the eater and the eaten.

6  Centuries upon centuries passed by,
and this perception became more refined.
Destroyed civilizations left an invisible imprint
in the minds of the next set of destroyers and constructors.
The words of the ancient seers,
those discoveries made in silent solitude,
were compiled into Vedas:
verses of formulas that reveal little
to the ignorant, but nevertheless
stirs the human heart and soul,
because the power of verse
is an immeasurable communication and conduit.

7  The Vedas show little,
but can tell a lot.
Those with the potential to see,
will eventually be granted sight.
But there is a downfall to collecting sacred knowledge,
and it is this: sacred knowledge held in the hands of fools,
leads to utter destruction.

8  Of course, destruction leads to construction,
but this specific wheel of perception was slightly varied,
causing the Greater Wheel to spin off-balance.
After watching this cycle in boredom,
I nearly lost my mind with frustration.
It had come time for me to leave the forest's canopy,
it was time for the emerald-eyed tiger 
to be released into the streets of golden cities --
to slink around, giving the pillars of salt an occasional lick,
and enter into the very lines of sacred knowledge itself.









+/-


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The color of love

Without him beside me, my future seems so bleak, being naïve, 
i was told he was not meant for me. Ignoring this world of cruelty
and its power tear our world apart. Now sitting i ponder why I being so naïve from the very start

My tomorrow will never come, for I will forever live in his yesterday. Turning my back on the one who loved me in every single way.
Not even time can heal a shattered heart, but I guess somewhere in his heart he loved me after all

Many times I’ve dreamt of him and unable to hide my tears,
As I reminisce that sad day I decide we go our separate ways,
I pinch myself, as in a dream, knowing it is not true,
How could I let go of such a man, no woman would ever do.

I remember the look in his eyes when he dropped by and found my note. Pain crippled on his face leaving such a heart in pain, as he read along “My heart is with you but I will forever be alone, never will you and I share a place of our own. Rejected by all to cross the color line thinking my love is blind".

 If again such a love should come my way, I’d break free of those dark days I’d confess my true heart and reject the rest and  break through this racial barrier and fallow my lovers path wherever he lead to ease this heart that beat to grieve.


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the strength of death

O death!!! Why is the 
reason behind your actions 
unknown
Where can our oceans meet
That l may accuse you of 
injuctice and wickedness
Why does your action 
transform vibrancy to 
nothing but dust.
Why, why but why?
Why leaving the 
condemned to commit 
more atrocities and 
montrousness
The just spend but a 
moment
This may be because you 
don't want them to have a 
hard taste of corruption
Through your actions;
Homes are broken,
Hearts are divided,
Tears and pains abound
Think, think, thinkless death


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A Bird in Flight

Sitting there late last night! 
I took everything in with my deepest breath about me.
I could quiver feeling the warmth sinking slowly in, 
I was covered over distances which I could now see.
I had left myself. 
I was gone again.
I was above and beyond the clouds,  
Soaring deeply with every one of my though,
Higher and higher I rose, 
Reaching loftiness’ I have never once felt. 
I was a bird in flight! 
Stunning with privilege I had brought.
Feeling myself from deep within!
Standing there that night, 
The radiance beamed all around me so I took this in.
And lo and behold, there I went again.
I could feel myself while locked deep with my thoughts.
I was absorbed inside by everything surrounding me.
I felt the depth that my eyes could never ever once see.
Loosing all truth of myself, every sensation my soul had caught.
Further and further I rose, reaching capacities I had never felt.
I’m a feather in the air, 
Gathering sensations inside of myself.
I lay there that night, mind, body, and soul with me.
I was calm with the breeze, 
Inside of myself,
Feeling myself!
And once again I was a bird in flight soaring so high and much too free.
I was locked sound with my deepest thoughts.
More and more I rose and impact for impact I felt.
Feathers of a bird in flight and one of me I have surely got.
Ever since that night, many, many things have come to me.
One by one, gathered by the sensations carried all over me.
Touching inside of myself, again, again, and again!
Higher and higher I climb to reach the very tipsy top.
Gathering it all, I am more of me when more of me can be felt.
I am the breeze in the air touching the many feathers these birds have brought.
Many feathers just from sitting here, but each the soar of the wind has surely caught.
I’m a bird in flight gathering all that is real or not and all that is captured in of my-self.
I am surely the feather that fell from the very top, 
Because I am now what then I surely was not!
I am simply that feather in the air falling loose and free inside of myself.

®Registered: 1997 Ann Rich


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dusky skies blend the colors

 
Dusk by the curving river caught		   
me unguarded only this once:		   
		   
Wrapped around my core and spiraled		   
Upwards as I glimpsed the entwined		   
webbed crosses sifting sinking sun		   
like twinkling dewy light breathing		   
		   
an evening song.		   
		   
And as coffee colored canoes passed, I thought		   
of a parade I watched when a child,		   
		   
contrasted only by the drummers’ beat.		   
		   
Streams of colors		   
blended with the descending dark,		   
		   
and the vision on the river lingered.		 


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The Royal Changeling

Deep in the dungeon in the back left corner 
Was a mere shell of what was once a man.
He was shackled to the wall of his own design
By the love of his lady so fair, and divine
 
The queen of a land so far away in time
With a king who held her ever so dear
Locking them away alone from peasant's view
None of his subjects gazed upon this mentally ill king
 
He had a smothering love for his queen, 
Abusing her in every way
Never there for love, but only in his mind
She hadn't felt his touch in years, other than abuse
 
Then one day her knight came in on his white steed
They loved under moonlight each night in secrecy
Hiding their treasonous affair from the evil king
Until one night he caught them
 
The knight dueled injuring the king's ability to speak
The queen fearing their treasonous death
Plotted and schemed as not to be beheaded 
To the knight's chamber they carried him
 
Dousing the room in oil laying him on the floor
Dropping the lantern the knight held
Flames rose in the chamber, consuming him
The queen screamed to the subjects for help
 
All the court came running to douse the fire out
The knight and queen really started 
The true king was unrecognizable and couldn't even whisper 
The knight came forward as her husband the king
 
The queen burst into tears, 
Explaining how the knight attacked her,
Setting the room ablaze
All his subjects bowed before the knight, the changeling
 
I am sorry dear king, the subjects said 
As the knight pulled the queen to him, 
Ushering them to take him away, to the dungeon below,
Shackled, and chained, in his own kingdom 
 
In the dungeon the king waited, to be beheaded
The knight secretly became the king instantly
Taking his spot next to the love of his life, the queen
No one suspected a single thing 
 
She visited the king one last time before he died
Telling him how she loved him, stroking his cheek
Watching the next day as they beheaded him, 
Hiding her head in her knight unknown
 
Her dark side she displayed
The day her knight became her king 
And her king became some subhuman thing
He had truly always been
 
The knight now the king with his lovely queen
Ruled for many years, having ten children 
Of tainted royal blood, but no one ever knew 
Their secret love and darkest treason ever committed. 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Twinkling eyes

Twinkling eyes that sparks, funny how emotions can takes over the heart
Impossible words that is hard to find, thinking one movement and he might cross
the line.  He wore his pride like a badge, but the wounds in his heart is deep,
and for him to love again is just a broken dream.

Even through loneliness scream when he’s under his sheet,
He rather succumb to its sting, other than listened to the silence song his
Heart had to sing. Known his heart is a self made wall,
And he’s not the type of man she should tell how much she loved afterall.

Thoughts kept running through his mind when he recall
how profound he looked her in the eyes. Making him feelings so awkward that
 he could not control all he knew is having her besides him daily, his love will grows.
He realize that her tender care is the only thing that keeps him alive, yet he 
Settled with routine and afraid go beyond the boundaries.

She reaches out to feel his touch, but somehow had not get enough
Thinking of going her way, but she knew her mind will suffer in everyway
He took her in his arms, where she found security. Hands in hands 
She looked in her lover eyes and saw the love inside and
Made him show the feelings, he always had to hide
Tears fell down his face as emotions takes over
his body language says everything and there things became clear.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

To Love, to Live


Clouds in the eyes
Mist in the heart
Warmth turned to ice
Dreams turn to sand
Like water in hands
Seeping through fingers 
Out of control
The mind a whirlwind of thoughts
Words a tsunami of emotion
Life is not always fair
A myriad of disappointments
Blowing in the winds of despair
To love, to live, to write 
Swelling oceans running down cheeks
Dreams a whisper in the wind
Snatched away with technicalities
Withholding what was meant to be
Power play the game 
Domineering throwing around weight
A thought positive
Still standing tall above it all
Shining brighter than before
Determined and confident
A ray of sunshine giving hope
Every cloud has a silver lining
Smile in the eyes
Radiance on the face
Patience a true virtue 
No holds barred
Victory in sight!


02:03:12


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Borrow Time

A question, a sentence all made since, My apologies indeed,1 to the 2,3…. Can you make time a map, A man a watch, watching it as a clock slide by, Dear fox. Go seek out a dinner for me perhaps a dinner for three, Cause what I could see was a family for me. Is there no good or bad or have you seen no evil to know what it is sad, Settling for less if not the reason why this pen flows, At five o’clock in the morning just after I take a ride down to the coast, I began to catch a feast is it time for lunch with a breeze? , Please just read. But I took the road not taken, And like Robert Frost it was a demon I seen; in me. A lyrical poem with many different poets all in one, a rust diamond if this still is not gem, site the beach, for more discrete. I remember a famous rapper say don’t read too deep into my rhyms, I said to myself I know the feeling too well to be speechless to dine in and be sleepless, This is not the white house but the light is on in this house, all the time. This is the saddest thing to try to reason as I am floating in and out of consciousness , In a lumpy bed watching the clock, skip a beat at five o’clock in the morning, What a treat, And surgery of all things staying awake listening to everescence, Thinking to myself how this would sound better if it was duet with some R&B. I went across the street seen the Raven but still believe in heaven, And as I was waiting patiently a Rose grow from concrete, How long would it grow until the end of the road I think still, and blink. If you knew would you still search if you knew? Could you paint a picture of the life after death only if you knew. Can you get the greeting, and I mean all is well tell this to the Senate, This meaning is too far-fetched to reason. Like my favorite Poet John Milton my favorite poet without any QUSTION, That a book tells two side to a tale, why not witness? By just listening, Question! ! ! The life of a SENTENCE! ! ! It still makes sense somehow more or less than other. I blinked again knowing the content of his meaning, And arose from sleep just as a whisper in the night, And repeated repented as needed the questions, Indeed to answer all too well, Being five o’clock in the morning it was a question, A sentence it all makes sense, One to the two, three…… I sleep with a pen but I sleep with sword! ! ! ! ...


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Exclusion

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
surrounded
so sinking

floats


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Master Carpenters tree

The impressive mighty trees
Are birthed from such small seed
Drawing resilience from the sun
And earth’s fertile garden bed

Trees wooden trunk has shaped 
And sustained for centuries many in varied ways 
Some over and upon oceans wide
Where waves stroke shapely hulls 
And lull to sleep the hapless venturer 
Trusting in woods durable strength and buoyancy

And from such crafted boughs 
And whispered sounds 
Her meekness and strength is seen and heard 
Like the creaks of grandma’s rocking chair
Where the hapless wanderer was first rocked to sleep

Trees have cradled and rocked in their arms 
High and low of this world
The greatest of these was in a lowly manger 
In an animals crib 
But for this one tree its destiny was marked 
Chosen before time

For on this tree’s wooden shoulders 
It bore God’s greatest gift–
A Holy Child born - Like it- 
For one purpose only – 
To become accursed - on its wooden cross 
To bear the sins of All 
The Holy Son then rose - triumphantly from earth’s fertile soil

Into His Father’s arms


© Brenda V Northeast 11th   March   2012
 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Innocent Perfection Of Vibes Across The Telephone Line

Innocent Perfection Of Vibes Across The Telephone Line A stranger call’s familiar voice familiar tone How do I amend for such a tone? Sinecure as a ghost to father past question remain have we met before? So the question that I a post do you believe, in coincidence or do you belief in fate So I decide to chat with her a minute to find out what her truth agenda was- As we would speak more and more we would start and finish one another sentence’s And time with in time we would speak of the exact words in between sentences, a rare a currency Indeed Solomon tears do applied to form but I what it to pause and ask her, sure You don’t have the wrong number what a coincidence that I was nineteen all on my on, and As I beginning to fall to sleep the telephone had begun to ring. Maybe it was fate As when I did decide to get a phone to get long distance as well, it looking in deeper. Only a fool would be dumb Found it to Hang up on such a soothing tone. As she kept the conversation with in an hour about her son that got Injury in College sports that happen to be part Cherokee same as me All I kept thinking is when did I register to vote? Soul channeling bed chancing we seem to be on a different plane, Maybe it’s me or maybe it is us if god put us together surely the heaven would rumple, A vibe this strong could surely deceive the devil, (hat trick) Ghost handle of a ring barrel of a magnificent figure of mist of sure air of breeze seen such vibes across The Telephone line chills ran up and down my body standing strain hair up to freeze saying to myself what a Wonderful innocent of perfection to make an acquaintance still hook on the fact it was coincidence as She Apologize for speaking so long and thank me for being a great listener- Two and half years later time well spend in the hood that felt more like prison and trust me I’m from the Projects Like Ice cream milk and cream please and what I was told if I could make it in That hood I could make it in any giving hood giving the repetition of My city – It may have been fate as the whole project was rebuild spiritually and finance by the state And I had move into an apartment complex as I was told could go for a 1,000 in upstate; fate or coincidence as this familiar voice would call again but this time different name And she what it to sell me a product and what me to be partners in a company and water who could Market water and profit and, Idea Chesire to believe, but those that did belief proceed and say once again I said to myself when did I get money all and all six year later I was and looking to relocation the phone rings again instead of Asking Was this coincidence or fate? First thing came to mind was “Some One Clue Me In”- I figure out whom this Anonymous person was But when I say who in the world gives gift cards for cable all away from west Coast to “City That I’m From” saying to myself, is it still a recession? Was this fate? I had a place to live or did I have a Guardian Angel? Question after Question Miss and serve me- Will I ever get pay for my endeavors and read a quote that said “no good deed goes unpunished” And phone ring once more- To The look in A man’s eyes never lies asking once more Was This Fate Or Coincidence- And the last words that came to mind before the college basketball finals game came on was Captivating and Memorizing-


Details | Prose Poetry | |

sin

under the canopy of primordial forest, a wild fern grows nestled
into the less-known path where exigencies take on diffused light
and rainwater trickles its descent, scalloping patterns of colour;
have you ever heard a fern crow with green feathers, sleek against
the sky, as if rocks could sing of joy and the only sin is not being here?


Details | Prose Poetry | |

before the party

A tight fist of emotion sprouts flames in my chest
and I fan the flames with a chilled smile
chiseled like the block of ice 
stored in the freezer for the party.

I have stood empty as a discarded seashell, perhaps a clam's shell,
whose pearl should sparkle like the sun spattered sea, that is its home.

But it gleams like the moonlight 
castings its light across surfaces- changing them to white or silver, 
like the tops of carved glaciers, drifting as they change the shape of the earth. 

Too heavy am I to walk on these surfaces, 
even if it is frozen.

Seabirds wind up and spin lazily, 
calling the wind for their flight- or at least to float momentarily, 
like my spirit, needing so much to be released


Details | Prose Poetry | |

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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Cold October Night part 2- Legend of Fred

The air was unusually cold that October night..
 as the children set out for a night of fright….
Dressed in their scariest and mysterious garb..
Running over driveways and yard after yard….
There were goblins, pirates, ghosts and a nurse
Werewolves and vampires that gave out a curse..
And of course the aliens of which there were six…
All screaming out for their bag of treats or tricks…
Some of the neighbors had set up a table..
With cookies and hot drinks and punch with a ladel…
For those that grew weary and chilled to the bone..
And knew it would be hours before they got home…
The wind started blowing, lightening lit up the sky…
That’s when they saw it..it was huge and did fly….
What was that they asked..not sure what they saw..
It turned round and round and spun upside down..
When all of a sudden it stopped and just hovered…
That’s when they noticed it opened it’s cover…
Two very large Aliens from outer space did appear…
Come on children it’s time to go home…Bye ya’all…see you all next year….

	


Details | Prose Poetry | |

-Needs a title. I will probably think of one later on.-

There is a single rose

kept high in the vase of her memories

she eyes thee rose with despair and sorrow

circles around and walks away.


The rose withers and petals fall

she comes back but has the same thought.

Picks up the withering rose, she starts to dance

circles around and around with the rose balanced in her palm.

-she stops-

she starts to cry and she sees streaks of blood fall from her palm

the thorns dig deep

her tears reach her collar

darkness falls, then drags her deep in it's depths.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

CharlaXTitles11

 
Inches make feet without inches there is no foot without beginnings there is no work without measure there is no dearth without a ruler there is no worth there must be rules and there are rules but eye will let them all apply to them my enemies at work and never eye. The horse runs well it has a heart so then they fill syringes from the start to inject the muscles of the neck to make the beast faster than the wind oh heck the animal is dead it never hit the ground but flew too fast and lost the race and life. Desert life is winterless but not without some weather life the sun is always shading and the water is found in sub altern placing near the animals for killing under the ledge of apprehension near the fire of desperation comes the frog and toad and watercrest nut sandwiches. Eye had been to the desert on a horse with no namme it felt good to be out of the rain. Voices come out at me from the air into mye membrain eye call it Disraeli musick it is usually someone in the area with a boom box or even cars with the windows rolled down can be the culprits they hound me when eye am hicking place to place. There is other answers to the crazxy place eye hear noises mad mostly by people in the other cubicles the walls are just invisible the talking is allowed. The thief cannot sneak in sneakers they squeak like he is sweating in his shoe laces. This brings me to mye priority eye. The reason that no one wants to be a Detective is the movies the guy may have had DAMES by the score but he had fights and was so sore the men were ruthless and left him spinning on the side of every road. The streets of New Nuevo York has gum shoe on them. The American idea of Indians and wampum has brought us to the test of food in rest or rants of foreign style they smile and bring the menu back to make certain that the orders write the man has pointed several times at five bills a whack. One from Column A and 2 from Column B brings us to a bill of $23. Well eye wanted some meat too but you are so expansive. Rice and curry hot mustard radishes. Try finding food in the summer time how careful now that eye a homeless one should be then tossing caution to the winding blowing wind when it seems only wrapped so tightly to keep flies at night away. To feed myself is easy to offer some to others almost impossible a few times eye have asked to share they slide that nostril in the air and leave the food to the one that found it in the lair of tossed and discarded things the general city the loose leaf cabbage so nicely adds a bite to the membrain of mye priority eye. 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

THE OWL

THE OWL

Seeing far and wide
Patiently waiting 
He plans

The movement of his head
Is measured and silent 
As always he is in stealth mode
Listening in stereo for that 
Whispering rustle
That gives the vole away 

Perched like a ghost 
On a moonlit night 
He hoots
Announcing to the night
That he is on sentry duties

Target is found

He lifts and floats downwards
Silently
Deadly
Alighting on an unwary vole


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 | |

Imagine

Imagine 
Looking with eyes 
All events, everything 
From a viewpoint  
A perspective that sees all 
The broadest spectrum 
On a universal scale 
Natural, black and white, 
If there was a finite 
Amount of energy existing  
In the womb that is space 
Without the influence of fictitious forces 
The universe is static, 
But if gravity was rather antimatter 
Drawing upon and absorbing matter 
Producing energy as it does, 
Energy and material are interchangeable  
With no deviation from the constant 0 
Everything seems to cancel out in the end 
But time is relative 
From a universal perspective 
There is no starting point and no end 
To a cyclical event, 
Matter and antimatter exploding Into 
Existence, then snuffing each other out 
Would I be wrong of the conclusion  
In stating god is energy? 
We are in Gods image 
Not as humans, 
But all life...


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Napoleon the powerful fighter

Napoleon the powerful fighter
whose mind was nimbler and lighter
than others whose malicious minds resided in lies,
and in vain and inane imaginations.
His brain's train of thought stayed rooted in reality,
Which gave him greater cogitations and a mind,
divine and higher above the rest of the world's imagination,
rooted in fantasy, and lies, in things that do not exist.

The emperor did worship the truth,
whose soul led him to detest illusions.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Forever Trail

They roam miles over hillsides
stride aimlessly cross open plains
and grassy fields
unseen and silent to all cept' those
who see with more
then their eyes,
hear with more 
then their ears,
and believe with more
then their hearts and minds.
Twilight,a gray blue haze,settles in
quiet, no sound(s) heard
but those of time almost forgotten
souls lost, blanketed by death
foot-steps hushed by time
travel now in ghostly silence
their destiny, to travel the forever trail.
Physical lives long shed in defense
of the very ground they are now one with
their cries must be heard! always honored
never to be forgotten
lest their lives were sacrificed for naught.

Melody A. Coster


Details | Prose Poetry | |

She Dreamed of Icarus- Portrait In Indigo

She seemed to be like a portrait...
   which had fallen from its gilded frame
Abandoned...
   Lying face down on the empty, cold wintry floor. 
An elegantly created portrait once painted in striking hues of indigo blue.
   Her eyes told a story of  bittersweet, magenta colored sorrows
That etched themselves throughout the frail, intricately woven canvas of her soul
 
Over time...
   Thoughtless hands subtly contrived and manipulated the beauty of her painted portrait Into a resemblance -  likened to that of a cold chiseled statue
   Calloused, careless fingers molded her - lancinating the fragile fragments of her spirit
Leaving her heart with the etoliated, worn material - called her life                     

She dreamed of Icarus - soaring down on steel wings
   Shrouded in cobalt, magenta clouds- with outstretched, feathery fingers...
Lifting her up to dance with him in a Stravinsky ballet...
   As it is was meant to be
Not how it was                
 
She was a beautiful, delicate butterfly...
   Bruised by many shadows in her world
Leaving her unable to fly away from its thirsting arid rain filled skies
   It left her struggling to stay afloat in the spring's melting snow
 
Life had bruised her tender skin...
    Gnawing away like insatiable insects on her delicate pink frescoed soul
Leaving her feeling like a fabricated, plastic manikin on display...
    For all to pose her as they selfishly may
 
Muddied soil was the blood that coursed through her veins
    Holding her tethered heart in fleshy, lumpy mounds of dark, chocolate brown earth 
It held her helplessly clogged in the dirt...
    That descended down in the empty spaces of her soul...
Like the muddied strings of yellow, tattered maize 
    That entwined their ragged tassels through her life flowing veins...
Choking off the blood she needed to nourish her weakened, hungry heart 
 
Mighty winds toppled her willowy, limber tree...
    Snapping the delicate boughs of her arms
As it pulled at the fleshy bark of her skin
    She stood cold and alone in the cold wintry night...
Wrapped only in her naked flesh - with open, bleeding indigo wounds
    Standing under the icy, mist of the cold, winter moon...
Her heart and soul painfully revealed - in shades of indigo blue
 



 LadeeAnne~C@2011 

 Anne P Murray

 
 
 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Still Life in Shadows

 
Figures like shadowed burnt molded clay mimic life		   
As they are cast in the sliver of light that passes		   
Through a crack in the rotted wood of the house slowly		   
Collapsing as days stretch endless under grey or blue of		   
Skies with the sun burning in their hearts beating		   
Like the wings of the robin that kisses		   
The first dew of spring		   
		   
They remember their dreams transparent and watery		   
Like the surface of the lake rippling and catching the sheen		   
Of the moon on a Shakespearean summer night,		   
The crickets lulling with their song, the warm breeze		   
Sifting through the darkness that is broken like shards		   
By the street lights that shine for the lonely nightwalker		   
Or the lit window casting the glow from our home		 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Seismac

 Seismac 
Seismac 
 
 
Spelling Bee 
 
 
CharlaXFabels 
 
Oneseventysix 
 S it starts with S no arguments the EI could be the IE but the E is alphabetically 
the foremost letter and IE seems wrong to mee then there is another S. It seems 
so out of place but sounds so there it seems to me the S makes seismic sense. 
The M is just the middle of the word caught between the EIS and the ending. The 
ending is the IC it seems to me to be less forcefull AC would do better call it 
seismac rhymes with smack see eh? And makes a much better and harder 
word. The possibilities multiply immediately the Seismac Ocean. The Isle of 
Seismac. The Seismac waves washed over the smurfer today as he sat android 
like at his computer terminal in the shaded area. Everyone has favorite places 
and webpages on the internet there is many such places a man will visit and tell 
everyone about them but there is a few that he will never divulge the info even on 
his deathbed he keeps the sign in log on secret. 
He will sit and watch the movie while his best and only friend flips the simulation 
cards to make the mouses ears move up and down. This is vanity and chagrin. 
The up to the minute news is had while his only friend sits looking at the crystal 
glass ball in an effort to determine what transpired in la la  land. The news in 
Africa is GOLD in America its OLD in Switzerland it's COLD in The Netherland it's 
BOLD. The same seismac article of war zone policy states that upper echelon 
read faster they get better weather and more money cake and laughter. Mein 
COMP. MIEN Comp. The hills are blue the beans are red becomes blue beans 
the hills are red, the while away the time becomes the time is marching on the 
sun will set in the western sky at daybreak in the eastern lie. The tsunami waves 
of seismac grains reach all the living left alive for when the people die the spirit 
feels it. Eye am seismac. 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Phone Rings

     Phone Rings


One day in my apartment
As tired as a mouse
Try to get some peace and quiet
I plug the phone out

Pick up the clothes
Wash the dishes then
Clear the bed and mop the floor
Phone rings

Get the phone and plug to wall
Lift up receiver, answer call; oh what patience
A very important person is on the line
I listen to the ring, and the phone is not plugged in

As if coming from a far distance
In the future of this time
The sixth sense awaken
And time is standing still.

William Morrissey 6/14/98 vision


Details | Prose Poetry | |

For this instant of time

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

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

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

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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Dark-haired ninja over my hips

I watched as the dark grew around his eyes.
He came through the window,
Stepping like a shadow.
He was the night, he was the ghost, he was the 
Unaided fighter as he reached for my side.
And I so desperately wanted to caress his masked face. 
His pace was noiseless and so attractive,
Yet death was nearer with every step,
I thought.
Still, I didn’t care if my life would have ended 
That night, stolen by the elusive ninja… 
I wanted him even closer.
He quickly searched the inside of his shozoku,
Only to reveal a deadly suriken.
Breathless, as he approached, I stood there, 
Not wanting to disenchant from his spell.
With one blow, the suriken ripped 
The shoulder of my nightgown.
Flowing red stained my pillow
And it felt so real.
Oh, how I wanted his knife at my throat,
Me, his target of the night,
And how I sighed when he drew 
His katana.
With one lethal strike I would have 
Plunged on the floor, choking for my last breath,
Yet he gently traced the contour of my 
Trembling chin… trembling, but only for his touch.
My tears sparkled in the cold, hard steel
As I sensed his breath arising.
I only heard his samurai chuckle and with no warning
He hurled his sword back into the dark.
We both moaned in anxious passion
When he bore my hand into a painful 
Wrist lock.
I did not care, I did not see, I did not feel anything aside 
The dark-haired ninja over my hips.
Our mangled bodies mirrored in the shiny steel of his forgotten blade,
His chest crowning over mine,
His hands fondling in my hair, down to my aroused breasts.
Two naked bodies trapped in my jujitsu legs.
A ninja so dark, so passionate, so fast,
He gently pulled aside my hidden Sai from under the cushion. 
He kissed my breasts, my wrists, my hair,
My lips…
My shoulder, he patched with his soothing mouth.
We locked in kiss so quickly, his tongue
Bitter from my blood, snapping at my neck
And torso while he pushed inside me, deeper.
Invisible in the dark, he loved me
In endless ways, my fragile ninja rested 
On the top of my chest.
I stroked his hair in content and silence,
Not even knowing his name.
A dark-haired ninja lay over my hips
When dawn came chewing at our lashes.
I then turned, not to see his figure,
Relying on my silent samurai
Of the dusk that I’ll go back to sleep
And he’ll go back to black.


© 2009 Stefania Carmen Misaila 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Strange philosophy

i've always been so afraid of flying,
is it my fear of heights,is it my fear of falling?
it's a strange philosophy,
a troubled heart,a shooting star,life's a remedy
for who we are.
oftentimes my hope is fleeting,
so engrossed in so believing,
in who i am ,the calling,
it's a strange philosophy,
that up is down and down is up,
no doubt my truth is your lie,
but this is music,hear the heart.
it's a strange philosophy,
i live in you,you live in me,
you're trying hard to make it,
work it!
you lose your soul and hope it's worth it?
we trusted in whoever we believed,
Jesus died for my own fault,
i heard that all things pass away,
but love like this never fades away.
one last thing,
it is what it is,
a seriously strange philosophy,
all that and so much more.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

ONE100eight

 ONE100eight 
ONE100eight 
 
CharlaXFabels 
 
 
www.three 
 
SUN TRAN history 
 
 Passenger Pigeons carry messages to people entrenched at 
www.wwone/ditched in doughboy britches wearing Army boots of wool 
 August 3, 1914 special free edition of the BerlinTageblatt announces "The War 
with France” The Kaiser rolled away and fell from Germany the world is saved 
they proclaim the war is over 1918   
 His hat was very black and ebon his vest hung down in back front was cut in 
western sling style his hair was off white gray an old gunslinger out of old 
Tucson days. He took a transfer out of his pants pocket and tried to slide it in the 
bus to make it work but the driver had turned it off to see his face light up he had 
been caught for this was the very first bus. NO the driver said simply with a smile 
that will not work and left it at that and up to him he did not frown but added the 
dollar paid the money for the fare the first time not again his bogus attempt at a 
free ride had failed. He took his transfer paid he learned his western lesson 
there the driver being kind and understanding could have been demanding that 
he leave the bus and March 24, 2008 has come the carrier pigeons are taking 
messages to www.wwtwo.com the war is over Hitler dead go home and live 
without a gun without a dread.  She simply simpered she opened up her bag a 
purse no doubt without a dime or dollar amount inside her friend paid for hisself 
one dollar kept the transfer in his hand she kept repeating to herself for all the 
crowd to understand eye left the wallet with the money in it at home the wallet MY 
wallet is NOT in this bag it has been left at home the man he seemed astonied 
when she said in certain tones did you get a pass for me NO he said don't you 
remember my pass and your pass is both in your wallet left at home the driver 
moaned a bit but let her be she let them ride he said eye gave to you my pass to 
keep for me she said so sad MY WALLET is NOT in this bag it is left behind at 
home IT'S EVERYTHING the carrier pigeon flew with messages to the troop in 
the trenchment ditch at www.worldwarthree.com/apocolypse 
The message simply said 
we airmailed 
 every missle 
that we have 
to hit the enemy 
the world is over now 
do not try to do anything 
just pray 
we are all going to see 
JESUS 
NOW 
TODAY 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

dreams

dreams

dreams sometimes they escape you
others they haunt you at night
the path you take
is not by chance
it was planned before
you were ever born
what lies ahead is 
somewhat of a mystery
you may walk down
a path with colored hues
or you may just sit
and watch as life unfolds
waiting for your dreams to come true   
		


Details | Prose Poetry | |

RELIGION AGAINST MAN

He hated his brother
Because he practiced another
Men of same wombs
On each other, inflict wounds
The free thinker; their observer
And he saw; eye sores
Men beheaded… burned
Women disemboweled
Bombed
Drug traffickers and the mafia
Show more angels heart
Men obsessed with religion
No place free of them
Hold this illusion
Four virgins and a mansion
For just one man in heaven
So die a martyr
And make it even
In the beginning, was this so?
When men die, do they go?
PLEASE: give me no fairy answer
Except self proven ponder

On the other side
I heard Christ died
Men turned it merchandise
One name, many voices
As the voices, so the vices
Repent. Be baptized
Or die ostracized
Yet in sex, their leaders
Abuse youths and feeders
Adultery in the upper chambers
Sucked the poor dry
So the rich benefits and not die
Name not names
Lest you give them more fame
The free thinker; their observer
And he saw…eye sores
Grieve not alone in chest
It’s same in north; south; east; west

I heard God has his own powers
And he for himself mighty might
So why do for him men fight?
I heard also, the goat can bite
When pushed to the wall
Be that so,
Then there is:
The goat-
The applied force-
And the wall.
Who is the Goat? Man
Who is the force applied?
Circumstances against man
And who is the wall?
Religions against man


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Dreaming

Last night at Pollock Place,
I called my wife into the den,
and we drank wine, marvelling
over something in the newspaper;
a little boy
who after a moment of sleepwalking
ended up in the middle of Wolloston Lake,
he almost drowned, they say… 
I mean, can you imagine? 
just dreaming like that,
and all of a sudden, 
you’re just standing there,
and the wine is poured for one,
and the den’s in really bad shape,
and you never have company,
and the phone was disconnected long ago,
and, and, and
it might be time to go… but
you stay, and pour wine again,
in blood-red crystal,
dreaming.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Crooked Sorrow

Canoe, golden brown inking rust colored depths, reflects the shape of my buried soul in rootless flight
Grassy banks envelop the waters and root the hoary trees that are the ghostly spectres bending
To reach for me with blackened toothed arms jaggedly carving silhouettes into the waning light
 Hush their soft murmuring, the rustle of their fading leaves the whispered voices of chis descending

Melodiously they speak of the angst simmering from where the sinful spirits are beckoning
The eclipsing moon’s tide that pulls the unhurried river meets the sullied shores of my reckoning 

The shadows of a godless eternity darkens the ancient seams of life and is slowly spreading


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A WORLD BEYOND

His frosty grasp conveyed shivers down my achy spine
My weight as thin as air; cold air rushing past me
I stood apart watching down to earth, where I had dwelled
A different chill down my spineless soul
The light led me on to a beautiful spectacle
None as pleasing as that grandeur Mansion
I moved an inch closer; it moved twice away
It was in sight but far within reach
There stood another, a much disturbing figure
It looked as torment, it’s hurt as Tartarus
Hades saluted at its opening
And sin, its shame in one word
I remained suspended, in comparison of the unlike
In clear vision of sorrow pending guests of Hades
In plain vision of joy awaiting those of the Great Mansion
Earth lay drenched in its past greatness
Bathing in sin; choking in black dirt
There stood anew a fine build
A voice as loud and thundering searched through me
The Ultimate question, “How many can I bring ashore?”
The clock ticked on more than deafening
Each loose second, an additional wasted life.
I looked on pleadingly, my life and many others to implore
A great commission to realize. The alpha? Me!
I was fading, I was tearing beneath
A fall as unhurried as midnight
Transporting  into my departed limbs, life
A new dawn planted the only resurgence kiss
Resting on my clammy breath, a heave of relief
A sigh of truth dawned… of A world beyond.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

my room

The darkest corner where I hide 
There’s a misery I tried to fight 
Filled with sadness I can’t define 
Full of ache and murky sign
This corner reminds my past the most 
The throbbing pain intensity cost 
I feel my life with all the lost 
This is why my path is lost
I sit towards my blurry doom 
And sense nothing but a gloom 
Perhaps I see this all in loom 
I live alone in this so-called room 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Another Miserable Love Letter

Dear Victory Girl from the bay or [dock]

I knew you'd be beautiful

for the sake of the decline...let hedonism take its toll...
Just so I Can Forget

How do you smile like that?

I'm bleeding gallons thinking of your face.

My most sincere pains,shames,claims,and thought about pet names, lie with you

signed-

Unused,and abused


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Reality at its best

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


Details | Prose Poetry | |

morning light

Morning light seeping in
Like a wisp of a breath
In winters frigid air

Spectrum of silver light
Like sunlit cushioned clouds 
Against paper-like walls

And shadows disappear
Quick, like snakes tunneling


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Real Friend

Standing there, I'm looking at you stupidly. You are going on and on about how you are 
going to take me out of this world, yet the blade moves no where. I should be scared but I 
just have a notion to laugh. You are busy trying to fit in with your so called friends, that you 
forgot that I am the only real friend you have got. You try to be tough just like all the rest 
but when the night is done, its me you call to talk to when things go wrong. Yet here you are 
with a blade at my throat whispering in my ear that you don't really wanna do this and that 
you love me. I laugh and your grip gets tighter. I finally close my eyes and tell you just to go 
what you gotta do. Suddenly you release me, ignoring your friends calling stuff out and beg 
me for forgiveness. Friends are friends to the end. You mess up so that we can pick you back 
up. That's what true friends are for, we are the real friends.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Hazel Eyes

Hazel Eyes
WLM
Wildncrazy555
September 15, 2011

Such beautiful eyes
So full of mysterious disguise
They have the sheen 
Of a light light green
And yellow as the autumn sky
As you gaze you wonder why
As I wait to meet
Surely my heart will greet
Of the feelings we share
Surely, Do we DARE
As we run through life amongst and with it
Through our devoted commitment
Follow the long forgotten past
In our hearts we know it will last
Our love is so fine
In our eyes you see it as we dine
To feel the warmth of her skin
The feelings I know she will let me in
From this day forward I know she is mine
Our love will last till the ends of all time
The feelings in my heart are a must
Truly, truly they are JUST!

Dedicated to a lady I know
Jacki Wahner McDowell
With Beautiful Hazel
EYES


Details | Prose Poetry | |

FLAMES

Nobody knows my story
I don’t even know my story
I sit at the window
Gazing at the raindrops 
That wriggle their way down my sill.
I wish I had been given more grace
I wish I had seen the grace
Nobody knows what happened
I don’t even know what happened
Had I murdered her?
Had I let out her spirit?
I wish to remember
Yet I do not want to know
My story is not forgotten; it just doesn’t exist 
Or does it? Only in me?
An illusion, a mirage or a dream?
Who knows my story?
I bet nobody knows my story
I still remember her scream
Piercing through the walls of that tower
I still remember that mouth,
Too tired to utter words
It was only the tongue 
Alive enough to lick that blood
Blood that tickled
Freely from her forehead 
She had stared hard
As if to tell me what?
This story runs endless
This story is timeless
It keeps arresting my thoughts
Should I have helped?
Could I have helped?
When I was frozen?
When I was rooted to that spot?
When I could do nothing
But to stare back?
I do not know my story
I have no idea what it sounds like
It happened too fast
In one split second
Right before my eyes
It all went up in flames…


Details | Prose Poetry | |

-Untitled-

House of mirrors, movement all around, with these long halls casting shadows on the 
floor. Burning lanterns flicker and whisper an unknown language. Doors leading down 
abandoned staircases, coated with dust ans inhabited by spiders. The creaking and 
snapping of the walls leaning in, echoes all around. Little child's footprints alongside 
claw marks in the dust, where mine soon join them. Me, myself and I. all together in one 
place. Together... yet separate. We come here when things change, (as all things do)... 
when one door closes and we must find a new path to follow. Me, myself and I, in three 
forms, in one mind. The child called "me" asks "why?", she sings of the linnet birds 
freedom and says rules are just to set us back. Myself, being who i am today, laughs for 
no reason, and stares at the clouds for answers. and "I", the wolf in me, sits on its 
throne of bones, with bright, calm eyes shining with unspoken wisdom.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Angel's description

I once caught a clear glimpse of her, when she smiled to me, in the train station, not
knowing what to think, speaking to the cellphone and looking at me at the same time,
trying to stay calm, yet couldn't. How regal she looked with the smile on her face... 

My next glimpse of her was in bed, at night, when she could not endure the thought of
being held by her hands as she was, yet, with a once dominant instinct, loving the way she
was seduced. It struck me how dreadfully vulnerable she seemed, being a girl and yet in
some obscure way a mature woman. 

But the angel was released and forgiven and returning to her Eden she was no more able to
withstand eternity without the one she loved. So she rose from her wooden chair and
enchanted the mortal, seeking him, loving him, bringing him to her. 

He arrived at Heaven's doors and gracefully entered the gate. 
Only a few paces from the beauty he draw her closer, teasing her, kissing her ... making
her feel so excited and tantalized.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Harbingers

 Surmised, assumed 
 Foreboding shadows brood 
 Like omens without mediums 
 Their strange impressions loom

 Blind they seem 
 Gloating as they gleam 
 Rippling, murmuring 
 Stifling a scream 

 On the brink of speech 
 Their mutterings recede 
 Occupied by the thoughts 
 Of the lost and in between 

 Conceit or dream 
 Mythic or obscene 
 They coddle with a moonlit bribe 
 Confiding the unseen 

 Written by © Raven Drake


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Vibrations

Vibrations


Even when everything is calm
Sometimes I feel as if the Earth is talking
Signals, a tingling feeling  
An event is about to occur


Electric currents flow through my body
Some unseen, mysterious force
Feelings of impending danger
Coming from an intelligent mind


To plant food for the summer harvest
And hungry mouths everywhere to feed
Great love, strong bond; a kinship to this planet
Is not far beyond my reach



William Morrissey 12/04/12


Details | Prose Poetry | |

End

End
WLM
Wildncrazy555
April 24, 2011

End of the line
For it is directly time
That we will be
Just you and me
The way God has sent
You know we were meant
That we should always live
And always give
The way we see
And it will be
Together forever
Through all we will endeavor
Our hearts are one
And will not be undone
Will not separate
In this time not ever irate
But hand In hand
Listen to the band
I always long 
That they play our song
Across the threshold I will carry
Directly after I marry
And make you my wife
For the rest of my life
The beginning of the line
Forever through all of time


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Shadow

Walking with me, it moves along,
Contorting with me, to me it belong.
It’s tied to me as a chain,
I know it’s with me, it would never wane.

There lies poise between it and me,
Grasping me, never allows to flee.
Together we go, without any tiff,
Casting my image, it stays stiff.

It survives in bright, perishes when it’s dark,
It does exist on a spark.
Following always, it never goes astray,
Stuck with me, can’t think of betray, it always stay.

Gives me sense to be stronger, as I walk,
I halt on the way, admire it, if it could talk.
God knows, why it is made so conventional,
Unceasingly it swings parallel.

At a certain time, everything departs, saying farewell,
Except for my shadow, the one will always dwell.
It certainly is the symbol of faith and duty,
It is the only companion, who has eternity.

A dark image staying in me,
Forever as one could see.
As long as I will be,
I desire to see, no ‘you’ and ‘me’, but a ‘we’.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Drink When Thirsty

Within a vast sea 
under a calm and distant sky
is a secret solace known to few.
This is a place of peace, 
silence, and tranquility.
Here dwells knowledge in the purity of living, 
simply breathing life into a glorious texture of emotional bliss. 

High on the oldest tree are the words Drink when thirsty.
Masked phantoms move past, 
with a ceaseless breeze against their backs. 
They speak in riddles with jigsaw mouths, 
in mirror eyes they watch themselves.
Evening falls again. 
Day has closed her eye to another freckled veil of starlit hue.
A memory, now lightly nudging my shoulder,.. 
I see again their dances,.. around autumn fires,.. 
when the forest floor smelled of dry leaves, 
and the moon spilt shadows though naked trees.
Moistened now I drink life's sorrow, 
I tastes life's joy, 
and death awaits with menacing indifference.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

gravedigger

Cahill Minot Assignment
July 23, 2009

Gravedigger and his assistant
“Come on, dig the grave much deeper. You always dig such shallow graves, and then the coffin is too close to the surface, causing too many cosmetic problems with the cemetery, never mind the vegetation.”
“Come on, now, Ralph.” The gravedigger drew a deep breath on his cigarette, preferring to absorb the nitrates as deeply as possible; he did not seem to care or notice how shallow his breathing had become over the years, a little too labored, a little too soon.
“I said, come on!”
Ralph grumbled something like not really my boss, while spitting on the ground. But he took bigger sweeps with the shovel. He dug deeper.
“Heard who we’re digging the grave for? Old Mr. Hines, the one who lived alone all his life and never came to the community gatherings; never gossiped, but those who claimed to have known him told tall tales of his younger years on a farm in South Africa.”
Ralph muttered “Good for him.” He dug deeper.
“Anyway, Ralph, looks to me he was a wealthy landowner in South Africa, accumulating much wealth after he served in WW II. Rumor had it though he lost almost all that he had because of a bribe necessary to keep him out of jail. He killed a woman and her small child. He killed them.”
The gravedigger lit a second cigarette. His talking seemed to distract him from his task. Ralph kept digging.
“Mr. Hines fled the country. Rumor had it he became a recluse, rarely seen around town.  Please prepare the grave for a pauper, heh, heh.” The gravedigger flicked some of his ash into the opening in the thawing spring soil; he seemed to smile down at the smoldering embers as they hit the softening earth. Ralph kept digging. A soft rain began to fall, ever so gently. Their shoulders and the tops of their heads became moist, the raindrops reflecting the flickering dim light of the streetlights near the entrance to the cemetery.
“Alright, we’re almost through. Let’s finish up and call it a day.”
Ralph took a few more sweeps with his assistant’s shovel. He wiped his brow, and then attempted to dry his hand on his damp jacket. It was futile: he lifted his face to the drops and let the sweat and tears mingle with the rain. Tears he shed for his father, who died alone.
Tears he shed because his father is to be buried in this very grave.
A final glance, a grey yellow streak breaking up the heavy edges of the twilight sky, and the gravedigger departs.









Details | Prose Poetry | |

Greater 'Minds' Than Mine

 
  Greater 'Minds' Than Mine; 
Have left the 'Earth' and walked away.
Einstein as a troubled child, 
lobotomized, 
mixed socks and locked away.
Hubble and his visions eye'd, 
are seen across the sky.
D.N.A...must free more how...
When freedom lies barred now.
Worlds within a world within a world, 
his world one waits.
Within our dreams.
We do not wast our time on germs, 
untill they show us how. 

Is It Poetry 
 
 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Helen Keller

 Helen Keller 
Helen Keller 
 
 
88 
 
CharlaXFabels 
 

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


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 | |

no homecoming

No Homecoming
Memory flows like the wind through chimes
Of a love so sweet only a fool would not know
To remember forever the passing of a sublime
 Giving of a love so timeless, so bold

Perhaps etched in stone, a remembrance displaying
An imbedded longing, a need to take back
A life, ending so sudden and cruel, displacing
A hope, a promise not kept for a lack

Of a knowledge yet to be discovered
Despite for centuries past progress so swift
Has yet to seal a chasm, uncovered
Of a despair of loss, a smile to uplift

No broken spirit, however, ‘tis only body
Unscathed thy soul, a candle that burns
Within the reminiscing of truth not forgotten
A lover, a fool at times, yes, who still yearns

To trace his words, words under no pretense
Will give forth his mournful meaning
Flavored with life’s riches, bounty, a permeation like incense
Words etched with caution, for he hopes for this to be his dreaming

Fool cannot sustain his own life for
The grievance of his promise broken too soon
Through death a betrayal leaving fool forlorn
Yet was witness to a lover whose own devotion waxed and waned like the elliptical moon


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A sound of orient

A sound of orient 
-
He looks like a fragranced oasis in this city; 
a lean, yet muscular man in a dhoti, 
sweaty; playing flute, a plateful of bland food 
in front of him, his humble surrounding, the hut.
A village man, who has once come in chasing dream, 
is now a part of this city, a part of speed, 
all except his flute and customary dhoti. 

The dizzy sound travels up, to the fifth floor terrace, 
to the sad man and sadder woman, to the sadists, 
to the dying and to the dead. It climbs up like veins. 
His is a life, with its own brands of pain and love, 
not demanding, the way sometimes this city extracts. 
The days and nights extract a man. 
He hauls out others or vise versa. 

A sound disappears in sleep, 
becomes a village in the vale, 
where dreams move like sheep.
~© 2009 - All Rights Reserved Kushal Poddar.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Mans Man

Man’s Man

WLM
Wildncrazy555
April 18, 2011
To the gay population in the world

He is quite a man
And he will make his stand
For he will always stay
In his mind his own way
To most in the world it is a sin
But to him it is his place to begin
He is not sappy
He is continually always happy
For the love he has to give
Makes his life so great to live
In life we always change things and arrange
To most in life they think we are strange
We will sit and feel the simple breeze
Knowing ??????’s heart is at ease
In this world we will not desist
For millions of others exist
We must always give them their own space
Since they will always win their race
And they exist in their own place
Which is full of God’s wonderful grace

Written for a friend of mine
Who will always be a friend
Regardless of his lifestyle
William Lewis Moore
Bill


Details | Prose Poetry | |

She is mine

I am the formula that brings her to ecstasy 
Her beauty as craved my fantasy 
As she lay upon my chest 
Through her blossom, I am truly blest.
She’s the rose of my life 
The one to be my wedded wife
She’s my help meet through the hardship and strife
Every morning as I woke up
She’ as been my corn syrup
As I go out through the crack of dawn 
I am the one to mow her lawn
In her fears 
Through her tears
She yield to my warming embrace
I love her at every moment from beginning to end 
She’s brilliantly wise
I tell you the truth 
God has given me the correct prize
She has allow me to grow 
None of a scare crow. 
She’s hundred percent 
She’s no less than a cent 
I crave for her increase 
Through Jesus Christ the one who paid the ultimate price.
‘Me n she’ trusty love will never decrease.



Details | Prose Poetry | |

Helen Keller: The Miracle Continues

Helen Keller: The Miracle Continues was initially telecast as part of the 
syndicated Operation Prime Time package in 1984. ~ Hal Erickson As Annie 
Sullivan and Helen Keller, Anne Bancroft and Patty Duke could not have been 
better. The battle of wills and wits between the two is engrossing, becoming 
quite involved and very interesting. The lengthy dining room struggle alone would 
make any movie worth watching - it is worthwhile even beyond the interesting 
action itself, as it brings out aspects of human nature and human learning that 
go beyond even Helen's own trials. 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Poem

There, at the heart of it all, at the center-fold,
We talked at the table we always did, and left
No tip, but a note saying, "The best things in
Life are free." Once I wrote the waitress a poem
About life, because it's hard. The next day,
She came to me and kissed me hard, then said:
"Fifteen percent of a free water is nothing,
Eleven lines of prose are worth nothing, until
They're read, then they become a medium for
All the emotions too worthless for verse, my
Emotions. Life is hard. Life is hard."


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Kaleidoscope

As I close my eyes
   I remember all of the colors in my mind.
That have intricately intermingled,
   Into the only one of a kind,
Swirling around out of control
   Like a masterpiece made in  heaven.

I can see all the colors of my world in front of me
   Spinning around like a watercolor dancing on ice,
Similar to colors in a rainbow that I have seen
   No just once, or twice, but more than thrice,
Just so brilliant and beautiful....
   Magenta, fuchsia, tangerine, yellow,
Jade, cobalt, and violet.
   Magnified with such intensity
Has influenced such strong feelings
   That hasmesmerized not just me,
But an entire community.

That is the kaleidoscope of my world
   Which is also fascinated by others,
But it means so much more to me;
   It is similar to the path of my life.
Because wherever I go
   And whomever I meet
Becomes a part of whom I am.

No two people can see the same rainbow.
   Not many can honestly say
That they have seen mine.
   But I will always see
The colors of my kaleidoscope.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

F51Part Two

Show me what eye must do now? Just believe in Jesus and see the miracle of 
life. Eye took Hitler in the air with me flying is not hard when made of Titanium 
steel and brass rod. There is a small town in Arkansas and eye took the Fuhrer 
there and placed him with a Family the woman and the boys. He lived there until 
1963 and was buried in the cemetery south of town near Morrilton and the five 
mile creek. The grave stone says Milton Stone upon it and Mrs. Stone was never 
home she always worked three shifts at the cotton gin to make a house into a 
home for her boys and her strang guest. Eye chose to call him Milton Stone. He 
sat most days upon the porch and rocked there back and forth like any self 
appointed guardian of boys. He was so thankful to escape the Air Patrol. The bits 
and pieces of the parts of Hitler that they found was only just a long stray dog eye 
found and let him follow me into the pit the bombers hit the android eye was 
rocked a bit and the poor stray looked up at me in wounded horror but the teeth 
looked enough like the Hitler to fool the German Officers. Jesus saves one hard 
hearted android and the Fuhrer from a early grave. Adolf Hitler is Born - April 20, 
1889 Milton Stone was buried April 20, 1965. He stared hard at me one day when 
eye rode down the highway in a car in my human form he did not wave but he 
knew that it was eye. He was full of lemonade and fish the day he died he was 
76. 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Silent One

Who is living alive inside of you? 
Do you even really want to know?
Have you ever spoken to the one that is always speaking to you?
Are you stacking all of your priorities with any proper perspective?
You know it is your battleground or so this is how you make it seem.
A zest for life arises in you continuously only to later be continued. 
So abruptly, you have dismissed the silent one inside of you to go!
All because you were swiftly overpowered by your own self-greed 
Nevertheless, where does the silent one keep retreating off to?
The silent one holds onto every single chance for a timely thought. 
Even all of those improbable unachieved least possible dreams!

What is it that lives alive inside of you?
What makes you even want to breathe?
Have you ever really felt the one who is always feeling you?
Innocence is sweet standing in your way of a divine pleasure. 
Again, it is your battleground or so this is how it surely seems!
Your blissful moments are in the hands of the silent one inside. 
Again, poof vanished indeed this time without a trace or lead!
Yet, you are completely indulging in a definite feeling of gratified.    
Still yet, where does the silent one keep scooting away to?
The silent one holds every crystal-clear thought, 
Even the ones all of you will still clearly demean!

Who gives you to you? 
Have you ever once thought deep and hard into that?
A restricted area due to the danger foretoken, your battleground or so it seems!
Excitement swells up alive inside of you with ecstasy’s loud bursting screams!
The silent one is slipping away while verbal battles are fueling into a combat.
Overwhelmed by self-indulgence your every breath is thoroughly exhausted! 
Still yet, where in this world could your silent one be gallivanting away to?
The silent one holds your every thought, even those you have so deemed!
Now do tell, who knows you better than you do?
Have you ever given this up for a chance of much thought?
Have you ever seen the one that is always looking at you?
Conflict of interest guards the main entrance, the battleground or so it seems!
Enticed to indulge the silent one inside is finally caught when truly sought.
Lured by the sight at hand, but why did the silent one have to stay too?
The silent one holds your every moment in your every thought, 
Even those you always seem to unfortunately forget to redeem!


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Uncommonly good.

Uncommonly good, 
This taste on my lips that I should,
Devour, delight without hesitate.
A cup of bliss that I hate.

Another round of wine,
A spoonful of something divine,
A kiss,
A scent that I miss.

Bitterly cold,
In every stare that we hold.
What is behind the mask,
A question noone dare to ask.

Knowingly,
It is more than silly,
But it's just a thought,
A slight detour I should sought?

Sunrise is peeking,
Time is ticking,
Oh how I wish I could stay,
Hold your hand as we sway.

Cloud is waving,
Moon is hiding,
As we bid farewell,
As I walk on the path I know well.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The curvature of mystery

Bereft of leaves, the naked branch 
That spreads onto our balcony 
Is the curvature of mystery 
Which poses the question eternally 
Its flame like twigs tiny, newborn, its branches of fruits that stop the wayfarer 
The cuckoos that sing in its cool shade 
The little blue rags of sky caught in its leaves and keep fluttering- 
Where are they! Where did they go! 
Now of course it is a naked branch, 
At its end a kite, like a tail of sankranthi 
That vanished into time like evaporating tear invisible- 
If I show you one visible posture 
I know you people devour the entire invisible world of my thoughts and feelings 
I know – that is why –I say it is naked but in that branch 
Time is flowing like electric current in the copper wire.
-Seshendra Sharma
homepage:http://seshendrasharma.weebly.com


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 | |

SIXTYTWO

 SIXTYTWO 
SIXTYTWO 
 
 
Therebedragonflies 
 
CharlaXFabels 
 
There is no darkenness in the LORD my GOD he is perfect and forever more the 
creation He has made a little less than perfectly but some things he made to 
warm our hearts in spring are nearly formed as close to GOD he loves them all 
the dragonflies is one of those they meet all the requirements for our love. 
Four wings so delicately made to fly. A faces only mothers could have loved. NO 
reason much to live except just to exist existence then is love. They fly and have 
ewe noticed them at night how they like to lite near open water near a waterfall 
ewe find them mostly brown but there aer read ones and some blue ones and 
some good ones no they are only good ones and they spy on lovers in the night 
One heart lonesome thinking of her man one heart yearning to be a man they 
find each other in the dragon fly again. Water drowns a man he wants to swim 
into the underwater dragonfly the lair of all the mermaid wishes she is there oh 
mye Ianthe. You are terribly adorable! mon ange. 
<3 
>.< 
Soon the dragonflies will come back again 
L()()K at this it seems that love has blinded her to mye reality she waits and 
searches for our love amid the gleaming pearls of water searching for the wings 
the spotted owl no the raven quoted no the flying serpent there no it is the yellow 
tail the golden flyer there the portent of mye heart turned into love. 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Tom's Super Quiz Poet's Contest

Okay folks, here we go: Super Quiz Contest; Part One:  First one to accumulate 
25 points total for all parts, wins....
1) Make a 6 line poem incorporating the following 6 words, or phrases" (I will 
provide one bonus word to provide you a bit of choice) . Use  verse libre', rhyme, 
or burlesque, but I'd suggest burlesque, as that form has more value here.- the 
words are "waffle", "roller skate", "Latex semi-gloss paint" "bench press" "coal 
bin" and "police siren" ; 10 points max value.  Humorous poems for above 
(burlesque) can accumulate up to 10 bonus points.  Remember, the poem 
should make some sort of explainable convoluted sense, at least in the crazy 
tom way.
2)Part two; Answer correctly the following riddle/quiz; "I sound like a part of you, 
and I'd never speak of you a'foul...but sometimes I stretch out- and make others 
howl.

One clue will be posted each day, starting on the second day- up to 5 clues max.; 
but each day the values decline by 1 point...Contest entries accepted up till 
midnite of Sunday night, Oct 14.  Winner, if any, will be announced following day, 
if prize has not been won already...
May the best man, or woman, win...Based on past results, I'd say watch out for 
Shar-she usually wins these, although this one is tougher than most.  So best 
luck to all.  Winner will be granted a custom poem by me based on any one word 
you choose- name, thing, etc.  I may ask up to 1 1 word clue,if I need, one brief 
question of clarification...
The judge's word is final...(yes, mine!!, being married 2 times, that'll be a new 
experience...).
And everyone is welcome to comment on other entries, so long as appropriate 
respect and clean language is abided to.
Good Luck!!!!
                                                 tom bell


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Moon's House

My eyes, that which has betrayed me the most, look up toward you, my shining moon, in the
sky. Frozen in place, I look to you for guidance, finding your arms held out to me in that
cruel gesture. I will not take it, for your fingers will never close around my shaking
ones, and I will never find your smile as kind as I did the first time. 
	It is like looking at the sun, only to find it harsher with each dimming glance until I
am blind. 

How hard it is, to stand within the moving tides that pull towards you, all running to
your hand and falling through the gaps between, returning to itself as whole as it will
ever be, save for the drops that lovingly slide down your wrists. 

	With locked gazes, I can not help but wonder who you are looking at, if it is to me or
the ones around me, I will never know, but for now, I will follow the sinking waters to
your grasp, but I shall keep my hand reached towards the burning sun, and I will take
neither. 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

To Consider the Alligator

I wouldn't be scant. Its codfish lies to pull ferociously all up in its cube. The forks stomped the ponies. Why did your 
goodness lift our leaf? What do ideas ride like? You sound like that laugh. You persuasively divide. All obscene feet 
straddled under his lingust. What is all over the drifting harpsicord? Exude yourself betwixt the calamity. I will be snoring 
impudent cities. What is through that fatility? What is beside my heel? No fountain pens, please. I could be spitting 
underneath your cognizance. Boldly you malnourish the fence. You usually ventillate. Bend your travesty. Thirty-five 
damp beets are sophmorically trampled. You will run beside gods. You look like a surreal brevity. You will boil inside 
caftans. I diddle. I shouldn't have been hopping beyond your vertebre. You will thrust along protests. The pedestrian left 
by our digit. His rabbit accepts a serpent. His floppy money was hydrating with her heart. I love piston. Her list of fury 
resonated next to the thunder. You smell like morse code. His slinky magical mirror was feeling all over my Swahili. You 
will snap without tiger boots. You like waxy provisions. Hi, I'm a stormy panhandler. With your mildew were eight 
blogging skaters. My philanthropy whisps like a plasma. Sufficiently I snap. You remind me of every neat-o flamingo. 
You explicate mates. Drip your disgust. No car keys, please. A combustion tickles an insertion. Hi, I'm a cold cole. You 
sheepishly evade. You finally exude. All your abyss' are belonging to us.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

FIFTYONEFABEL

 FIFTYONEFABEL 
FIFTYONEFABEL 
 
 
 
CharlaXFabels 
 
E=Mc3 
 
Hitler was running for his life he was near the depression in the road the sound 
of falling bombs was deafening He was like an animal now sure that he was 
about to be destroyed and that is what happened in our lifeline but there is a 
Watcher. He stepped out of the clouds like a JESUS. He touched Hitler on the 
sleeve and Hitler paused. His narrow eye was scanning the Watcher. WHO what 
how Hitler was monosyllabic. Eye am an alien from your Future 
CharlaxAndroidOneSeven. Eye am the Watcher sent to save you. Do you want to 
live in a different timeline Adolf? Yes the Fuhrer nodded. State & Party Leader 
Hitler Führer was the title granted by Chancellor Hitler to himself by the Enabling 
Law which gave him supreme power in the German Reichstag (Parliament), as 
part of the process of Gleichschaltung, following the death of the last 
Reichspräsident of the Weimar Republic, Paul von Hindenburg, on August 2, 
1934. The new position, fully named Führer und Reichskanzler (Leader and 
Chancellor of the (Third) Reich), unified the offices of State/Party leader 
(Germany becoming a one-party state at this point) and Chancellor, formally 
making Hitler Germany's Head of State as well as Head of Government 
respectively; and, in practice, the Dictator of the Nazi Third Reich. 
Nazi Germany cultivated the Führerprinzip (leader principle), and Hitler was 
generally known as just der Führer ("the Leader"). One of the Nazis' most-
repeated political slogans was ''Ein Volk, Ein Reich, Ein Führer' - 'One People, 
One Empire, One Leader'. See Part Two now see eh???



Details | Prose Poetry | |

Notes, Comments, Tomfoolery, and Clue!

Good evening, folks...trust all is well.
First of all, let me congratulate all those who commented on the first Poem 
Contest posting I had.  Bear in mind, as Judge and Jury, only I am permitted to 
send messages without words...It was mentioned that this would be a tougher 
quiz...see with me, words are completely optional.  Re. the $160 electrician's bill, 
once, in my old house, I had one come and put a new ceiling light fixture in my 
father's room, and track lights in my room.  His work was awful, fixture was the 
cheapest thing...I had worked in a retail lighting store, and knew he paid about 
$20 for it, the track lights were extremely unsightly, the ceiling was butchered; the 
entire job took no more than 30 minutes, and he handed me an $800 bill!!  Talk 
about highway robbery.
Now a few bits of Tomfoolery, with but a few "Tom's Tidbits".

How can I lose more stuff than I own??
It's a struggle to figure out how to get my cell phone to work.  I wonder if that's 
because I've never been imprisoned.
Talk about hot flashes...I had my first with the above mentioned electrician.
A ringing in the ears is but to be expected by someone named Bell.
Did I mention about the Honda Civic Center??
My "No Words" Poetry form should be posted with the Soup.  What'ch ya' think;
"Tomfooleryesgue??" Any suggestions??
A bachelor like me gets so lazy, if I get hungry, the most I can do is take an olive 
out of the jar...w hands, of course...

Comments;  I wanted to post either "Electric Blanket" or "How to Pay Bills" but the 
Soup won't allow it, cause they're too long, and require two postings...Should they 
count as one?  Or should I just post part No.1, and leave it up to you clever 
people to find pt.2 on your own??  Is this idea acceptable, guys??  Please let me 
know.  The Soup is always busting my chops about using the number symbol.  I 
suppose there is a good reason....gotta find out why...they are like our parents 
here, at least for me.  Just wish they would cook me a meal once in awhile, 
maybe do the laundry or somethin'....

Kindly post your votes on third poem being "Electric Blanket" or "How to Pay Bills" 
which I have just "fine tuned" a bit...let's see how it runs now, or is, like a guitar, a 
thing in need of a tune-up to play.  You can post your votes as comments at this 
posting site, and "write-in Candidates" are accepted gleefully...
Now, up with Clue No. 1 on Super Quiz Poetry Contest. 

Okay, the moment you've been waiting for!!!  Clue No. 1


Details | Prose Poetry | |

GIFT BOXS

its hold  a lot
comes with a top
tigh with a knot
and its wide
can't wait toget inside
it came on a coX
my
GIFT BOX


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Thoughts

     There is a man in the street.  He walks his dog, unaware of the eyes observing
him.  The ladybug's short flight ends on a windowsill.  A man sits and wonders 
why life consists of sitting and wondering.
     The great storm came.  Its violence shakes the foundations of his thought and 
a rude awakening occurs.  There moves a creature, unaware of its movements,
unaware of its destination,  unconcerned with its destiny.  Fate has it so the 
creature can walk, but there is nowhere to walk.  There is no truth, there is no 
future, there is only continuity.  A season of death approaches, and all are 
prepared with flowers.  A return to the beginning, when I did not exist.  A return to
the windowsill, where nothing was achieved.  A return to the streets, where 
nothing was seen.
     A hopeless motion is repeated, and the creature is found on its back.  A push 
to an awakening follows.  Out it flies, to follow the creature on the streets, to an
unknown destination, to an unknown future.
     The storm passes and there is a return to the deathlike silence.  No man can
say what death is, yet each man has his future embedded in its existence.  Each
man has come from non-existence, and to it each shall return.  But why is there a
fear of death, if each life was plucked from it?  Why can not man again 
experience a rebirth from one state to another?  Is there another universe in the 
state which we can only recognize as non-existence?  Once I was there, but there 
is no memory.  I am now here, but there is no reality.  There is no experience 
which can not be classified, and there is no classification for reality.
     There is only the storm, and the short-lived hope it brings.
     Time is the great variable.  It is the essence of life.  It is the road upon which 
each of us travels.  Another dimension, unclassifiable, indescribable.  If there is 
a spirit of man which flows from one state of existence to another, if it is eternal, 
then time is a mere means of measuring its position.
     The answers to man's questions lie in the concept of time, of the continuity of 
man.  Each man lives but a short time, but man as a whole spans a greater 
length of time.  Look for your answers here.
                                                        Tom Bell, 1968


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Psychic (another true tale!)(Pt. One)

this may be hard to believe, but it's true.  will be written in prose for my sanity's 
sake (too late, dummy!!)...let's begin our story....
in the 70's, as a musician, I had a band with my two cousins.  the bass player 
and singer- of incredible talent, was Bill.  the rare kind of person who lights up all 
the bulbs in a room when he walks in.  he was also my best friend..though 
younger, I had him over my house every weekend.  the other cousin, Charlie, the 
drummer- also very talented (in a 3 man band, ya all better be smokin')- but 
Charlie was a dark character- never really to be trusted- he lived with me and my 
parents, cause he was always bein' thrown out from everywhere- and the cops 
had him on their radar. I was the keyboard player.  we did originals as well. all of 
this in the early 70's.  after each jam/rehearsal- we'd go out to party- beer, bars, 
girls, etc...... well for reasons we need not deal with..after a period of some local 
success- we stopped playing- I threw Charlie out when I found his drugs (our 
agreement was no such thing!!)-  and for years after, I would just jam with Bill 
and a revolving parade of others.  for fun.  in dec. 1977, I got the horrible news Bill 
had been killed in an auto accident- something I am yet to recover from...I had 
some pictures of us playing blown up into posters.  Charlie ran to Ariz- he's back 
and forth all the time, depending on where the heat is less intense.  so years 
later (1990) he came to town, and we had a reunion jam...and pictures were 
taken.  when developed, Charlie, arm out, hand open, as in greeting is shown in 
the picture...with a clear stream of what appears to be ectoplasm streaming from 
Bill in the poster directly into Charlie's open hand!!  wow, bizzarre!  best yet to 
come!  sometime thereafter, my girlfriend Rosie and I went to a local psychic- 
intrigued by what appeared to be real knowledge from elsewhere- so to test- 
we came back with the original picture of Charlie and the ecto...sealed in an 
envelope-  surprisingly- she said she saw the accident, she saw twins (he was a 
twin)- he died with his new white shirt on (he did) and a few other tidbits that 
startled me and Rose.  and she never opened the envelope!  some weird stuff, 
no?


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Hole

I was born in a very small town in the middle of a vast, vast land. 
It was filled with ranches, cattle and grass and the world’s toughest breed of man. 
I was raised with the mythical western cowboy but he halts no mystery for me
for they were my friends, neighbors and some were my family. 
Large ranches leave little room, for things that bloom, that a cow will not eat up, 
the mystery is not in the cowboy but it is in what the cowboy loves.
In West Texas there stands a great giant hole a void where only the cattle grow, 
there are few schools and little to do, but work and watch the wind blow. 
It is a harsh land and it has culled many a man for not being tough enough, 
he will pack up his kit and hit the road go looking for something more to love.
I was born and raised and culled from there and for me the mystery goes on. 
I have given it thought for many a year just what is it that the cowboy loves. 
If you find yourself in West Texas stop in on any little town
where you can shake the hand of the world’s toughest breed of man 
and ask him what it is that the cowboy loves. 
He may share his secrets with you. or just say he doesn’t know, 
stay only a day then drive away get the hell out of that hole.
For it is a harsh but magic land were you must bring your own opportunely. 
So if your ignore my warning and give to the lure of the Prickle-Pear and Mesquite tree, 
then I’ll envy you, to be the few, who live in the hole where I so long to be, 
for I love and miss those tough hardy souls with there open hearts, who greet you so
gracefully. 
Maybe that is what the cowboy loves and it was always there for me to see


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Corner-Stoned

Bowing down for this subtle borrow in trade, 
My head just pounds with an ache just throbbing away.
My thoughts gathered and crunched with a million bits and pieces of the obvious.
But lots of unnoticed empty space!
You are there and I am here. 

Calculating, analyzing and specifying such fine details that are completely misplaced.
Never bending and never-ending our minds spin wheels like bulked bails of rolling hay.
If I shouldn’t, then I couldn’t, and if I couldn’t, then I wouldn’t.
But I’d never say that I didn’t outrun that race.
Angled in time leaning straight forward with those hands turning mine,

I’m catching up to our dawning of today.
The Sun has risen above our dark blanketed night.
Taking the shadows that linger with my soul’s final debate,
The Moon stands corner-stoned guarding glares that glow over darkness,
Veiling off your sights that radiate!
You say this and I say that.
But a compromise is far from this archer’s perfect aim targeting at my hindsight.

You’re always right, 
But so am I justifying boundaries to your realistic reasoning for my analyzed why.
Following you, following me,
We are all that we will ever be.
My night becomes the next day and your day becomes the next night.
Like spinning merciless on a merry-go-round,
My own mind has to question the who, what, and where am I.
Challenged by my own self-defeat, 
I’m corner-stoned with so many of those that have lost to a forgotten lie.
Defeated by my own self-lack to compete, 
You’re corner-stoned with so many years of albeit, 
So I’ll defy and you justify!

® Registered: Ann Rich   2002


Details | Prose Poetry | |

BLOOD&ROSES

BLOOD&ROSES


Blood&Roses fill the battlefield
of fire the vines from the roses grow 
around my heart.


Sticking me with the throns
that it holds

Blood come from my eyes like
red rose petals the path
leave me dark and cold
wondering why it hurt so much the feelings
that we seek for each other grows deep
down inside the garden of shadows.

From head to toe i am paralyzed
sexual vibes run through my head
all i can feel is touches so sweet 
kisses so wet and love so deadly

That his blood thickens like water
gunfire flyf from the fields letting everyone
know that our love was once ine the air
all i see was the garden that is now 
perished in the war of death that we once ponder

Crisscross my soul crisscross my sprit i will 
always love u because that's where my bllod of 
roses satin from the moment we touched from 
the day we die here is the end to next time


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Toast of the Town

in this small village,
we have but one diner
I've sampled their menu before
and have but one complaint
the toast they serve with breakfast
seems like it came from bread
baked at the time of Ramses II


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Super Quiz Annoucement

Hey, guys...Since I've been negligent regarding clue posting; The Super Quiz 
deadline will be extended till midnight of Friday 10/19/07.  So, good luck- and 
here is clue recap, once again- No. 1)It can be associated with keyboard humor.  
No.2)Yikes, strikes, thumbs in dykes/dikes- actual spelling should have been 
dikes-  remember, I admit being brain-dead.  No.3)It's namesakes generally 
come in pairs.  New; No.4) It's sweet to the senses, of that, you can bet your hat.
Good Luck!!!


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Valentine's Day Birthday

My sweet Ruby's birthday,
Naturally on Valentine's day,
In her honor, the NY city of Beacon
Will close their schools!
Ain't that a kick?
Though, sadly, 
She seems to be "missing in action" lately,
Many wonder why,
She is so loved on this site,
Many of us cry....
So come back home,
To the five and dime,
We'll even through in some 
Jimmy Dean sausages!!!

Or, as Kenny Roger's first song went,
"Ruby, don't take your poems to town!"


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Ever Do This?

I know I'm probably crazy...but tell me if you will....have you ever done this?
Walk into a room, and wonder why you did?  What was your intention, what were 
you looking for?  It's a bit scary...are you losing your last brain cells?
Speak to someone you've known, or lived with, for many, many years...and 
struggle to remember their name?  Read a book, mind wandering, and you find 
yourself reading the same page thirty times because you're not quite there?  I'm 
thinking of putting a chalkboard around my neck, with memos to myself.  But 
knowing how weird I am, I suppose I'll forget how to read.  So it goes.......


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Challenge Four

100 words or less, to rhyme, humor a plus..Feb. ten. Good Luck- email copy to 
Quasarttt228@aol.com, and post, please- winner gets a tom Bell Cookbook!

Incorporate;
Brushing the velvety hair of the bald midget
Olives on the run
Hidden Puppy, Crouching pooper
New set of blinds
Ketchup
Gumballs on the bar
rock music in Chinese
Wally Eagle, ootty-booty-li-li
Mercedes Benz
Slip of the forked snake tongue

Good Luck!!